The Hour Before Dawn
© Persephone & Siren
degas.ballerina@gmail.com
Spoilers: Interview With the Vampire
Rating: PG
Status: Complete
Characters: Louis & Armand
Summary: Louis returns home after some days away.
"I don't believe you." Armand's eyes had known exactly where Louis' would be when the front door opened, and they remained fastened on them now that it was. The fabric of his indigo smoking jacket creased perfectly where his arms were held folded across him, a hand under each elbow. The silk threads of the garment shone nearly violet where alight by the lamp on the ornamental buffet to his right. The other side looked almost black. No other lights reached the apartment's foyer, and it was nearly the hour before dawn.
His hand still against the doorknob, Louis paused. He cast a quick, surreptitious glance to the door at the end of the hall to the left, but then his eyes lowered. The light caught the dark brown highlights of his hair, left carelessly uncut. It spread about his shoulders, subtly curling at the ends.
He answered Armand in a soft, distant voice that was not at all apologetic, despite its sincerity. "I didn't mean to be gone so long."
Silence. Armand did not move. But when Louis' eyes did not meet his again, his fingertips shifted against his sleeves. The light side was warm. Too warm. He had been standing there since he heard Louis' step on the walk below their fifth-story windows. It had taken too long for him to come upstairs.
"Close the door." Armand blinked. "Take off your coat." He turned, opening the closet door as he passed it, but continued through into the dark parlor. He expected to be followed. "Sit with me."
The doorknob had warmed in his hand, but Louis still did not release it. He waited until Armand had almost disappeared into the parlor. Then he stepped forward, and the door closed with a soft click behind him.
There was a moment of hesitation, but then Louis' hands lifted to remove his coat. He hung it carefully, but took too long to do so, and again paused by the closet door. When he turned, it was in the opposite direction, towards the same door he had looked at moments ago. The soft glow of the lamp illuminated the lighter wood.
Louis stepped back with a soft sigh, then slowly turned away, and instead followed Armand, his arms crossing and holding one another tightly.
Armand had lit another lamp by the time Louis joined him. It stood atop a piano neither of them ever thought to touch but both agreed filled the otherwise empty space there nicely. Armand's fashionably clipped hair matched the cherry varnish, brighter in the new light, nearly matched his eyes, but they were still too dark as they followed Louis' movements. His fingertips were blackened. He had let the match burn out between them, the sulfur scent not quite gone from the air.
"Five days." He spoke softly. He was still waiting for Louis to sit. "This is the sixth night."
Louis' jaw set, though it loosened again before Armand finished speaking, his expression fading into a distant frown. At first he said nothing. His eyes were fixed on a small, three-legged table, just high enough for him to lower one hand against the edge, yet keep his arm straight.
He made no move to sit. "I needed to be by myself." There was still not a trace of regret in his voice. He sounded distantly weary, perhaps uncertain, but nothing more.
"You could have stayed here and done that."
The focused expression over Armand's face shifted into a faint scowl, and then he looked away from Louis to nothing at all.
"Did you mean it or not?" Armand asked before he could respond.
He sat himself then on the divan against the wall, but indicated the armchair at center to Louis with a curl of his hand, and the edge returned to his voice, "Sit without me."
Almost too quickly then, Louis responded, "Yes."
Armand did not know just what Louis was answering, but Louis said nothing more about it; however, although Armand's gesture did not go unseen, Louis did not sit. It seemed as though he would leave at any minute.
"It is late, Armand." Louis' hair fell forward over his shoulders as he lowered his head, but it did not serve to hide his faint confusion.
"Not too late." Armand watched Louis' hand move against the table for a motionless moment of his own in the corner of the sofa, and then his gaze lifted to what was left of Louis to see. "Not yet."
A single line creased Armand's brow as he looked at him, and then he looked out the window, but only for a moment before his eyes lowered as well, followed by his head and a slight hunching of his shoulders. He stared down at his own hands, which lay helplessly upturned on his knees, his fingers curled limply. He took a breath that should have been followed by a sigh, but it was not. There was only stillness.
The sound caught Louis' attention, despite how internal his focus had been. He looked up at Armand, frowning now, but with genuine regret. He took a moment to study the way that Armand appeared, then seemed to regret that as well, quickly looking away and back to the small table. It was not enough to keep his focus this time, and so with another quiet sigh, Louis let his hand slip from the edge.
He approached where Armand sat, but stopped on the other side of the divan, as though requiring space between them. When he looked at Armand a second time, it appeared to be more difficult. "Armand..." Louis' voice was softer, less distracted, and with the first real twinge of guilt.
Armand's face turned as if he would look to the window again, away from where Louis had approached, but the motion was left uncompleted. Something about how he sat made it seem he shrunk back into the sofa, though he did not actually move at all. A moment later, his hands fell slack, slipping down between his knees, and his chin met his chest.
After a moment's pause, Louis slowly sat on the very edge of the couch. His hands closed over the tops of he knees, and he tried to look at them, but he seemed unable to look away from Armand. Briefly, faint frustration showed in his eyes, but then the emotion flickered away and died. His hands clenched, then shifted as though he would lift one, but they stilled again after that. "I brought something back for you."
Remaining where they hung, Armand's hands clasped and twisted together. It did not seem he would move other than that, as if he had not heard Louis at all, but a moment later he shifted to glance over at him out of the corners of his eyes. Something of their previous darkness seemed to flash across his gaze, but it was caught back and buried deep again, unearthing an expression not unlike disappointment.
When Armand did not speak, Louis continued quietly, his voice measured, but guarded, "It's in my coat." He had forgotten that there was anything in the pockets.
One of Armand's hands shot out to catch Louis' arm in a gentle grip, stopping him as he moved to get up. Turning where he sat to manage it, but not moving any closer, he looked up to Louis with eyes that were wider and glassier than before. "Stay."
Louis let his hand slide off of his knee, and he stiffened, but he did not pull away. He did not protest or even begin to, but met Armand's gaze evenly, his own expression perfectly composed. Settling back against the couch, Louis nodded. "I will give it to you tomorrow. It's a book of poetry, illustrated." He paused. "I wasn't sure if you would like the poems, but the pictures, they reminded me of you."
His fingertips pressed one by one into the fabric of Louis' sleeve, and then Armand's hand turned over his arm as if he would draw Louis to him by it, but instead he moved closer on his own. "Why?" He was not about the pictures. He lowered his eyes to Louis' hands and then let go of his arm. "Are you sorry?" His tone presumed that Louis ought to have a particular reason to make a gesture of apology, despite how they both were more than familiar with the frequency of Louis' absences.
Once the slight pressure of Armand's hand fell from his arm, Louis relaxed, but the change was barely perceptible. He frowned slowly, and for the first time his gaze turned from Armand. His hand closest to Armand moved again, but this time dropped between them against the side of his own leg. He looked confused, but then it faded, and the weariness returned. "Ah. I'd forgotten."
At first, Armand appeared hurt, but it was brief. His look darkened a moment later and he stood, turning in front of Louis to look down at him. "And if I had said nothing just now?" He shook his head and continued to stare, answering his own question, "It would have remained forgotten."
Louis did not answer. He was not avoiding Armand's gaze now, the cautiousness absent. He seemed to be observing the way that Armand looked, yet remained oddly unmoved by it, his eyes and his expression unreadable.
Armand turned away from him and moved to the window where he wrapped his arms around himself again. It would have seemed that he was waiting for Louis to leave except that he spoke again, his voice much softer, "I reminded you so many times."
"It is not the right time." Louis said, as quietly as possible, but his voice lacked the gentleness it possessed before. He remained sitting, his fingers pressing into the fabric of the sofa. "Any other time of year, you might have asked for."
"You did not say that before." Armand was still for a moment and then his eyes lowered to the windowsill. "I asked for one night." Something about the way he stood stiffened and then faded again. "You promised me."
Louis lifted a hand to his head, but did not quite reach it, and then it fell back to the position it was in before. If he was regretful, it was impossible to tell. His face was stony. "I thought that I could give that to you, but I couldn't. Armand... not that night. I needed the time. Surely you can understand that."
Armand's brow creased again and he lifted his gaze back to the window. "There has been time enough." His voice was more solid now, though not much louder. "How many years upon years has it been? Next year, I say to myself every year. Next year. It is not just your night." He turned then to look back at Louis over his shoulder. "It is my night too." There had been a dullness to his eyes, but it faded now and they seemed to grow wider as his arms slipped back to his sides and he repeated, "You promised me…"
"You ask too much of me!" Louis' voice was soft, but there was a trace of anger to it, disbelief. "How could you think that I could share that night with you? How can anything take the place of what that means to me? Is one night a year so much to ask, one night that I absolutely require?" He looked up at Armand, then rose, at first as if he would go to him, but then it became clear that he was retreating. "I should not have promised you. It was my mistake. I thought..." Louis paused, shook his head. "Another night. I will give you another."
One of Armand's hands lowered to the windowsill at his side as if to brace himself for Louis' approach, but when it did not occur, he stepped away toward him instead.
"You shared it with me then!" Armand countered. He stopped halfway to where Louis stood and the look in his eyes was replaced with something like hollowness. He continued more quietly, "And ever since, it has been yours alone. When will we share it again? What did you think? I thought something too. I thought that if I - but no, you tell me first. What did you think? You who had forgotten."
Louis took a step back from Armand as he approached him, but paused after that, and stood very still instead. "It doesn't matter what I think. What I thought, everything I thought..." The spark in his eyes had already vanished. There was nothing beyond Louis' apathy but the same exhaustion. "There is no reason to speak of this. Let me give you the book, Armand. I will sit with you."
Those last words caused the look in Armand's eyes to brighten. It was undeniable, and he hesitated. But a moment later, he sighed and looked away. "No." He shook his head and reached across himself to clasp at the back of his other arm. "It is not that easy. Louis, don't you see?" His eyes shifted back to him and his faint frown had returned. "I think that you do."
The way Armand first looked seemed to cause Louis to relax, but once his gaze was averted, he became more statue-like again. Once more, Louis looked to the door, but he made no move to go. Not yet. When he spoke, his voice retained the gentle aspect of before, as though it had never been lost. "What was it about that night, Armand, that we cannot do tonight? Or tomorrow? I am not leaving again." Of course, Louis did not mean ever - he meant immediately.
"Because it is that night." He glanced down as he seemed to reconsider, "I could have changed the date. Not at the last minute, but if I had known enough in advance..." He looked up again to Louis and shook his head. After a quiet moment though, he spoke again more softly, "I did not go out that night. I was afraid that if I did I would miss your return."
Louis' gaze had shifted away before Armand could look at him directly. He now shook his head slowly, his expression wavering between faint disbelief and bewilderment. The emotion was minimal, and barely affected his stoicism. "Yes, that night, but that night is not yours." He cringed, the first sign of pain flashing across his face, but then it was gone.
Turning from Armand, Louis took a few steps away from him, but not towards the door. His voice was remote. "Why would advanced notice have mattered? We can arrange it now."
As if refusing to answer, Armand shook his head and went back to the divan, but he did not yet sit. His fingertips brushed its quilted arm, but his eyes were on the painting that hung on the wall above it. A sleeping woman of odd angles in the popular new style. The texture of the paint on the canvas seemed to move where his shadow blocked the light reflecting in the frame's glass. "Don't want to arrange it now." Armand's fingertips pressed more into the couch's arm before he turned smoothly and fell silently back into his seat. His elbow leaned on the quilting, and he crossed one leg over the other, his chin resting in his hand, his eyes on the dark of the morning outside window again. "Wanted to surprise you."
"Surprise me?" Louis' voice was quiet, faintly encouraging, his back straight as he stood silently by the piano. For the first time he truly studied the marks in the wood, and his hand lifted, but only to touch the lid that covered the mother-of-pearl keys beneath. The door that led back into the foyer was open. Louis' eyes went to it again, but then he forced them to drop.
A look of disappointment moved over Armand's eyes, but then he turned them to watch Louis again. His hand slipped from under his face and fell to meet his other in his lap, his fingers lacing together in a slow, deliberate way. "Does that surprise you?" he asked after a moment. He frowned and lowered his eyes to the carpet as he pointed out, "You brought me a book..."
"No..." Louis relaxed where he stood, but his hand against the piano gripped more tightly, as though that was where his energy had gone. "What was the surprise?" The question was too polite, and there was a faint sense of dread in his voice. His fingers shifted in the crack between the cover and the panel just below the keys, as though he would lift it, but then he let it fall back into place with a faint scraping sound.
A tenseness began to overtake Armand's posture where he sat, his fingers curling, his nails pressing into the backs of his hands. "Why ask me if you do not wish to know?" He sounded genuinely offended, but he did not look away from Louis.
Despite Armand's tone, Louis' eyes remained lowered and away from him, even though what he looked at was nothing remarkable. "Are you going to tell me?" It wasn't a challenge, but a sincere question, spoken warily.
"Yes." Armand's hands slipped to his sides, pressing into the cushions as if he would push himself up at any moment. "I booked the Metropolitan Museum, Louis. For us. For you. Booked it." He began to glance away, but seemed to catch himself. "Sit with me, Louis. They thought I was mad when I told them it was not for a party. That we were only two. Sit with me. I first wrote them months ago. I have been there myself. The building is open until nine o'clock on Fridays. We would have had it all night."
Startled, Louis' eyes snapped up to finally fix on Armand. It was his only outward reaction to Armand's words, but it was enough to betray his surprise. Louis' eyes softened, the guilt in them no longer faint, but entirely present underneath their usual distance. He stepped away from the piano and towards Armand. The gesture was only instinctive, because he stopped again, and chose to only look at him from across the room.
Looking back at Louis, Armand's eyes seemed to grow wider as if there was too much for them to see. He shifted so that both of his feet were on the floor, but remained seated, waiting. One of his hands move to the arm of the sofa, his fingers curling around the end, though with how much pressure was impossible to tell. His other delicate hand slid out on the cushion next to him and lingered there. "It would have been like the beginning again." The spirit of hope had returned to the look in his eyes.
"The beginning again...?" Louis' voice was filled with disbelief, hurt, not at all the reaction Armand's gesture had intended to inflict. "Do you think that I want to go back to that night! The museum... Armand, was that..." He paused, obviously on the verge of a terrible revelation. "You think that I want to remember that night? You think that... it is something to be celebrated?"
Armand was already on his feet again, his hands out before him. "I want to remember with you. Remember how we began. Remember what you asked me to do for you." He took a few steps toward Louis but seemed wary of causing his departure and the direction he moved brought him between Louis and the door.
"Ends and beginnings often fall at the same time, Louis, but they are not the same thing! It was not the night they caught you that I asked you for. It was not the night after, when you ran away, when you warned me. It was not the night after that when you came back with fire and fury. It was two nights after that. When it was only you and I left in the world. When you called it crowning evil that we loved each other, but you admitted that you did." Another step, another pause. "Would you admit that now? We need this. I did not ask you for the fifteenth, or even the sixteenth. I asked you for the nineteenth."
Louis shook his head, and there was something agitated in the gesture, yet misplaced, as though he was reacting outside himself. His voice was entirely matter-of-fact, "It was the end without a beginning. It was the fall without the rise. Ashes and death without rebirth. Without resolution to follow the retribution. And you... you came to me..." He trailed, then seemed to consider his words, confusion clouding his expression.
They rarely spoke of that time, and what he left unsaid lingered between them and made the air heavy with tension.
For the first time, he seemed to realize that Armand was moving towards him. Louis took a step back and half-turned away, his hand lifting from the piano and then dropping down by his side. He considered the position of the door, but made no attempt to leave the room. "I am done discussing this, Armand. Whatever you want, I will do. We can go to the museum, whatever night you wish. It does not matter."
Remaining still after that, Armand's slight frame seemed to shrink. It took him a long time to look away, but the gesture was solid. Defeat. He was quiet; he would let Louis walk away from him again as he so often did. "Doesn't matter," he repeated softly.
A breath. It seemed the hour waned, but it was not yet half over.
He lifted his eyes to Louis again, but Armand made no more effort to approach him. This time when he spoke, the pain of irony was obvious in his tone, "Whatever I want?"
The piano was a lighter color now, the light filtering in through the curtains and across the room. Louis' stance had become more straight, as though in reaction to Armand's hunching.
"Whatever you want," said Louis, without hesitation. It was clear that he wanted the conflict to be over. To him it had been hours and hours... days, even -- or decades. When he looked at Armand again, it was with acceptance and resignation, but neither of them were positive.
More hours. More days. And then Armand returned to the divan. He did not sit in its corner this time, and when he was in the center of it, and all alone, it was suddenly plain to see that he did not belong there. Armand was designed for different furniture.
"Sit with me."
Having ignored Armand's request each time, save twice, Louis appeared conflicted. He glanced down at the piano, then at his own hand by his side. His fingers loosened until they hung there limply, as if never having been any other way.
A moment passed, but then he moved forward. He sat next to Armand, not too close, but neither did he avoid it. It was not that he wanted to sit with him, but as if he could not bear the image of Armand in the center of the couch.
The space between them almost at once disappeared, and Armand leaned against Louis' side, his head on his shoulder, eyes lowered, and his hand finding its way just under the lapel of Louis' jacket.
Louis was still for a moment, even stiff, but then he sighed and seemed to relax. His hand lifted and pressed Armand's forearm, near where it his hand touched him, but not as if he would remove it. The touch was gentle, almost reassuring and even a little apologetic.
As the minutes passed, it began to seem as if Armand had changed his mind. That he would be content to sit with Louis in silence and let the next night be the same as the last. He did nto speak of the museum again, nor of their beginning, but the silence between them did not last until dawn. When he finally spoke again, his voice was gentle, persuasive, and too obviously only one of countless repetitions. "Take me to New Orleans." His hand pressed more against Louis' chest, but his gaze remained downward.
At the sound of Armand's voice, Louis tensed as though wary of what he might say, or it could have been that he'd forgotten his presence altogether. His hand slipped down against Armand's arm, but then it caught itself and pressed in again. The grip wasn't reassuring this time, but adamant. "Why there? Are you already tired of the city?" There wasn't a blatant refusal to his tone or the general apathy of the past, but Louis wasn't ready to agree, either.
"Because it is your place," Armand whispered. He shifted as if he would turn his head up to look at Louis, but then instead only seemed to shrink more against him. "Because I want to know it. I want to share it with you." He paused, then added, "Because we need this."
Very slowly, Louis shook his head, but it wasn't quite a refusal. "It is not only mine." He didn't continue on this tangent, but frowned faintly and his eyes became even more distant, if possible. It didn't seem as though he would explain what he meant, as he lapsed into silence after that, his hand clenching where it held Armand's arm.
"Take me there," Armand repeated in a lilting tone. His eyes moved slowly back and forth as he looked between the piano and the window, but the fact that they were open at all remained unseen by Louis. His arm turned the slightest degree under Louis' grip, but then his hand only slid further against him afterwards.
Louis lowered his eyes to look at Armand's hand, but not when it moved, his gesture actually having little to do with it at all. At first he did not answer, even though it was obvious he heard Armand perfectly. The light from the window was brightening, but it was not yet painful, and there was still a little time.
"Soon." His fingers pressed into Armand's arm, but then Louis released him.
Straightening, Armand turned in his seat to face Louis fully. His hand lifted and his fingers brushed the end of a piece of Louis' hair that fell over his shoulder. He was smiling.
"You mean that, don't you." His eyes moved over the angles of Louis' face and then his hand found where Louis' had gone. "Why stay here any longer? I was done here long ago."
Louis' eyes followed the movement of Armand's hand, as if it was what was preferable to look at. There was the same reluctance to his expression, but he made no attempt to appear eager. Forced emotion was not something Louis was good at. "Not yet. I'd like to stay here a little longer." There was a tone of finality to his voice, which gave little room for argument.
"Louis." Armand's hands fell into his lap and were still. He kept his eyes on Louis for silent moment, but there was nothing to be seen in them and his expression was lifeless again until he frowned and glanced away. It was obvious that he hesitated. "Louis," he said again, but then it was as if there would be nothing more.
The hand Armand held shifted back to be against his own leg, and Louis pressed his fingers into it. There was nothing adamant or strained about the gesture; it seemed entirely natural. "A little more time, Armand." There was uncertainty to his voice that he could not hide, but the determination remained.
Armand shook his head in solid silence, but his focus remained across the room. A minute later, he spoke again, "There is something I thought might interest you. Something about New Orleans. Do you want to hear it?"
Armand's voice did not seem to register at first, but then Louis' gaze slowly shifted to him. His immediate response was indifference, but then he seemed to reconsider it. "What is it?" There was no interest in his voice, the tone remaining lackluster.
Turning his face, Armand met Louis' eyes again. He was quiet, looking for something, but he did not seem to find it. He spoke softly, his tone nearly childlike in its simplicity, his expression unchanging. "On the sixteenth, Louis, all those years ago. The night you ran away, the night you warned me not to go back to the theatre. Lestat did not die. He left the theatre, and New Orleans was where he intended to go."
For the briefest of moments, some indiscernible emotion flashed over Louis' eyes. He blinked, then lowered his head, and the inhalation of his breath was only seen by the slight rising of his shoulders. The hand that Louis left against his leg moved again, and he lifted his gaze to Armand, his eyes alight. "How do you know this?" There was no suspicion in his voice, but there was surprise, and a faint undercurrent of excitement that he was clearly unaware of.
Instantly animated in a quiet way, Armand leaned the slightest bit closer to Louis. His gaze moved over him quickly, but he nodded slowly. "He booked passage on a ship." A pause, and then Armand was kneeling fully on the couch, sitting on his heels, his hands pushed onto the cushions beside him. "He could be there still." One of his hands moved, and the backs of his fingers pressed against Louis' temple.
It didn't seem as if Louis wanted to know any more. He fell silent, and if it wasn't for the restlessness of his hand that now moved against his knee, there wouldn't be any reaction at all. He looked confused when Armand touched his face, but not in reaction to the gesture.
A long silence passed. Louis finally nodded, delayed, as if he suddenly realized that a response was necessary.
When he spoke aloud again, it only seemed as if he was returning to their previous conversation. "It isn't as though we couldn't return to the city...after we visited New Orleans." The previous authority to Louis' voice was lost, replaced with an air of distraction.
Armand nodded slowly and his voice took on a soothing tone, "Of course. We can come and go. Anywhere you like." His fingers moved back against the edge of Louis' hair, stroking it slowly as if he required comforting. Another smile, but Armand meant every moment of it. "Monday." His other hand lifted and stilled Louis' by wrapping gently around his fingers.
There was not even an attempt on Louis' part to appear begrudging. It seemed he did not remember that he had ever been that way at all. "Yes, all right. Monday." Louis turned his hand in Armand's, his entire demeanor warmed significantly, and he pressed Armand's fingers in a rare, affectionate way. The look in his eyes was distant again, but unlike before, brighter and less sorrowful.
Every aspect of enlivenment in Louis was reflected in Armand. The lamplight across the room caught in his eyes and gave them a remarkable glow. It seemed he drew closer to Louis, the distance between them gone, and yet it was as if he had not moved at all. His voice as much lower, carried on a distinct breath, "I will have our things packed tomorrow."
Nodding, Louis looked Armand straight in the eye, for the first time seeming to really see him. He began to speak, then sighed, paused, and started again. "Will you let me give you that book? I need to go to my room. It is almost dawn." The light was growing brighter, and filtered through the room to reach even the darkest corners.
"Yes." Armand's hand pressed against Louis'. "Yes." He was still then, but a moment later, he had risen and drew Louis with him. He seemed about to speak, but whatever he might have said was replaced with merely, "Yes."
The movement did not seem to surprise Louis, and he stood with Armand, not at all reluctant to go with him as he might normally be. It wasn't often that he invited Armand to his room, but it did not seem to occur to him that it had ever been any other way.
Neither of them thought to turn out the lamp as they left the parlor. Artificial light was not to be bothered with. It would glow upon the piano at least as long as its little pool of oil lasted, and then it would fade and be gone.
In the foyer, Armand once more opened the coat closet for Louis. His fingers pressed into the wood of the door's edge and he tilted the side of his head against it as he did nothing at all but watch Louis reach in the pocket of his coat with one hand and retrieve the small book he'd picked up only earlier that evening. He offered it to Armand, and then turned to walk with him toward his room at the end of the hall.
Armand accepted the book, but his eyes remained on Louis. He let the closet door close on its own as he turned away. Or perhaps it did not close at all. The scent of the fire in the hearth within was apparent long before they felt its warmth as they reached Louis' door.
Turning the book over in his hands, Armand finally looked down at it, his fingers running over the embossing on the cover, and then he opened it. The poems were old, the pictures inside of stained glass. There were angels and saints, as well as a menagerie of animals, all delicately drawn in painstaking detail.
Louis opened the door once he reached it, but was thoughtful enough to allow Armand in first. He crossed to a chair near the corner and by the window, where he sat to remove his shoes. It was the same routine he followed every morning, though it was the first time in several months that Armand was also in the room.
The book's pages were thin, but not weak as Armand turned them reverently, and the volume was in fine shape for its age. He looked up from it to Louis and there was a whisper of a smile on his face. He noticed Louis' attention on the fire in the hearth, however, and glanced at it over his own shoulder. "I lit it every night." He paused. His eyes lowered to the book, hidden under lashes that caught the flickering light. "I did not know when you would come back." His fingers ran along the edge of the pages, slipping between two where there was more space than there should have been.
Louis seemed touched, but as odd as it was, the emotion was not misplaced in his drastically changed mood. He left the shoes by the chair, just underneath.
The curtains were open. Louis stood, drew them, and then turned to look at Armand. "I didn't know it would be so long." Guilt was no longer missing from his tone, and his voice was soft.
It seemed Armand would have nodded to anything Louis might have said just then. The firelight filled the room completely once that the violet light of the morning was shut out, and it danced in his eyes like newly born ideas, freshly grown hopes. He turned the pages without looking at them now.
"Thank you for the book." His voice was even softer, and he was at Louis' side again. His hand moved toward him, but then stilled as something slipped from between the pages where it had been. Armand caught the paper it before it could drop to the floor and turned it over curiously. It was a folded playbill from a theatre downtown. Macbeth. Armand's brow creased, but the moment later when he looked back up at Louis, the expression was gone.
When Armand moved to him, Louis had looked down, but his attention was caught by the falling playbill. He frowned, but then sighed and took it from Armand. There was something tender in the gesture, in the way that Louis glanced down at the paper once, before folding it and setting it on a nearby table. "I meant to keep that." His hand lingered above it, but slipped away while his gaze lifted to the fire. The light caught his eyes this time and made them appear much brighter, but the effect only lasted a moment before Louis turned back to Armand. His hand moved to clasp his arm, and he actually smiled at him.
Nothing else seemed to matter to Armand then, and the book lowered to his side while his eyes remained on Louis'. He felt the side of his smoking jacket growing warm as the heat beat against it the cloth. This time it was the left. A step, and the distance between them was gone, his head resting gently against the front of Louis' shoulder. His eyes were open, and he still looked across the room, but he saw nothing important there.
"Sleep well," he whispered a minute or two later, and it seemed that he already knew Louis would.
There was a pause, but then Louis' hand lifted to touch the other side of Armand's hair. He lowered his head, as though to look down at him, but his gaze instead caught a thread of Armand's jacket. It was blue, but the light made it appear a fiery violet. Louis' hand shifted against Armand's cheek, the gesture fond, but then it dropped. "Goodnight."
When Louis' back was turned again, Armand's eyes fixed on the playbill on the table. The crease returned to his brow, but when he picked up the paper, it made no sound at all. The book silently took its place, but Armand's footsteps moved across the carpet normally and mixed well with the sounds of Louis' routine behind him as he went the to the hearth. It seemed he stood there a minute longer than he should have, and the scent of the gas flames changed, but it did not last long. There was nothing in Armand's hands when he turned the key and put out the fire for Louis, just as he had lit it for him hours ago.
At the door, Armand paused, and smiled gently back at Louis when he looked at him. "Let's make it Sunday," he said, and even though the moving light in the room was gone, it seemed to linger in his eyes.
The small sounds of Armand leaving stole Louis's attention. "Yes, Sunday..." He turned, just enough to nod to him, but otherwise remained still until the door clicked closed and he was alone again.
When Louis looked back at the curtains, they were a lighter shade of green. The sun was rising. He did not notice that the book of poetry sat in the playbill's place, or that the only ashes in the fireplace were not quite blackened.
The End