Work Text:
Joseph stares at the broken shards of glass on the floor, dumbfounded as his moonlit reflection stares back at him.
He looks tired.
~
It’s early afternoon, the same day. Joseph closes his eyes to the sun glaring through the arched windows as he continues to speak to his guest in an airy, open tone.
“Is the tea to your liking, Mademoiselle?”
The guest sighs lightly and fans her gloved hand in front of her mouth. “It is just fine, though I do wish we could take my photo now. I can hardly wait to see if your work is truly as good as claimed.”
“Ah,” Joseph muses, hiding an eyeroll behind a light toss of his head, “I certainly hope to please you. Let us go.”
The event is quick, succinct. The camera turns on with a shimmer and Joseph takes the lady by her hand before yanking her along with him into the monotonous new world, watching all her colors go grey and her scream die down while his own face regains a smidgen of vitality and his breaths become less ragged.
He bows to the muse before he exits, and he leaves the film to develop on its own time.
~
A camera can take a moment in time and trap it, prevent it from ever crawling towards whatever horrid future is to come.
A camera cannot, however, turn back time.
The pain in his hand as he slices his palm on a shard of glass he picks up immediately prompts him to gasp, but he otherwise shows very little reaction.
How much pain?
How much pain had Claude felt as he curled up in the old bed of the inn, everything that could keep him warm covering him yet still leaving his teeth to chatter from the cold? The ailment that left him to suffocate in the middle of what should’ve been a normal, peaceful night? The swaying every time he stood. The realization that Joseph was healthy enough to grow taller while Claude wasn’t. The blood staining his sleeves when he coughed. The belief he would come to see spring, right by Joseph’s side despite everyone silently knowing he wouldn’t, only to smile at Joseph as if it didn’t hurt at all?
(When it does, in fact, hurt.)
So, so much pain. That is the answer.
When they left Claude’s corpse to be taken away to who knows where so they could leave France to avoid dying themselves.
It hurts.
Joseph’s fist clenches around the glass shards and he doesn’t react this time, simply leaning against the vanity with the broken mirror, frozen in time as if he’s one of his own photographs.
He can’t tell if he feels numb of if his insides are tearing themselves apart because of whatever whirlpool of emotion is in his heart.
When he moves to wipe the tears he starts to cry, the blue velvet of his jacket is darkened with stains, as he hasn’t yet changed into nightclothes.
What is the point of that, anyways, if he knows he will not sleep as the memories and guilt riddle holes in him until he’s fragile enough to crumble to dust in the breeze? Joseph stops looking at his sleeves as blood begins to stain one and brings his unmarred hand to cover his eyes. His breathing is so shaky.
Why was Claude not allowed to live? He’d never done anything wrong. He didn’t deserve to go. Whether Joseph deserves Claude’s presence is another story, but what is inarguable is that Claude never should have died.
Joseph’s throat aches as he draws in a deep, trembling breath. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small greyscale photograph he always stores there. It’s of Claude. But it’s not a Claude he photographed, not a Claude he can reach. He puts it back away before tears or blood can upset its perfect state.
Joseph looks into the shattered mirror. Although distorted, his expression is just as tired as before, if not more.
“Soon enough. Soon enough, brother, I will join you.”
Joseph’s face is once again expressionless despite his puffy eyes and bleeding hand as he walks out of the room, attempting to brush off the thoughts trying to plague him as usual and replace them with thoughts of the new photograph he was about to obtain.