Octavius had never been more confused over the events of his life than those of the last two months. He'd arrived at the conclusion that fall simply wasn't a very kind season to him, and he ought to quit while he was ahead.
So, naturally, he didn't.
After his birthday, he was left with a lot of unresolved feelings that he didn't understand and wanted nothing more to do with than wrap them up tightly and shove them away. But it was hard to do these things with insubstantial, intangible ideas, so Octavius was left with confronting them head on. And the biggest of all these nebulous worries and thoughts was Rose Knightley, and the terribly wretched way they had left things between them.
He hadn't expected anything from her for his birthday; he'd go so far as to say he wanted nothing from her, as it would only confuse the issue further. But, of course, she had sent him something, and moreover, they were presents that showed him why the two had found their way back to one another, why it was good between them when it was good, and this was all a terrible mistake. Of course, he also realised they had tremendous communication issues, and perhaps there were a few fundamental differences between them that would always confuse the issue, but surely they belonged in each others' lives in some fashion or the other?
That settled the matter; after agonising for days on whether it was the right thing to do or not, he left the station early, picked up a box of eclairs (as he felt silly going almost empty-handed), the thank-you note he'd written (apparently needlessly), a small stack of photographs (showing off the goods, of course), and left for her flat.
"Erm," he started, nudging the door open and starting forward a bit hesitantly. Octavius wasn't sure of his reception, after all. "Well… hello."
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