He senses my approach even in his sleep. I can see his body shift, tense; feel his heartbeat speed at my touch. Why touch? I...

He stirs, but does not wake. The sedative given him was strong, and he needs the rest. He deserves it. I want him to-- want to see him. What's been done to him. What I've allowed.

When he sleeps, he is beautiful. His hair spills freely across his face and over the linens. It is like him, wild and full of life. Maybe not so much like him. Tension creases his face as I reach to brush his hair away from it. "Don't worry," I whisper into his ear. And magically, he doesn't. His body becomes relaxed. It's uncanny.

I comb my hand through the deceptively soft and silky curls, revealing the ruined eye beneath. I have taken a slight obsession to it. He was blinded because of me; first to follow me into a poorly thought-out scheme, then to rescue me after another ill-planned endeavor. Both times, the only one at risk should have been me. I endangered him, and yet--

/I'm glad it wasn't your eye./

--Yet me will let me carry no blame, nor allow me to avenge him. How stupid! I had never imagined that he would do something like that. How noble. How simply... him.

My eyes trace the lines of his face, then my fingers. His mouth opens at the sensation, though my touch is petal soft. His soft, lobed ears. His strong jaw and full lips slightly slack, revealing well-formed teeth. An angular, regal nose. Expressive eyebrows over thick, brown lashes. And a faint red scar across the left eye. We both shiver as I go over the thin ridge, but I cannot stop myself. It's my fault, my responsibility. I need to touch it, to accept it as he has. And I do, stroking it again and again. With my fingers, with my thumb. With my lips.

A low moan. I don't know if it is his or my own. There is a hand in my hair.

"A--" I immediately straighten, grabbing his arm. His hand is limp. Just moving in his sleep. Calm down. "Calm down," I repeat for good measure. Gently, I lower his arm to his chest. Perhaps I linger too long placing his hand in a natural position. It probably is unnecessary for me to smooth his nightshirt back into place, or to give in to temptation to stroke his hair one last time. Sighing softly, I rise and leave, looking back. His eyes flutter open and I am frozen in the doorway.

"Oscar?" he says, more statement than question.

What can I say?

"Bonsoir, André." I close the door.

The French is intended to translate to 'close to you' or something similar, while the Japanese is 'far from you'. Yes, the story was untitled for a long time. 'Bonsoir' means 'good night'. (thanks Hervé for correcting my French ^^)

Rose of Versailles is copyright Ikeda Riyoko and Tokyo Movie Shinsha... no infringement intended.