SALTBURNT AU | INBOX.

[corporeity]

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[nishtha]

[ The solarium is at once a familiar and unfamiliar place for Armand. He's only visited it once since arriving at the manor, and only for a short amount of time, but he feels a sense of peace descend over him as soon as he steps into the cool green shadows. The sight of Gale in the midst of the vines and flowers is somehow reassuring, as if he's supposed to be there. Armand smiles, fond and amused and a little sad, unable to pinpoint the source of the latter emotion, except that it feels as though they're on the cusp of an ending. ]

Gale.

[ Gently chiding; they've spoken before, years ago, about Gale's tendency to over-apologise. Armand has never been shy about his inability to tolerate it.

He walks over to a low wicker couch along one wall and gracefully sits himself down. Like Gale, he's casually dressed in linen and light colours, anticipating a warm day. It's not far from the kind of outfit he'd worn on their vacation together -- the only difference being that Gale hadn't been there to button his shirt this morning, or to slip warm and indulgent hands beneath the fabric afterwards.

Armand crosses his sandal-clad feet at the ankle. ]

Did you hear about the seance the other night? Something happened there that was.. [ He frowns, trying to put it into words. His hands fidget in his lap; he runs his thumb up and down the fingers of one hand with the thumb of the other, one at a time, as if counting them. ]

I saw something. And it made me think that perhaps.. I'm not a good person. That maybe I've hurt people, without intending to. I don't know why, but I can't stop thinking that I'm not.. [ His frown deepens, troubled. ] That I've done something terrible, Gale. That I am something terrible.

[corporeity]

Right.

[ A slight nod of his head in acceptance of the admonishment, hands up in surrender. His mouth, a bashful thing. Despite all their time apart, Armand knows him well. And the rejection of his apologies strikes him as forgiveness of a kind.

Still, he approaches slowly. Cautiously. Pausing within a foot of Armand to adjust the placement of a potted orchid, which seems to have drifted too close to the edge of its table. At the mention of the Seance, Shadowheart's domain, he risks looking to Armand. Gale mislikes the Volkarins' spiritual endeavors, not out of skepticism but rather a healthy respect for what lies beyond. You never know what you might find, or what might find you, when you open that door. ]

You're not.

[ An immediate response, the truth of it reinforced by how he steps closer. No matter the aspersions Gale has cast upon him in times of jealousy and hurt, he does not believe the worst of Armand, not truly. In mere moments, Gale takes a knee before him to catch his downturned gaze. ]

[ with audible bewilderment, voice lifting: ] Whyever would you think that?

[nishtha]

[ This close, he can't resist -- those fidgeting hands reach out for Gale's, seeking the warmth and the clever fingers he used to know so well. Better suited for cradling chalice and wafer, these days, but still familiar, gathered and held as if they can form an anchor between them.

Armand looks down at Gale, a complicated tangle of emotions making lines across his face that Parisa would cluck over if she caught him. His gaze alights briefly on the opal earring, reminded of something he can't name at the moment, before he meets Gale's eyes. ]

I saw a girl in a yellow dress. I know it sounds like.. like bullshit. [ He makes a face, disturbed. ] But she was there. And she knew me. She was, I don't know, she was horrible. Burned up. But she knew my name. She called me a motherfucker and spat at my feet. And I got the feeling that I deserved it. I can't stop thinking about her.

[ His eyes are wide, searching Gale's expression for something -- solace, answers, though he knows Gale doesn't have the power to offer either. Still, he hopes. ]

What if she's a sign, Gale? From God.

[corporeity]

[ It doesn’t feel like a transgression to take Armand’s hands and accept the nervous energy that flows from his tremulous fingers. It feels familiar, an act of comfort and penance both. Armand has been undone precious few times before him and perturbed only as many as he can count on a hand and half. Ever poised, always disaffected. This is a rare unfurling, to be handled with care.

When Armand speaks, Gale nods, immediate in his encouragement. The details offer little to no clarity. A girl in a yellow dress. In the Bible, signs from God are not subtle, exactly, but they are rarely so personal, so venomous. He suspects the Volkarins would name it a spirit, but it seems like — more than that. His expression shifts, considered but for the jolt of his eyes, widening at the girl’s condemnation of Armand. ]

I believe you.

[ The first port of call. Whether or not the vision came from God, it has left a mark upon Armand’s mind, perhaps even his guarded heart. Gale rearranges their hold so that his broad palm can cover the back of Armand’s hand, thumb arcing outward to soothe. ]

And — I suppose it could be.

[ His tongue sweeps across the back of his teeth, tucking into his cheek. ]

She recognised you. [ Repeated in an effort to understand, head bobbing with the question that follows. ] But did you recognise her?

[nishtha]

[ A strange thing, belief. He and Gale have never had it in common, at least not in terms of subject or formal practice. Armand himself hasn't set foot in a mosque for anything except a festival or a funeral for years. But he has nevertheless held on to a certain fascination about the concept of faith, and had been glad to find a reciprocation in his sister's fiancé. They had discussed faith, in one form or another, through the long warm evenings, over wine and dinner and post-coital cigarettes, over emails and in the backs of taxis. More than anyone else, Armand had known Gale understood him -- a portion of his own belief finding a home in those strong warm hands, in hazel eyes that look up at him and see something humble and imperfect but nonetheless beloved. Selfishly, Armand can pretend, for a moment or two, that it's for him alone.

Something in him relaxes when he hears those words: I believe you. How valuable, to be believed, even if it's because of soemthing ridiculous and terrible. His hands together between Gale's hands, as if they're praying together. He looks into Gale's expression, gratitude softening the lines of his face before he frowns again, recalled to the memory of the burning girl. ]

No, I -- I thought perhaps.. [ He drifts off. Something in his mind stirs, shivers, but -- ] No. I've never even -- it was fucked up! [ He tugs one hand out from between Gale's hands so he can run it through his hair, restlessly, then sighs. ]

I'm sorry, Gale. This is -- I shouldn't have brought this to you. It's nothing to do with you. Probably just need to lay off the coke, it's making me see ghosts.

[corporeity]

[ Faith — and its twin, devotion — will always occupy Gale, even as he resolves to step away from the church. No, toward Astarion. The distinction matters. These human, earthly trifles matter. ]

On the subject of coke, I would think that advisable, regardless. [ gently, ] But this needn’t have to do with me for it to matter, Armand.

[ For all their distance and disagreements, Armand holds a place in his heart. It isn’t the same spot now as it was then, with his nervous, burgeoning desire at war with his unease over opening his marriage (as if it could ever be closed, when Parisa wished for no such thing). He knows that Armand helped him see things differently. Made him brave enough to try, at least. And helped unspool thoughts he hadn’t dared voice aloud. The indelible impact of intimacy, of companionship, remains.

Gale rises to his feet to join Armand on the couch, one hand still held in his two. He tips his head back, expression neutral, gaze fixed and quietly assessing. ]

Indulge my curiosity. [ Spoken with an entreating softness, as though Armand will be doing him a favour. ] Did you get the impression she wanted something?

[nishtha]

[ That softness, Armand knows, can be as disarming as a knife to the ribs. He doesn't underestimate it, as much as he wants to lean into it, to burden Gale with all of his problems. But he can't, not any more -- not with so much distance and Parisa between them, as she should always have been. So he just looks at him, fondly, sadly. ]

I felt that she.. wanted to hurt me. To get revenge of some kind. I'm not sure why, she didn't say so, but -- [ He touches two fingertips to his chest, above his heart. ] I could feel it here. That I'd done something terrible.

[ He sighs, and looks down at their joined hands. He moves his thumb a little, stroking Gale's skin in a small gesture of gratitude. ]

She was.. it was as if she was still burning. Turning into ashes.