If he never heard that voice again, he would be glad; it was a voice which haunted him, which perpetuated nothing but horrid memories - what pleasantries that might have been associated with the booming candor which now shook him to the very core had died long ago. It was a casualty that he did not regret, a death in the family which he’d not found the wherewithal to mourn. Gaston had been dead to him long ago - to hear the voice of the dead was to reach beyond bounds not meant to be crossed. To be heartless in the face of a heart-rending death; this was the sort of calloused, beastly coldness which Adam required now, which had been so easy when Gaston was nothing but a figment of his memory.
Memory was a fickle thing, however; Gaston’s memory lived in the same place in his mind which housed his mother, the garden, the broach. He very much did not belong there, and yet he persisted.
For a moment he could not bring himself to turn, to face him; Adam had known that venturing outside would be a horrid idea, but he’d never expected it to take such a turn for the horrifying. He’d mulled over a number of times what he might say to Gaston, should he find the courage wherewithal to speak to him again; in fact, much of his time spent lying awake in the small hours of the night were spent thinking of the strange dichotomy between the then and the now of his tumultuous non-relationship with Gaston. If the Adam of years previous had known that they’d meet again now, like this, with Adam cornered against the wide window like a hunted animal, he’d have thought the idea a mad one. Even his reflection, distorted in the mid-morning sun upon the glass, was a warped, monstrous discoloring of the Gaston he’d once known.
But, by that same merit, Adam was just as dissimilar as he. Were they to be truthful, they should have donned masks before speaking.
“I am not,” he turned, then, for something raw and bleeding lurched deep within his stoic chest, “a beast.” It was a weak retort, unless it were to be followed by the looming ‘but you are’ which found itself lodged at the back of Adam’s throat. It was much harder to face Gaston than he realized, what with his hunched shoulders, shadowed eyes, and jacket which smelled too strongly of coffee and cigarettes; where Adam had grown darker, Gaston had come to burn far too brightly - it was nearly impossible to look at. Resentment, hatred, and lingering melancholy at his expense; Adam felt his stomach turn.
He followed the matching coffee cups up to where they framed Gaston’s too-smug face, eyes narrowed and lips pulled downward into an ostentatious grimace. It was almost pathetic, the patronizing expression upon his face; Adam had learned long ago to deflect snide smiles and jabs with minimal effort. In fact, he’d been the one to teach him the invaluable skill of condescension. But as wandering eyes found the all too bold second name upon the untouched coffee cup, his composure faltered. How was it that her name alone held such power over him? How was it that he had the right to wield her name as if it was some sort of bloody weapon in his collection? It was sacrilege; Adam took great pains to refrain from slapping the cup from his hand. Visibly, tangibly - in the clench of his jaw, the paling of his cheek, the shock behind his eyes - he was wounded.
And though Adam may not deserve Belle, neither did Gaston.
( they still had so much in common, it seemed )
“It seems as if she has the stomach for most detestable things,” Adam clipped, jaw tensed and hands shoved, in fists, into his pockets in a forced display of nonchalance. For a moment he wondered if Gaston’s coffee order remained the same; perhaps, however, he’d switched to poison. Unbidden, longing, utterly aching to disappear, he stole another quick glance into the shop. It would do him no good to be seen now. “Is there something you needed?” he snapped, turning back once more, “Or are you simply here to be a nuisance? You do it so well, after all.”
All he can do is LAUGH. It’s something booming and bracing, and the sound of it echoes through the nooks and crannies of Hermosa's small town square like CANNON FIRE as it bursts ― unwarranted, unwelcome, unwanted ― through a home you can only recognize as your one once the ringing in your ears ceases and the walls crash into the warm, inviting earth. War has CHANGED him, as war so tends to do, and now Gaston finds himself so very like the gun he spent hours compulsively tending to in the barren comforts of his barracks ― loud and brash and HUNGRY and hollow, searching only for something to call his own and going about it in all the wrong ways. Like the best of weapons, he could very easily be used to provide safety and security, but no. No, his own beating heart in his hands ― the WRONG hands now, it seems ― is deadly, to be looked at with eyes gone wide in terror and handled delicately, as though it might EXPLODE at any moment.
As though he himself might explode at any moment, as very well he might.
But today, in this moment, he only laughs, steely, intent gaze still focused through the shimmering glass on Belle, on her face as she moves about the book store. "Come now," he chides Adam in a tone which is PLAYFUL in the same way that a wild bear is sweet, "Why loose your venom on me?" He takes another sip of his coffee, relaxing ever so slightly at the sheer magnitude of CONTEMPT with which the other man is spewing his words. Had Adam already laid claim to Belle, as Gaston had been, momentarily, concerned about, his reaction would surely be less severe. A man who knows his treasure is well-guarded regards a thief with AMUSEMENT, not anger.
"I'm only trying to have a pleasant conversation," he scolds around the plastic lid of his cup, gaze sliding back over to Adam for the first time in some minutes now, gauging his expression once more. He's gone pale, jaw tensed; ready to POUNCE, it seems.
Somehow time has managed to turn the tables on the men who once knew each other as boys, and, had Gaston not managed to REPRESS nearly every memory of his childhood and adolescence, perhaps the irony would not have been lost on him. But all he sees in the man standing beside him is something of a shadow; someone he can tell he used to know at once time, though if you asked him to put his thumb on the NATURE of their relationship, to describe it in words, he could not. Could not tell you that Adam's had been the first pair of lips he had kissed nor all the now broken vows exchanged on breath thick with liquor. It's a fascinating thought, to entirely forget the person with whom you once thought you would not be able to SURVIVE without, and perhaps some might think it impossible. And yet here he stands, Gaston LeGume, psychological wonder, not two inches away from a man he once LOVED and no trace of past emotion even wisping through his figure. A curious being indeed.
"What business do you have at the book store?" he finally inquires, lowering the coffee cup before he finds himself draining the whole thing dry before he can even give Belle her own, "Come to buy a self-help book, maybe? How to Get Out of the House and Make Friends For Dummies?" Lips quirk up into a smile once more, PLEASED with himself at the joke, however unintelligent it may actually be. At least one person thinks he's funny, even if that one person is only Gaston himself. "I can't believe you'd be applying for a job here, unless you've somehow managed to WASTE an entire fortune in a matter of years. Although," He pauses to make an exaggerated show of consideration, turning slightly towards Adam, angling his torso towards the other man, "It really wouldn't SURPRISE me if that's what's got you locked up in that mansion of yours all day, is something stupid and expensive like online poker. Or a hooker who's SERIOUSLY ripping you off. That,” he chuckles once more, rolling his shoulders back, tension coming off of him in waves now, “Would not surprise me at all, coming from you.”
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