𝑳𝑬𝑺 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑮𝑰𝑳𝑬𝑺 •𝒃𝒙𝒃•

to part is to die a little ~ 49

Rondel de l'adieu (1980)
- Edmond Haraucourt

The library always was one of the few places that allowed him even the briefest of moments to be alone.

Thin layers of dust covered the thick, brown book covers, and it became apparent to him that no one spent their time here. A pity, really, for there were a lot of things one could find in these books.

This place offered him escape as much as running did.

White, white, white. It was all that he could see. The marble floors, and the painting-lined walls, and the tall, tall ceiling with its crystal chandelier. What use was for it to be so nice and fancy in appearance when it was of no use to anyone? Except him, that was, but he wasn't much of an important figure, was he?

He never was to his father.

To Bane Louis.

He dragged his fingers along the aged and rugged spines of the books, all throughout the room, up until he reached that one specific bookcase he used to be around the most. Gently, as if afraid it would fall apart, he pulled out a book. It was a thin, lightly coloured one, but worn out still. Immediately, he zeroed in on the various strips that hung out of it, ones that he used to mark his favourite parts with.

Softly, he echoed out the words etched into the page;

"Partir, c'est mourir un peu,
(To part is to die a little)
C'est mourir à ce qu'on aime:
(To die to what we love)
On laisse un peu de soi-même
(One leaves a little of one's self)
En toute heure et dans tout lieu.
(In every hour and in every place)

C'est toujours le deuil d'un vœu,
(It is always the mourning of a wish)
Le dernier vers d'un poème;
(The last verse of a poem)
Partir, c'est mourir un peu,
(To part is to die a little)
C'est mourir à ce qu'on aime.
(To die to what we love)

Et l'on part, et c'est un jeu,
(And one leaves, and it's a game)
Et jusqu'à l'adieu suprême
(And until the final farewell)
C'est son âme que l'on sème,
(With one's soul one makes)
Que l'on sème à chaque adieu:
(One's mark at each goodbye)
Partir, c'est mourir un peu."
(To part is to die a little)

Without another word, he slammed the book shut. Throughout the pale and wide room, echoed the sound of the pages colliding.

"Rondel de l'adieu, by Edmond Haraucourt."

Yuma did not turn around. "I'm surprised you know of it."

"Why shouldn't I? You read that one the most."

Lightly, his grip on the book tightened.

"Even the edges of the page are worn out by your fingers."

This was unnecessary. The whole conversation was unnecessary. Yuma being there was unnecessary. He should've walked straight out the front door the moment he finished what he came here to do.

But he didn't.

"To part is to die a little—was that true for you or was I alone in that?"

Yuma breathed in and pushed the book back in its place. "Haven't we already said our goodbyes?" He let his arm drop down limp on his side, and he turned to the side, enough so he could see what reaction he'd get. "Au revoir, was it?"

Kyoya's expression hardened. "You didn't."

Ah, that was true, wasn't it? Were his previous statements not counted as a way of saying goodbye?