civil instincts come only from uncivil beginnings, chips of his former self having been broken off by soothing fingers, a touch to flatten pieces within himself that need not serve the master. interference of these efforts have never bode well. the childish makings of rejection unheard to the ear than can swallow all objection's, unblemished on the face that has only ever made it known to armand that he is not what he is meant to be. the subtle curve of a downturned mouth, the eyes of northern wilderness that have only ever weighed him down with disappointed looks, it is felt. he feels all. sees all. age has only ever sharpened him and made of him a creature that does not welcome the hand that feeds, mistrustful of hands that come to cup his face but not saying so; saying so might break the spell. after all, who amongst them has reserved this kind of tenderness for him? the hearts he has come to rely upon to keep him afloat have all but abandoned him to his shadow's. alone now, never alone, this thing with it's teeth that has only ever tasted the blood of lesser beings, it stands here under it's maker's tender tongue and takes what is given because there is nothing else. succumbing to the comfort because that, too, is a punishment. undeserving, but still needful, armand welcomes these cold, white hands. perhaps they will shape him, as they once had, into something intelligible and civilized.
he cannot feels marius. that which brought him into the blood now only sits in his body limply, like cut strings, the puppet that is his heart no longer malleable or moveable as it once was - but it is still a boy's heart. and it can yearn and hunger. perhaps more than it had the capacity for then, this heart of his reaches out for the hands that undo him entirely and it is not without consequence. all the faculties can be felt shutting down, synapses and firing frontal cortex growing soft when that first kiss is placed against his temple. a shock to the system when hands follow. armand closes his eyes to it, wanting it to be over, wanting it forever. wanting something, anything, any tenderness at all. anything but the hatred in the eyes of those he loves the most. the subtle indifference, the anger he meets upon returning to the world of his own making; there is only one man that has only ever been one man to welcome him with open arms. he can feel himself flush with color when those arms gather him up into them, a cold streak of indignance when armand realizes that this is not what he wants. his smell, touch, has not changed. a caress, fingers running through the hair to his scalp, cupping the back of his head and armand can feel the tears come. he can feel marius haunt the threads in him that are still colored with the blood of their breaking. in his arms, the dread of the night in which the severing came and cut him down to the roots. the night and the subsequent days, the weeks slurring into months and the months into years. all of that loneliness, the abandonment, it reminds him that the only arms that welcome him are the only arms that have ever let him go willingly. these arms have only ever reminded him of the threadbare worth. the weight of gold in the palm, a distance not worth traversing. nights kept in the dark, dirt that smelled of the last body, blood and rust.
the eyes, he thinks, have been tightly shut. to ward off the coming tears, to keep a veil between him and his maker. but upon hearing that voice, that sweet, stern voice, armand realizes that his eyes have been open the entire time. unseeing, blind. gathering tears. glossy and doll like are these eyes when they finally come into focus, turning to the dark, shadowy figure that has come to offer cruel salvation - as only god can. armand turns his head a fraction, unsure what he wants more. the cage or the hands that unlock it. after all, why would louis care? there is a distance between them now, one that brings a hand up to his eye so that he can wipe it before the tear dares to fall. the space between he and louis, the gape of their shared wound, it has not lessened. the skin, red and raw. a throb in the heart as armand inhales softly, a sniff, before turning his head further. eye contact. the lips come together, tighter momentarily, before the loosen and he attempts to speak - only for a sharp, more of a gasp, inhale to be taken in response to the next words that come from louis. his skin becomes cold all at once, a frightening loyalty he hadn't known existing coming from him as he turns back to marius, head tilted up, to gauge the damage. what he finds there, while not the offense he'd anticipated, is something he does not understand. these eyes only stare back into his own, the heavy black pupil shrinking into a pinprick and those lips - half a smile. why does he reach out and place a hand to his chest? why is he apologizing with his eyes, what could he possibly apologize for is louis, himself, is not apologetic? gathering silence in retort, armand's panic, his fear, on display, but only long enough for louis to reach that invisible hand out for his heart to take.
armand does not hesitate. there, on his face and in his watery eyes, is the boy that was taken from marius's arms. and there, as he takes a step to follow, is the boy that chooses to be taken. no gold is exchanged here. there never needed to be. armand says nothing as his palm slips from his maker's heart, arm folding against his side, his feet taking him where they have always followed; it mattered not that he did not know where they were going, or what might ensue when they were together, but he follows. silently, unobtrusive. even in the aftermath of the cage, armand does not make a noise. his socked feet carry him forward. at last, without a word, armand slips his hand into louis'.
