Her body tightens, bracing for agreement. The air around her feels too warm, heavy with shame, and I recognise that climate in a way that has history clambering to the forefront of my tongue. The chagrin being expelled with every breath reminds me of a boy who wanted to disappear, ridiculed for existing the only way he knew how. She’s handing me her fragile ruin, and I can’t think of anything worthy enough to give her in return.
Nothing of value comes to mind.
Except, perhaps, my own ruin.
So instead of agreeing, I give her something else. Something I’ve never said out loud before. Into her hair, I mutter, “My father hates me.”
Her chest goes still, breath halting as Sylvaine’s hypothesis crumbles to ash. Politics has nothing to do with why I’m here with her in my arms. She tries to tilt her head back, but I tighten my hold.
“Please. I can’t do this if you’re looking at me.”
She nods against my throat, giving a small, “Okay.”
I exhale slowly, feeling the clicking of my jaw as the tension settles. “When I was younger, I couldn’t make eye contact with people. Each time I did, it felt like staring directly into headlights. The worst was attending events… All those bodies packed into one place; Ihatedit. It was invasive, and I could never get myself to move around. To talk to people. He thoughtthat was me being difficult. Said I made people uncomfortable. Madehimuncomfortable. Princes, according to him, shouldn’t act like that.”
Her breathing unlocks again, and she sags into me. I hear that little sound she makes right before she says something, but she swallows it at the last moment, lips pressing against my pulse instead. My spine nearly snaps at the softness of it.
“There was a supper once, with some minister of finance, I think. I was nine. The man asked me how I felt about being the top achiever in my grade that year—I could never forget it. A whole dining hall full of important men, and instead of answering the question… Irepeatedit. He asked if I was well, and I repeated that too.” My eyes sting. “Echolalia. I used to do that a lot, especially when I was nervous or scared. Mostly scared.”
It happens midway through the second ‘scared’; my voice cracks right down the middle. I hate myself for it because I’m no longer that frightened boy. That crack sounds like proof that fear still lives somewhere inside me, and I want it evicted. Francesca pulls away, gaze searching for mine despite my attempt to keep her close. Hers is heavy with grief, lips parted in a tenderness that makes my skin burn. Full third degree; everything disintegrates as she witnesses the boy who’s been hiding all this time.
“I wasn’t always this articulate, this in control.” Like a coward, I rush to fill the space before she can. “I had a stutter too, so violent that Kai had to finish my sentences for me. Pair that with the echolalia… well, you can imagine how thrilled my father was to have an heir like me. Didn’t think I had the right to look people in the eyes since I couldn’t speak half the time and borrowed words the other half. That’s when the…tappingbecame useful. That’s what the Morse is: STAY. A reminder to stay upright, stay in my body, and stay present.”
My throat locks up as her mouth opens, and I’m nine again, praying to a god I don’t believe in that I don’t repeat whatever it is she’s going to say. Because I know he’s going to hit me for it. The heat in my cheeks is already prepared, simmering quietly, just waiting for the moment the adults begin laughing. I wonder if she can hear my father’s voice, the way it rings in my ears.
Again, he says,say it again, lad.
Her voice trembles when she speaks. “The first time I met you, I thought… I thought, ‘Fuck,this man’s so sure of himself’. You walked into Redford like nothing scared you, and I envied that, in a way.” She chokes out a single, humourless laugh. “I wanted to borrow your confidence, just once. Your eye contact was the most intimidating thing about you. Still is.”
I attempt a small smile, for her sake, not mine. “He beat me if I couldn’t hold it. And he was smart about his ‘corrections’. Never left marks where people could see. Sometimes it was a backhand; mostly it was his belt. Mum lost her shit when she found out. That’s when the therapy started, the speech support—she believed I’d started months before because my father told her he had it handled and made me lie about it. The therapy helped; it taught me things like breathing exercises, how to pause before I repeat anything and how to manage my sensory input. But…”
“But?”
“But if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t think it’s the professional help that got me where I am today. Months of fear did most of the work. I’m not in control because I learned how.” The admission hesitates on the tip of my tongue. “I speak clearly, ‘font’ people, and manage my emotions the way I do because part of me is still scared of being corrected.” Kissing my teeth, I toss my head back against the headboard. “It’s muscle memory, basically.”
She pulls a face like she’s tasted something sour, nose scrunching and eyes fighting against a wave of tears. “You shouldn’t have had to learn it that way.God, what the fuck. My envy feels poisonous now.”
“Don’t envy me.” I reach out, lacing my fingers with hers. “You might think I’m cataloguing when I’m staring like that, but mostly I’m counting the seconds until I can breathe again.”
Her first tear falls unintentionally, prompted by the confused furrow of her brows. I see her remembering it, my small stutter of taps the day we met in the drawing room.
Realisation has her face relaxing, but just in case she didn’t catch it, I add, “I stared because you made me nervous, Francesca. And I’ve been trying to catch my breath ever since.”
For a whole ten seconds, she glitches, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Words make an enemy of her, and instead of putting up a fight, she surrenders. That white flag translates into her leaning forward, soft palms framing my face before she kisses me. The first brush of her lips steals all language from my brain, and the second shoves it back, void of any violent words. The memories I’ve shared with her blur at the edges, unable to function without that brutality.
She’s blunted my father’s blade with her kiss.
Against my mouth, she whispers, “Do you want me to curse your father?” An unexpected chuckle rattles out of me. She cocks her head, grinning. “I’m serious. There are books for that, y’know. I could do it, and I will, if you ask me to.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?”
“For you, yes.”
Fucking hell, she’s serious.
“Hey,” I murmur, running my thumb across her jaw to remind myself that this isn’t a phantom attempting to trick me. “I’m not telling you because I expect anything in return. I’m telling you because I know what shame does to a person. And I’drather tear open my ribs than ridicule you for handing me the softest parts of yourself.”
At the mention of her notes again, I see the instinct to argue in her eyes. To claim that this wasn’t a fair exchange, that the pages and journals spread before us are worthless in comparison. Instead, she lets the fight leak from her and drops her head against my shoulder.
