Pygmalion (milk_and_ivory) wrote in nevermore_past, @ 2013-06-17 11:19:00 |
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Current mood: | crushed |
Who: Pygmalion and Galatea
What: Their new life at the turn of the century has turned out for the worst.
Where: Home in London, England
When: 1900's
Warnings: A very upset Pyg and Galatea! :(
The world in London was very different than in Greece. People were more social, they thrived on appearances, being seen, gossip and high society. Living in his own world wasn't the option here like it had been in the past. People talked among themselves still, but even the hermits were abused in their high rise society. He lived out of his studio these days, spending less and less time at home with Galatea. She was becoming a social creature herself. Something was definitely changing without theory control and was not always the happy world they had first made for themselves.
It was dinner time again as Pygmalion worked on this statue he had had haunting his thoughts for months now. Galatea would be expecting him, he usually cooked for them both, but he had lost track of time.
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Galatea had initially been wary of London. Everything was grey and dismal, and she felt stifled. She was changing, and while she was used to shifting with time, it was now happening more quickly than she was aware, and was happening to the both of them. Pygmalion spent less and less time at home, which made her restless and frustrated. She enjoyed going out on the town, attending concerts and plays, and made frequent trips to the library. She paid visits to friends and maintained a well-kept home for when friends visited her. But a wife spending so much time without her husband caused gossip, and people wondered just what went on behind the heavy, closed curtains.
When she was home alone, she spent most of her time in what was considered 'her' room. Where Pygmalion had always had his studio, she'd had a room filled with all of her things, including her growing collection of books. He was staying out later and later, and she was becoming increasingly annoyed with him. She was ready to go out and have dinner in a restaurant herself, except she knew it would cause a huge stir if someone she knew saw her alone. So, she sat and waited for him, reading from a well-worn copy of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.
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Hours had passed before Pygmalion put his tools down. His fingers were cracked and sore. He rubbed his knuckles gingerly, massaging out the stiffness. He checked the time realizing that Galatea had been alone. He cleaned himself up and made his way home, draping a cloth of his project. He had shown it to no one. Not even his precious wife. In some gossip chains he had a mistress. Many had tried to persuade him and Galatea that the other had been unfaithful. The only thing that could ever drove between them was this more modern world and his art. His art had become more important. He had become clouded by these new ideals. He slipped in the door quietly, not expecting Galatea to still be up.
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Eventually, Galatea had gotten tired of waiting. She'd read almost the whole way through her book, but decided not to finish just on principle. There would be no way she'd get through an entire book just waiting on Pygmalion. She'd decided she might as well go to bed when she heard the front door open and close. No matter how quietly he tried to do it, the door was very heavy and the house was very quiet. She felt a flash of anger and she stood abruptly, moving to place her book back on the shelf.
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He took off his coat to hang up on the wooden rack. The house was detailed in the style of the time, fancy wallpapers, ornate furniture, and small nick nacks. Even the rug he walked across was made of rich material. He may have been a King in Greece, but here there were more lavish decorations than he had ever owned. It was a way to keep Galatea happy when he wasn't there. It kept her up with society while he burrowed away from it once more.
He took each step carefully, but every muscle ached. He was so tired. Too tired to talk. He had hoped Galatea was in bed. He had no intention of waking her.
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There was absolutely no way she would be able to ignore him at this point. Even though she made it into the bedroom before him, she wouldn't be able to undress herself before he got there. Her clothing was horrible and restrictive and made up of too many layers. While she was known for staying on top of fashion trends, she particularly hated the recent ones. She missed the tunics and cloaks of Greece.
When she did finally see Pygmalion, she was in the middle of undoing the sash at the middle of her dress. She watched him come through the door and waited for him to notice her before speaking. "Glad to see you're in one piece." Her voice, flat and sarcastic, betrayed her neutral expression.
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At her voice he stopped in his tracks. "What are you doing up?" He walked over to help her with the sash, discarding it to the bed. "I'm sorry I'm so late. I lost track of time," he started to loosen the buttons on the back of her dress, to slowly urge her to bed. It was late, she looked worried. She needed sleep. There was tension in the air, he wasn't going to have room to explain he knew.
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"I wasn't tired." She refused to give him the idea that she was waiting for him. Still, she pulled her hair over one shoulder to let him help with her clothing. If he wanted to be apologetic, she'd let him. It didn't mean she was going to be forgiving. "You've been doing that a lot recently. Maybe you should get a new watch."
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Pygmalion knew it wasn't the watch, he was the one that was becoming obsessed with his work. To the doctors and psychologists he was a perfect candidate for a mix of disorders. He was obsessive compulsive, and a lot crankier than he had been in the past. Definitely not the socialite his wife was turning into. He liked keeping to himself when he used to be so open with her.
He got down to that last button in the curve of her back so she could easily slip out of the garment. "I've just been at the studio. A new piece." Did she think he was out running around? Was she bored of him? He shook those thoughts away. "Tell me about your day?" He wanted to show interest in her.
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He was spending more time working than with her lately, and she was beginning to feel slighted. It was becoming more important to him than she was. She sighed, stepping away from him so she could continue to undress. In the bedroom, behind drawn curtains and closed doors, she could ignore how prudish society was and wear as little as possible. She'd always been more comfortable with less clothing.
"It was the same as any other day. I went out for lunch and tea. I visited the library and then came straight home." She didn't mean to sound like she was accounting for herself, but she knew what people said about her. With Pygmalion so influenced by the artists in his circle and not being as open with her, she couldn't be sure what he believed.
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His fingers brushed her neck a moment before she moved away to get comfortable. He agreed with her sentiment on the clothes. They were far more constructive. Even without his coat he had a vest (which he had left undone all day), and tons of fabric for a simple undershirt. He watched her softly turning as well to strip off the vest, still in the breeches and boots.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here," he fumbled over his words a bit. "You should have gone out for the night, you like being the social butterfly." There was a little reprimand as if he didn't like it anymore when she used to draw him out of his little bubble. Now he was withdrawn again.
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"By myself? Because that always turns out so well." Where was her husband? How did a woman like her get saddled with a man like him? People pitied her, and if there was one thing Galatea hated, it was negative attention. "I get tired of making excuses for you. All you ever do is work anymore. It's like you don't even live here." He was the one that wanted them to come here. Now he left her alone and got upset when she found something to do with herself.
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"I don't like the social scene. It's all gossip and ridiculousness." He wasn't trying to insult her or insinuate that she mixed herself up in those circles, but he didn't like this direction that they were both taking. They were both going down separate paths instead of in one straight, solid line. He wondered how long they could continue before destroying each other with what others chose to say. It had never mattered much before how people talked about him, or her even. They were stronger than that. Recently, they had shifted, he was slipping from his strong beliefs.
His brows hung heavy on his face, his smile faded almost as quickly. "I'm an artist. I work. I put my frustrations into what I do. It never used to bother you before. Is that suddenly a disappointment for you?" He didn't mean to get snippy, but she was making him defensive.
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"What you do doesn't bother me. The fact that you're doing it all the time? That does." She had taken a back seat to his work. She was used to being his number one priority. "What are you so frustrated about that I don't even see you in the evening now?" He'd always been prone to brooding, but he would usually talk to her if something was bothering him. More and more of their conversations were sounding like this one.
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"I need to work to provide for us." He had to create and sell work so she could live comfortably. It was all to give her what she needed. He didn't realize right now she just needed him.
"I just need some breathing room sometimes. All these functions, parties and people to see. I just don't like it." He peeled off his shirt, balked it up and threw it down before taking a seat on the bed for his boots. "Its a little claustrophobic."
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She wanted to yell. Or hit him. It was like talking to a wall, and he'd skirted around her question. She crossed the room and reached for the hair brush she kept on the vanity, busying herself with brushing it out.
"You're the one that wanted to come here. So am I just supposed to spend all of my time without you? I could have done that anywhere." The point was she didn't want to; she wanted to still spend time with him. She wanted him to at least make an effort to enjoy spending time with her. "I know you don't like being social. I'm not asking you to be. It would be nice if we could go to the theater once in a while, just the two of us, but I just want you to be home more."
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There was a lot of blame to go around them both, but he was pointing the finger at her. She was the one that wanted to go out in public all the time. Why couldn't they just stay indoors? Why was the social life so important? "Why is being out there with them so important? Just so it circulates more gossip?" He hated the way this day and age relied so heavily on their rank and how they looked to the rest of the world. He had successfully ignored her questions in the process by focusing on himself. He wasn't the man she had fell for. He wasn't the Pygmalion that had loved her.
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She stared at him for a moment in silence, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He really wasn't listening to her. It wasn't important to her at all. Of course she enjoyed it, but if she had to prioritize, it would be far, far down on her list. All that said to her was he really wasn't as unaffected by people talking as he liked to pretend he was. "Because Gods forbid people see us behaving like a normal couple. And forgive me for wanting to actually spend time with my husband. What is wrong with you?"
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"You want to spend it out there." He pointed towards the window where the street lights peered in. "I'd rather stay here. I don't need to be seen by all those aristocratic gossipers." He was as upset as she was, but he wasn't even letting in room to compromise. This was the way he saw it, this was the way he felt it should be. He wasn't going to bend, not even for her---and that was where he had started to change.
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"No." She was putting her foot down. She was getting tired of hearing him harp on one thing, like she was a flighty one-dimensional socialite. He knew better. The fact that he was acting like he didn't was disconcerting. "No, Pygmalion. You don't get to say that, because you're never here, either."
She snatched the silk dressing gown from the back of the vanity chair and whipped it around, shoving her arms into the sleeves. She glared at him with an intensity and scrutiny that would make anyone other than him run from the room. He'd been on the receiving end of it more than once, though, and was used to it. She was trying to get a read on him and was coming up blank. "What else is going on with you?"
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"I'm working!" His arms were up in the air, defensively around him as he reinstated that fact. "I need time to think! Time to myself without....distractions." she hadn't ever been a distraction before nut for some reason now he saw it as such. It was as if the light he had for her was dimming. He was focused on something else.
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"So I'm a distraction? Are you serious?" She'd been frustrated before, even worried, but now she was angry. She was so angry she couldn't see straight. He was spending all his time working and she knew it was his idiotic artist friends that were feeding him this. When they moved here, he was still the doting, caring husband she knew. They were partners. Now she felt like a toy a child had gotten bored with.
She pulled the sash around her waist tightly, covering herself up again. "You'd better think really hard about what you want to say to me next."
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"Why? Have you become so independent now that you would just leave?" She wouldn't. Would she? He was so deep in this new mindset that he did see Galatea as a distraction. His heart had shifted towards a future that he hadn't even seen. The world was just as ugly as it had been the day he stepped into. He had to create something else just as beautiful to see that this world was worth being in still. Besides, as Shaw had once put it to him, Galatea would never really want even him. He was back alone, not with her as the pair of lovebirds they had been the first day in this city.
"You would leave if you could. You're too good for me right?" He didn't know why he was pushing her out with his words, but there it was and he was too blinded to see it.
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Without thinking, Galatea's hands balled up into fists. Her eyes narrowed at him. "Who told you that?" Pygmalion got along swimmingly with other artists and was particularly close with George, but she could never stand him. He treated her like a doll that was pretending at being human, and as much as she complained about it, Pygmalion would never really understand how it made her feel.
She hadn't thought about leaving. She'd thought about hitting him, or hitting Shaw (she really wanted to hit Shaw), but leaving had never crossed her mind before now. "I cannot be too good for you. I was made for you."
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Pygmalion had been won over by Shaw's way with words, but it was that influence that was changing them and the world they had gotten so comfortable with. "I don't remember," his brow contorted as he waved it off. He knew how she felt of some in his inner circle, "that's beside the point." It hadn't been the right thing to say, but he wasn't thinking rationally.
"Precisely. One day you won't even want me. That's all I am to you? The artist. The one that made you. You'll hate me." He felt sick. What was happening?
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She sputtered for a moment, unable to turn her thoughts into words, and one hand lashed out at the chair beside her. It tipped, teetering precariously on its legs, but did not fall over. "That is not how I feel about you!" She was yelling now and she didn't care. It was uncommon for her to lose her temper, but the conversation had turned into a full-blown argument and he was frightening her. "Stop listening to them! They don't know me. You know me. You know how I feel about you."
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"And what if that isn't enough one day?" He was psyching himself out. He was paranoid that he would lose her, but she was really losing him.
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"Not enough for who?" It was enough for Galatea if he only met her in the middle. She couldn't give and give without receiving. She wouldn't. To her, it was becoming increasingly obvious that it wasn't enough for him. She was just a distraction, now. An obligation. Their relationship had warped into something unrecognizable to her, and it was crushing.
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"You think I'm the one who's pushing you away?" He was. Deep down he knew he was but its almost as if his voice were lost and all he could say was someone else's words. They weren't his anymore. He wasn't him anymore, and be wasn't sure she would fight for him.
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Galatea crossed her arms over her chest, defensive. "Do you think ignoring me was going to make me feel some other way? Or do you think I'm just supposed to be pleased with you all the time, like I'm never worried or upset when you don't come home? I should just sit on my shelf and wait for you, and be happy you still find me mildly interesting."
Maybe she was pushing him away, but she reasoned it was only because he was growing distant and she was trying to minimize the damage to herself. She'd struggled for months, watching him slowly pull away from her, and she wasn't sure she could take it anymore. "I'm just a distraction anymore, right? So you tell me who's pushing who away."
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"I'm not ignoring you. I've been busy with my project." His voice wavered just a little bit because he hadn't even told her he was working on something this extensive. He just shut her out, which was not the way he usually handled things. Usually she was the first person he came home to tell. He would describe in detail his ideas because she wouldn't judge, she just listened until he wanted to unveil.
Right now Pygmalion could not see reason. He was morphed so easily by Shaw and the rest that he had completely and utterly forgotten what it was that made Galatea so perfect for him. She was created for him, by him, but she was so far up on a pedestal she was a separate person all together. His mind was rolling above and beyond what beauty he had right in front of him. Galatea was a goddess. She was unattainable.
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"Ignoring me for work is still ignoring me." Galatea didn't think she was being unreasonable. Her time with Pygmalion had dwindled to almost nothing. It used to be that they spent almost every moment together. Now she was lucky if they even slept in the same bed.
"What project?" She eyed him quietly, watching his expression. He always told her what he was working on. She used to stop by occasionally to see how it was going, too, but she hadn't recently. Had she been too busy, or had he been evading her? She had a hard time remembering anymore.
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At that question he froze. Everything shut down from there. To Pygmalion it was an invasion of privacy that he had started to keep since he and Galatea were not as tight as they had been before. He looked at her as if she wanted to take it away from him. "It's not for anyone to see right now."
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Her eyes went a bit wide at that. She hadn't expected him to get so defensive. With the way they'd been arguing, she wasn't sure what to expect anymore.
"Well," she said archly, making her way to the door, "whatever it is, I hope it's worth it." She walked out of the room on that. There was absolutely no way she was going to be in the same room with him after that. She probably wouldn't even sleep. She'd finish her book, start another, and think about just what her priorities were.