There is a slightly sullen cast to his expression, doubt for the idea of happiness and refusal to forget these recent errors. Knows, all the same, that Louis is speaking sensible things to him. Hopeful things. We, and us.

Slammed the door on Paris. On his own turning. Begged them to move on from Claudia, whom he'd convinced himself would never return, because they never return. Bemoaned the shattered mantle, unrepaired. Longs to burn the bloodied clothes from Louis' body.

"I meant what I said," feels like a retreat, but offered anyway. "That I love only you. Have loved only you."

He had said the words to Antoinette, meant them in a fashion, but it was nothing, nothing really.