Page 28

28

PARTING WAYS

L éon dressed in one of Henry’s shirts that had been laid out for him in the room upstairs.

He’d told the landlady to bring the caramel horse only, as he’d resolved to walk back to Reims, leading Souveraine and émile on the horse.

All the way back, all night.

He didn’t think of the cold; he thought only of escape.

A flight back to his own life.

His stomach roiled at the idea.

émile and Souveraine were eating downstairs with Catherine.

Henry hadn’t come up.

He’d taken a change of clothes and disappeared, so perhaps he was dining downstairs too, which made Léon take that much longer to dress.

Gathering the little strength that remained in him, Léon walked down, boots stepping slowly and heavily.

Upon entrance to the dining hall, his eyes fell immediately on Henry.

He was sitting at the same table as Souveraine, who appeared to have formed something of a rapport with Catherine.

At least, she leaned in to speak with her, and there was no clear sign of dislike on her face.

And there was émile.

Henry was spinning coins with him, and émile was laughing, as he so often did with Henry.

What a scene it was.

So familial. So warm.

Léon’s heart twinged with how much he missed his parents.

A life émile had never really experienced.

He hated to drag him out into the night, back to their dingy shed, away from this beautiful moment.

How sweet Henry’s hand was in the boy’s hair.

What a good father he would have made…

The thought shook Léon so violently he felt ill.

The very idea of how happy he might have been were things a little different.

But they were not different.

And he had to accept that.

It was over.

He wished he’d never hoped.

He wished Henry had never led him to hope.

He strengthened his voice, though it still came out weak when he called to the landlady, “Is the horse ready?”

She barely glanced up.

“Out front.”

“Thank you.” When he approached the table, Henry’s eyes were melancholic on him, but he said nothing.

It was Catherine who leapt to her feet and took his hands.

“Do you really have to go now?” She looked like a new person, every bit the fine lady Henry had said she would be.

Expensive clothes well cared for, nails cleaned and trimmed, hair in an unnecessarily complicated style, artfully arranged as if she had somewhere better to be than an inn in the lonely countryside of France.

“Yes,” Léon said, making himself smile across his reply.

“It’s for the best.”

“It had better be.” She pouted in Henry’s general direction.

“He’s making us leave now, too.”

The news came as both a surprise and an unexpected sort of heartbreak for Léon.

Had he thought he was going to ride back one day?

Had he thought Henry would always stay here, forever, an option open to him should he change his mind?

Of course not…

Henry was leaving too.

“Do we have to?” émile’s voice was sleepy.

There were scraps of meat and potatoes about his almost-empty plate.

Léon hadn’t even thought to feed him.

Not like Henry had. But then, Léon had no money.

He had nothing but Henry’s shirt on his back.

“We have to,” Léon said, desperate to get it all over with.

“Now.”

émile made to protest, but Henry interrupted.

“Your brother’s right. It’s the smartest thing to do. Give me a hug.”

The boy, tired from the last few days and waning in the late evening, became teary just as Souveraine came to Léon.

“Are you sure about this? It’s a long way to walk.”

“I’ll be all right. You two take the horse.”

“We’ll take turns,” she replied, as though there was any way he’d let her walk, but he smiled like he might have and nodded.

Henry brought his big arms around émile, and Catherine grasped Souveraine’s hands.

“Can I write to you? I want to see you again.”

Léon barely noticed Souveraine's soft rebuff, her insistence that it wouldn’t be smart for them to stay in contact, or Catherine’s reassurance that she could disguise herself, and some joke names she threw out, followed by Souveraine’s laugh.

Henry was speaking very seriously to émile, and Léon was desperate to know what he was saying. But Henry’s drawing a final nod from émile, then another hug, sealed their communication. émile came to Léon’s side with a dutiful, unusually grown-up air about him, quietly holding back his tears as best he could. Léon took his hand and made for the door.

They all moved out into the night. All except Henry, who was settling the bill with the landlady, arranging for their belongings to be forwarded on somewhere, Léon guessed. He must have done it so many times.

Whatever had happened between Souveraine and Catherine upstairs, the latter paid Léon very little heed now, insisting on a great many hand holds and promises from the former, while Léon held the saddle steady for Souveraine to mount their horse.

His legs ached, his arms ached, his very being ached to the core, and he was going to lead them home all the long night. He dreaded it. Still, he lifted émile into place as soon as Souveraine was seated. The boy announced his many valid complaints and protests, but he did comply, leaning into Souveraine, wiping his tears on her dress, searching the doorway for Henry.

Then Léon remembered his axe. His most expensive and precious possession, left by the back door of the inn.

“I have to run back inside,” he said to Souveraine, who gave a worried but acquiescent nod, trying her best to soothe émile when the comment prompted an even more pronounced bout of whining. “I won’t be long,” he assured them.

He quickly turned to leave the three waiting outside, praying, in some unobserved part of his heart, that Henry wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.

Henry was just walking back into the bar when Léon entered. He’d been and retrieved the axe, and he paused at the other side of the great room when he saw Léon come in. It was late. All the lamps had been extinguished, the chairs stacked, and the landlady had disappeared, leaving them alone with nothing but the light of the dying fire.

Henry struck Léon as guarded, more so than usual. It didn’t occur to him that just a little earlier, Henry had put his heart on the line, and Léon had summarily crushed it. Léon was too mired in the layers of defensiveness he’d built all around himself for years. No men. No lovers. Nothing but blood, and death, and his minuscule, unspent pay packet.

He started forward to take the axe, and Henry approached to meet him halfway, their two sets of boots scuffing on the floor, the distance of half a beheading axe between them. Henry held it out, Léon took it, and their eyes met for a fraction of a second before Léon turned away.

“I was just wondering,” Henry said, halting Léon, his wary gaze finding him over his shoulder from behind a curtain of gold, “when this is all over, maybe even in a few years, or who knows… If I ever came back this way, one day, if we could— Do you think it would be possible— Is it something we could do to… drink?”

Léon stared at him blankly, his protective armour growing spikes all over. “Will we be able to drink?”

“No, I don’t mean…” Henry let out a nervous laugh, colouring deeply. Léon only watched him, pushing him away or trying to pull him closer, he didn’t know which. “No, I know we could still drink. Physically. What I mean is, do you think we could—or, or you would, or you and I could do it, in-in-the same place?”

Léon narrowed his eyes. “Do you mean like in the same town, or the same building or?—”

“No. I mean, yes. Same building. Same… You know, same table, even?”

Léon looked to the exit, and Henry couldn’t tell if he was searching for an escape or if he was factoring the rest of their party into the gathering at the theoretical table.

“Alone,” Henry clarified, voice deep with bravery and trepidation. “Um. Just you and me.”

A sharp breath swelled Léon’s chest, the widening of the already large eyes and the searching wonder of his gaze trying Henry.

Henry raised a hand to his temple and laughed anxiously. “What I’m saying is, would you have a drink with me? Sometime. Would you ever consider that?”

“No,” Léon said, the disbelieving expression barely changing, only now accompanied by a small shake of his head.

“No?” Henry repeated. “Just like that?”

“No,” Léon declared. “Why would I sit down and drink with you?”

“Um… Okay. I don’t suppose you would. It’s just that…” He passed his tongue over his lips. He noted the way Léon tracked the movement, and that Léon hadn’t yet walked out. Maybe he hadn’t been clear? Henry decided, again, to put himself on the line, because this was it. This was the end, and if Léon said no, it would just become another sad and embarrassing memory, and he already had a whole catalogue of those, so what was one more?

He dropped the slightly jovial tone his voice had held, explaining, “Listen, I thought there might have been a moment. Back there. Uh… In-in the stables. Or the other night. When you touched my hand?—”

“You touched my hand,” Léon corrected.

He was not going to make it easy. “When we touched hands,” Henry pushed on, “I felt… I thought maybe you felt…” Why was he so nervous? Léon was just a good-looking guy. He’d met plenty before. But Henry was a mess. A dreadful, blathering mess. He shut his eyes tight, took a deep breath, and forged ahead, asking point blank, “Do you like me?”

The answer was instantaneous. “No, I don’t like you. You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

Henry laughed uncomfortably. “No, I know all that. But what I’m asking is, do you like me?”

“No!” But the word came out in a desperate shout, as though Léon had been caught in the awful lie, so he made for the door, feeling trapped with every word and every step, but there was Henry in front of him.

Henry pulled his hands back before they met Léon’s chest, but what he would have given to touch that chest. Something in the way Léon had delivered that last protest… He was sure the feeling was mutual, and Léon was a man, Henry had begun to learn, who made a habit of denying his feelings and desires. “If you could just stop and be serious for one moment.”

Head down, flushed, Léon tried to side-step him. “I already answered your question.”

Henry leapt back in his way. “No, I don’t think you did. Not in full. I’m asking…” Henry pressed one firm hand to his beautiful shoulder, holding him in place, and looking deep into his eyes. “Léon, do you have feelings for me? Romantic feelings? Could you ever see me as more than, than, whatever I am to you?”

Léon felt like a squirrel had crawled into his throat and made a nest of acorns there. It was a block he couldn’t move, and the accompanying squeezing in his stomach and vice-like pressure on his heart made him retreat into silence.

He’d heard the words loud and clear. He’d felt the things Henry talked about. He’d felt it the very first day and ever since. Henry’s hand was like a spark on his the second they touched. An awful, shameful spark, because he would not betray his brother and himself and everything he’d worked for like this. The things he’d been through at this man’s instigation… The white hot fear of losing émile, the bruises still healing from when he’d hit him in the street, the rock in Léon’s hand that he was about to bring down on Mollard’s head to get those keys… The consequences of that murder he’d almost committed, for him, for émile, for Souveraine. The flight, the pit, and now this. This stupid, beautiful, desirable man who made Léon want him. After all that. A man who would do those things to him. Who was dangerous and deranged, and who Léon was determined to keep away at all costs. Léon answered him quietly, but firmly. “I could never see you that way.”

The shy, hopeful smile dropped away, and Henry’s expression spoke of heartbreak—real sadness, Léon thought, as though it did genuinely hurt him to hear it. But it wasn’t enough. Léon needed him to know exactly how he felt, so Henry would be the one to go. To leave him alone. To break apart whatever had formed between them.

Léon said, on a scathing breath, “I hate what you did to me. I hate the way you made me feel. He’s my whole heart, my whole world, and you tore it out of me. You made me feel so small. So powerless. I’ve worked so hard my whole life to get here, and you turned everything I had done into nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” Henry whispered, horrified by the truth of the searing accusation.

Léon let out a gasp of bitter laughter at the pathetic apology.

“I’m sorry!” Henry repeated, twice as vehemently. “What do you want me to say? I was desperate.”

“Desperate?” Léon spat. “You don’t know what desperate is. I’m sorry for you. I’m sorry they took your sister, but you cannot begin to understand ‘desperate’, Henri. Couldn’t you pull some strings somewhere? With your connections—you know, Robespierre and your great Parisian men? I don’t believe you. You took my brother because it was easy. Because he didn’t matter to you. Because I didn’t matter to you.”

Léon tried to step past Henry, but Henry only stepped in front of him again and grasped his hand at the same time, saying words so earnest Léon’s heart crumpled. “You matter to me now. You do. More than you could possibly know.”

Léon wrenched his hand back, eyes scrunching with revulsion.

Henry grabbed it back up, forcefully, slamming the open palm against his own chest. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what words to say. There aren’t any. How can I make it better? I did wrong, and I know that. I never would have hurt him. I’m trying to apologise.”

Léon was almost yelling now, in sheer frustration. “I didn’t know where he was, if he was dead or alive, or if I’d ever see him again. You blackmailed me into breaking the law! You have actively tried to ruin my life, over and over, and now, because you’ve decided you’re done with this little adventure and you’re moving on, you think sorry is going to make up for it?”

“No, that’s not it at all!” Henry tried desperately, but Léon wasn’t done.

“What if he hadn’t been émile? What if he’d just been a normal little boy, regular and scared, and the child of a mother and a father who could have raised him properly? What if he’d cried? Screamed? What if he’d begged to come home, or tried to escape? What if he’d made it difficult for you, Henri? What would you have done then?”

A voice full of reproach at the suggestion, Henry let go of his hand and flung back, “I would never have hurt him. Surely you know me better than that by now.”

“But you did hurt him! You took him from his home in the night?—”

“I took care of him! I fed him, I played with him, I kept him safe?—”

“He puts on a brave face, but I know he would have been terrified. I know he used all his cleverness to stay alive, and I know you used all your underhandedness to win him over. And you’re just lucky it was him. Because if it wasn’t—if it was any other child and you’d been forced to?—”

“Look at me,” Henry said. Léon refused. Henry grabbed his face and brought his eyes up. “Do you really believe I would do that?”

“I don’t know,” Léon said. He shoved his hand away. “That’s what I’m scared of. You did something so desperate, so unmitigated, so careless, and I don’t know what else you might have done. You’re not a good person, Henri. So no, I don’t like you. Not even a bit.” Coldly, cruelly, he stated, “I hate you.”

The words were out and between them and Henry’s lips parted as his brow drew deep. Barely perceptibly, he whispered, “You don’t.”

Every thought and emotion Léon had been suppressing for days, every bit of exhaustion and fear and horror came out in that one moment. Léon’s eyes were cool and clear, and he said, “I hate you, Henri. I think you’re despicable. You make me sick.” He turned to go, to leave the frozen and bereft object of his affection behind him forever.

But Henry’s breaking, adoring heart flew into complete panic, overwhelming any logical part of his brain. He grabbed Léon’s hand, snapped him close, and he kissed Léon, full on the lips. Léon’s lips, that were soft and exquisite and too precious for him to ever have described, even the thousand times he’d tried to paint them behind closed eyes. Léon, who was proud and bright and who he admired with an earnest and deep affection and respect, like he’d never felt for another person.

He didn’t know what he was thinking, any more than he had when he’d chosen Léon as the man to save him. He wanted him, and he needed him to know it, and his words had proven useless.

Henry kissed him, and it felt so good, because just for those few heated, precious, wonderful seconds, Léon let him. His body fell limp in the grasp Henry had on his arms. Léon let out something akin to a whimper and he almost, maybe, just for a moment, let his own lips touch Henry’s willingly.

But then he pulled back, abject horror written in every beautiful line of his expression. He raised his hand, swung it back, and brought it down with a sharp and resounding slap across Henry’s cheek.

It would be hard to say which of the pair was more shocked. Léon had made his stance clear well in advance, so perhaps Henry should have seen that coming. But even Léon was taken aback by the violence, not only of the action, but of the emotion that had made him do it.

For several fiery beats, the two stood right there, mouths open, staring into one another’s eyes, heaving in deep breaths. And Léon, feeling all the tumult of the moment rising to his eyes, wanted Henry gone. He wanted him out of the way and far from the tears he knew he couldn’t stop. He raised his hand, and he brought it down even harder than before. Henry’s head snapped across with the blow, but this time, his eyes sparked. He warned Léon, low and sharp, “Don’t try that again.”

But Léon, as if his hand was pulled by an invisible string, raised it. His upper lip curled back, and he put all the enviable strength of his great biceps into this one.

He brought it down, hard and fast, but Henry caught it. He caught Léon by the wrist, curling his fingers around him, iron-like, in a painful grip. He twisted it behind Léon’s back and shoved him against the wall. He pinned Léon’s other hand at the forearm, and crushed him to the bare stone with his powerful chest.

Léon sucked in all the thin and wavering air the press afforded him, which was precious little, and made him almost as dizzy as Henry’s unprecedented proximity.

Henry’s eyes were fire—pure, unadulterated anger in the flickering muscles of his cheek and the bruising grasp of his hands. He moved in close, his breath on Léon’s lips, the heat of his body everywhere, his thigh against Léon’s thigh, and Léon thought, ‘ Please, God, let him kiss me .’

If he only kissed him now, holding him like that, the barrier would break. And how he willed him to. Begged with everything but his voice. Because if Henry did it, he could make Léon let go of their past. Force it from him. Make him give in, with all the arrogance and bravery and flinty-heartedness that Léon was sure made up so much of Henry’s character. It was that fierceness, that boldness, that he was counting on to free him, because even as he begged for him, he was so terribly ashamed. How could he want this man so badly? After everything he’d done, how could Léon adore him so?

With lips so close that the slightest movement of Léon’s would have brought them to touch, Henry said, “You hate me?”

‘ No ,’ Léon might have said. ‘ I adore you and I hate myself for it .’ But he couldn’t bring himself to form the words.

So Henry filled the silence for him: “Well, I hate you too.” His voice was poison, brittle and acrid, every letter of the message delivered so sharply it was like a knife in Léon’s gut. Then he dealt the killing blow. “I just thought you’d be an easy fuck.”

The way Henry’s lips swept over the white teeth of that malevolent smile…

Revulsion and pain shot through Léon. He’d been so close to giving in. And he’d been so, so wrong. That kiss that he’d wanted, that he’d allowed, felt like filth in his mouth.

Henry didn’t release Léon, even though he tried to break free. He only gripped him tighter when he struggled, so tight his unrelenting fingers turned Léon’s pale flesh purple. He lowered his deep voice, dragging his golden gaze across Léon’s vulnerable skin, over every feature of his angelic face, until he shot a parting, “What a waste of those lips you are.”

“Get off me,” Léon whispered, for his voice had escaped him.

He turned his head away, but still Henry held him, watching the averted eyes just for good measure. A final show of cruelty to really drive the point home: he neither wanted nor needed Léon. Léon was nothing to Henry. And Henry had the power to choose if he’d take another kiss, whether Léon liked it or not, and he chose not to. Léon would know that Henry didn’t want him.

And there, before his eyes, Léon crumpled.

The boy who was so brave and so strong, who killed for a living, tilted his head down to his own shoulder and cried.

Henry had expected more of the same—the same stupid song the pair had been playing since the day they’d met. He’d expected sharp words or a physical fight. And it wasn’t until just then he realised how wrong he’d been about Léon. That there had been an ancient and crumbling wall between Léon and all the brutality of the world, and Henry had unwittingly dug a hole beneath it and smashed the lot.

“Get off me.” Léon repeated the request with even less heart than the last time, and Henry dropped his hands.

Léon stood a moment longer, not sure where to go. Out there to émile and Souveraine, crying? What would they say? But here was Henry, who he’d managed to find a new depth of hatred for. Who hated him in equal measure. Who he was so ashamed to cry in front of. And now he’d done it.

“I didn’t mean it,” said Henry. “It was… just… stupid words. Fuck, Léon?—”

Léon shoved him back three full feet, shouting, “That’s exactly you! It’s not because of you! Do you really think I’d cry over you? I don’t even like you!”

Henry, who by now was both repentant and bewildered, said, “I know. I know you don’t.”

“I can’t stand you!” Léon yelled.

“Yeah, you mentioned that,” Henry replied sympathetically.

“And I’m really tired.” Léon drew shaking fingers through his plentiful blond locks, voice trembling, weakening to a sorrowful whine. “And I’ve barely slept in days.”

“I know.” Henry nodded his head, veering as close to supplication as he ever got. “That’s my fault. I take full responsibility for that.”

“And I’m just having a really shit week,” Léon sobbed, pressing fingers against his eyes. “I want to go home. I want to go to bed, and I want to sleep. And I want it to be just the same as it was before I ever met you. Like I’d never met you. And I’d like to go now.”

“Okay,” Henry muttered, hands raising, then falling to his hips, dropping, folding in front of him, unfolding and returning to his hips.

Léon made for the door, but it was only two steps before Henry gasped out, “Ah, but,” tripping in front of him for the billionth time, “before you really do go, I just wanted to say, I didn’t mean that. What I said just then.” Léon cast furious eyes up at him, and Henry stepped backwards. “Not entirely. I don’t… feel like that. Completely. The bit about hating you.”

Léon tried to walk around him, and yet again Henry jumped in his path, blathering, “In fact, I like-like-I-I do actually like y-you-rrrr-your axe.”

Léon’s boots scuffed to a halt on the floor, and he shot a look that was both withering and appalled.

“Your— Not your axe,” Henry vomited out, pinching the bridge of his nose, one hand twisting in the air as he tried to explain. “Not just your axe. I like you— The way you-you-hold your axe… The… um… The things you do with it, and um…”

“Do you think you’re funny?”

“No. No. I think I’m an idiot.”

“Please get out of my way.”

“Right. Yes. I’ll…” Henry moved out of his way as fast as if he’d found a hole to crawl in to nurse his mortification. But as Léon stepped past him and out the door, Henry smacked himself in the head and yelled, “Léon!”

“Léon!” came a shout from Souveraine on sight of him.

“There they are!” came another yell, this one a man’s voice from down the road.

Eyes locking on a group of 8 men on horseback, Léon was overcome with panic. At the man’s call, they all kicked heels into their animals and shot forward.

Souveraine, who’d seen them coming, was still on her horse, holding a squirming émile in place with an arm on each side, the reins pulled tight in her fists.

Catherine, astride her horse, watched the approach of the men, tight-lipped and pale. She looked to Henry for direction, that complete faith in him and his word spiking Léon in the heart.

Henry stepped in front of Léon and pulled his sword free. “Ride, Catherine. I’ll find you.”