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Love, you were coming to realize, took a lot of different shapes and forms. With Vader, it had been just like in the movies: fast and furious, with heated kisses and hungry touches. It was the archetypal romance, full of glamorous outings and sweet nothings, beautiful places and hastily spent money. And, on her part, hastily whispered 'I love you's.
Perhaps, that's where it had originally gone wrong. You'd never been good at showing people you cared, telling them even less so. You could spend several hours – days, even – pondering where in your life it had gone so wrong to make you this way.
And, though you'd tell no one, you had. But, today... today wasn't the day.
Regardless, you'd felt the rift beginning to form at each refusal to return those three words. Vader Eloha didn't understand, and, after some months – small baby resting in a crib, several rooms away – she confronted you on it.
Things hadn't been going well, by the time she did. It had been rough, and all the sweet nothings and beautiful places had seemed to transform into bitterness and pretty lies. You didn't touch her, nor she you. You didn't want to touch her.
There was something about her alarming beauty that, while it had at first entranced you, now repelled you. She was, perhaps, too perfect. Inhumanly so. And, naturally, a woman of such perfection wanted a perfect romance; A perfect family.
You were a far cry from perfect.
The confrontation escalated into an argument, then into a fight. You threw a lot of nasty words around, and the wounds they caused were only further deepened by his cries.
The two of you had awoken your son.
You don't remember much, after that, just screaming at him to shut up, shut the fuck up! and then throwing something. A vase, maybe?
You never hit her, though; You weren't that kind of man. At least, you hoped you weren't.
She screamed and cried, telling you to get out of her sight, holding little Hugo tightly to her chest. You obliged.
All of your things were thrown out on the front lawn the next morning, and the locks had been changed. A few weeks later, a restraining order and a court form, revoking all parental rights, had shown up in the mail.
It was all over the news. You had to leave.
Beautiful romance turned to horror story, and all you could do was watch as it spun wildly out of control, crashing and burning.
It wasn't like that, with Zacharie.
In fact, you weren't terribly sure how or when, exactly, it had happened, or started. Perhaps some time after he'd shown you his face.
He never came out and said it – not at first – that he loved you. And, that was okay. You probably couldn't've handled it. Though Zacharie was gentle with you, it was nothing like with Vader. He laughed at you, at himself. He took cheap digs at you, and cooked you breakfast in his underwear, chuckling at your grumpy, disheveled way of going about the mornings. He didn't have that sugar-sweet way of smiling at you, of cooing your name.
He was coy, and looked at you like he knew something you didn't. The way your name rolled off his tongue both condemned you to hell and saved you. And when it was late, and you were tired, you'd let your edges soften just enough to touch him. Drape an arm over his shoulders, and he'd nestle into your side, as though he belonged there. And it was okay. Unlike with her, you weren't afraid of your hands leaving dark stains on his flesh, leaving flaws on a flawless form.
Zacharie was, by every means, a handsome man, however, he was by no means angelic, nor was he perfect, as Vader had been. He had scars, blemishes, and a nose that was a little too big, feet that were a little too small. His eyes were an off brown, his hair as dark and unruly as your personality. Her laughter had been the tinkling of bells, angels singing. His was smooth jazz, chocolate cover fruits.
They were so very different, and you loved them differently. Vader, you loved as though you were trying to change, trying to be a better man. Zacharie, you loved in acceptance of yourself, and in hopes that you could make the right choices.
Sometime after he'd casually slipped you a key to his apartment, after you'd decided to sell yours and move in, he'd muttered those words.
“Je t'aime.” He'd been contemplative, as of late, so, perhaps it should've been expected. Still, you froze. You froze and waited for the same pathetic expression Vader would give you at every refusal to say it back.
Zacharie didn't notice. He wasn't even looking at you; Focused instead on something else.
You waited. You waited for the pain, the rejection, the betrayal on his face. You waited for hours, and still, it never happened. Eventually he stood and stretched, offering you a hand and a look of confusion, upon seeing the dreadful expression written on your features.
“Well, my dear Batter, I do believe I'm going to call it a night.” He raised a brow at you as you took his hand. “What say you?”
You desperately hoped it was some kind of fluke: That he hadn't been talking to you, or would never say it again.
The second time it happened was in a post-coital haze. And all the afterglow softness that had been surrounding you evaporated, and you tensed up. Zacharie must've felt it, because you saw him move to look at you, though in the dark, his expression was unreadable.
“I'm not going to say it back.” You mutter, internally cursing at how curt and cold it sounded, coming out.
Zacharie moved to rest his head on your chest again. “I didn't expect you to.” He hummed casually, as though it didn't matter to him either way. But, this was a man who excelled in hiding his emotions, you were coming to learn. You didn't want to hurt him, not like this.
“It's... not because--” You were cut off by him moving again, this time leaning over you, looking directly into your face. A single digit pressed to your lips was enough to silence you.
“I know.” Is all he says.
He knew. He understood. It was more than Vader had ever done, or tried to do, for you.
“You're not a verbally or physically affectionate person.” Zacharie says over dinner one evening, looking perplexed over something on his phone. “I know this. You have other ways of showing you care for me, other ways of letting me know you love me.” He looks up, and smiles the slightest bit. “I'm still going to tell you, though. You never need to say it back, because I say it more for me, than for you. I need to know that you know. In case something ever happens.”
You want to thank him, and tell him you understand. Instead, you just nod a little bit and chuckle, because that's all the confirmation either of you need.
So, while it doesn't happen often, Zacharie does tell you he loves you. And, really, you tell him too, in little ways. Like when you never seem to mind that he wears the mask a lot still, sometimes even to bed, or when you take care of him when he's feeling sick or tired. You're not much of a cook, by any shot, but you help where you can, and you keep the house clean; not that Zacharie is a messy person. You grab him things off of the top shelf and you've taken on laundry duty. You go shopping together, and laugh a little bit when he comes in with a whipped cream mustache.
It's nothing like the tender romance that novelists have written about for hundreds of years. Zacharie doesn't spend hours staring into your eyes, instead, hours laughing at your annoyed expression when he tells a particularly awful joke. You're not going to see yourselves on the silver screen, and the playwrights will forget all about the both of you.
But at the end of the day, when his unruly hair is pressed obnoxiously into your face, and he's drooled a little on your chest, you can't say you really give a damn. Let them forget; let the world outside tell you that this is all invalid.
You both have all the validation you need, because, what works for Hollywood doesn't really work for you at all.