[ 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.
[Looking happier than he has in weeks, Harry nods and finds himself someplace to sit and simply exist, watching for a good hour before he finally has to excuse himself to tend to his responsibilities.
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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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[His smile warms into something deeply affectionate before he carefully tip-toes up to kiss Zephir's cheek. (Well. Almost.)]
Thank you.
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Stay as long as you like. You can watch me work on my garden.
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But when he leaves, his heart is lighter.]