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When he asked Nathalie how she was feeling, she said “surprisingly good.” She was obviously lying, but he had experience with looking for signs.
She was not in pain, like the first time after using the Peacock Miraculous. She was not exhausted—not to the point of collapse—, like the second time. It was tempting to believe that she might have told the truth.
But as they made their way to the lift, he caught it; her slow, uncertain steps and the slight swing of her shoulders from side to side. She was dizzy.
The all too familiar feeling of guilt clutched his stomach. Nathalie suffered to mend his family and he was too weak to refuse. He rarely thanked her—there was no time for it between her collapsing and him desperately trying to help her.
He gently took her arm and led her to the living room.
“Do you need painkillers?” he muttered, careful not to cause her pain if she was sensitive to sounds. That had tortured Emilie a lot.
“No, thank you.”
“Antiemetic? Ataractic? Anything?”
She put her hand on his.
“Gabriel, I’m fine.”
Her façade broke as soon as they reached the living room and she had to grab onto his lower arm to slowly sit down on the sofa.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said and was already on his way to the cellaret.
Since he proposed to Emilie, Gabriel always had a bottle of aged wine stored there that they would share on their anniversary. But last year’s wine was still sitting in the corner, unopened. He took it along with a corkscrew and grabbed two glasses from the case next to the cellaret.
By the time he turned back, Nathalie was sitting with her back against the sofa’s arm, legs pulled up to her chest. She leaned against the backrest with an elbow and pressed her fingers to her temple.
"Since when are we drinking to failures?" she asked after he sat down next to her. He knew what was coming, but drilled into the cork anyway.
"We're not drinking to anything. We're just drinking." He held up the bottle. "Far Niente Cabernet Sauvignon. Dated 2000."
"Older than Adrien! You can't share that with me!"
"I've already opened it." To emphasise his point, he poured the tawny-coloured wine into the glasses. "And why shouldn't I?"
"It's quality wine and you probably bought it when you were still struggling."
"I think I bought it with Graham de Vanily money.” He handed her one of the glasses. “That should take away the sentimental value you want to label it with so much."
Nathalie shook her head and smiled. She swirled the wine and smelled it.
They clinked glasses. To nothing, as far as she knew. To her, if she would accept that.
The full taste spread in his mouth and even beyond. It filled his head and warmed his veins. The intense wave left a nutty aftertaste on his tongue and eased his soul.
Nathalie closed her eyes and a satisfied smile lit up her face as slowly as the wine brought life to his body.
"I never had wine older than a few years," she hummed.
"Then we should do it every year."
The meaning of his words hit him as hard as a rockslide. Nathalie’s eyes snapped open too. She regarded him with disbelief—she knew exactly what this custom meant.
"You don't have a wine cellar, Gabriel. And you have better things to do with that money."
"Better? I think this is the bare minimum."
He knew what she meant but hushed it away. It felt inappropriate to think about Emilie right now. He should focus on Nathalie.
“An aged wine per year won’t hurt my finances.”
To emphasise his point, he seized the bottle and poured another round. He caught her eyes and leaned back with the satisfaction of defiance. Sinking into the sofa’s backrest didn't feel so warm and comfortable in years.
“Then here goes hoping that you’ll have to open two bottles next year,” she said.
They sipped their wine in silence. Gabriel watched as Nathalie emptied her glass and put it on the table. He was fascinated by the flow of the motion, which was ridiculous because she moved just like everyone else. It must have been the alcohol’s effect.
"What?" Nathalie asked.
"What ‘what’?"
"You're staring."
"Sorry. I was just thinking."
Nathalie eased into her previous position, leaning against the head of the sofa.
"We'll get her back."
It felt inappropriate to talk about Emilie. Why did Nathalie have to direct the conversation toward her all the time?
"I will. You're not going to. Not directly, anyway."
Nathalie visibly tensed.
"We had the Bee. It means that we can do it again. We’re getting closer and closer to victory."
"It's pointless if your health declines."
"I'm fine. I think my body's getting used to it."
"Nonsense." He looked at the family portrait on the other side of the room. He used Emilie's gentle smile to strengthen his resolve.
"You said you would do anything for Emilie," Nathalie pressed.
"It's not up for debate."
His voice snapped harder than he intended. He knew how 'I'm fine' could cut a conversation short and he won’t let Nathalie do it.
“You care?” she asked, carefully.
His head snapped to look at her.
“Of course I do.”
The assumption was outrageous.
Nathalie’s eyes widened and the pulling feeling around his temples eased. How could she think that he did not care?
He desperately racked his brain to break the silence. But Nathalie was faster, although her words stung just as much as the ones before.
“That means you wouldn’t do everything for her."
His teeth tore at his mouth.
He would. But there was a line.
So, he would not. But agreeing with Nathalie would suggest disloyalty towards Emilie.
“I would do just about anything.”
“There’s no shame in saying it like that,” Nathalie muttered.
“If you like it so much, you should live by it too.”
She chuckled and the following silence was much like the usual, relaxing ones he always enjoyed in her company. He fixed his gaze on a grey spot on the ceiling and moved his eyes to play with his vision. It had been a long time since he experienced the delay of his brain.
His eyes dropped down when a small weight pressed against his thigh. He was shocked to find Nathalie’s foot in his lap. Then, for some reason, he almost laughed out loud.
He absent-mindedly led a finger through the red line that Nathalie’s shoe had cut into her foot. Nathalie's toes twitched, but she did not draw her legs back. He looked at her from above his glasses and felt the corner of his lip stretch into a smile on noticing her peaceful (satisfied, mischievous?) smirk.
He laid back and rested his hand on her shin.
“When I said I would do everything for her, I didn’t think about watching someone else I—” He what? He swallowed. “I can’t bear that burden. Emilie made her decision, but she left me out of it. You must think that you made yours and that that should be enough for me, but it isn’t. You do it in front of my eyes and expect me to not feel responsible.”
He looked back up at Nathalie. Her head was still resting against her hand, but her eyes were closed and her knuckle pushed her glasses up to her brow ridge. She seemed uncharacteristically calm and that flew right into his heart.
He let his head fall back against the wall behind the sofa.
He would not do everything for Emilie. That was new.
He turned his head towards Nathalie and it felt like the wine washed through his body again. It filled him with strange comfort that he would not do everything for a single life. Maybe Nathalie was right. ‘Just about anything’ sounded equally appropriate, if not better.