solid ground.

❝ The ultimate meaning to which all stories refer has two faces: the continuity of life, the inevitability of death.❞ GILLY DE LEON. 41. 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖋𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖔𝖗.

[profcss]

 ❝ How sweet. That rain. How something that lives only to fall can be nothing but sweet. ❞

introducing THE PROFESSOR — GUILLERMO “GILLY” de LEON. 41 years old. professor of theology @ king’s college london. as penned by laine. + expanded bio 

𝓘 basic information

full name: guillermo sebastian de leon

nickname(s): gilly, guillermo.

age: 41

date of birth: november 4, 1847

hometown: guatemala city, guatemala

current location: london, united kingdom

gender: cis man

pronouns: he/him

orientation: bisexy 

religion: roman catholic (non-practicing)

educational attainment: terminal degree (phd in theology, from king’s college london)

occupation: the professor ψ(▼へ▼メ)～→

living apartments: faculty housing 

language(s) spoken: spanish, italian, english 

𝓘𝓘 biography — here

𝓘𝓘𝓘 fast facts (content warnings: religious imagery, infidelity, death, fire) 

born in guatemala though raised practically everywhere. he and his mother took the long way round, landing in london after more than a decade of looking for a permanent home.

jaded by his years abroad, formal schooling was of no interest to him and his stubborn streak landed him in all sorts of trouble. he was a product of ragged schools, a social service reserved for the most destitute of london residents, until a professor saw his intellectual promise.

both religion and education gave him purpose, which he never had. gilly briefly considered entering priesthood, but had instead taken on a more academic path in the hopes of helping children like him.

he became active in social reform early into his career; to live with others and for others had been his motto. it was this passion that had allowed him to amass a moderate following in both upper-class and working-class circles of london, but most importantly, piqued the attention of a rising political star in the house of commons.

he began having an affair with the MP’s wife for close to three years, and was close to eloping with her. their affair only met its untimely end when she and the entire collins family perished in a house fire (x). 

he firmly believes that his lover’s death had been caused by these forces. he had previously dismissed her repeated warnings as a means to end their affair, a decision he now regrets. his search for answers has led to him becoming a fairly famous personality around london. while his notoriety has casted a large stain in the theology department, they have had no luck in casting him out thus far.

𝓘𝓥 headcanons and statistics

although now non-practicing, gilly was baptized as a roman catholic, and underwent confirmation while residing in spain. his faith is a matter of contention for him, knowing that the spread of christianity is instrumental in colonizers maintaining a hold over their colonies. for these reasons, he detaches himself from identifying as a catholic—and all the more now, considering his current standing in the community.

his confirmation name is ignacio, from st. ignatius de loyola. his baptism and confirmation names effectively spell out “guillermo sebastian ignacio de leon.” pls just call him gilly.

he has a goldfish named gilly jr. 

although he has a very approachable public persona, his manner is typically disengaged. an introvert, he can count in two hands (and this is already a generous amount) the people whom he actually trusts, and loves, in this world.

mbti: ENTP (the debater)

zodiac: scorpio sun, libra moon, capricorn rising

enneagram: 8 (the challenger)

character inspirations: phillip jennings (the americans), alec hardy (broadchurch), cho sang-woo (squid game), the professor (money heist)

𝓥 credit

llillards for character psd

[profcss]

starter for : @mvsquerade​ location : zoya’s residence  date and time : three weeks after the ball, early evening

gilly had consigned, perhaps unfairly, the motion of zoya opening the door for him as a palpable instrument to measure the extent of their friendship. for a woman so keen on her privacy, letting him in despite his non-announcement would articulate its depth in a way no words could —which was why disappointment clouded his features when no response came after four separate rounds of knocking. 

the professor had been fully prepared to leave, chalking the past few months of their bond as a tragic miscalculation, when the door finally swung open. the action took him off guard, though he’d been quick to react. at the last second he was able to unclench his hand ( tightly wound into a fist, knuckles again prepared to strike the door a final time ) before he could land an inadvertent punch against —

doctor langley?

the professor’s face was bloated with shock, but save for a small nod, he made no move to acknowledge him. there would be time for pleasantries in their mandated sessions. no, gilly was more curious as to why the doctor paid a visit to the prodigious actress, and soon realizes that such line of questioning could be answerable by either party. 

gilly entered the flat before the door could be fully shut in his face, squeezing himself in against her figure and the hardwood. “had i intruded a courtship?” his quip fell flat against the chills of the twilight hour and the scene he had just witnessed. “or was his visit for something else?” he held his true question squarely inside himself: are you well?

[serratedpens]

Victoria Chang, “Foghorn”

[grainelevator]

Alone

“Left Alone” - Fiona Apple // “Automat 1927” - Edward Hopper // “Places I’ve Taken my Body: Essays” - Molly McCully Brown // “Night-Time Solitude” - Holly Warburton // Correspondence, January 15, 1950 - Albert Camus // Clive Smith // “I Wish I Was the Moon” - Neko Case

[gcladriel]

You mean you didn’t alter the atmosphere, causing it to snow, and then organise a raid at the exact moment I came offstage? What, I’m not important enough to go through all that trouble for?

[softhe4rted]

Accident Report in the Tall, Tall Weeds - Ada Limón

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

“Isn’t heartache sweet? It tastes of everything you ever wanted. The rain-soaked lilacs I pressed my face into as a child, knowing, even then, something I needed was there unreachable. If you’re going to touch me, I want you to drink the water from those lilacs.”

— Amy Dryansky, from “Because the Moon Is a Cliché & Not Exactly Steadfast,” Waxwing Literary Journal (no. XIX, Fall 2019)

[profcss]

dayanita davalbhakta.

It is an impossible feeling to navigate, both craving the touch of another so badly that it threatened to overwhelm her, and being completely adverse to it.. If you had asked her mere hours ago, she would have baulked at the mere thought of what she had just done, and the vulnerability of such an act. But in accepting it, Gilly has given Daya something she has not had in many years, and a sense of comfort and stability that she did not think to seek on the stormy seas. Now they have separated, and she is alone again, she regrets pulling away and misses the sensation of warmth it provided. Is this what she has been missing for all these years whilst pushing away those who once called her a friend? 

For a moment, Daya struggles with that thought, with regaining control of her breathing and the tears in her eyes. She cannot seem to stop them from falling, but she does regain her composure, and when she speaks again, her voice is unwavering, if quiet. “Yes I do. You don’t know me.” It is not an accusation, nor said with any coldness and cruelty, but rather, a rueful melancholy. For the first time in a long time, she wants the person sitting across from her to know her. She does not wish to hide anymore. 

But how can you undo the learnings of a lifetime? How can you revert to the person you used to be, when who you are was born from survival? 

Daya cannot think about it now. Not when there are more pressing matters at hand. She thinks of Pearl, hopefully still sound asleep within their cabin. There is nothing that she would not do for her, even if it means allowing someone a glimpse into all her faults and failings, and trusting someone who is only a little more than a stranger. But whatever has transpired tonight has shifted how she sees Gilly - it may be  misjudgement, for Daya’s instincts are hardly working at their full strength. He may disembark from the boat, and tell everybody he knows that she is strange and mad, but somehow, she does not think so. Somehow, she trusts him now. 

“It is not just tonight,” she has the grace to look sheepish, for the weight of what she is about to ask him is heavy, a burden of responsibility he did not ask for, but she is certain there is nobody else with whom she can entrust it. “But for the rest of the journey. My daughter,” she pauses, struggling to find the words to voice her request. “Whatever happens - I need to know she will make it home.”

-

He can only stare openly, concernedly, as Daya begins to collect herself. Even though the moment has passed, the tears well up in her eyes and trail down her cheeks with barely a notice. Yet, he remains still, listening to her admission with furrowed brows. You don’t know me—the words are few but revelatory all the same, and Gilly is left wondering how many people in this world do know the woman, or be privy to such a moment of vulnerability. 

Gilly suspects it’s a small number. If he is less optimistic, he suspects there to be none but him at all. 

In either case, there are no words he can supply to her uneasy confession—because it reminds him of how much he lives, too. The truth is that Daya does not know him, too, nor does anyone. He has become everyone else’s anchor at the expense of minimizing his own troubles. For the most part, it does not bother him, not when his personal tragedies pale in comparison to the world’s weight. The least he could do is make their burdens a little less heavy, whether in words or in actions—but to do so means to be fated to a lonely existence. There are no words that he can extend to Daya now without revealing his own hypocrisy. 

And so he stays silent, letting the proverbial knots in his stomach disentangle by themselves. It’s only when Daya talks about her daughter that the reality begins to settle in; their supposed lives beyond this unforgiving sea are now back in his purview. In some days’ time, they will make it to London. Soon they will be back on course, trading these deep and dark waters for lands just as unforgiving. 

“Your daughter—what is her name, again?” Gilly says, hoping the other doesn’t take offense. If anything, it drives the point home: that they were strangers, and strangers still, even after sharing such a vulnerable moment. There is a newfound bond there now, however, for entrusting Gilly with her daughter’s fate is no light ordeal. The moment they had was fleeting, but it is real, and that’s all the confirmation that Gilly needs. “Of course, Daya. I promise to keep her safe.” The words spoken are firm though no less tender. “And it doesn’t have to be for just the rest of this journey. I’m here if…” He doesn't know what compels him to say it, but he continues, “...if you may need anything else.” When protecting is all he knows, the offer comes easy. 

He stands up from his seat, then, already wanting to make true to his promise. “Are you able to walk now?” Whichever her response is, his hand is already outstretched, offering to keep her steady. “Can you take me to her?” Attempting to diffuse the heaviness in the air, Gilly continues with a small chuckle, “Best I should introduce myself before promising to take care of her, huh?” 

[profcss]

daphne seong​.

Daphne hears something familiar in his voice, though he doesn’t allow it to linger long enough for her to discern what it is. She sort of leans into it, expectant, like he would be willing to let her in on the secret. She doesn’t know what exactly it is she’s expecting though. With Gilly, she’d ended up revealing more of herself to him than he ever could to her. And that thought made her stomach turn. Like that day in his office would make her forever bare to him, something for him to hold in his hand. To turn in his hand, inspect, as if there were something wrong with her. She hushed that part of her brain, hoping the light buzz the alcohol gave her would quiet it down. She did not wish to acknowledge the hold he could possibly have over her.

Instead she focuses on how warm it is. The warmth in her chest, the warmth spreading across her face. How it feels when she wraps her arms around herself, finding some sort of anchor to hold her down. And while normally she would relish in this moment alone, perhaps spin herself about and bask in the presence of something so beautiful. She does not feel as bothered by Gilly’s sudden introduction, instead she finds herself to be intrigued instead. Interested, even. Perhaps this feeling is one that someone would call comfortable. Daphne only had that with too few a people. 

“Oh?” She wonders if he had only meant it to be an observation, or if it were to serve as a compliment as well. “Well, trust me, I never would have worn something like this myself.” She was almost notorious for her looser suits and the way she seemed to want to emulate anything that did not center her own form. She enjoys it more than she would’ve thought. “There’s a bit of The Birth of Venus in there too. Couldn’t choose just one, spring just happened to be my favorite season as well and I’d just decided to put them both together. Though I couldn’t possibly reimagine it the same way. I’m glad I got some recognition.” She had tried her best, truly. Reckoned she was no true Goddess of Love and Beauty and all that, it was fun to pretend so for the night. 

She tilts her head, reexamining his costume with her newfound knowledge, “I would say so, yes.” She moves over a little when he decides to sit beside her. Closer. “Oh well,” She thinks the alcohol has made her more talkative as well. “You know me. Not much for going out, especially not recently.” She tries to pass the comment as a joke, and it is, her absence from the world has been more or less of a joke the more time she spent out here. “I’m just trying to ignore the jitters.” Her hand catches on her ring, playing with it. There was no reason to hide her nerves from Gilly, especially when she knew how easy it was to catch them. 

“I imagine you’re having a better night than me then?” She’s not looking at him, though her tone is curious. She was checking in. 

-

Something like relief courses through him when Daphne opts not to prod, and he lets the smidges of his confession die out in the air, amid the roses. As Daphne points out her other influence, the costume starts to come alive, much like a painting finally rendered complete, the outlines drawn over, the oil on canvas reworked and brushed through. “I see,” he nods along with the explanation. He casts his gaze upon her, taking her words as an invitation to survey her ensemble more closely. His intellectual curiosity is seemingly satisfied with the answer, so why does he continue staring? It is wiser for him to stop, but his gaze drifts to her hands, her forearms, and the space between her neck and collarbone, left bare—and only then does he look away. “It’s, er, it’s a welcome change,” Gilly remarks, voice assuming a tone shakier than he originally intends. 

Had he been caught? In lieu of an apology, he turns his head back to those rose trees, holding his head high above the ground to spot the roses in full bloom. The red is rich and stark and deep, almost like blood, against the moonlight. If he squints hard enough, he can spot the roses’ thorns—those sharp protrusions that wound your fingers as soon as you reach for them, and just as much when your hand begins to turn back. 

“The jitters?” Gilly repeats her words, slowly, deliberately, as he turns to look at her. “What are you so afraid of?” 

The question is directed to her as it is to himself. He knows what he is afraid of—the rose garden makes that very fear palpable. It feels like a betrayal to think of Rose, and more so tonight, when spring has come and another kind of song threatens to fill in his heart. I cannot—will not—let you go, he thinks, issuing himself a promise. I have to leave you, I have to leave you, is a thought that rings just as loudly. Not for the first time, he wonders how long those deeds can co-exist before his mind caves in, when one promise becomes incompatible with the other and must therefore succumb, or be extinguished. 

That night he feels particularly emboldened to choose the latter, though he knows not why. Perhaps it is the alcohol. Perhaps it is Mr. Ashton and this manor, where the bizarre has become usual, the normal an oddity. Perhaps it is Miss Seong herself. Perhaps the axis has tilted to the side. 

Then again, perhaps it is something as simple as a change of heart. The hint of a feeling, but unmistakable all the same. 

“It’s been a difficult night,” he admits, his sigh long and deep. “It is… better, though, now that you are here. Considerably so.” He lifts the corners of his lips to form a smile, tinged with affection and a strange melancholy. “This is... this is okay, right? Me sitting here?” He says tentatively, the request directed to Daphne as much as it is to his own ghost. 

[tls123]

For years, I’ve just been… I’ve just been hollow. You know, I thought if I — if I… if I worked hard enough, if I — if I… kept putting the time in, and if I kept my head down, you know, did everything right, I… this aching, gnawing feeling of being an absolute failure would just — would just go away.

[profcss]

jacob posner.

“You could tell me, you know,” Jacob says and hopes that his voice does not sound as weak as he feels right now. “About your—ghost.” It’s only fair. And it’s not because Jacob’s desperate to know. This isn’t to satisfy his own curiosity or answer any questions he may or may not have. It’s only because maybe, just like himself, Gilly needs someone to listen to him too. If the spirit is as much of a burden for his friend as it is for Jacob, then the professor deserves someone to ask him; even if he chooses not to do it now it still opens a door for when he’ll need it—if he’ll need it. Something tells Jacob that he could—they way Gilly cracks a joke and tries to laugh it off feels very similar to the way Jacob always tries to brave a smile and convince everyone around him that he’s alright, that he’s just a little tired. But Jacob was never the type to press because he never liked it when people try to desperately squeeze answers out of him. 

Perhaps the only way of supporting people he cares about that he’s ever known is just being here—something fixed, something to come back to, something safe. Though he isn’t all that sure about the last one, not anymore. Tonight only serves as proof. But he’s here. He’d like to believe that he always will.

When Gilly touches his hand, Jacob’s immediate thought is to pull away—he almost does and he’s sure that the other must’ve noticed. He’s not even sure what caused this kind of a reaction, especially that Gilly’s checked his forehead just now and it was fine. Maybe it’s the weight of the confession that’s brewing inside of him, about what he’s one, about what he is. Nobody should touch that. 

“I meant it. I really meant it when I told you it’s my fault that she’s dead,” Jacob says. It’s odd how easy the words roll off his tongue this time—he’s spent so much time refusing to talk about it that it’s truly surprising that he can even get the words out again. A part of him, the less rational one, thinks that maybe it’s the spirit that’s got something to do with it. 

And there’s so much he wants to—needs to—say. He’s been alone with his own thoughts for so long and this opening with Gilly is making him unable to carry on keeping them all locked inside.

“I know she killed herself but that doesn’t make me innocent,” he says, his voice so quiet it almost a whisper. I killed her, he thinks but this he can’t say out loud now. “And I’ve been having these dreams, horrible ones. The laudanum doesn’t help anymore, nothing does. I keep seeing all these girls in my nightmares and—I hurt them. But then I can never tell when I’m dreaming or not.” Jacob wonders whether this is enough for Gilly to realize what he means, what he’s actually saying. If it’s not, Jacob’s afraid he won’t be able to explain himself better. It’s too scary. “I’ve been trying to be good. I swear but it’s—everything’s slipping. I’m slipping.”

-

The offer is appreciated even though he is not quite inclined to take it. Not tonight, at least. While he has prided himself on the range of his emotional threshold, coaxing the truth out of himself now is an impossible task, not when he is still serving as Jacob’s anchor. “Another time, perhaps.” The words taken by themselves are a dismissal, though Gilly’s gesture speaks another language. His smile is soft and reassuring, the corners of his lips lifting upward to tease a promise. “We’ve got time.” After the seance, he’s come to realize he has more things to figure out, more memories to sift through. If forgetting is its own kind of murder, then he has sent Rose and her family to their deaths a second time. 

In any case, that night Jacob is eager to tell him something, everything. It takes a conscious effort for Gilly maintain his reflective dignity, keenly aware that any bold gesture on his part may derail the truth he is now prepared to speak out in full. 

Always, it comes back to his sister. Jacob’s guilt is as heavy is his grief—yet Gilly cannot help but find that guilt misplaced, or even misguided. Surely, his friend should not bear the brunt of responsibility, but it is an opinion he keeps to himself now. Even with the fragments of truth, the full situation is still not becoming clear to him. He wonders whether the apt metaphor is not mounting maps on sheets of hardwood together as if a cartographer, than it is picking up a thousand glass shards and praying they can still form a mirror. Less to form something, as it is to make sense the broken pieces. 

“Can you tell me why? What—what did you do?” It’s a simple enough question, he surmises, though he knows that sometimes the simplest answers are the most revealing, the ones that demanded to be picked apart. “How does she factor into this? And how do you think your actions made you culpable in her death, somehow?” The tone of his voice is tentative and probing, though careful not to sound accusatory. The last thing he wishes to do is invalidate the feelings that weigh on Jacob’s shoulders. What he means to say, though, is this: help me understand. 

That quiet contemplation is is interrupted by another truth—one that admittedly confuses him, until Jacob continues on.

Girls in my nightmares. I hurt them. “Jake…” His grip on Jacob’s hand becomes tighter, but the gesture is selfish. Not quite to bring his friend comfort, but to hold himself steady, to cut his own treacherous train of thought off before it arrives at a bitter destination. 

I can never tell when I’m dreaming or not. 

“No.” He shakes his head, fervently, the tension coiled around him beginning to unravel. “No, it isn’t you.” He isn’t sure how much of his words are meant to reassure Jacob, or himself. He figures it’s a little of both. “It doesn’t make sense. The letters. Everything is planned, so well thought-out. Even Ayda can’t figure it out.” There is a a harsh chuckle that leaves his lips that is bereft of any humor. “No, no, it can’t be you. It doesn’t—it doesn’t make sense.” 

He is aware of sheer tenacity in his voice, his conviction heavy in the air—but he cannot quite muster the ability to meet Jacob in the eyes. He has been wrong in the past; he does not hope to be so now. 

“If you’re trying to be good, then you are, alright?” His grip remains firm, but reverts back to its original purpose of comfort. “That’s all any of us can hope of doing.”

[profcss]

bill barker​.

Closed Starter for: @profcss​ Location: The Ballroom

“Gilly,” Bill calls to the professor in greeting. It, after all, what he is commonly known as, but still, the nickname takes off a tone of mockery in Bill’s voice. 

That is no accident. 

The enigma that is Professor De Leon is one Bill is intent on unravelling. The man presents a series of questions that Bill cannot answer, and that only makes him all the more intriguing. They had discussed tonight, previously, and it should be no surprise to see him here. And yet, he seems remarkably out of place. 

Bill’s eyes rake over the costume the professor has elected to wear. He has to admit there is is a certain dignity to it - he had half expected him to show up as Jangles The Jester, or in some other ridiculous outfit. 

He presses a glass of wine into his hand. “Awful lot of fuss, isn’t it, with them carriages? Dreadful gaudy things.” He shakes his head. “And those footmen wouldn’t say a word. What was all that about?”

-

Gilly turns his head as his name is called, then nods in acknowledgment. Bill Barker is a welcome presence, he must begrudgingly admit, on this strange night when he finds himself amid a sea of strangers. 

Guessing the other’s costume provides him with some amusement, too, however brief. A swift glance, and the professor dates it along the Roman empire, posing some sense of elegant strength. An emperor, no doubt. Which one, he cannot quite decipher, though all emperors are made as so through hereditary rule; their power, maintained by state force. 

“Emperor,” he greets, in lieu of his name. “Shall I bow? Or would you rather I kiss your feet?” For a moment, Gilly wonders how much donning the costume is escapism, or fantasy, or even a concealed truth—but decides it is no intellectual exercise he cares to do that night.

His thought is interrupted by Bill’s question. He wonders whether their isolation is a shared ordeal, for he cannot think of any other reason why the man is keen on engaging him in conversation. 

“Who knows,” he says, shrugging, forgoing intellectualizing for the night. He has the wineglass in his hand to thank for that. “You’ve got a theory?” 

[profcss]

rahat zaman.

•

HOW INTERESTING, THEY think, that this Mr Ashton — still quite the enigma, and no amount of sleuthing about in the house has changed this — would have an entire garden dedicated solely to poisonous plants. Seems a little too on the nose, as though the man were purposely making himself appear particularly suspicious, but that’s a mystery they’ve no facts enough to solve. They suppose it only makes sense that not very many would choose to linger here when the party goes on in full swing within the manor itself, so Rahat takes the opportunity for some peace and quiet. They don’t want to assume Professor Gilly de Leon had come here for much of the same reasons, but Rahat is glad for their serendipitous meeting. They’re glad, too, for how easily he recognizes his costume; in the absence of an oar, they’ve had to show the patterns beneath their cloak before the answer could click.

“Smart,” Rahat comments as they approach him, quietly realizing in the moment that this has to be first they’ve seen of one another since the Frost Fair last December — the first, too, since his sudden disappearance, on a trip far away from London, something he hadn’t exactly cared to warn people about, as they’d later on discovered. They don’t mind so much, though. Gilly had been thoughtful enough to send them a postcard while he was away; even had they known he’d be out of town, they wouldn’t have expected one. Pleasant surprise, that. “Correct on all accounts, Guillermo. Keep yourself safe from what could possibly bring you to me.” The slightest of winks is given to him, a sort of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it response in the dark. Their expression immediately changes to one of regret, however. “I’m afraid yours escapes me, but something about it is ringing a very faint bell.”

-

However obscure the victory had been, the professor is pleased to have guessed correctly—because, in truth, it counts as among his few victories of the night. The excursions he’s made around the manor has yet to provide him with any sufficient answers by which to resolve the mystery of Mr. Ashton, and it is not like the patrons in attendance are willing to disclose anything about their host, either. In some ways, they are almost a captive audience: a passive presence to behold, sure, but commanding in their numbers. There is a makings of a quip against his tongue, but before he can speak out, his formal name slips past Rahat’s lips. 

Guillermo? 

Has he been relegated—demoted even—from Rahat’s circle of friends? His absence from London is enough to turn a few heads, to be certain, though the undertaker is among the few whom he has contacted via postcard. Had that gesture not been enough to assure them of his friendship?

“Uh—Guillermo? What?” The chuckle that leaves his mouth wavers at the last second, puncturing the air with a certain uneasiness. He is quick to stifle his discomfort, though the thought lingers at the back of his head, unnerving, unsettling. He wills himself to focus on the other’s inquiry, to which he issues a response: “Yes, I’m... Dr. Faustus. Man who made a deal with the devil, et cetera...” 

The uneasiness arrives, anyway. “Sorry, Rahat, you were, ah—you were calling me Gilly, weren’t you?” he says, with the same degree of juvenile petulance as one would associate with a child abandoned by his newly-made friend at the park. 

[profcss]

cheria fang.

“Yes, I do.” Sherry doesn’t even try to pretend that she’s not dodging his questions. In fact, she takes great pride in diminishing her problems and telling others to mind their own business. And though she could be quite mean about it, she didn’t care much for that. The only person that it ever seemed to bother was her mother. And Sherry had stopped caring for her opinion long ago. Though Gilly was a whole other problem entirely. She respected him enough not to outright dismiss him, not to be mean in a malicious way even if she tried. But she still wouldn’t call herself particularly caring when it comes to sharing parts of herself with him. He didn’t need to know all of her just to be friends with her. This would have to be enough for him. 

“Look,” She doesn’t want to be open with him, the very thought makes her skin itch. But she also finds that Gilly is too good at doing the back and forth thing with her, he simply refuses to let up. And while that’s something she admires, right now, it was something she simply could not stand. So she considers it, it makes the hairs on her neck stand straight up but she considers it. And she caves, but only a little. “We can do it like this.” She begins, setting her arms out in front of her as if to show him a play by play of how the rest of this conversation was going to go. 

“If I explain it to you, without doing all the mushy traumatic bullshit, would that be enough for you?” She knows it won’t, but she hopes he lies and says yes anyways. “Because it’s not the telling that I mind. I’m sure if you dug deep enough on your own you could connect the dots on your own.” She settles her arms back into her lap, leaning back to look at him better. “But you know I don’t believe in all…that. I don’t do all that.” She can speak to him like a newspaper, detailing the events from her childhood as if she hadn’t been the one to experience them herself. Recount the nights where she wished for some sort of escape from her demise. But she did not think she’d be able to explain to Gilly why she wasn’t crying. Or why she felt so dumb about it.

“Though I will say that they are someone from my past, yeah.” She shrugs, like it’s nothing. 

-

The professor has never been adept at surrendering, or merely acquiescing—he has always been keen on asking questions, or answering them, and the friendship he has with Cheria proves no exception to this rule. Not all of his friends are receptive to that innate curiosity, yet he finds a kindred soul in her. They each approach honesty in different ways but it is at the expense of an external unit: always about some universal truth, though never about themselves, never of the tragedies that they experience, or continue to. 

Which is why he has predicted this aversion. He is not letting the moment pass, however, not when the moment is finally ripe to coax some semblance of truth from a friend who, in many ways, posed a contradiction. Open to conversation, yet so closed off; so attuned to everyone else’s emotions, though not quite willing to confront her own. 

At the mention of mushy traumatic bullshit, Gilly scoffs. The thought of wallowing in his own feelings has never appealed to him—not when there are many more questions to be asked, mysteries that needed uncovering, skeletons that needed unearthing. To him, wallowing is an indulgence, and a practice he leaves to the poets. The professor is neither. “If you have to ask that question, then you don’t know me at all,” he says with a light chuckle. Regardless, he nods his head, signaling for her to continue. “I should know by now not to expect softness. Not from you.” To a stranger, the words may come off acerbic, though he knows Cheria well enough that the stark honesty would be appreciated.

In exchange, Sherry acknowledges a truth of her own: that the ghost is one from her past. The questions in his head grow more exponentially now, but he is able to restrain herself, and he narrows his expansive curiosity to two sentences. “I see,” he says, nodding, “and this person from your past—have they harmed you in any way?” His eyebrows furrow, and the lines on his forehead grow more pronounced. “Have they harmed others?”  

[realoscarisaac]

Oscar Isaac and Mélanie Laurent in Operation Finale (2018)

[firstfullmoon]

Whether it was the quality of light, or the clarity of my feelings for you, I don’t know, but there was softness and no blurring. ‘This is not a lie,’ I said to myself. ‘It may not hold, but it is true.’

Jeanette Winterson, from Lighthousekeeping (via firstfullmoon)

[profcss]

zoya fox.

closed to : @profcss​​ location : courtyard time : mid evening

The dance ends, but the music goes on, the violinists picking up their bows once more and the conductor raising his hand to begin anew. She doesn’t know where Rahat is, having lost them two dances ago, but she doesn’t look for them. She doesn’t want to. It’s as if she’s standing on a precipice, and if she sees them, she’ll fall. It’s all too much, her heart betraying her head; another drink would do her good, but she doesn’t reach for one. 

Inebriation is something she can’t afford when there are too many people she knows and too many she doesn’t. Despite the grandeur of the manor and intrigue surrounding Mr. Ashton, this party is still like any other party for one reason alone: she can’t slip up. 

Her mistake for thinking it would be any different. 

She opts for fresh air instead, the night breeze cooling her skin as she steps out into the courtyard, her gaze snagging on a familiar figure sitting at the edge. Though the last time she’d seen Gilly was at the cemetery, and since then, has only traded short snippets of conversation and briefly exchanged glances with him, she drifts over. The weight of grief and raw truth does not feel so heavy here; maybe something has reset.

“We always find each other, somehow,” she says, taking a seat next to him. “This backdrop is a prettier sight than the last time, though.”

-

The little detours Gilly has taken around the manor are enough to satiate his curiosity, though his age betrays him far more quickly than he’d like. His muscles strain at the weight of his persistence, and when his legs fully buckle while crouching to pick up his glasses, Gilly takes it as a cue to rest, even for a while. 

After some consideration, he settles for a secluded spot by the courtyard: dimly-lit, but enough to still take in the surroundings, a unique sort of limbo. He puts down the silver platter filled with wineglasses, which he’d nicked off a footman a few corners prior, before taking a seat himself. He’s barely settled in when he feels a figure hover over him, pleased to find it to be someone familiar—and even, perhaps, one he could finally consider a friend. 

The smile that forms in his lips is markedly different from when they’d talked with each other last, and his gaze is light when he acknowledges her. “Zoya,” he nods, “I suppose it is pretty, yes.” The contrast is almost unsettling. Where there had been grief and death in the graveyard then, this place was teeming with life. He is quick to steer the conversation away from those horrors; reality is unimportant, not when there are distractions all around him, from food and drink to the very nature of the ball itself, as one clouded in mystery. 

And, on the subject of prettier sights, he asks, “Who do I have the pleasure of sitting with tonight?” He makes a sweeping motion to her costume, his smile coy, playful. “There isn’t a shortage of beautiful women across history and literature, so I’m afraid you’ll have to narrow that down for me.” 

Leaning backward slightly, he gestures to the silver platter at the opposite side of him. “Wine?”