[ She shakes her head into his shoulder, a hard press. ]
I could not have told you what my desire was. I was confused, and terrified, and I wanted you gone, and I wanted you with me, and to never see you again, and to never see anyone else.
I was so desperate for someone to tell me what to do, and Emile did, and I believed her, and it was only afterwards that I understood what I had done.
[ Her arms tighten around his shoulders, as if she fears his leaving now. ]
[ He feels too even, too distant, and it pushes her towards where she can feel the edge of it, feel the ice creak its warning under her feet. She has learned this place in herself, and if she does not calm down now— if she takes one step farther, speaks one more word— she will break into the same wild pieces she was only now speaking of and drown.
Ever and always she wants to break, wants someone else to hold her because it is too hard to hold herself, but she will not push both past and present into his arms when he is already holding both his own. And so Alexandrie breathes. Breathes and tries to hold herself apart. To remember where she is. When she is.
When she has come enough away from the threat of frenzy that she can safely move, she nods a little. ]
[ Her silence feels like judgment. Like condemnation. It feels like sorrow. It feels like all the wounds he's caused by being a fuck-up. By being such a -
How could you do this? ]
I should, ah -
[ He can't stand this silence. Silence is never tolerable, but silence with another person in the room, alongside you - silence with her - Maker.
He should what? He'd started to speak. What should he do? What can his excuse be? ]
I do not know. I only know that while I have had and mourned losses I feel are only my own that—
[ She turns her head on his shoulder so she can lean her forehead against the side of his neck. ]
Some of the things that we lost then were ours. What small joy we had, what love we had, what trust we had, what of those we might have had— those losses belong to us both. And there is something in shared sorrow that cannot be had alone.
[ Even with her efforts to steady herself, there is still an anxious tightness in her chest that he knows. Selfish. Unkind. You wrought that pain and it was only yours to hold. ]
It feels so terrible of me to...
[ Silence, as she struggles with how to name it. Starts again. ]
I pushed you away so harshly. How dare I be hurt that I succeeded.
[ She raises her head for that, draws herself upright and raises a hand to turn his face to hers in an attempt to make him look at her. ]
Ne dis pas cela.
[ Fierce and quick and intent as her eyes, and there is nothing of a plea in it. ]
This cannot be yours, I will not let you have it. The most I will do is share. Say that my fear made me leave you, yours made you leave me, and we have both suffered for it. You more than I, for even while I twisted myself into a creature that could no longer feel its agony I slept in silk.
[ She needed him to know, and now he does, and her solitary carrying of it is done. Now there is nothing but a wish to keep it from spreading like a poison in him. In them.
The fierceness dissipates to something softer, and she will try to catch his hand, if he will let her. To hold it lightly just so she is there. ]
I did not tell you with a wish to make you feel so.
[ The breath she lets out when he takes her offered hand is the one she drew after she told him. She had taken other breaths, of course, but that one had been in her chest until now, frozen. Waiting for him to pull away inside himself to where she could not reach him anymore.
But he doesn't.
And then she realizes he hasn't. Not once since they began speaking, not any of the times she knew he would. There had been once during a swell of despair that he had reached toward her. Small, the insistent press of his hand on hers to ask her to come back, but it had been there. Her eyes widen with it, full of a kind of tentative fragile commingled joy and relief as she lets herself hold that hand more warmly.
Soft and unbidden, she cannot help herself but say— ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ She shakes her head into his shoulder, a hard press. ]
I could not have told you what my desire was. I was confused, and terrified, and I wanted you gone, and I wanted you with me, and to never see you again, and to never see anyone else.
I was so desperate for someone to tell me what to do, and Emile did, and I believed her, and it was only afterwards that I understood what I had done.
[ Her arms tighten around his shoulders, as if she fears his leaving now. ]
Please do not think I blame you.
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I don't think blame...matters much in a circumstance like this. Just - the consequences of the action, I suppose.
[ The consequences you caused. ]
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Ever and always she wants to break, wants someone else to hold her because it is too hard to hold herself, but she will not push both past and present into his arms when he is already holding both his own. And so Alexandrie breathes. Breathes and tries to hold herself apart. To remember where she is. When she is.
When she has come enough away from the threat of frenzy that she can safely move, she nods a little. ]
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How could you do this? ]
I should, ah -
[ He can't stand this silence. Silence is never tolerable, but silence with another person in the room, alongside you - silence with her - Maker.
He should what? He'd started to speak. What should he do? What can his excuse be? ]
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So, finally: ]
You should hold me, if you still wish to.
And I should hold you.
And since we are not blaming each other, perhaps we might—
[ A breath; unsteady, unsure if she should have started speaking at all. She starts again. ]
I have grieved it alone, what happened. I would grieve it with you.
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How does one grieve something like this?
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[ She turns her head on his shoulder so she can lean her forehead against the side of his neck. ]
Some of the things that we lost then were ours. What small joy we had, what love we had, what trust we had, what of those we might have had— those losses belong to us both. And there is something in shared sorrow that cannot be had alone.
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I didn't realize. That I had - so much of a part in it.
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[ Even with her efforts to steady herself, there is still an anxious tightness in her chest that he knows. Selfish. Unkind. You wrought that pain and it was only yours to hold. ]
It feels so terrible of me to...
[ Silence, as she struggles with how to name it. Starts again. ]
I pushed you away so harshly. How dare I be hurt that I succeeded.
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[ He has no trouble with its name. His voice is blunt and flat. ]
And I have been furious with you, when the failure was mine.
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Ne dis pas cela.
[ Fierce and quick and intent as her eyes, and there is nothing of a plea in it. ]
This cannot be yours, I will not let you have it. The most I will do is share. Say that my fear made me leave you, yours made you leave me, and we have both suffered for it. You more than I, for even while I twisted myself into a creature that could no longer feel its agony I slept in silk.
You cannot have it.
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[ He runs a hand over his miserable face. ]
It - I have not felt the guilt of it till now.
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The fierceness dissipates to something softer, and she will try to catch his hand, if he will let her. To hold it lightly just so she is there. ]
I did not tell you with a wish to make you feel so.
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[ He holds her hand back, turning his unhappy gaze on her. ]
You are - far too kind to wish something like that.
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But he doesn't.
And then she realizes he hasn't. Not once since they began speaking, not any of the times she knew he would. There had been once during a swell of despair that he had reached toward her. Small, the insistent press of his hand on hers to ask her to come back, but it had been there. Her eyes widen with it, full of a kind of tentative fragile commingled joy and relief as she lets herself hold that hand more warmly.
Soft and unbidden, she cannot help herself but say— ]
You stopped.
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[ He doesn't understand. He shakes his head. ]
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All this while we have been speaking about such difficult things, perhaps some of the most difficult, and I have not once felt you were pulling away.
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I didn't - realize that I do, normally.
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[ I should not have said anything, why did I— ]
I do not want to be something you have need to protect yourself from. I am—
[ She smooths the cloth that covers his shoulder with her thumb, and smiles: small, tentative, a little sad. ]
I am sorry. That I am.
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[ He runs a hand over his face, frustrated and unhappy. ]
I'm simply no good for this. I am sorry. It is my fault.
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[ She runs her fingertips down the side of his face, gentler than he had been with it. ]
I am not good at this either, for all that I wish to be.