contact part deux

[bouchonne]

if this were modern times byerly would probably make you listen to total eclipse of the heart before you were able to leave a message

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[coquettish_trees]

I do not know either.

I am afraid all of the time, that there will be a moment you realize you have everything you need in him, and that holding me is nothing but holding a knife by the blade.

It is why I—

[ She sighs, and the hold she has on the hand that covers hers is as firm as it can be for something so bare. ]

I cannot understand why you would ever choose to be with me, and so I am afraid. But if you needed me jealously, possessively, if it made your hands clench with want of saying 'mine' then— if I knew you could not let go, not even of a knife blade—

You think that dangerous, and you are right, and I will try not to want it so badly, try to stop myself from trying to pull it from you, but it—

Passion like that would make me feel I was safe, for it would mean you could not leave me.

[ The quiet huff of her little laugh again, but there is little mirth in it. ]

And so I am the worst person possible for you to love too, no?

[bouchonne]

[ He's quiet a moment. It's an obvious sentiment, and one he suspects won't actually help, but he has to say it - ]

You want me, even though you have your husband.

[coquettish_trees]

Yes.

And do you feel secure in that?

[bouchonne]

Secure enough.

[coquettish_trees]

Why?

Because I say so? Or because sometimes I cling to you as if I can only breathe when you are in my arms and kiss you as if we will hang at sunrise.

[bouchonne]

[ He hesitates a moment, then says: ]

I suspect that, if I tell you, you shall take offense.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Slightly muffled by his shoulder: ]

I shall only take offense if you use this vulnerable moment of mine to disparage my husband.

[bouchonne]

[ Mmhm. ]

As I said.

[coquettish_trees]

Then you shall simply have to imagine what it might be like to share me with someone you regard highly, who you often see and hear and hear of being things you cannot be to me. That you cannot find anything in them to object to. You think them kinder than you. Easier to be with. That they are more healing than harm, and have never hurt me as you have. That they will not one day leave me, as I think you will.

[ All said without raising her head. She pauses. Breathes. ]

Feels it any different when you cannot hate the one I love for anything but seeming so much finer for me?

[bouchonne]

[ He's quiet a moment. And then he says - ]

I suppose what weighs heavily on me - aside from my fear for your heart - is that you trust me so little.

[coquettish_trees]

[ It is in the back of her mouth, and she does not want it to come out. It isn't fair, and it will hurt him, and she has no right to say it, and she does not want to hear the sound of it in the air.

So she is only quiet for a moment too, until she can push it back away. Then, softly: ]

If I tell you why, you will hate me. And you will be right to.

[bouchonne]

No, I won't.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie is quiet. She is quiet for a long time. Finally, a fragile whisper: ]

You left.

[bouchonne]

[ His brows draw down in confusion. ]

When?

[coquettish_trees]

Then.

[ There's only one 'then'. ]

[bouchonne]

I -

[ The confusion continues. Deepens. ]

Of course I did. The louts had had their sport - they weren't going to give me shelter or food any longer, with me having served my purpose. I couldn't stay.

[coquettish_trees]

You did not come that night to ask me why, not even to be angry with me.

[ Her words waterfall from her, as they do so often when she is upset. ]

It was so stupid, so foolish a hope, but I was waiting for you. I thought with every alcove I passed that night that you would reach from it to pull me in and demand to know why and I would weep and confess and you would hold me and somehow everything would be all right again but you did not. I thought with every step I took from the ballroom on that smug Baron's arm that on the next one I would see you round the corner but you did not, and then I ran out of steps to take and the only thing left in the world for me to do was laugh and smile and let him—

[ Her breath sobs. ]

Oh, Byerly, you looked at me sometimes like I held more wonder than the stars, touched me like I was something holy, and you left.

And I do not deserve my tears. I do not deserve to say any of this at all.

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly's throat closes. Neither sound nor air are able to pass for a full ten heartbeats. And he thinks: it had been some sort of test, then? Intended for him to prove his loyalty? And a test he had failed. But - no, that's not right; if it was truly a test, surely she'd say that, and not talk about how foolish the hope was. But even so, there's a roiling misery in his chest to think: he failed it. He failed. She was testing his mettle, and if he'd just passed that test, he could have healed her. He could have avoided those years of pain for himself. He could have protected her from the desperate acts that followed.

Stupid idiot. Petty fool. Coward. Fucking piece of shit. ]

I -

[ He struggles to swallow. ]

I did not realize that had been your desire.

[ What's wrong with me? Why didn't I? Piece of shit. ]

[coquettish_trees]

You could not have.

[ 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.

[bouchonne]

[ Idiot. Fool. ]

I don't think blame...matters much in a circumstance like this. Just - the consequences of the action, I suppose.

[ The consequences you caused. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ 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. ]

[bouchonne]

[ 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? ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ She waits for a moment, in case he had somewhere to go. And then she thinks that perhaps he is like her, lost and hoping to be told.

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.

[bouchonne]

[ He shakes his head very slightly. Not a denial; a gesture of confusion. ]

How does one grieve something like this?

[coquettish_trees]

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.