Chapter Text
The way Olivier carries himself is the first thing he notices of the man, a smug aura shrouding the other Frenchman like a thin blanket devoid of warmth emphasized only by the cold icy stare of his blunt blue eyes and careful stride. There was a certain entitlement attributed to him, accentuated by his aristocratic features. Careful steady hands, lacking the usual callouses one would get through years of working in the field, soft and thoughtful when tampering with anything he got his nimble hands on.
The locals named him after a great beastly cat in their native tongue, referring to him as merely “Lion” when not under his scrutinizing gaze, and Gustave couldn’t have thought of a better name for the man. His voice was booming; assured and holding an ounce of recklessness as he speaks and Gustave would have called out each fallacy in his arguments - would have metaphorically dug his nails in the big cat to tear the pale flesh, dusted beautifully with soft colors of primrose, just to strip away the self-fabricated barriers and find the undertones carefully hidden under the confident facade.
But he refrained, held his tongue and distanced himself even when he found his morals unchecked or intentions mindless, and maybe that was the first mistake that lead to the spiraling staircase of disaster. The daunting lion was the expert in the field, the commands being backed up by multiple other people with knowledge of the situation far outweighing his and so he didn’t voice his objections until it was too late - the hesitation derived of his concerns stinging harder than the impacts of the finalized outcome. The putrid stench of blood and bile filled the air battling the already strong lodoform and insulin smell that took weeks to get out of his nose, remaining a lengthy reminder of hopeless devastation.
Olivier was merciless now, his gaze unforgiving and indifferent. Abyssal blue eyes giving way to nothing. Expressionless. Judging. Bored, as he distantly stared at the slick white flowers littering the crowded room - his stony resilience an outlier among the many others who’s crumbling demeanor held airy sorrow, faces red-hot and wet as they cried out in distraught. A fit of overwhelming anger bubbled up inside of Gustave exerted by the trembling hands sinking deep into the cushion of the chair in front of him as he stared at the shell of a man across the room, finding his imposing stature and regal essence bittersweet. A warning sign hidden by milky skin and a dusty blonde mane that went unseen. A red herring, its dangers lacking divisible clarity through the misleading soft pretty exterior. Gustave bit his tongue drawing out the tangy metallic taste of blood, his fingers tightening their hold painfully on the chair as he bore holes in the back of a pale freckled neck. Olivier didn’t turn to meet his harsh gaze - didn‘t even give a whiff of acknowledgment. Instead, he kept his eyes glued to the floral decor, lips pursed and fingers tapping incessantly on the knuckles of his hand. If Gustave didn’t know any better, he‘d almost fool himself into believing the man held a shred of remorse in him - but he was the inconsequential murderer. Self-aware of the possible outcomes that had been preachingly spewed out by Gustave and a few other colleagues’ protests, yet carried out regardless without a shred of dignity for the dead and the dying because of protocol. Gustave scoffed.
Even had the audacity to appear at the man he unintentionally killed‘s funeral service, emotionless and guarded. Probably didn’t even know the fundamental basics of the dead man he’d worked alongside with such as his full name, aspirations, likes and dislikes-only showed up because it‘d be inappropriate if he didn’t. Gustave was fuming.
He learns from a mutual acquaintance that Olivier is neglectful to his son - to his family in general - a one man parade with himself as the focus and nobody else. It’s oddly fitting and he finds himself thinking back to the funeral service, his eyes distant and oblique, unaware of his surroundings and giving off a forceful impression of the situation being more of a chore than a respectful memoir. But then there are times where Olivier completely changes the playing field and flips expectations upside down leaving Gustave utterly baffled.
Like now.
Because there’s a rosary in his gloved bloodied hand, the touch of the object sending frightful shivers down his spine as he contaminates it with Olivier's own blood staining the thick latex of his gloves. Gustave glances at the sleeping Lion a few feet away, unconscious curtesy to the anesthesia, and seeming paler than usual. His skin was sickly, residues of grime and blood ever so prevalent on the soft flesh of his face and hands. The weight of the holy item was heavy - not physically but more so emotionally. It was tinged with regret, as if lavished by it’s owner with nothing more but pleads for forgiveness, and there’s a certain anger that arises in his stomach at the thought. He thinks back to the careless way he treated his coworker’s ( and many other’s ) life and the description of his rebellious teenage years, seeking forgiveness and fulfillment from a divine entity rather than the living ones he impacted. It seemed absurd and almost cowardly to him, yet he couldn’t deny a certain humility to it as well. An attempt for redemption no matter the impracticality of it.
He never apologizes, outright refused to do so to anyone but the god reflected on the rosary - and thus the sins he carried on his back were bore by the dangling mahogany wooden beads and silver cross, the weight solid yet unfortifying. Broken, almost, and he imagines the once intimidating stature of Olivier slumped over holding the rosary to his aching heart - the collision of his decisions hitting him all at once and the image brings a sting of pity to him and reminds Gustave that the person he adamantly thinks of as beastly is human too.
Not a Lion. He reminds himself with a grim look as he rubs a thumb over the creases of the embroidered silver, tainting the previously well-kept glimmering cross with it‘s owners dark scarlet blood. Lacks the strength rippling in his muscles below a heavy pelt and the untouchable assurance that comes with being an apex predator.
He’s a man. He thinks as he looks at the tranquil figure of the sleeping blonde, his face slack and calm rather than tense and contrived, a certain peaceful prosperity radiating off his formidable figure as he took deep shallow breaths through his nose. Vulnerable, weak, capable of failure.
Without much given thought Gustave stays momentarily with the fragile man, cleaning off the blood he’d unintentionally wiped on the treasured item, and observes him with the same amount of trepidation one would give a sleeping bear. Mystifying, an entrancement that kept his gaze lingering on each contorted shadow enhancing the untouchable, almost divine, petrifying energy that surrounded him even while being injured and broken.
A beauty that though was hidden in the deepest backs of his mind, repressed strongly from mere spite and disdain, made him want to reach out and leech off the man’s scent. Kiss and bite his split lip, if only just to make him bleed and weep just so he could feel the same amount of pain he’d unknowingly brought through his actions. He told himself in a contrived manner and ignored the urge to indulge in the depths of his thoughts that nagged at his fervent mind. It was wholly inappropriate, he tutted himself as his glossy hazel eyes swept over the lion, imagination running rampant as he humored himself in the thought of large sharp canines hidden behind closed lips. Teeth capable of ripping flesh, sinking deep into skin and muscle. Not with the intention to shred apart but rather to lock Gustave into place and drag him beneath murky depths to decompose alongside with him, people like him were an intoxicating poison. His ultimatum was that he shouldn't get too close and without another glance at the man he left, looking behind his back every so often.
Even when sitting in the confines of his room with nothing but the harsh contrasting shadows and intimidating stack of paperwork, he glanced behind him. A part of him expecting to see a snarky lion prowling in the darkness contaminating his room, eyes slitted and teeth bloodied and snarling. But there was nothing but the impersonal objects of his room that stared back at him.
Even years later, when Olivier had for the most part been off his mind, he looked behind him.
Yet just like a lion slinking in the deep undergrowth of a savannah, he strikes unexpectedly the moment Gustave lowers his guard.
- 🌕 -
He never thought he’d have to come into such close contact with the formidable beast in such a short amount of time, yet here he was - his interest captured in the briefings of intel. Olivier’s pale skin was flushed, thin beads of sweat gathering at the creases of his forehead from the harsh New Mexico heat. Gustave couldnt help but glance every so often at the man when he spoke, inquiring articulately about the matters of Operation Chimera whenever new information and strategies were brought to the table. Gustave couldnt help but keep his gaze lingering on the blonde, inquisitive gaze enamored with the sweat-slick strands of hair sticking to the sides of his forehead and the way Olivier’s eyebrows furrowed when met with apprehension or rejection by Eliza.
Gustave clenched his fists as he tuned into the briefing, narrowed eyes glossing amusedly at Olivier’s increasing exasperation at the situation - especially when the widely discussed topic of Dr Macintosh came into play. His tone became sharp and punctual, the familiarity of his apathy painful as Gustave was suddenly bombarded with memories of harsh humid air drenched with the stench of sickness and death in a god-forsaken quarantine zone. A booming French voice, as sharp as the angles of his face, making way to disaster that still haunted Gustave during particularly dreadful nights. The more he thought of it the more connections he tied between New Mexico and Africa, the connotations of it making Gustave nervous. It had been nothing short of disaster once Olivier got involved. Gustave began to grimace, the moment of adoration making way to disgust whenever he regarded Olivier. Sharp claws bringing nothing but anger ledged their way into his tender heart, latching onto him and propelling the feeling into his mind with each drawn out syllable that left the Frenchman’s tongue.
The people around him seemed to feel similarly, their faces slack and terse though held a shred of respectful interest in the same way one would have when confronting an egotistical commander who was beyond age of retirement. His voice, while respectful in a distant sense, was laced with an undertone of agitation that did not go unnoticed. Eliza seemed cautious, the fire inflamed inside of the woman enraged at his obtuse insolence - yet held herself from dismissing him out of her sight because both he and Lera were the experts on this field. Another painful reminder of Africa. He had been the expert there too - and yet it was his decisions ( or rather lack thereof ) to follow protocol that caused catastrophe there too.
Lera seemed to be at a constant state of uncertainty and was dismissive of questions Gustave asked about Olivier, shrugged off his inquiries laced with a faux indifference as if he was undermining her and her vouch for the Frenchman. Not that he could blame her apprehension, Olivier seemed to be someone arising intrigue among the annoyance - his character unfriendly and sharp. Hesitant, unlike the influx of openness and amiability shared between the other operators who tried to welcome him warmly despite the tensions running high in New Mexico. Two new faces were always a wonder for morale, and yet it seemed as though Olivier only brought it down considerably with his unforgiving gaze and blunt disinterest.
But it wasn’t true, and was merely a facade Gustave envisioned to lower expectations. Gustave noticed the strength bristling in his body, narrowed eyes focused and centered even when going through an actual embodiment of hell; gutteral screeching echoing among the sterile white hallways and the tortured mangled bodies of civilians ravished into horrible monsters. He was an embodiment of light, offering solace with his capability and freshly devised drone - the confidence Gustave once found obnoxious was beginning to seem more and more exhilarating. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had to keep his guard constantly up, the wrong move possibly leading to horrible disfigurement or death, he’d marvel in this side of Olivier he’d never been graced with before.
He was spectacular and truthfully, despite Gustave‘s initial biased reluctance, he fully deserved his prestigious place among the ranks despite the gossip spreading behind Olivier’s back. He moved with precision as if the length of the morbid hallways were nothing more than the French countryside, his stride strong and willfully ignorant even under the malicious corrupted glint of the infected, and seemed unbothered by the soulwrenching screeching bordering a fine line of human and monster. A part of Gustave was mildly worried, finding the detachment exuded by Olivier concerning yet was undoubtedly one of the key causes to their survival and success.
Gustave still found the amalgamations, while horribly deformed and mutated, still human - their human like qualities sparking an ignition of protectiveness he unintentionally wanted to prosper in. Perhaps that was a set back for him, and he humored - for just only a minute - of Olivier‘s sneers describing him as weak for his strong rooted belief in humanitarianism. The collision of these thoughts hitting him like a truck when Gustave nearly imagined humanity in one of the monsters eyes, it’s husking body dripping and oozing with puss and dark liquid on the tile floors, its sharp spikes jutting out in a contorting concave. He‘d hesitated shooting the distracted infected, his bumbling mind inquiring the rabid beast of it’s physicality as if redemption for its bloodthirst was possible.
His efforts nearly costed him his life were it not for the prowling lion, his reactions sharp and aware unlike Gustave‘s who‘d been drawn in to his own humanitarian weakness - probably playing right into Olivier’s expectations of him as a fool. Gustave scowled as he drew in a deep breath, clutching tightly onto the sturdy build of his combine. He regarded the stilled body with trepidation as he regathered himself, hands shaking slightly as he glossed over the shot body - instinctively flexing his fingers in a cringe when his gaze glanced over the sharp tendrils and oozing pores. The bleak lifeless gaze stared back at him, reminding Gustave painfully of the humanity it was now lacking. if it had any to begin with - perhaps it was merely a mental ploy he’d devised to give himself undeserved pity for the murderous creatures who had once been the very beings he‘d sworn to protect.
He heard a sharp insult hissed out to him in French, a scorn adorning the vulgar perpetrator’s cross features inflamed in the vibrant blue of his eyes that brought Gustave back to life from his state of momentary shock from the sudden colliding events. He could see the annoyance mingling on his expression caving way to anger, and if looks could kill Gustave would certainly be six foot underground with the taller Frenchman kicking up dust on his tombstone. Olivier harshly stated the obvious: ‘never do that again, are you insane?!’ With his teeth bared and gaze enraged. Gustave felt himself wince, feathers ruffled in his life-threatening embarrassment and remained silent as Olivier merely snarled before turning abruptly away to bark a cursory order to trek onwards.
Olivier never once showed an ounce of concern, his disinterest prevelant in the opaque glances they shared as if he was merely a setback; an obstacle getting in his way. Maxim had shown his worries - albeit hesitantly- with a tense ‘are you alright?’ the stress of the danger that could've happened weighing heavily by the strain of his voice. Despite Maxim's probable inclination to the gesture, Gustave appreciated it nonetheless. Olivier, however, merely scoffed at them; his tongue silent yet expression livid.
It made for one awkward ride back. Despite the fatigue chipping away at him he felt electrified, hands trembling uncontrollably and drooping eyes darting back and forth. Between the adrenaline of nearly being roach-food, excitement on possibly getting his hands on an end to this disaster alongside a like-minded doctor, and the sobering blunt blue gaze from the lion amongst them, rest was impossible.
Doc shifted his weight so that he was facing the other Frenchman, narrowing his eyes at the tension in Olivier’s jaw. Olivier was desultory and merely regarded Gustave with bemusement whilst laying slack against the sturdy, chilled, iron walls of the helicopter, claws flexing experimentally over the assault rifle on his lap.
“Thank you.” Gustave said in their shared language, the taste of the words feeling funky off his tongue. Olivier stilled, waiting a few tense moments as an influx of words seemed to swarm in his mind - Gustave could almost hear the gears turning in the blonde’s head. He was docile, hesitation painted across his face. Gustave couldnt blame him. their exchanges had always been terse and almost accusatory, Gustave finding a knack at making Olivier seem like a sociopath uncaring of civilian lives and undeserving of any credit handed to him; it was petty. He’d realized it multiple times with meaning to stop, but something about Olivier did things to him. From the height difference, to the overbearing amount of confidence he exuded, and indignation held in his eyes whenever their gazed crossed, Gustave would get tilted - the repressed remnants of his decayed objections spewing out and livening.
So when Olivier merely just grunted, remaining silent despite the fact he could most definitely call Gustave out for the recklessness he wasn’t known to have like Gustave had done to Olivier so many times before, Gustave was a little a thrown off balance to say the least.
- 🌖 -
He's an obstacle;immovable and grounded. a constant that'd forever drift in the forefront of their minds. Always there, lurking, slinking around tall metaphorical savannahs with a piercing wide-eyed gaze like the beast he chose his callsign after. Cautious. Alert, striking out at any sudden movement like a savage animal who‘d been denied its food. The other operators in GIGN watch Olivier with a shred of concern. He purposely distances himself from everyone except for Gilles, and even then it had been a grueling process not quite unlike that of befriending a feral cat to earn his trust and friendship that even now is still shaky. They talk about Olivier as if he was an estranged relative, with hushed whispers and quick shameful glances towards his direction. It was mostly Julian who initiated the gossip, Emmanuelle adding on and providing further depth, and Gilles as the destabilizer who‘d always butt in with disappointment lacing his baritone voice to cut the conversation short. Gustave merely existed;floated in the realm and payed a meager amount of attention to whatever havoc they talked of that involved Olivier, finding it distasteful to talk about coworkers ( especially coworkers belonging to the same team for heaven’s sake ) behind their backs.
Despite his adamant refusal to participate, his eyes fail to leave Olivier’s body studiously as if he was a piece of eccentric artwork; fluctuating between wanting to know more about the Lion’s quirks and concerned for him. Gustave has begun to pick up certain attributes and impulses Olivier tended to have, a sense of dread washing over him every time he’d picked up on something new Olivier does as if he was getting into something he shouldn’t.
Gustave watches Olivier’s hunched status betraying overt body language of wistful loneliness as Olivier darts his eyes from the mingling groups of operators who tended to exclusively situate themselves near their other teammates, the shared language and culture providing a sturdy connection and sense of belonging. But not with Olivier who avoided everyone like the plague, and adamantly refused to sit with his fellow countrymen even when it was Gilles that had asked. A part of Gustave wanted to feel sorry for Olivier, finding the longing stares tainted with jealousy directed at Lera sitting with the other Spetsnaz operators to be rather disheartening. But he brought it on himself, distanced himself purposely merely to wallow in his self-made feeling of unbelonging, and it kept Gustave torn.
”... Can’t believe he’d say something like that to Sébastien of all people.”
”... It’s not my problem, I swear if he gets himself in trouble one more time I’m going to let him get knocked out for it.“
Olivier, Olivier, Olivier.
It never was a matter they left to rot; always bringing it back up even when the topic was beginning to decompose and crumble - they always fished out something to dwell about. Gustave was slowly beginning to realize why Olivier avoided them because truthfully, despite his initial beliefs, he was treated like an outsider - so much so that their shared country and organization wasn’t enough to bring them together. He imagined Olivier’s presence intermingled with them to be similar to a stranger straying around, unbelonging and carrying a different kind of energy that could cause an imbalance in their group chemistry.
Gustave bit the inside of his cheek, his gaze being reproached by Olivier’s own - his pursed lips and furrowed eyebrows lacking words yet providing enough depth to gauge him. ‘What?’ He seemed to growl, a warning sign of his discomfort under Gustave’s studious stare as loud as mortar fire, even if it lacked the practicality of language.
“I can’t believe he still doesn’t ever want to just... be agreeable, it‘s like he’s always looking to be on everyone’s bad side.“ Gustave ground his teeth, digging his fingernails deeply into the soft flesh of his palms to feel anything other than the annoyance that was currently flowing through his bloodstream. An impulse.
“Can the both of you just stop it?“ Gustave snapped, the thin rope holding his composure beginning to dwindle into nothing more than a few strands. “You guys are both gossiping like a bunch of giggling schoolgirls, grow up!“ Gustave stared at Julian and Emmanuelle their expressions once snarky now more timid and docile, latent with confused. He could feel Gilles‘ grateful eyes pierce his guarded aura, relief and appreciation drenching the broader man.
"Gustave's right, he's our coworker and teammate. Have some common decency - and talking about him behind his back definitely doesn't solve any problems he has. Give him a break, he tries so hard. You guys act no better than recruits sometimes." The rumbling mountain spurred alive, thick eyebrows furrowed in anger. Despite the deceitful calmness he exuded, Gustave could tell that the taller Frenchman was pissed - undoubtedly feeling disrespected his wishes were soiled time and time again. The warmth he usually brought to the group was absent, a sharp coldness brewing in the atmosphere nearly choked its inhabitants - Gustave included.
Olivier's name never left their ill-lips again, and slowly they began to find peace among the antisocial man. Gustave unintentionally observed Olivier when their paths strayed; finding a soothing comfort when witnessing the man find solace amongst the other operators. Gustave witnessed Olivier and Julian converse in quick-spoken French where previously anything said to each other was merely abrupt and punctual, bordering on rude as they fixated each other with a shred of unimportance. Not now, however. Gustave watched Olivier's lips curve up in a genuine smile as Julian let out a hearty laugh;its gutteral tone addicting as Olivier followed shortly with laughter of his own that made Gustave double take. Olivier? Laughing? Not scoffing? Impossible.
Yet here it was in plain view, the Lion's sweaty face thrown upwards and tilted slightly as he laughed alongside Julian - it made Gustave crack his stony facade with softening features. It wasn't a one time thing either, their interactions remained mostly positive - and now the words that left Julian's lips about Olivier tended to be about how capable and respectable Olivier was as if he hadn't been the one to bring up every single one of the blonde's faults weeks prior. It was sobering and it seemed as though Emmanuelle had warmed up to him too, often playing the role of his savior from tense stand-offs.
"I think I may have misjudged him a little," were words Gustave initially had thought to never hear from the woman, yet found her contentment with Olivier to be liberating nonetheless.
It wasn’t just the other GIGN members Olivier was getting acquainted to though. Gustave witnessed a shared inside joke between Olivier and Dominic, of all people, and has occasionally heard talk of Olivier and Elżbieta being drinking-mates. He seemed to be genuinely getting out of his shell, slotting into his own niche corner of awkwardly timed quips and sarcastic comments alongside people who were well - similarly troubled as he put it - and didn’t piss off nearly everyone who breathed around him.
It was why Gustave had been shocked to see the object of his studies clutching tightly onto the side of his face, vivid red blotched around his cheek and lower jaw, the formation of a bruise from a solid impact. Gustave grimaced at the strained Lion, his unimpacted eyes staring daggers that were not quite directed at him. Emmanuelle was with him too, her elegant hand resting softly at the base of the back of his neck despite the amount of times Olivier tried to shrug her hand off.
“What..? What happened?“ Gustave inquired, shooing away the hand desperately clutching the side of his face to inspect the impact. Gustave grimaced, the area around his cheek was tender and warm. If the strike was any lower, he would’ve been at risk of unconsciousness and a broken jaw. Gustave palpated the surrounding area, taking note of the places where Olivier especially winced and grunted - it wasn’t anything serious thankfully and could be solved with a godsend simple solution : ice.
“Something escalated during training between him and Mike, and I was only there to catch the end. Olivier called Mike a veteran outliving his glory and in response Mike almost knocked Olivier out cold. Thank god Seamus and Gilles were around too though, because Mark and James were just about ready to jump right in too,“ Emmanuelle said with a scowl, her tone accusatory when regarding Olivier and let her hands drop to her side when Olivier finally snapped and slapped the hand resting on the nape of his neck hard with a rough ‘stop it, shut up!‘. Gustave remained wordless, merely responding in a soft hum of acknowledgement to the explanation given to him remaining unaware to the rising tension shrouding the two other operators.
”I should have just let you get hit, maybe then you’d learn some gratitude with a crooked broken jaw!“ Gustave glanced up, feeling the build up between the two other operators. Before Olivier could retort, eyes enraged and vexing as he snapped his head to face the just as annoyed French woman, Gustave jumped in. The tension shared between them affecting Gustave as he was suddenly bombarded with the stress they had suddenly begun radiating eating at his own already strained composure.
“Stop. Both of you. If that is all, please leave Emmanuelle so I can focus on Flament.“ Emmanuelle glanced at Gustave with offense, seemed taken aback momentarily as if Gustave had slapped her right across the face. She merely muttered an affirming okay, stalking out of the small room in drudging heavy steps with both of the other men‘s pensive gaze locked on her retreating figure.
“It wasn’t my fault.“ Olivier mustered out, hurt piercing his voice that was very discerning from the usual strength and assurance it held, and Gustave almost felt pity for him. He had a thickness in his voice, a darker redness tinting his face separated from the bruising formed on his face, and eyes glossed over - his resolve was crumbling.
Gustave remained silent letting Olivier draw out his words himself as he reapproached the man, pressing an icepack against the swollen area around his face. ”He called me a righteous asshole who prances around daisies all day,“ Olivier paused, shriveling his nose and wincing when Gustave applied harsh pressure to the icepack on his jaw. ”He harps on me about mistakes all the time but when Porter does something stupid it’s fine, that isn’t fair. The other day the idiot nearly shot me in my stomach and you want to know what Baker said? He said ’aim lower‘! Stupid bastard!“
”Keep your hand here, please.“ Gustave muttered placing Olivier‘s neglected hand over the icepack where his own hand had previously been, the phantom sensation of Olivier‘s touch electric. Gustave didn’t reply to Olivier‘s venting, merely let out loud puffs of air to show his acknowledgment and the lack of reception was surely getting to Olivier. He was a bubbling pot of anger and regret, the emotions brewing inside beginning to fizzle up and spill over exaggerated by the storming gaze he shot Gustave and the large claws flexing and clutching the icepack impulsively.
”What have I ever done to anyone?“ Olivier exasperated eyes dark and accusing as he stared at Gustave, a challenge lilted in his tone that made Gustave nearly shudder.
Gustave thought of Africa, Oliviers to-the-book following procedure leading to the useless deaths of aides and patients in quarantine - the death of their own coworker who could have been more easily avoided.
Gustave thought of the numerous times he‘d heard other operators complain of Olivier‘s brashness - his outright blunt cold attitude that rubbed most the wrong way in the beginning. Even now, only mere minutes ago, he‘d offended Emmanuelle without a care. Gustave could only imagine the harrowing experience between him and Mike, there was probably more to the story left out for the sake of painting Olivier as a victim.
” What have I done to you?“ There was a waver in Olivier‘s voice, the cracking syllables sending a foreign pain through him. He didn’t know how to respond, uncomfortable with the boundaries Olivier was breaching - this was unnatural. Gustave remained silent averting his gaze from the Frenchman as he walked back to his desk, hopeful that leaving the overwhelming emotional mess out of his sight of would reduce the impact on him. He was wrong.
“Keep ice on it for 10 to 25 minutes, take it off for about 15 and repeat. do it continuously for a few hours to reduce swelling, and if-“
“I‘m sorry.“ The blunt interruption was sudden and under any other circumstance Gustave would be annoyed at being cut off, but confusion took hold of him instead and made him reevaluate the words spoken.
”What?” Gustave was dumbfounded, blinking suspiciously at the mess of a man standing only a few feet away from him. the only time he’d ever heard Olivier apologize was when it benefited him, but Gustave had nothing to give and so the apology struck him off guard, sent his mind tumbling down a flight of stairs trying to understand the beast’s intentions.
”I’m. Sorry.” He said punctually, exaggerating each word and syllable as if that was the cause of his confusion. “I’ve seen the pictures. Of Africa, you and the personnel - your colleague.” Gustave felt his breath catch in his throat, tense muscles stiffening with a quiver as coy blue eyes glance behind his figure. Gustave doesn’t need to follow the sneaky Lion’s gaze to know where the sly overly perceptive orbs landed; the photo already inducing a harrowing sense of dread whenever he looked at the youthful ghost staring at him, eyes hopeful and exhausted yet strong nonetheless. A memory now more bitter than sweet, the lifeless gaze holding only bleak nothingness that was now more prominent than the liveliness he had once been familiar with showcased in the image. Gustave raised his hand upwards, a wanted request for the ceasing of words that payed no homage to his colleague yet went unseen and ignored, adding only salt to a gaping wound when it had meant to be a bandage.
”I’m sorry about what happened, everything that was done in West Africa was done for a reason. I was under the impression that it was for the right cause, and I still stick by my decisions - I prevented potential devastation that could’ve gotten way more people killed and I wouldn’t have done it any other way. Maybe there was a way to prevent his and others’ deaths, I don’t know, all I know is I made the choice that kept it contained even if it was at the cost of a few lives. It could have been much, much worse.” Gustave is trembling now, an unshakeable fury burning his very core scorching away at his innards while the cold fixated eyes of Olivier stared distantly at him; his emotions unreadable and arising a distinct feeling of ice resting in his gut rivaling the fire flowing through his veins. It wasn’t an apology he realized belatedly, repeated oscillating hands hidden under the cerulean latex of his gloves impulsively struggling to regain his normally poise composure. Flexing fingers dig deep into the rubbery latex, nails pricking through minute layers of skin to feel a certain - more physical - pain rather than the overbearing emotional one flooding through him.
“That’s a very backhanded apology, isn’t it?” Gustave bit out after the waver in his body ceased giving him a misplaced trust in the stability of his voice. “Don’t act all high and mighty, you didn’t do anything on your own volition. Everything you did was under the guise of protocol, an undying loyalty to the placed rules despite the severity of the situation because of what? It was the easiest thing to do? You had nothing to lose except the lives of people you don’t care about? You don’t belong in this workforce, the fact that you’ve made it this far is absolutely crazy to me. You don’t care about anyone but yourself, you lack the empathy to save lives. Selfish.”
Olivier was close now, his posture straightened and assertive where before it had been slouched and insecure. He was really feeling the height difference now, playing right into Olivier’s intentions of feeling cornered - a rabbit on the verge of death cowering in the mercy of the predator slinking through the shadows of the undergrowth.
”No, Gustave, am I really the selfish one here? I saved countless lives - I’ve saved your life - but it all doesn’t matter to you, why? Because you were close to someone whose life was in the hands of god and was beyond saving? Was this one man’s life really that important over the countless other lives? Don’t you dare call me apathetic or selfish, you damned hypocrite.”
Gustave’s breath hitched, eyes widening under the unforgiving expression painted across the other Frenchman’s face - the Lion he meant to trap through his words escaping and catching him at his own game. Sharp canines disguised as words dug deep into flesh and bone, tearing the soft flesh and leaving Gustave utterly exposed;repressed guts and palpated organs spewing out to the ravaging beast in front of him.
Releasing a drawn out breath, Gustave looked at the ground. Defeat, because as much as it stung - and he’d never admit it outright like this - Olivier was correct in a sense. He expected Olivier to outwardly marvel in his victory, sharkishly smirk at Gustave’s downfall, yet the only thing he was reproached with was a frown and annoyed misunderstanding swimming in the deep blue of his eyes.
“Get out. I don’t have time for this. I have things I need to get done instead of fighting over the past. this conversation is over.”
To his surprise, Olivier didn’t fight. Merely relinquished himself to Gustave’s desires and exited the office wordlessly without so much as a glance back. An emptiness settled in Gustave’s gut, discontent with the myriad of emotions that began to arise and overpower his anger - disappointment being one. He scowled.
The office’s lonely atmosphere only amplified the longer he stared at the dancing words showcased on his laptop’s screen, the draft of an email suddenly seeming unimportant as a phantom touch of sorrow took hold of him - the dark shadows of the room being a needed solace to the thundering thoughts storming in his mind, the darkness providing a stark contrast to the bright light exuded from the screen of the laptop lighting up the surrounding area with its white luminescence.
Olivier never left his mind, neither did his atrocious apology or the manipulative advantageous way he used his height to embark a sense of superiority. The words, holding a truth that seared through the thickly layered guarded defense, played like a mantra through his discombobulated mind.
Funny it was him who was the one lackluster at apologizing, his ruined pride holding him back from crying out ‘you’re right, I’m sorry.’ to Olivier. He’d made himself out to be a damned fool, Olivier holding him at checkmate.
Instead, he locked himself in his own office distracted eyes paying no heed to the pile of work on his desk, preferring to stare at the mundane sterile white walls as shadows contorted and swam across the expansive walls.
An ample distraction from the storm in his own mind that kept him underwater drowning on his own volition before coming up gasping for air before it got too hectic, repeating the process unintentionally despite the strain it brought to his heart.
- 🌗 -