Archie Kennedy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
betteralready) wrote2017-01-25 07:07 pm
betteralready) wrote2017-01-25 07:07 pm
Entry tags:
i am one of them | Reslife/LEMUR crossover
Archie tries to tell Horatio not to come.
He tries to tell Horatio not to come; knows that it will be too much, with the French and the gunshots and the quiet longing his role requires. Only relents (still reluctantly) when Edgar confirms he'll be going as well.
(Elliot tries to tell Edgar not to come, either, but he doesn't mean it-- never could-- the way Archie did. Loathe though he is to admit it, he's always going to want Edgar there-- and is likely always going to be surprised, still, when he shows.)
It's still one of the hardest performances he's ever done, knowing his boyfriend is sitting in the audience watching the obvious heartache. Archie has to breathe through the quiet panic of his own, when the young woman playing Éponine comes in covered in blood; notices a tremble in Elliot's hands. The tears in his eyes (and Elliot's, he notes) are real when they press their foreheads together as the quiet desperation takes hold in the play.
He tries as hard as he possibly can to look nothing like himself, in the scene where they die. Tries to look all gloom and despair and not sacrifice. More like a man brought half-unwillingly to the gallows and not like one who stepped up to the noose himself.
(Elliot, in rehearsals, had aimed for the opposite. Aimed to look more like himself so that it wouldn't hurt Edgar to see, because this was realer for the both of them than it was for even Archie and Horatio. And so Archie had held his tongue about how better to look like a man willing to die for something so much bigger than himself-- of a man who walked almost blindly into the range of bullets to protect what he loved more than life itself.
Neither of them quite manage, entirely, to achieve the image they're aiming for.)
They stand atop the false barricade and get shot while hand-in-hand. They'd almost had a fight with the director about it, but Elliot couldn't face this echo of his death without a hand in his and Archie, well--
(--He'll never tell Horatio, because it will kill the man certain sure, but there's something nice about the idea of having someone hold your hand while you're dying. He doesn't begrudge his boyfriend the way things had ended, but that's the one thing he'd wanted that he hadn't gotten, when he'd died the first time.)
They arrange to meet, all four of them, once most of the crowd has thinned, because they know it's not going to be an easy reunion. Thankfully, they're alone when they exit the stage door. Elliot steps towards Edgar with a hint of nervous uncertainty, his hand already offered out to be held. Archie shifts his attention instantly to give them some privacy; tuning out the quiet murmurs of French that reach his ears as he moves to Horatio.
He doesn't think twice about catching at Horatio's hand and bringing it up to his chest in the old, unfortunately familiar way. He'd brought a white shirt to change into after exactly so Horatio could see the utter lack of blood.
"I'm not hurt," he murmurs in lieu of a proper greeting, "'nd I love you."
He tries to tell Horatio not to come; knows that it will be too much, with the French and the gunshots and the quiet longing his role requires. Only relents (still reluctantly) when Edgar confirms he'll be going as well.
(Elliot tries to tell Edgar not to come, either, but he doesn't mean it-- never could-- the way Archie did. Loathe though he is to admit it, he's always going to want Edgar there-- and is likely always going to be surprised, still, when he shows.)
It's still one of the hardest performances he's ever done, knowing his boyfriend is sitting in the audience watching the obvious heartache. Archie has to breathe through the quiet panic of his own, when the young woman playing Éponine comes in covered in blood; notices a tremble in Elliot's hands. The tears in his eyes (and Elliot's, he notes) are real when they press their foreheads together as the quiet desperation takes hold in the play.
He tries as hard as he possibly can to look nothing like himself, in the scene where they die. Tries to look all gloom and despair and not sacrifice. More like a man brought half-unwillingly to the gallows and not like one who stepped up to the noose himself.
(Elliot, in rehearsals, had aimed for the opposite. Aimed to look more like himself so that it wouldn't hurt Edgar to see, because this was realer for the both of them than it was for even Archie and Horatio. And so Archie had held his tongue about how better to look like a man willing to die for something so much bigger than himself-- of a man who walked almost blindly into the range of bullets to protect what he loved more than life itself.
Neither of them quite manage, entirely, to achieve the image they're aiming for.)
They stand atop the false barricade and get shot while hand-in-hand. They'd almost had a fight with the director about it, but Elliot couldn't face this echo of his death without a hand in his and Archie, well--
(--He'll never tell Horatio, because it will kill the man certain sure, but there's something nice about the idea of having someone hold your hand while you're dying. He doesn't begrudge his boyfriend the way things had ended, but that's the one thing he'd wanted that he hadn't gotten, when he'd died the first time.)
They arrange to meet, all four of them, once most of the crowd has thinned, because they know it's not going to be an easy reunion. Thankfully, they're alone when they exit the stage door. Elliot steps towards Edgar with a hint of nervous uncertainty, his hand already offered out to be held. Archie shifts his attention instantly to give them some privacy; tuning out the quiet murmurs of French that reach his ears as he moves to Horatio.
He doesn't think twice about catching at Horatio's hand and bringing it up to his chest in the old, unfortunately familiar way. He'd brought a white shirt to change into after exactly so Horatio could see the utter lack of blood.
"I'm not hurt," he murmurs in lieu of a proper greeting, "'nd I love you."
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"I can only imagine." There's sympathy in the flicker of Horatio's smile. "Maybe-- drinks some other time, then?"
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"Might be a good idea, yeah."
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Nonetheless, the relief in Edgar's features is clear.
"Maybe tomorrow, then," Horatio prompts, giving Archie a little squeeze of his own.
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"We'll see you, then," Archie says, holding out a hand for Elliot to take. The movement earns a slight wince at the memory, but they both recover quickly enough, and Elliot grasps briefly at his hand without his own shaking, "Get some rest."
"Seems good," Elliot agrees, "And you, too."
"Do my best." And now a flicker of a grin Edgar's way, "Thanks for coming, Ed. We'll see you tomorrow as well, maybe?"
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It's a question, after all. It's a question that has the briefest flash of nerves passing between him and Horatio, both sets of hands twitching instinctively tighter.
This is a group that understands nightmares.
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"Thanks, Archie," comes Elliot's quiet reply, "See you two tomorrow, then."
And, with that, the two couples will part ways. It's a good note to depart on, if still one that acknowledges the struggle."
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Hopefully it's not unwelcome to press a firm kiss against Elliot's shoulder as their friends float off toward the door.
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He's glad they met them.
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That's got to be important to remember.
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That has a small (just a hint surprised) smile on his lips, for that. That has him shifting to kiss Edgar properly, lightly and a hint quickly.
"...'s head out?"
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"Yeah." He can't quite settle his hand in Elliot's for a moment. He reaches for his boyfriend's wrist instead, pulling the artist's palm up for another press of lips. "Would out be better? Or just a drink at home?"
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"Home'd be-- nice."
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"Home, then"
They'll do better at home. They'll do better if they can split a beer curled up in bed; in the proper newness and safety of this lifetime.
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So he'll press a quick kiss against Edgar's cheek before pulling back just enough so they can walk.
"Let's-- go, then."
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It's too much, feeling nervously unable to properly take the hand of the man he loves.
"Are-- Are we okay, El?"
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Edgar doesn't seem to want to touch him, after all.
"Are you-- mad at me?"
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The thought takes a moment even to process. The concept is so far from his own conception of reality that it nearly startles him into French.
"Why in the world would I be mad at you?"
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For how he'd portrayed him. For the way he'd held him up to such an unnecessary pedestal.
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He can ignore the flash of his own nerves now to catch his boyfriend's hand properly. This matters more, after all, than the surreal memory of the end of their last life.
"/Not even close./ Truly."
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"/Promise/?"
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His fingers shift slightly, grip a little tighter.
"/Maybe at myself, hm? But not at you, El. Not even a little./"
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"/You're-- better, now./"
It can't hurt, to murmur the assurance.
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That was part of what hurt, really. That was part of why seeing such a golden image had twisted in his gut.
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The name 'Apollo' rises to his lips, but he manages to stop himself. It has his expression flickering just slightly.
"I just--" English sounds sloppy on his lips, "/I just-- need you to-- love me. Properly, this time./"
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"/Do I?/"
He's been less worried, lately, but the reminder of what had been--of how little he had understood, the first time--has him nervous all over again.
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