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When Louis was properly, blindingly angry, he threw things. It was good. There were never any consequences—a few things broken perhaps, but Armand always ducked.
Armand’s ingrained instinct when he saw a blow coming was to defend himself, and the string of abuse that was his life hadn't quite managed to override it.
Louis managed to follow the impulse back, once, to a hazy, contextless memory of a giant hand ruffling curly hair, gently boxing an ear. Arun, if that was the name his parents gave him, had been loved. And it left its mark, meager as it was.