[ Whenever there's a knock, the door opens to the small garden in Zephir's room, all the plants that burned down in the fire fully regrown and as lush as ever. Somewhere among them is the bottle with the one growing out of Harry's eyeball. ]
Come.
[ Once they're both inside, together, Zephir cups the other man's face, brings their foreheads to touch, caressing his face in silence. Then, ]
[ He transitions into an embrace, keeping Harry close. All this emotion pouring out of him, held in for so long, is Zephir's to keep and to protect. Patient, warm, he welcomes Harry and his suffering into the safety of his miniature kingdom, saying nothing for as long as he needs him to be silent. ]
[Eventually the tears dry up. Harry doesn't bother apologising for them; Zephir is not a man, not really, and human etiquette simply seems to amuse him. He hugs the much taller form embracing him and breathes a while until he feels calm. Emptied out.]
[ He caresses Harry's hair. The sentiment is one Zephir has faced many times, one he's bred into being when he and Sully shaped humanity, just as capable of wonderful feats as terrible ones. Sometimes beautiful and terrible things simply happen to them, and all they can do is their best, or nothing. Zephir trusts that Harry chose to do his best. ]
You've created something beautiful here, love. It's thriving. Would you like to see it?
[ He takes Harry's hand, leads him without rushing. When they arrive at the place where the bottle rests, one healthy eyeball housing the roots of a plant that's grown beyond the neck of its container, Zephir places his hand on Harry's nape and slides it down to his shoulder. The plant is bizarre, like all others he's grown from someone's essence, but it's very... Harry. It's like seeing something he forgot he once dreamt about. ]
[ He's right. All Zephir is interested in - the extraction process aside - is growing his garden, growing the number of friends and lovers keeping him company. I am yours prompts the smile to become an affectionate grin. ]
[ Life is pain, and it has its pleasures. Zephir wants his creations to experience both, to celebrate them equally. ]
Wait here.
[ Zephir walks off, opens a window and extends a hand, as if reaching out for a bird. A butterfly lands on his finger instead, white, black, yellow — the common Jezebel, Harry's beloved delias eucharis. Zephir kisses its wings and takes it back to Harry; it flies, resting on its new friend's shoulder. ]
I didn't make this one, I simply called it. [ That should save it from dying within the hour. ] And I've extended its lifespan, so it should keep you company for a while.
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What do you consider to not be your best?
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I failed again.
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Would you like to tell me about it?
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I have no-one else I can truly speak to. They all need me to be strong right now. And I am not. I am not strong.
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Come to my room.
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[Which is about fifteen minutes. He has to convince Tim that he won't go far or be long.]
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Come.
[ Once they're both inside, together, Zephir cups the other man's face, brings their foreheads to touch, caressing his face in silence. Then, ]
You're safe here.
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But when Zephir tells him that he's safe, Harry starts to cry. His sobs are nearly childlike in their fear and exhaustion.]
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I am so very tired of failing people.
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[ He caresses Harry's hair. The sentiment is one Zephir has faced many times, one he's bred into being when he and Sully shaped humanity, just as capable of wonderful feats as terrible ones. Sometimes beautiful and terrible things simply happen to them, and all they can do is their best, or nothing. Zephir trusts that Harry chose to do his best. ]
You've created something beautiful here, love. It's thriving. Would you like to see it?
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Yes. Please. I need to know I've done... something.
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[ He takes Harry's hand, leads him without rushing. When they arrive at the place where the bottle rests, one healthy eyeball housing the roots of a plant that's grown beyond the neck of its container, Zephir places his hand on Harry's nape and slides it down to his shoulder. The plant is bizarre, like all others he's grown from someone's essence, but it's very... Harry. It's like seeing something he forgot he once dreamt about. ]
What do you think?
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Still sniffling a little, he leans in to look at the plant. His eyes are wide and awestruck.]
It's...
[He can't even think of a word to describe it.]
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[ Said with pride, with love. They created it together, made something beautiful out of the horrible events that led Harry to lose his eye. ]
Would you like to have it?
[ He's never offered to give someone's plant back to them. Not in this place. ]
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May I? I've a place for it. They've gifted me a room. A small museum, really. Full of plants and molluscs and stones...
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[ Caressing his hair, rubbing his earlobe with index and thumb. ]
I'll let you have it. If you promise to let me take a seed from you.
[ He rarely, if ever, asks for permission. Zephir moves away to pick up the bottle, to examine it as his possession for the last time. ]
When the opportunity presents itself.
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Really? I mean, yes, certainly, I don't see why not? It's not as if you've sinister intent.
[Shyly:] And as you say: I am yours already.
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It will hurt.
[ But Harry has come to expect that, he's sure. ]
May I offer you a friend? For your museum.
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A friend? I would be honoured.
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[ Life is pain, and it has its pleasures. Zephir wants his creations to experience both, to celebrate them equally. ]
Wait here.
[ Zephir walks off, opens a window and extends a hand, as if reaching out for a bird. A butterfly lands on his finger instead, white, black, yellow — the common Jezebel, Harry's beloved delias eucharis. Zephir kisses its wings and takes it back to Harry; it flies, resting on its new friend's shoulder. ]
I didn't make this one, I simply called it. [ That should save it from dying within the hour. ] And I've extended its lifespan, so it should keep you company for a while.
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Oh. Oh, Al-- Zephir. Sorry. I.
[He looks at the insect, then back to Zephir.]
Thank you.
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You're welcome. I know you'll take good care of your friend. Come find me if you run into trouble.
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