Two wars that paraded themselves about like men, attempting to find solace from themselves in one another. A war traded for another war. There was something morbidly poetic about that. Something tragic, something beautiful. But Clark Thompson was not a poet and he had no intentions of becoming one now.
A lifetime spent erecting walls had been a lifetime wasted. The walls had not protected him, not really. Not in the grand scheme of things. They had sheltered him, they had stunted him. The once mere tender parts of him he had sought to hide away from the world had become overly fragile and raw, no longer adjusted to the world beyond those walls. It was like a bandage over skin. Yes, it would protect the skin beneath. But only as long as that bandage remained. Remove it and you were left with sun-starved flesh that could be torn, rendered, and sliced with the barest of effort.
He felt shame for the words that had tumbled from his lips. Shame in his own honesty, his own fragility. Clark hardly feared that Lestat would weaponize it, no. The shame came purely from his own ungraceful toppling from his self-assigned standards that even he himself had not been able to maintain.
-โ Clark Thompson. A rock that weathered any storm. Impassive, unmoving. A calm and collected force that was not swayed, that did not feel. A man that found comfort in solitude and isolation. An observer that allowed life itself to pass him by and was perfectly pleased to play the part of onlooker-- always the watcher, never the participant.
There came a point to a lie, a certain level of grandness, where even a creature born to lie could no longer sell it, not even to himself. And that was the breaking point of it all, wasn't it? When he could no longer convince himself of his own farce. Clark Thompson, if any of the above things, was so out of necessity. Not because this was who he truly was, who he was happy being.
His gaze fell distant at Lestat's retort as though begging for his mind to allow him to retreat elsewhere, to no avail. He felt so raw, so childish in the way his heart lurched at the apology. How pathetic to react so violently towards something as simple as being acknowledged.
The cambion grit his teeth and fought against the lump in his throat with unadulterated frustration; god, he wanted to throttle himself. Get it the fuck together, Thompson.
The shifting of their positions was acknowledged only in physical reaction, in the way Clark helped the adjustment until they were slotted against one another and Lestat was embracing him to the point that the blond felt he might come apart into splintered shards the moment the hold left him.
To be loved in itself was not pathetic, but this? To be so inherently bad at being loved? That... that was pathetic. All these grand attempts and putting himself above it all and all he'd actually done was to secure his place there at rock bottom, beneath every single bit of it. A shaky exhale, a kiss to his forehead. He still can't meet Lestat's gaze. He feels like a youth that had gone and tattled on itself.
โ Everything is so loud, Lestat. It has to be. I have to-โ I can't function in total serenity. I'd go mad. But I need a pocket of it. Just a small corner. Just somewhere to sit and breathe until I get too restless and I have to go out and brave the noise again. That's all I need. You're my little corner of peace I want to be able to run to. I know it is laughable to ask for stability and for safety, but I just need some small semblance of it. โ
He'd given up on eye contact and had allowed his cool eyes to close. Better this way to try and focus on holding back the tsunami that were his own emotions. He'd gradually stopped trying to bottle them completely, but the damage had been done and was showcased boldly in the way he struggled to parse through and cope with his own feelings when they overcame him.
Clark raised his head and opened his eyes to stare for the man. A muted but amused look had crossed his features.
โ Ah, ah. God, no. There are no better halves here. We are both lucky to make one semi-decent whole. โ He rumbled a bitter laugh and raised a hand to tuck back some of that curtained blond hair his fingers so often sought out.
โ Mmm. You're forgiven as long as my inability to properly communicate is forgiven as well. โ
A second hand joined the first until the previous veiled face was exposed. Strange of blond tucked behind ears until the face was fully free for him to cup and caress. He kissed him then. Something soft and tender with apologetic undertones.
โ These suits I wear are not meant for holding in such positions. You have all of another ten minutes before I start to lose circulation in somethin'... โ
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