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There was a howling wind whipping around that night, shaking the foundation of the house and making it groan like a beast which had just been woken from a thousand year slumber. Peace inhabited those familiar creaking sounds however, and there was no urgency in the air, only the sense of calm one feels before a summer sun shower, the sort which makes it simple to be lost in the internal forest of the mind, at least if memory served. It was like being one with the words on the pages of his favorite novel, enviously unchanging. He wished to remain here.
Just then the atmosphere was sliced by a name – his name, to be precise – and reluctantly, he found himself roused from that other world.
“Louis.”
The voice was aloud, but quiet and plain, and Louis looked up from the book in his lap to find its source standing before him, just as plain in expression. Except for the wideness of the eyes, the profundity there, sparkling with some unfathomable depth – the very same depth which had drawn Louis to his companionship in the first place. But none of the openness he’d once known yet, the sort he longed for. Far too much like stone.
“Yes?”
Armand perched on the arm of the large overstuffed chair Louis was seated in and plucked the book from his grasp, tossing it aside thoughtlessly, like trash towards a bin. And just as soon as, thump, it landed on the floor, he was fondling Louis’s hand with a light, teasing touch, a question in his eyes, in the tight line of his lips as he tickled the palm with his fingers, coaxing it into his own.
“What are you doing?”
“Comparing,” Armand said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Then he lifted Louis’s hand up to his and pressed their palms together flat, aligned at the base.
He narrowed his eyes.
“Is there a problem?” Louis wondered, trying to sound gentle, reassuring, patient.
Because Armand was frowning now, and he used his free hand to trace a line from the tip of his middle finger to that of Louis’s before speaking again.
“Your hands are so much larger than mine.”
Louis half-smiled at his tone, subdued. How clear was his displeasure, now a narration scrolling down his face. And he intertwined their fingers and brought Armand’s hand near to kiss, pressing his lips dryly against the knuckles while watching for changes in his eyes.
Outwardly, Armand softened, but his mind had not. Louis could hear it now – an old grievance in the wake of the wind – and feel it in step with adoration.
What is it like? Armand silently pressed, still staring at their hands as if afraid to meet his gaze. To be as you are?
“You mean my body.”
It wasn’t a question, but Armand nodded anyway.
“It is nothing,” he said. “No different than it is for you.”
Armand scoffed. “Do not lie.”
“I would not,” Louis assured and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You are perfect as you are. But you already knew that.” Then he leaned forward, unclasping their hands, to retrieve the book which had landed near his feet.
Armand did not seem satisfied. However, a light had flickered in him, and he was watching Louis like a cat readying to pounce.
You would be so fortunate, someone had once told him of his perceived youth. But seeing Louis in all his fully matured beauty had sparked something to life inside of him – a sickening kind of longing for a body he’d never know beyond touch. And Armand remembered hearing something similar, a mourning cry for that which would never be in the cold voice of a child. A child he’d destroyed out of… what? Envy? Fear? Pity?
He did not know, but he felt a sense of camaraderie suddenly. And regret. And he could not exactly pinpoint the reason, only that he did not like it.