There you are whispers between them. Recognition of a thing Louis can remember now, caught glimpses of in that room through a haze of pain as Armand looked down at Louis's scorched body.
Not fear. Maybe there should be fear. But no, it is something closer to How good to see you, at last. Louis' fingers, dipped into the ephemeral flicker of Armand's hurt, reach for this too. Knowing. Armand, looking out from behind the facade.
Seventy-seven years together. Seventy-seven years. How much had Armand kept from him, hidden beneath the surface?
Armand is quiet. Louis is quiet. Waiting. Watchful. Connection maintained in comfortable silence.
Is not surprised by the answer, when it comes. Unlike what preceded it, Louis can hold this in both hands. Trust it without uncertainty. (It strengthens what comes before, this unflattering answer, blunt and unsparing.)
Louis lets it settle between them. Tends to his anger, simmering deep in his body. Anger at what's been done to him. Years lost. Memories lost. The trial. Madeleine.
And Claudia. Claudia.
It takes some time for Louis to speak again. To find his way past the first five things, too hot with hurt and anger for a conversation held in this manner. Louis has to do better than he did before. Cannot indulge himself as he might if they were standing in this room together.
I'm sorry you carried that alone for so long.
Hates himself a little (so much more than a little) for offering this up. An apology for this transgression, this hurt, these things Armand has done that have left deep marks in Louis that will never fade. An apology that may well be meaningless. Armand had dismissed Louis' broken attempts as such in San Francisco. Louis remembers, says it anyway in place of all else swirling formlessly deep in his mind.
no subject
Not fear. Maybe there should be fear. But no, it is something closer to How good to see you, at last. Louis' fingers, dipped into the ephemeral flicker of Armand's hurt, reach for this too. Knowing. Armand, looking out from behind the facade.
Seventy-seven years together. Seventy-seven years. How much had Armand kept from him, hidden beneath the surface?
Armand is quiet. Louis is quiet. Waiting. Watchful. Connection maintained in comfortable silence.
Is not surprised by the answer, when it comes. Unlike what preceded it, Louis can hold this in both hands. Trust it without uncertainty. (It strengthens what comes before, this unflattering answer, blunt and unsparing.)
Louis lets it settle between them. Tends to his anger, simmering deep in his body. Anger at what's been done to him. Years lost. Memories lost. The trial. Madeleine.
And Claudia. Claudia.
It takes some time for Louis to speak again. To find his way past the first five things, too hot with hurt and anger for a conversation held in this manner. Louis has to do better than he did before. Cannot indulge himself as he might if they were standing in this room together.
I'm sorry you carried that alone for so long.
Hates himself a little (so much more than a little) for offering this up. An apology for this transgression, this hurt, these things Armand has done that have left deep marks in Louis that will never fade. An apology that may well be meaningless. Armand had dismissed Louis' broken attempts as such in San Francisco. Louis remembers, says it anyway in place of all else swirling formlessly deep in his mind.