Chapter 17 – The Vision of St Jerome by Guercino

The change from pain to nothingness to a new painting is instant. I barely register it and suddenly everything has changed around me and my hand is around a door knob. Without knocking or waiting for instructions, I just turn it and walk in. I have no patience or even strength for games at this point. I just want to get this over with quickly. Maybe I have some kind of painting quota and the faster I get through all of them, the faster I can get out of here.

I won't throw myself on a sword this time around, but it doesn't mean I won't let it happen either.

As I step through the threshold, I automatically know I'm in an art studio. For some reason though, I don't feel threatened when I walk in, I don't feel like I'm violating someone's space, or like I'm somewhere I shouldn't be. It feels okay to be here, it almost feels nice, like there's something familiar to this space. It's quite an unexpected change.

A boy, well a man, is sitting on a stool in front of a canvas and painting very meticulously. He's completely engrossed with his painting. He hasn't even noticed I walked in. Usually, people notice when I arrive but he doesn't. His art is all that matters.

I look at the man. Sideways, he looks very gorgeous. He looks like a young Johnny Depp, with brown slightly long hair, angular jaw and dreamy eyes. I stop staring at him because it kind of feels wrong to start perving on a guy in a painting.

I take in the studio instead which I realize is also obviously this man's apartment. It's cozy, small but nice. Again, there's something comforting about this place.

"Melody?"

I snap my head and the man isn't painting anymore, he's staring at me, gapping. "How do you kn—" I don't finish my sentence. I just gasp and cover my mouth. This isn't possible. I must be wrong. Sideways I couldn't see it, but now looking at me, those brown eyes boring into mine... "Gustave?"

He knocks the stool he was sitting on to the ground while getting up and takes two dazed steps towards me. "Melody, is this really you?" he asks, his voice catching.

I don't answer right away because I can't believe this. I can barely comprehend what's going on. This is Gustave, it's obvious, it's him, it's his caring but playful eyes and I should have realized sooner that his apartment smelled just like his room—that's what was so familiar about this place. It's him, it's definitely him. But he's not fourteen anymore, that much is also obvious. He's older. He looks my age.

I cover my mouth, and I feel like I might actually cry. "Oh my god, Gustave."

"You remember me?"

"Of course I remember you," I finally manage to breathe. I still can't believe this, can't believe that this curse has given me this gift, has given me Gustave for a second time.

And then he's hugging me and I let him, because he's the closest thing to someone I know I can find in these paintings. He's a comforting figure. And he knows me. "How can you remember me?" I whisper fiercely against his shoulder. Ever since his painting I've been wondering about this, wondering whether he'd remember me or not. It's also weird to think about the fact that the last time he hugged me I was taller than him.

He smiles at that, appraising me. "How could I not remember you?"

"I just..." I shake my head, but I'm smiling, smiling like I haven't been doing in a while, like I haven't done since I last saw him I realize. "I never figured you could remember me. I didn't even realize I could see someone twice, let alone you."

"Why do you say it like that?" He's frowning, like he's worried he's done something wrong before, like seeing him truly isn't the highlight of my freaking existence at the moment. Seeing him twice, he can't even begin to comprehend how amazing and impossible it is for me.

"What?"

"You" he repeats.

He's still holding on to my shoulders and I let him. I let him because this feels comforting. It's strange how truly soothing it feels. "I say it like that because you were the first painting where I wasn't actually suffering. You were the first painting I actually enjoyed."

He doesn't add anything else because there's nothing to say. Good god I can't believe this. Is this really possible? After the last painting, after all the pain and the darkness and the confusion, I can't believe I'm here, with Gustave, and he remembers me and he's smiling at me like he almost understand what I'm thinking, what I'm going through. I can't believe this, I really can't.

"So?" I finally step out of his embraces because I think that I'll never get out of it if I let things be. "Still painting?" I ask, smiling at the boy. Good god I can't believe how well he grew. It's actually unsettling. He was a pretty boy but he's a handsome man, well hot man really.

Gustave smiles and it's eerie. I can see his fourteen year old face smiling at me when he does. He might have grown but he hasn't changed at all. He still smiles the same way. It lights up his whole face. "Still painting." He reassures me. I'm so glad that he does. I really hope he becomes a known painter, one that does great things and is remembered. For a second I actually wish I had listened during my art class so I could remember if Gustave Courbet was ever mentioned.

I look toward the canvas he was sitting in front and it's a painting of something Greek-or-Roman-I-don't-really-care-at-this-point. "Different subject?" I ask. From what I remember of him, this isn't what he would usually paint.

"It's a copy actually," Gustave answers sheepishly.

I laugh. I actually laugh. I have no idea how this whole curse thing precisely works, but I find it really funny that if I'm in a painting right now, it's actually some copy and not the original. Isn't copies of art work the same thing as a fake Prada purse? And why am I not in that painting instead? Why am I witnessing the painting process instead of living in the paint itself? "So you're telling me the painting I'm here to see being done is a copy?"

Gustave's eyes are light up with mischief when he tells me, "It's Vision of St Jerome by Guercino."

I take a few steps around Gustave to take a better look. On the canvas, there's an old man only covered with a red drape and some kind of baby-angel-cherubin flying over him with a flute. Yeah, from everything I remember him telling me when he was younger, how he wanted to paint real things, this just doesn't fit. "How's it going?"

"Fine I guess," he shrugs, "it's just not exactly what I want to be painting for the rest of my life."

Ah! I knew it. I knew that's not what Gustave would usually paint. I don't know why but this realization that I know Gustave enough to know he wouldn't want to paint this to begin with makes me almost giddily happy.

The giddiness might have something to do with the exhaustion though. I don't know how long I was in that last dreadful painting but it's taken quite a toll on me. "Do you mind if I just sit and watch you paint? I'm exhausted and well, I don't need to explain anything, do I?" I ask Gustave.

"No, not really." Gustave frowns and then adds, "I'm curious to know where you were though."

I roll my eyes and look around. There are a couple of chairs, but his bed appears much more inviting, though I don't know if I'm allowed to just go and sit on his bed. I don't even know if I'm allowed to be alone with him in a room right now. I don't really know the etiquette in France in the 1800s but I don't think boys were allowed to have girls over without a chaperone. Then again, this is France, so maybe they can do whatever the fuck they want. If I was doing something wrong or improper I'm pretty sure that Gustave would tell me and wouldn't hold it against me. "I was just in a crazy painting..." I explain, "I'm guessing it was Picasso."

"Pica-who?"

I chuckle. It's funny to me that this boy who was able to name pretty much all of the paintings I had been in, doesn't know Picasso. Even I know Picasso. "Too early for your time I guess."

"Does Picasso usually dress his models in shredded dirty clothing?"

I look down at myself. Oh shit. Way to make and entrance Melody. Wasn't I just thinking about appropriateness?

I pull at the shredded pieces of my dress, trying to cover more fully the dangerous parts of me. "That happened in the painting before the last one I was in." I think back to the fucking knight and I bawl my fist. Condescending prick. "I was chased by some asshole knight and my clothes sort of went POOF!"

Gustave frowns. He doesn't look too happy about that painting either. I'm glad we agree. "Where was he chasing you?" Gustave asks, brushing his finger lightly against my shoulder. I suppress a shudder, but then I realize why he did that—the tip of his finger is covered with ashes.

"Oh, I think that's actually residual ashes from the Vesuvius, from another painting." Wow, I must really look like a mess right now. Looking at Gustave I realize I sort of covered his white shirt with ashes. Why did he even hug me when I look like a freaking train wreck?

"You were in a painting of the eruption of the Vesuvius?"

I sigh, running my hand over my ash-covered-hair spotted with branches and earth. Seriously mess doesn't even begin to cover it. "Felt like it, yeah."

"That must have been horrible."

I nod. "Yeah, pretty much."

Suddenly, Gustave perks up, like he's just gotten my Christmas present in the mail. "Well, you're in luck my dear Melody, because I just filled the tub with water this morning."

I don't want to jump to conclusions, but I jump to conclusions. "Do you mean you'll actually have a bath prepare for me again?"

His smile lights up his face again. "This time I'll be the one taking care of heating the water but yes."

"You're the one who should have been knighted."

"I'll also get you new clothes."

Usually, I'd say something like "I think I want to marry you," but I don't know the usual customs in France in the 1800s, if telling him I want to marry him makes me automatically spoken to him or worst, and I don't think I should be encouraging him. That doesn't stop the fact that I still want to hug him again.

"Thanks! And sorry about the last dress, I didn't mean to destroy it like that," I tell him sheepishly.

He chuckles. "Don't worry about it."

"Did you get in a lot of trouble with your mother because of it?" I ask as I help him fill jugs of water to put over an oven to warm up. Making a warm bath was such a hassle in his time.

"Of course I didn't," Gustave scoffs, "I told you she didn't fit in it anymore. Everyone in my family starts up thin and ends up twice their sizes. If I'm so unlucky maybe in a decade or so I'll be the size of a table and won't be able to sit on a chair anymore."

I laugh at that. I can't picture him fat. He looks hot right now and that's pretty much all I can think about. It's totally wrong but it's the truth. "Shouldn't being fat be a good thing in your time, you know, like it shows off you're wealthy enough to eat?"

"What do you mean in my time?" He frowns a little, but in an amused way, with a smile on his lips and in his eyes.

"Oh, in the twenty first century people actually starve themselves to death because being thin is a beauty criteria," I explain to him. We're both standing around the oven right now, looking at the water. I actually raise my hands over it, warming them up. I hadn't realized I was cold, really cold.

"Hmm, well, I like curves," he tells me, looking contemplative. It's really weird to have this conversation with him when I think back to fourteen year old him, "but I'm basing my judgement from painting, so I might actually hate them in practice." He shrugs but he's laughing and I'm smiling too at his boldness. "Did you actually say that people chose not to eat?"

"Yes."

Gustave shakes his head. "Oh what a strange time you are from."

I roll my eyes. "Tell me about it."

We're both silent for a little while. Gustave keeps shooting sideway glances at me and I let him. I must be a strange sight so I understand the curiosity of staring at me, plus there's something comforting about his gaze.

Finally, the water starts to boils and Gustave effectively transfers it back into the small tub hidden behind a screen in the furthest corner of his cozy little apartment.

"So," Gustave tells me after setting the last empty jug of water down, "after you're done with your bath you can either wear a dress, or you can get your old clothes back, well a copy of your old clothes."

Say what? Gustave smiles at my confused face and instead of explaining, goes to a trunk, opens it and takes out a pile of clothes from it, handing them to me. I sort of freeze as I unfold them. "How did you do this?" I'm holding a pair of jeans and a t-shirt in my hands, exact replicas of what I was wearing when I met Gustave for the first time and they look pretty much the right size. I don't understand it.

"Well, after you left I still had your old clothes, but their were in pretty bad shape so I asked the maids to clean then and mend them, just in case you ever came back for them, but they told me that it the damage it was better off to just make new ones," he shrugs at the end like it's no big deal, but of course it's a big deal. He thought of me after I left, enough to have the maids make me new clothes, enough to keep those clothes, enough to still have them, to save them, years later.

"You had the maids make me new clothes?" I ask, trying to fight the tears that want to fill my eyes, my hands brushing the material of the clothes.

"Yes... is that alright?"

This boy couldn't be real, he just couldn't. "More than alright." I clear my throat, trying to get rid of the lump that filled it. "I can't believe you even made me jeans."

"Yeah, I don't understand why you wear those." He shakes his head, his eyes narrowed. "You know that material is used by sailors right? You're not a sailor, a fire hazard maybe, but not a sailor."

I laugh at the way he says it, like I'm ridiculous for picking that material. "There a big fashion must in my time. Everyone wears jeans. I can't believe they even exist in your time and you could actually get the material."

"You're kidding me right? That material is made in France."

I snort. "Seriously?

"Yes, seriously." He laughs at me. I let him. "Don't you future people know where your clothes come from?"

"From China usually," I answer, like it's obvious.

It doesn't sound like the obvious answer to him though. "From China?"

I laugh again. I haven't laughed this much in a long time. "Don't you have a painting to get to?"

"It can wait." He waves the matter away. "China?"

I sigh, but the smile doesn't leave my lips. "Yeah, in the future we're horrible people and we force people from other countries to work in awful conditions for ridiculously low wages to make us, well, really most of our things. We have laws that protect our workers, in let's say, the United States, and we have things like minimum wages, but we use countries were you can have people work for way cheaper to produce a lot of our goods."

I see that he gets it but he still has questions. "I don't understand how clothes from China can be affordable though. Isn't the shipping insanely expensive?"

"Well, you remember, I told you how our means of transportation have evolved." I think back to his fourteen year old self sitting beside me in the field by his family estate, listening to me talking about the future. "It's easy to get around. I mean, hell, we're talking about colonizing Mars now."

His eyes widen in surprise. "Mars, as in the planet?"

"Yes, the planet."

"You're just messing with me now."

"I'm really not. I did tell you we went on the moon, didn't I?"

"Yes the moon, but Mars?" The way he says it is just adorable. I could pinch his cheek. I could hug him again. I kind of really want to.

"It'll be a one way trip though, went people leave they won't be coming back." I keep on going because his reactions are perfect.

"I think I'll get back to painting..." he trails, looking daze.

I chuckle. "You do that."

"Go take your bath while it's still warm." He shoos me away, and I laugh as he does but I still listen to him.

The prospect of a warm bath is enough to almost make me cry. I don't know if I'm in a worst state than I was the last time I did this with Gustave. I feel worst though, that's for sure. And it's ridiculous because the last time I met him I had just killed a man. That messed me up. I had kind of forgotten about that one actually.

I've lived through too much. This isn't fair.

Behind the screen, I take what little of clothing I still have left on me. I hope Gustave doesn't go through the hassle of trying to fix that too because it's definitely a lost cause. The water isn't that warm because Gustave didn't heat that much of it, but it really doesn't matter. I scrub and scrub and scrub my skin, but even if I can't see it, it still feels like it's covered with dirt, like I'm still somewhat unclean. Everything that has happened to me has left a stain, on my body and on my soul. As happy as I am to see Gustave again, I can't forget what's been happening to me so far.

If all of this is a fairytale, it's the Grimm's version, not the Disney one.

I scrub my skin until the water is murky and my skin is bright pink and my teeth are starting to chatter from the cold.

Afterwards, I dry myself up and I put on the jeans. I still feel cold so the t-shirt won't be enough to cover me. I grab one of Gustave's white dress shirts. I feel kind of clandestine doing this, but I don't really care that much, honestly. I doubt Gustave is going to try to literally cut my head off if I put one of his dress shirts on.

"Feeling better?" Gustave asks me as soon as I step away from the cover of the screen, a big smile on his lips. I wonder for a second if the real Gustave Courbet, the real painter smiled like that. I hope he did. I hope he really existed in the past and smiled at people like he smiles at me now, pouring warmth into their hearts. I hope this wasn't just some kind of sick dream.

"Much better. Thank you."

"You're welcome Melody. You can rest if you want," he tells me, pointing to his bed with his chin. It looks bigger than a twin size bed but smaller than a double size bed. It's a big cluster of blankets and pillows. "You look like you need it," he adds and it's true. I long for true rest.

So, I don't argue with Gustave. I actually just throw myself on his bed and snuggle in the blankets, cuddling one of his pillows. I can hear him laughing over my antics but I don't care. I actually like it. I like Gustave's laugh. It makes all of this a little bit more bearable.

I'm sure the bed is uncomfortable. I doubt they have memory foam beds in the 1800s, but right now, at this moment, this feels like the softest, comfiest bed in all of history. A cloud couldn't be as comfortable as this bed.

In different circumstances I would just go to sleep. But I know that if I fall asleep here it's not rest and dreams that will greet me, but another new nightmare to deal with.

Instead, I just snuggle in Gustave's bed and look at him painting. This is nice. Way too nice. I don't have to explain anything to him. He knows me. He knows my name. He knows where I'm from. And somehow he believes it. Aside from Tanya, no one gave me peace of mind the way that Gustave does. I don't want to be grateful of this delusional curse for anything, but I can't help being grateful for Gustave. After the last painting, I don't know what I would have done if I had been thrown in a cage with lions.

I hold onto a pillow tighter and smile contently at Gustave. He's painting again, engrossed in his work, but he's not smiling as much. He's frowning actually. And sighing softly from time to time.

Something's wrong.

I prop myself on my elbows, to get a better look at him. "Something's bothering you. What is it?" I ask him.

He sighs again, and runs his paint-stained hand through his hair, shaking it. Finally he admits, "I need to go to the recruiting board tomorrow morning."

I frown. "By recruiting board you mean army?"

Another sigh. He looks at the ground, playing with the brush in his hand. "Yes."

That's wrong. "You want to enrol?"

"I don't want to," he admits, "but I'll probably have to."

"So what? You go there tomorrow and then you're off to war? No more painting?" This isn't right. He's a painter. He can't go off fighting people.

"No well, tomorrow I have to meet them so they can assess me."

"Assess you?"

"Yes, see if I'm a shaking eighty year old man, or a dashing young stud," he tells me, trying to joke, but I see how much he doesn't want this. I can understand. Who are the French even fighting right now? The English? It's usually the safe bet.

"So wait, if you go there and you look like shit they might turn you off?" I ask. There might be a way to salvage things.

"Huh?" He looks confused.

"Like, if you go there and you look all pale and sickly, they'll cross you off their list?" I explain.

"Probably, yes." He still looks confused. "But do I look pale and sickly?"

I smiled in triumph. "We can work on that," I assure him and get up on my feet, dropping the pillow.

"How?" Gustave asks, and he gets up on his feet too. He doesn't look that sullen anymore.

"Well, my dear Gustave," I grin at him, "let me teach you something. Freshman year my roommate all but forced me to go with her to this conference in the Hamptons about some organic food substitute or whatever. I wasn't listening. Point is, I got wicked hung over the day before signing up to get on the bus that would get us there. They turned me over immediately when they saw me."

Gustave snorts a laugh. "So your plan is to get me drunk?"

"Yes, you might want to smoke that pipe of yours too," I add, pointing with my chin at the pipe by his window. It's such a grandfather looking thing I almost laugh. "If you keep having fits of coughing that'll definitely make them think twice about enrolling you," I add.

"You're an evil mastermind," Gustave jokes.

"Why, thank you. Now, take us where there is booze!" I announce.

"You might want to change first..." Gustave clears his throat, looking at me up and down.

I grin sheepishly. "Oh, yeah, gotcha!"

A little while later, with a new dress on, we're walking side by side, my hand holding on to the crook of his elbow, smiling and giggling like two naughty kids. And for a second I close my eyes and raise my head to the sky, feeling the sun on my skin. I'm walking in the street of Paris. I always wanted to travel but I never had the chance, never had the funds. And here I am, walking with someone I actually enjoy spending time with in the streets of Paris in 1840 something. All of this is a curse and I hate it, but this once, just this once I'm going to enjoy the curse. I'm trapped here, so I might as well make the most of it.

"So, what happened after I disappeared?" I ask Gustave as we walk in the streets. I have no idea where Gustave is taking us but I trust him.

"My dark period began," he replies solemnly.

I chuckle, looking at him with amusement. "What?"

"Oh, I started to write poems and kept talking long solitary walks. It was bad, really bad."

"I can imagine." I laugh again. "How did it go at the college?" I ask, remembering our conversation, such a long time ago.

Gustave all but groans. "It was a nightmare."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I wrote to my parents telling them to bring me right back and that it was a waste of money, but they thought I was joking at first. I really wasn't. That place was awful."

"Well, you're out of there now," I tell him, looking in his eyes and smile.

"And you're back," he answers, and smiles too. It's a different kind of smile than the ones I'm used to. It's a small, almost shy kind of smile. My breath catches in my throat. What's going on? "We're here," Gustave suddenly said, snapping me out of whatever was going on in my chest just then.

I follow him into the bar, or pub or tavern or inn or whatever this drinking place should be called. People seem to be recognizing Gustave. It's not his first time here.

After we're sitting down at a table with wine and bread and a board of checkers in front of us I say, "It's kind of weird. The last time I saw you, you were fourteen."

Gustave pours me a glass. "Almost fifteen," he corrects me.

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, sure, whatever, you were still jailbait."

Gustave narrows his eyes, amused. "Jailbait?"

"I guess that expression makes no sense in your time. Fourteen year old kids can marry old people right?"

"Fourteen year old girls, usually..." Gustave trails and his eyes cloud a little.

"Thinking about your sisters?" I presume.

He shrugs but I know I'm right. "Maybe."

"How are they doing?"

And Gustave starts to talk. He talks about his sister again and gets me up to date on everything happening in his life. It's been six years since I last saw him. A lot happened in six years. He talks about himself and then I talk about myself. I talk about the last paintings I was in and what happened to me while we play checkers. We talk and talk and talk, about nothing and everything.

We're at our fourth bottle and I'm complaining about how much I hate art when Gustave suddenly says, "You don't hate art, you only like it on your own terms."

I throw a tiny piece of bread at his face and he catches it with his mouth, smiling victoriously. I laugh. "What do you mean?" I ask him.

"You made your skin into a canvas. You're art." He tells me and takes another sip of wine before adding in a rush, "So you obviously like art but only when it works in your favour, you need to have control over it. You need to control things, but you can't control art so you fear it. You don't hate it, you're just unsettled by it."

I narrow my eyes at him. That little... "How do you know I have a tattoo?" It covers most of my right shoulder blade but unless I'm not wearing a shirt, people can't see that I have flowers tattooed on my back, the same kind of flowers that my grandmother used to grow in her garden. The flowers I helped her take care of.

"I might have sneaked a peek when you changed and took a bath first time we met," Gustave answers sheepishly.

"Oh my god," I punch his arm and he looks appalled and amused at the same time, "you slimy little creep."

"Hey, I was young and you were beautiful. I would do it again," he tells me and winks.

I'm not sure if I should be really mad or a little flattered or just amused. There's nothing I can do about it now, anyway.

"You little creep," I say again and Gustave chuckles, but then the smile doesn't reach his eyes anymore. "What is it?" I ask.

"Nothing..." he sighs, "it just feels like I'm going to wake up anytime with my face in paint and realize that all of this was just a dream and you never came back, and I just imagined you, now and when I was fourteen, that you never existed."

I snort. "Oh, so I'm the one that isn't real?"

"If we follow you're line of thought, that whatever is going right now isn't real then of course. Think about it. Between us two," he points between him and me, "whose life makes the more sense? I'm living my normal life, trying to be a painter, living in Paris with my normal family and you just appear out of nowhere and you're curse and you live in paintings, and from where you're from people go up in space to colonize Mars. Whose life sounds the most like it's real?"

"But I know I'm real," I press. I can't believe we're having this conversation. I can't believe I need to convince an illusion that I'm real.

"And I know I'm real too. I just make more sense than you."

I want to argue playfully with him about this, but I suddenly don't feel amused by this fact. Gustave isn't real. He's just a figment of my imagination. And that's an awful thought to have. "But you're the one that's make belief and I'm the one that's real," I tell him softly.

He shakes his hand and head at me "Nah nah, huh huh, I'm real, my life's real. Yours... well it's still debatable," I see that he's trying to keep this conversation playful, but I feel sad.

"You're the one that can't be real. You even remember me. How does that even make sense?" It doesn't. Gustave just doesn't make sense.

"Makes a whole lot more sense than getting eaten by Saturn if you ask me," he answers, grinning over his glass of wine.

We keep on drinking and smoking and talking all night long. Once again I'm struck about how different but how alike we are, we might be from different time periods but humans will always be humans at their core. That never changes. Our humanity links us wherever or whenever we're from. Or maybe it's just my imagination that makes me believe that we are connected somehow.

I wish I knew who he was in history. I wish I knew if he made a difference in art. I wish I knew that he was remembered. I hope he's remembered. If he's not, if I ever manage to wake up from this nightmare, I'll make sure he is, real or not.

When the sun begins to rise, Gustave wakes up with a start—the beautiful drunky that he was had passed out on the table a couple of hours later, I just sort of stared at him during that time, still incredulous about the fact that this is actually Gustave, my Gustave.

We both look like shit. That's good.

The barman, or innkeeper, or whatever they're called in the 1800 knows Gustave and lets him borrow a jacket and shirt that doesn't reek of smoke and alcohol and with that clever change, we head to the recruiting board. Part of me is frightened that my stupid little trick doesn't work and that because of me Gustave is forced to go into the army and that he dies a young and gruesome death and his paintings are never known because of me. I shake with fear as I wait for him outside, pacing in front of the door.

When he finally steps out I'm almost crying.

"I have bad news..." Gustave begins, and I cover my mouth with my hands to keep myself from crying. If I wasn't so hung over and definitely still a little drunk too, I wouldn't be so emotional but this is important. "Looks like I'm going to be stuck painting for a while now..."

I squeal with joy and I throw myself in his arms. Fuck etiquette. It worked. It actually fucking worked. I can't believe it. Gustave isn't going into the army and it's because of me.

"Come on, we should move out of here before they suddenly change their minds," Gustave jokes, entangling himself from my embrace, a smile on his lips.

We walk back slowly to his apartment. We're a mess. We're both so hung over and the sun is hurting our eyes it's a freaking torture.

"God, I wish I had sunglasses right now," I whine.

"Sun glasses?"

"I'll explain it to you later..."

Gustave mumbles something softly. I think it's "there might not be a later" but I could be wrong.

We're silent for the rest of our walk.

Once we finally step into his apartment, Gustave takes me by surprise trapping me between the door and his body, leaning dangerously close to me. "Gustave, what are you doing?" I ask him, while I press my hands against his chest, trying to keep him at bay, to keep him from doing something he might regret, something I might not be able to deal with right now.

"I'm drunk," Gustave answers. Yeah, no shit.

"No, you're hung over," I press, trying not to look too directly in his eyes.

"No, I think I'm drunk. And you're drunk too. We're both drunk."

"I hold my liquor better than you do," I point out, looking at my hands on his chest.

"Obviously..." he trails, his fingers tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.

"Gustave..." I breathe when his hand rests on my cheek.

"Hey, you won't even be there in the morning so who cares," he tells me, and there's bitterness in his voice.

I finally muster the courage to actually look in his eyes. I feel pain in my chest when I do. "It's already morning."

"When I wake up you'll have disappeared and I'll never see you again." The pain intensifies. I ignore it.

"You might see me again."

"No I won't. And I'll wake up again to find a bed without you in it."

"Gustave..." I'm not sure why I have this need to just repeating his name. I think that if I repeat it enough times I'll believe he's real, I'll believe he's really there and this is happening.

"I knew it, six years ago, I knew you wouldn't be there when I woke up," his fingers press against the skin of my cheek and jaw, "but it still hurt like hell. I was so sure I'd never see you again."

I want to cry. I can't cry. "Well, I'm here now."

"But you'll be gone soon. The second you fall asleep I lose you."

"I might come back."

"What are the odds? You said it yourself, we're lucky enough that I got to see you a second time. I doubt I'll get a third."

"You might." It feels like a lie saying this. It is a lie. And Gustave knows it too. Feels it too.

"I won't."

"You're a negative drunk aren't you?"

He chuckles, leaning his forehead against mine, his eyes closing. "Quite so, yes."

"For all I know, this isn't even real." I say, not sure if I'm talking to him or myself.

"Oh it's real. You leaving me is the realest thing that's ever happened to me"

"Gustave."

"That too," he breathes, "you saying my name, it's real. It feels real."

I shake my head. "That's my imagination speaking."

"There are two things that I am sure about in life. First, is that you and I are real. And second is that you'll leave me the second you fall asleep."

"And what if I do leave?" I'm feeling hysterical now. I can barely breathe, trapped in his embrace. "What's the big deal? It's not like you need me anyway."

Gustave frowns, staring straight into my eyes, deep into my soul. "Who says I don't need you?"

"Do you need me? Will your life suddenly stop if I'm not around?" I ask, staring at his chest again, instead of his eyes.

"It's right that I don't need you in my life the way I need to breathe or eat or sleep. I need you in my life the way people need the sun, need light and warmth. They don't die without all of these things, but their lives are miserable without them."

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. "Please, you're being melodramatic. Is your life really miserable without me?"

"It's better when you're there," he answers.

"You've managed quite well without me," I point out. He's still painting. That's what he wanted.

"I'm not so sure... look at what I've been painting. I haven't been painting real things in so long now..."

"Please," I breathe, "please don't make this harder than it already is..." I look up in his eyes and I see it—he's surprise to see my own filled with tears. "You think I want to leave you? You think I want to leave this painting and wake up god knows where to suffer and die senselessly"

"But that's just because I'm the lesser of two evils. I'm the one option that's more bearable in a sea of painful ones."

How can I tell him, how can I tell that boy that seems to understand me more than I understand myself that what he's done for me so far, no one has done before? How can I tell him that my own boyfriend's never cared for me the way Gustave has cared for me? How can I tell him that a part of me, a small, ashamed part of me thinks about the fact that I could actually be happy if I just stayed here with him, that I could be content? How can I tell him that I found more purpose to a day with him than I have from years of being with Jarvis?

How can I tell him any of that when I can barely accept it myself? Saying it out loud, admitting this to him makes it, real. I can't tell him any of this because it's wrong. I don't belong here with him. This is just some kind of never ending dream, some very complex delusion. None of this is real. Gustave can't be real, because I can't feel this way about someone that's imaginary.

"You're right, of course. I can't care about you. I don't care about you," I say slowly, stepping out of his embrace. He looks like I've just slapped him telling him this, but I try to ignore it.

I can't stay here. I can't deal with this. I remember the price I paid the last time I ended things on my own, but I don't care about the price right now. I'll pay the price if I have to. Because I can't stay here. I just can't. I can't stand there and look in his eyes and feel whatever it is I'm feeling.

I just can't.

I rush to Gustave's canvas and grab the metallic-spatula-looking thing resting by the paint and mustering all of my courage and strength, before Gustave can stop me, I stab myself in throat.