WHO: Rose Knightley & Octavius Pepper
WHAT: A closing statement
WHERE: His place
WHEN: This weekend

He'd picked a bad week to give Nona the boot. While there was no rest for the WWN, no sir, it had been noticed Octavius had essentially worked his way through the weekend for at least a month, and he'd been granted a "reprieve." As his first solitary day not spent slaving over scheduling or resolving arguments or discussing budgets, he… read the paper. Which was chronicling the backlash of Rupert Brookstanton's dubious parentage, which made him sick, so he put that away, far, far away, into the rubbish. Then he'd attempted to garden in his attempt at a garden, which was thwarted by it being overrun with a surprising number of gnomes. Octavius played with Gebhard who was overjoyed to see more of Octavius than he practically had all week, and a quarter of a left robe sleeve later, the restless wizard had settled on the sofa with a book. Which he'd been staring at for about an hour, before thumping it closed with an aggrieved sigh.

There was nowhere to go, nothing to do, no one to see. Charlie was still miffed at him for his snark about The Tattler, though he wasn't completely sure why. He'd yet to hear back from Nora, Delilah had forgotten everyone whose name wasn't that of her boyfriend's, and Septimus, the most accessible sibling he hadn't just forcibly removed from his home, was busy with his girlfriend.

As he was contemplating this sad state of affairs, there was a rapid-fire knocking at the door, causing Octavius to furrow his brow. Much as he had both searched her person and her small baggage, he hadn't been able to get Nona to surrender her key, so it couldn't have been her… Hopping up to answer the door, he swung it open and froze.

This was not to say he was not stunned, but the shock of seeing her on his doorstep was so great his face hadn't reacted at all.

"Rose," he said curtly.

Rose breathed out, steadily picked her chin up, and let her hair fall back over her shoulder once Octavius opened the door. It was--- while she couldn’t quite put to words what inner workings had possessed her into showing up at his doorstep, she did know that she had to, because words needed to be exchanged, and what was happening between them now couldn’t continue the way it was. Hotly... passive aggressively... calling each other out, it wasn’t right. So, even though she knew she was delusional for coming here, for even wanting to, Rose would not let herself feel anything except absolutely necessary.

She had even, for good measure, collected a handful of his things to return (certainly not anything he had gifted her, or objects she felt attached to, which was almost everything, so in actuality this box was rather sparse with a strange collection of questionable contents) in case he was feeling especially surly and needed physical evidence to meet face to face.

And that had been her plan. To hand him his box of things that wasn’t really even half of the things that belonged to him still located in her flat, and then let him know she wouldn’t fight with him anymore because she just... couldn’t. It wasn’t good, it wasn’t right, and she most certainly did not like the person she was warping into because of it (him neither, for that matter), so he could be angry with her all he wanted but she wasn’t going to play at it anymore. And that would be that.

But that all went to high hell when she saw his face, and a flood of tight-gripping (and unnatural) curiosity came over her, as familiar sights took her in, and--- she had to know. About what he had said, she needed to know if that had just been--- if it had really--- Rose shifted the small box in her hands, clutching it tightly before she spoke.

“Do you--- did you really mean what you said, on the train?” she asked blankly. But that wasn’t specific enough, they both had said a lot of things that night... Rose closed her eyes briefly to collect herself. Her eyes flew open a few moments later, and locked onto his. “About me.... being yours, not caring and... all--- about--- that.” Her words dropped heavy.

He'd almost reached out to take the box from her, but she wasn't surrendering it, and although he would have loved for something, anything to do with his hands, figured it might be awkward and counter-productive to wrest it away from her when he had no conclusive evidence it was his. Of course, he was assuming it was, but that would be strange if it wasn't, wouldn't it?

Holy hell, Octavius didn't want to have this confrontation so much, he was obsessing over a small, totally unremarkable box, just because it was somewhere else to look besides directly into the face of his ex-girlfriend.

Any mention of that night on the Halloween train party made his skin crawl. Never in all of his years, even through the admittedly disastrous relationships that littered his past like debris from an explosion, had he lost such control of himself, of his ability to reason. The title had, admittedly, never been something to laud over others about, but in a group of friends that consisted widely of hot-headed people from the house of Gryffindor, he was considered the even-tempered, logical one. Eight other siblings had taught him that the first to lose control was the first to lose, and Octavius had gotten very good at managing himself.

But something, he didn't know if it was the girl or the situation, or some hideous combination thereof, turned him into a rather ugly person who lost sight of that highly sought after control and warped his sense of reasoning entirely.

"I don't know," he admitted, folding his hands behind his back because they were too much of a distraction hanging by his sides. "I apologise for my behaviour, regardless. But… I was angry, Rose, and I said things I knew would upset you, for the purpose of upsetting you." He resisted the urge to sigh, because it might come across callous, and he didn't feel that way at all. "I didn't do a good job of demonstrating it, but my view of you and—us— is not that… barbaric."

Rose looked down, her brow crinkled with confliction. That hadn’t been--- that response didn’t help her at all. In fact, it made her feel like she understood considerably less, but more at the same time, of what had happened and what was happening between them. She pushed her thumbs into the side of the box in an attempt to give herself something else to focus on besides the fact that she had no idea how to react, or what to say to him, now. She hadn’t been expecting.... Rose didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been an apology, or especially a reappearance of the normal Octavius disturbingly absent for the past month.

Then she felt her stomach twist, but in such an excited manner that it hurt. What--- how--- her skin was biting, and her limbs were tingling, and never, in her whole life, had she been so aggravated with not being able to control her own body. She didn’t--- couldn’t--- how was she supposed to pretend to get over him when her body so obviously had no intention of doing so anytime soon?

Her mouth dropped open to say something, anything, but she struggled, and instead shifted her head to rest her chin on her collar bone for a moment. Everything she had been thinking, repeating to herself, pushing herself to get over him in the past few weeks, to move on as quickly as possible.... it just disappeared. And it left her where she had been before, without all this anger.

“Octavius,” Rose started cautiously, gently. He needed to know that this was coming from a truthful place, with the intent of getting them to the point where, regardless of a relationship or not, neither of them felt the need to say things just to get a reaction, or feel better about the other’s anger. “You have me,” she spoke softly, sadly. “Don’t ever feel like you have to do anything to affirm that.”

He nodded his head slowly as he listened to her, wishing he could ask Rose not to say these words. Octavius had no doubt she meant them, and he supposed he had meant what he'd said to her on the train, as unflattering a sentiment as that was even without the haze of liquor and anger surrounding it. For better or worse, they had left their stamp on one another. He had little doubt that, if this was the end for Rose and he, he'd still remember every detail even if he lived to the ripe old age of one-hundred-and-thirty.

But the facts were these: Octavius was no less attracted to Rose than he had been from the very first day, which was a source of confusion all its own. But he also continued to feel an overwhelming rift between them over her having slept with Rupert Brookstanton. And knowing what that had caused Octavius to do, prying into his personal life, divulging those secrets that hadn't been his to even know—it gave Octavius pause, and a serious need for some soul searching.

Would he one day feel that these problems weren't so insurmountable? He certainly hoped so, but it wasn't fair to either Rose or himself to wait for that hypothetical day to arrive. They both deserved a clean break, which was something they hadn't allowed themselves for the near three months this fiasco had stretched on.

"Rose, this has to end," he said quietly. "Truly, this time. No poor attempt for friendship, no—" he swallowed, "—no other... confrontations. I can't—I don't think I can do anything else."

She wasn’t sure if it was relief, or simply a feeling of great release, but a considerable breath left her, and with it an equally significant string of internal thoughts and emotions. For once, in what seemed like eternity, were they on the same page? It eased her to think that after all this time, this tumultuous time in her life, it was ending just as unseemingly and quietly as it had started. Not them, but--

And she felt sad, yes, she supposed, and perhaps the true meanings of this final meeting would hit her in full later, but not right now. Now, she felt calm, and collected, like this was one of the only things she had done right in a very long time. But that wasn’t--- meant as a reflection--- they just simply could not continue on as they had been. And this was the only way to finally put it to an end.

Rose suddenly felt childish for not bringing over more to return. She blinked down at her box, his box, then extended it forward to him before doing anything else, finding that act to be the most important.

“I know,” she agreed, tilting her head as she extended her arms fully. “I just--- needed you to know.” Her lips pressed together, not quite into a smile but not into a frown either. Just... together.

There was a momentary impulse to resist her handing him the box, as if it would delay, forestall, or hinder the inevitable. But no, he took the box and didn't spare a glance inside it, for he rightly felt the importance lay in the gesture more than its contents.

He supposed, when imagining how this moment would arise, there would be shock, anger, hurt, and upset. Yelling and ugly words. Tears. There was none of that, but Octavius couldn't summon the requisite surprise. His throat was dry and closing, but there was only an air of sadness and, perhaps only for him, defeat. The reality was that this moment had been a long time in the making, and heartbreaking though it was, he was ready for it. They were ready for it, and they deserved it. The closure, and the calmness.

Then it would seem that there was nothing left to say, but one thing, and it felt like the most important. "Thank you." His voice was subdued to his own ears, but it was heartfelt. Octavius hefted the box to his side and studied the ground intently before raising his eyes a moment later to gaze at Rose's face. "For—everything."

And it would have to be enough.