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Gilmore stares up at the ceiling. Discarded pillows and creased sheets crowd the cool swaths of the broad mattress. He has too much freedom to toss and turn, too many blankets and stitches and tassels. Too much unoccupied space, too many unused things. His eyes sting, but he does not cry. His head aches with weariness, but sleep will not take him. He waits in the dark, as if in stasis, at the mercy of aimless feelings, wanting what he can't have. He wants comfort, catharsis, rest - but most of all, he still desires the very thing that has just been denied for good.
Ironic, that Vax would be the perfect person to talk him out of this mood. His hands woven together behind his head, lying beside him, perhaps. Pull it together, Gil. This isn't you. Something simple, stated like a fact, with a teasing drawl. Even in Vax's voice, the words mean little, and accomplish nothing.
And of course, he's not there. Gilmore's bedroom lies in near-silence, although the silence of this building is never complete. It hums with the slight vibration of his enchantments. Gilmore's Glorious Goods, overflowing with magic, holds a quiet, eternal chord. Normally the sound is impossible to hear over the customers, and even now, the chatter of waking birds begins to drown it out.
Slowly, so slowly he does not notice when it starts, the shadows of the bedroom begin to lighten. They turn deep navy, then pale blue. Morning now threatens the battlements of his keep.
He rises from the tangled sheets, and sits on the edge of the bed. A mirror hangs on the wall opposite, and he catches his own reflection looking exactly like a man tormented by a sleepless night. Grey in the cheeks, dark under the eyes, and his hair in a restless cloud of black curls.
You look old. Maybe you’re too old.
Gilmore laughs, looks down at his knees. A cruel yet unfounded thought. Vax had never implied anything like that. He had been interested. He had enjoyed the dance while it lasted. He had kissed him. In Vax's eyes there is nothing wrong with such a beautiful arcane bastard, nothing besides the fact that he isn’t Keyleth.
(Keyleth, of course it is Keyleth. He never looks at anyone else that way. Last night he'd looked at Gilmore like he was some kind of inevitable, distant tragedy, a town collapsing into the sea. He looks at Keyleth, always, like she is sunlight after twenty years of rain.)
Gilmore glares at the mirror, and hauls himself out of bed. He tames his hair, and tries not to remember Vax’s right hand tangling into it.
He’d swallowed his disappointment last night, walked home with what dignity he could muster. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. Vax deserved neither his tears nor his reproach. Still – how many times has he thought about that kiss, that first kiss? How many thousands of thousands of ways had he imagined it – how many different settings had he painted in his mind, how many lines had he written for the scene - only to have it play out so tragically?
Such pleasant, idle fantasies they once were, flexible and ever-changing as smoke, and just as soft, and just as warm. Too sweet to resist. Another idea intoxicates him, as he dresses: Vax, dark and meditative, holding his feelings well-guarded behind that slow, thoughtful tone. Returning to him, a guilty smile on his narrow mouth. Arriving right at closing time, in twilight, to an empty store. Folding his arms on the counter, drumming his fidgety fingers. In his charming, honest way, he’d say it’s all fucked up, you know, with Keyleth. She won’t have me now and I don't think she ever will. I know I’ve been an arse but it’s not too late for us, is it?
Hah. Not a chance. Vax is a man of convictions. He believes, as Gilmore does, in guarantees.
Gilmore slinks into the hall between his room and his store, adjusting the collar of his robes. He pauses, and presses his forehead to the cool surface of the closest wall. He tries to catch his breath, and compose himself. Enough of this brooding and stirring. Dawn presses at the window. There must be something to latch onto, something bright and painful to shake him out of this frustrating state of immobility. Anything but this dull, thudding guilt, the guilt of not acting sooner, not being enough, not being quite right, and everything else in the whirlpool of miserable thoughts, and Vax, through no fault of his own, in the middle of it all.
Hauling himself up from the wall, Gilmore makes his way to the storefront. He pushes through the rattling curtain of beads, and surveys his property. The glass jars and steel blades and gilded frames, the crystals, the tins, the books - all sit painted a smudged blue-grey by the foggy morning. Gilmore's Glorious Goods, disappointingly cluttered and cool. The proprietor spreads his hands on the front counter, and bows his head, taking a deep breath.
A shrill, crystal chime sounds through the store, accompanied by a sharp sickle of cool air. He looks up, and Sherrie appears in the doorway, a scarf wrapped over her hair to protect it from the wind, a prim black cloak drawn tight around her narrow shoulders. She stares at him owlishly, one hand aloft. The fingers of her other hand open wide, and the front curtain swings shut behind her. She stares at him, and makes no further motion.
Gilmore realizes he must look insane. Hunched over the glass display, standing alone in the dark. He straightens his shoulders, clasps his hands together, and addresses her as cheerily as he can. “Ah, good morning, Sherrie.” The smile he wears stretches too wide, too eager, like a carnival mask.
“Morning, Gilmore,” she replies, hesitantly. “Shall I open the drapes?”
At first, he stares in silence, confused. Sherrie knows her job. She's never asked such a question before. Evidently, she has not fallen for his deceptions. Strange that such a mousy woman could make her face look so stern. Her sharp brows furrow deeper than usual.
But it is not worth worrying her further. With a dismissive wave, he replies, “Of course, of course. Business as usual, Sherrie.”
She responds with a slow, understanding nod. "Very well."
Sherrie moves slowly over to the nearest set of drapes, and pulls them open, shooting suspicious looks his way. Gilmore rounds to the front of the desk, trailing his hands along the wood. Hoping to distract her, he calls, “Sherrie, dear, when was the last time I gave you a raise?”
With unsmiling precision, she replies, “Last Winters-Crest. Two point five percent.”
“Two point five!” he repeats, aghast. It really isn't a ridiculous number, but the agitated fluttering gives him something to do. “Since when was I so mercenary? Gilmore’s Glorious Goods is a business, not a dragon hoard.”
Sherrie flits across the store, unfastens her cape and tosses it over her arm. She’s been working here too long – the gesture comes with an uncharacteristic flourish she could only have picked up from him. With a flash of a smile, she answers, “I’ve always thought you might be part dragon, sir.”
Gilmore chuckles. No matter how poor an actor he makes, at least Sherrie will play along. “Two point five,” he repeats derisively. “I shall fix that this afternoon.”
She pauses, halfway to the east-facing windows. Sherrie changes her trajectory, and shuffles up to him. With the stern, scolding tone of a schoolteacher, she says, “it’s no business of mine, sir, but-”
Then she falters. Falls silent. Gilmore prepares for some kind of interrogation.
Instead, Sherrie pushes herself up onto the balls of her feet, and gives him a spindly-armed hug around the shoulders. Gilmore, caught off guard, barely has time to keep his balance before his assistant releases him, and steps back.
"Make sure you don't work too hard today," she says, much softer.
A long pause. Sherrie's eternally dry expression vanishes, and she gives him a small, encouraging smile. Finally, finally, Gilmore feels the tears burn in his eyes, but now is certainly not the time. He only laughs, a little too loud, and adjusts the collar of his robes again. "Very well, Sherrie," he answers. Sincerely, he adds, "Thank you."
Sherrie nods, and pushes her glasses up her slender nose. She scurries away towards the wall, and draws back the drapes of the east-facing windows. The warm morning sun pools on the floor. It climbs, grows, and glows along every edge and surface. Every glass bead glitters. Every golden thread shines. He breathes out. His shoulders sag. He tilts his head back and thanks the gods of commerce for his profit margins. Let his customers – his guests – feel exactly as he does whenever he looks upon the violet velvet and mahogany shelves: that regardless of their faults, they are worthy of extravagance.
Together, Gilmore and Sherrie finish preparing the store. They unlock the display cases, dispel the protective charms, wake the enchanted candles. Customers slip in through the front door. The other employees arrive, dusting off their purple robes. Business picks up for the morning rush. For the first time in his life, Gilmore feels somewhat sluggish, unable to keep up with the requests or remember the prices of the products. It might have been a problem, but for the titanic efforts of Sherrie. She recalls everything he forgets. She whisks the troublesome questions away, out of Gilmore’s earshot. She stonewalls the hagglers. She darts between the front desk, the other employees, the shelves, dashes upstairs and down with rapidly pattering feet, her eyes afire behind her thick-lensed spectacles. Inspired either by the promise of coin or by some unknown loyalty, Sherrie works twice as hard so that he may take a day to be a little more somber than glorious.
In the brief lull at lunchtime, Gilmore wanders to the front of the store. He glances out the window, and sees the sun hanging high above the busy streets.
Vox Machina is doubtlessly off again. They never stay for anything longer than drinks. Adventure beckons.
And thinking of that, leaning against the cool glass, Gilmore uncovers one private pleasure, one heartwarming detail. At his core, it is the reason why Gilmore does what he does. Vax has rejected him, and he will respect that. But still, still, his initials are stamped on every leather hitch, sewn through every silken lining, etched into every keen-edged blade that his darling, dashing, unobtainable Vax'ildan possesses. He may not have his heart, but they are still connected in a way. Gilmore, if nothing else, can protect him from the many, complex harms of their cruel world.
It is not the kind of love he wants, no. But it is a kind of love he is happy to provide.
Very well, enough. He has an empire to manage. Gilmore turns back to the store with a decisive swish of his robes. Maybe he’ll surprise his employees in Westruun with a visit. Or maybe he’ll concoct another project altogether. Something clever to enchant, something to engage his endless curiosity. This is a day to stir the forces of the universe, a day to create something. Nothing like heartbreak to inspire ingenuity. The best bards write over the tears in their drinking glasses, and oh, if he isn’t an artist, what is he? The optimism makes a fragile barricade - bruises still ache on his spirit, and tonight, when he's alone, it will all crumble and leave him in the dark again - but that is later. For now, he will play the king, the host, the magician, everything his customers expect of him. He will do what he does best, and of course, of course, he will smile.