Page 59 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
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 youlikeme?”
“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 tolearn, 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?Romanticfeelings? 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 bethe 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. BecauseIdidn’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 haveactively 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 thinksorryis 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.
