Even kneeling she turned away from him, taking herself out of his reach while his heart ached against how fragile their bond had become. His fault, that distance between them. He, who had worn a thousand masks, could have maybe been what she needed him to be, if only he had pretended to be that man. Instead he had shown her the man behind the masks - the broken bard, the oracle of ghosts - and that man... had not been enough. He bowed his head, white hair falling forward as he closed his eyes and listened to her words, burning them into his memory.
It was quite literally the least he could do. Something he had never managed to do for her before, from what she said next.
His breath caught in his throat at the feelings she revealed. Hidden, festering things. Truths that coiled and gnawed at a heart. Remi had said something similar, once, a year and more past, and he had thought he had learned something from the alchemist then. Perhaps he had... but only where it came to the young man who would become a manticore. For Amalia - and Sam, he realized guiltily - he had been so desperate to keep their approval, to bandage the cracks in the bonds between them, that he had tried to paper over any real dissent.
Perhaps he was not entirely without reason; when he disagreed with Sam the bookmaker went around telling people that Jigano hated him. But Amalia... Amalia wasn't like that. She was stronger than that... and more fragile, in some ways.
He exhaled slowly as she cut herself off, his white ears back flat with distress, but he raised his head to look at her and meet the anger in her eyes. "I..." he cut himself off before he could apologize again, scrunching his tunic in his lap with his hands before forcing himself to relax them and smooth out the wrinkles. "Much of that is truth, though. I do think you're an incredible person. I wish I could show you what you are through my eyes. And things are usually my fault. I am too critical, too quick to judge. Too quick to assume that because I am older and have lived through nightmares and violence and death that I am at fault because I should be wiser and kinder and more experienced." He sighed, giving a small shake of his head as he looked up at her solemnly. "I should be... but I'm not. I try to be, but I fail far too often. And... you are right." The words felt stranger than they should have, but his experiences with Remi had opened a door. Only a crack, it was true, but enough that he could admit, however reluctantly, what the alchemist had taught him. "I am far too used to shouldering all the blame when things don't work out right. I am selfish with it, hoarding it. I don't want to share it with people I love or like."
He shifted, settling onto the floor in a seated position rather than a kneeling one. He was still looking up at the baker, but no longer as a penitent supplicant. His gaze was steady, but there was fear in the ring of white around his fox's eyes as he watched her. "Truth, Amalia? I am afraid to shift any of it to you. If I criticize you at all, or explain why I'm upset with you, you crumble. You apologize to me, tell me how terrible you are, try to take all the fault on yourself... and then threaten to leave me." He was very much aware of the way he echoed her words, and it might have been funny if it didn't hurt so much. Still, his voice was low, quiet but tinged with the the worry and wariness of his fears. "You and I... we're too much alike. there isn't enough blame and punishment to go around for us both to take all of it upon ourselves."
She had asked for him to talk to her as an equal, and so he was, but still he sat tense and watchful, praying silently to Safrin that he was doing the right thing.
It was quite literally the least he could do. Something he had never managed to do for her before, from what she said next.
His breath caught in his throat at the feelings she revealed. Hidden, festering things. Truths that coiled and gnawed at a heart. Remi had said something similar, once, a year and more past, and he had thought he had learned something from the alchemist then. Perhaps he had... but only where it came to the young man who would become a manticore. For Amalia - and Sam, he realized guiltily - he had been so desperate to keep their approval, to bandage the cracks in the bonds between them, that he had tried to paper over any real dissent.
Perhaps he was not entirely without reason; when he disagreed with Sam the bookmaker went around telling people that Jigano hated him. But Amalia... Amalia wasn't like that. She was stronger than that... and more fragile, in some ways.
He exhaled slowly as she cut herself off, his white ears back flat with distress, but he raised his head to look at her and meet the anger in her eyes. "I..." he cut himself off before he could apologize again, scrunching his tunic in his lap with his hands before forcing himself to relax them and smooth out the wrinkles. "Much of that is truth, though. I do think you're an incredible person. I wish I could show you what you are through my eyes. And things are usually my fault. I am too critical, too quick to judge. Too quick to assume that because I am older and have lived through nightmares and violence and death that I am at fault because I should be wiser and kinder and more experienced." He sighed, giving a small shake of his head as he looked up at her solemnly. "I should be... but I'm not. I try to be, but I fail far too often. And... you are right." The words felt stranger than they should have, but his experiences with Remi had opened a door. Only a crack, it was true, but enough that he could admit, however reluctantly, what the alchemist had taught him. "I am far too used to shouldering all the blame when things don't work out right. I am selfish with it, hoarding it. I don't want to share it with people I love or like."
He shifted, settling onto the floor in a seated position rather than a kneeling one. He was still looking up at the baker, but no longer as a penitent supplicant. His gaze was steady, but there was fear in the ring of white around his fox's eyes as he watched her. "Truth, Amalia? I am afraid to shift any of it to you. If I criticize you at all, or explain why I'm upset with you, you crumble. You apologize to me, tell me how terrible you are, try to take all the fault on yourself... and then threaten to leave me." He was very much aware of the way he echoed her words, and it might have been funny if it didn't hurt so much. Still, his voice was low, quiet but tinged with the the worry and wariness of his fears. "You and I... we're too much alike. there isn't enough blame and punishment to go around for us both to take all of it upon ourselves."
She had asked for him to talk to her as an equal, and so he was, but still he sat tense and watchful, praying silently to Safrin that he was doing the right thing.
