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.
It doesn't sound like a dismissal. It sounds like an observation; a truthful offering of his opinion, without any irritating emotion attached to it. Armand is frustrated, and hurt, and Armand can look at those emotions from outside of them like they're diagrams of feelings.
'I don't think you've ever been able to feel empathy for me. And you've always tried to use me to forget something, since the start. That you've decided to be angry about the time it finally worked is ... some kind of comedy, I suppose.'
Are you companions? Yes. No.
Or is it more like rebound of my life, with you two.
Frustrated. Conflicted. (It would be easier to be angry, angry, angry, and he is, but there is this too. This part of Louis that cannot be carved out that belongs to Armand, that always will.) Saying these things as if they are not also speaking of a violation, of transgression upon transgression. Of a lie so great it takes Louis' breath to think of it, to consider the full scope of it, and know how long Armand let him believe it to be true.
To be back-footed into this, contemplation of what they were to each other. Of the sum of seventy-seven years.
Still, Louis' voice dips softer over, Arun.
Invoking nothing other than his name. The name he gave to Louis once, standing in front of a painting. A name tied back to the thing behind the blankness, stripped clean of humanity. The boy he'd been, once.
You think I had nothing for you? No empathy? Nothing?
Perhaps he will lash out. Bite viciously at the nearest soft part, hit all the things he knows will cause Louis the most pain. Really argue, be it genuine or just perceived over all the injustices, all the split hairs, the hopes he had and the foolishness of having them, admit finally how shattered he'd been when he gave Louis that vulnerability only to have it used to try and get him to cross a boundary, and how that continued to happen, that he let it happen, that he hoped, and hoped, and... what. And what.
There's no point in such squabbling. Fighting over their sham of a companionship. Imagine the indignity.
'I'm not in the mood.'
A quiet thing. An honest take, an uncomfortable callback. Armand and his seismic lie. But it was a lie that couldn't have held without Lestat. Lestat, who looked at the lie and decided to play along, and ship Louis off with the liar. But Lestat (Lestat, Lestat, Lestat) is of course forgiven, and Armand, Arun, is where he is, even though he's the only one who put in any work to make up for it.
Selfish hypocrites.
Oh, well. A way to pass seventy-seven years, at least.
'I do not know what I would feel if you were to perish in this unrest. But it would not be pleasure. Goodnight, Louis.'
It feels like being choked, in a way. Armand is finished with their conversation, so Louis is obliged to swallow all the things that have risen to the surface. Louis, who wants to say, I saw you, then.
Wants to say, I see you now. All of you.
Wants to say, Was any of it true? Was it true then?
(Standing over Claudia's coffin, asking: When did you start lying to me?)
Wants to say, Don't go.
Wants to say, Go, go away, get out, get out—
But he has this. Armand, deciding they have said enough to each other, and Louis, knowing how thoroughly Armand will shield himself in a few moments.
Alright, Louis says, and hates himself, hates himself, hates himself. All this anger and nowhere to put it. Something else beneath it that he can't look at. The things Armand has told him that Louis now has to turn over, alone. Test these answers and try to find the truth in them.
A tremoring pause. Louis holding tighter, winding closer, the familiar storm of emotion in his body and in his mind leaning into him. Tired. Quietly conflicted, unhappy in it. These faint notes muted in the sigh of their parting, the deliberate way Louis peels himself back, away, letting the connection between them thin and stretch.
Good night, Armand.
The connection snaps. The scent of incense, cigarettes, gone from the room. Louis left alone in the space, breathing hard as if he had been running. Alone but for the coming and going of staff beyond his closed door, alone in his head but for the things Armand left there for him to contemplate.
Edited (i reserve the right to add more to this after i reappear from work) 2024-11-13 21:46 (UTC)
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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.
no subject
It doesn't sound like a dismissal. It sounds like an observation; a truthful offering of his opinion, without any irritating emotion attached to it. Armand is frustrated, and hurt, and Armand can look at those emotions from outside of them like they're diagrams of feelings.
'I don't think you've ever been able to feel empathy for me. And you've always tried to use me to forget something, since the start. That you've decided to be angry about the time it finally worked is ... some kind of comedy, I suppose.'
Are you companions? Yes. No.
Or is it more like rebound of my life, with you two.
no subject
Frustrated. Conflicted. (It would be easier to be angry, angry, angry, and he is, but there is this too. This part of Louis that cannot be carved out that belongs to Armand, that always will.) Saying these things as if they are not also speaking of a violation, of transgression upon transgression. Of a lie so great it takes Louis' breath to think of it, to consider the full scope of it, and know how long Armand let him believe it to be true.
To be back-footed into this, contemplation of what they were to each other. Of the sum of seventy-seven years.
Still, Louis' voice dips softer over, Arun.
Invoking nothing other than his name. The name he gave to Louis once, standing in front of a painting. A name tied back to the thing behind the blankness, stripped clean of humanity. The boy he'd been, once.
You think I had nothing for you? No empathy? Nothing?
no subject
For a moment—
Perhaps he will lash out. Bite viciously at the nearest soft part, hit all the things he knows will cause Louis the most pain. Really argue, be it genuine or just perceived over all the injustices, all the split hairs, the hopes he had and the foolishness of having them, admit finally how shattered he'd been when he gave Louis that vulnerability only to have it used to try and get him to cross a boundary, and how that continued to happen, that he let it happen, that he hoped, and hoped, and... what. And what.
There's no point in such squabbling. Fighting over their sham of a companionship. Imagine the indignity.
'I'm not in the mood.'
A quiet thing. An honest take, an uncomfortable callback. Armand and his seismic lie. But it was a lie that couldn't have held without Lestat. Lestat, who looked at the lie and decided to play along, and ship Louis off with the liar. But Lestat (Lestat, Lestat, Lestat) is of course forgiven, and Armand, Arun, is where he is, even though he's the only one who put in any work to make up for it.
Selfish hypocrites.
Oh, well. A way to pass seventy-seven years, at least.
'I do not know what I would feel if you were to perish in this unrest. But it would not be pleasure. Goodnight, Louis.'
cut scene unlocked
Wants to say, I see you now. All of you.
Wants to say, Was any of it true? Was it true then?
(Standing over Claudia's coffin, asking: When did you start lying to me?)
Wants to say, Don't go.
Wants to say, Go, go away, get out, get out—
But he has this. Armand, deciding they have said enough to each other, and Louis, knowing how thoroughly Armand will shield himself in a few moments.
Alright, Louis says, and hates himself, hates himself, hates himself. All this anger and nowhere to put it. Something else beneath it that he can't look at. The things Armand has told him that Louis now has to turn over, alone. Test these answers and try to find the truth in them.
A tremoring pause. Louis holding tighter, winding closer, the familiar storm of emotion in his body and in his mind leaning into him. Tired. Quietly conflicted, unhappy in it. These faint notes muted in the sigh of their parting, the deliberate way Louis peels himself back, away, letting the connection between them thin and stretch.
Good night, Armand.
The connection snaps. The scent of incense, cigarettes, gone from the room. Louis left alone in the space, breathing hard as if he had been running. Alone but for the coming and going of staff beyond his closed door, alone in his head but for the things Armand left there for him to contemplate.