Paul wonders if this is what he might look like on the other side of trying to explain the inexplicable, give voice to the unthinkable. Johnny is a screwed up huddle of unhappiness, desperate to be understood as much as he is also so afraid of it that Paul wants to be looking at anything except for his eyes.
I won't blame you. I deserve it. The heartsick confessional of the fuck up.
It still hurts. It hurts more than Paul wants it to, bubbling up around the edges of his attempt to keep an open mind, clamouring in his ears fit to drown out Johnny's words. He doesn't know where to hold the way it hurts him, but he can touch the edges of where his hurt might bump up against Robby's, and that's where he sinks his fingers in.
One of the only things Paul ever used to be afraid of was being set aside. Not for the loss of title and position, because those never mattered very much, but for the loss of his father's devotion. The spectre of a true wife, a trueborn heir, had once haunted his childhood dreams, until one nightmare had him hiccuping with tears as he crept into his father's bedroom after eluding a handful of guards and the locks between them, and once his father understood, once he had explained that nothing would ever come between the two of them - there had been no more dreams. He had been eight.
Did Robby ever have that? How must he have felt, watching first the storied Miguel and now Paul assume this place at his own father's side? How can Paul trust someone who would treat his own true blood so carelessly?
Some of this must reach his expression. It's a struggle for self-control greater than any Johnny would have ever seen from him before, Paul's mouth a thin, bloodless line as his fingers twitch on his knees and his shoulders shudder with the effort of moderate breath. He is hurt - he is bewildered - he is, perhaps worst of all, disappointed.
But he doesn't look away, and as he sits, he begins to calm, like a pool returning to peaceful clarity after a rock was thrown into it. The stifled tension in him eases. He opens his mouth to inhale, lets the exhale come as a shivering sigh.
He thinks about grace. He thinks about arms warm and steadying around his shoulders in the dark.
"I knew that," Paul says, finally, voice as pale and pressed as a petal between pages, "You didn't have to tell me."
He's still grateful that Johnny did, as something out of alignment slots back into place with a juddering ache. Impulsively, he leans forward to cover one of Johnny's hands with his own, if only for a fleeting moment.
"You fucked up." Because he did. "But you can try to make it right. I know that you want to. And I know that you can. So we'll keep - we'll keep trying. You and me. Because that's what we do, right, sensei?"
no subject
I won't blame you. I deserve it. The heartsick confessional of the fuck up.
It still hurts. It hurts more than Paul wants it to, bubbling up around the edges of his attempt to keep an open mind, clamouring in his ears fit to drown out Johnny's words. He doesn't know where to hold the way it hurts him, but he can touch the edges of where his hurt might bump up against Robby's, and that's where he sinks his fingers in.
One of the only things Paul ever used to be afraid of was being set aside. Not for the loss of title and position, because those never mattered very much, but for the loss of his father's devotion. The spectre of a true wife, a trueborn heir, had once haunted his childhood dreams, until one nightmare had him hiccuping with tears as he crept into his father's bedroom after eluding a handful of guards and the locks between them, and once his father understood, once he had explained that nothing would ever come between the two of them - there had been no more dreams. He had been eight.
Did Robby ever have that? How must he have felt, watching first the storied Miguel and now Paul assume this place at his own father's side? How can Paul trust someone who would treat his own true blood so carelessly?
Some of this must reach his expression. It's a struggle for self-control greater than any Johnny would have ever seen from him before, Paul's mouth a thin, bloodless line as his fingers twitch on his knees and his shoulders shudder with the effort of moderate breath. He is hurt - he is bewildered - he is, perhaps worst of all, disappointed.
But he doesn't look away, and as he sits, he begins to calm, like a pool returning to peaceful clarity after a rock was thrown into it. The stifled tension in him eases. He opens his mouth to inhale, lets the exhale come as a shivering sigh.
He thinks about grace. He thinks about arms warm and steadying around his shoulders in the dark.
"I knew that," Paul says, finally, voice as pale and pressed as a petal between pages, "You didn't have to tell me."
He's still grateful that Johnny did, as something out of alignment slots back into place with a juddering ache. Impulsively, he leans forward to cover one of Johnny's hands with his own, if only for a fleeting moment.
"You fucked up." Because he did. "But you can try to make it right. I know that you want to. And I know that you can. So we'll keep - we'll keep trying. You and me. Because that's what we do, right, sensei?"