loki laufeyson (toberuled) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-03-20 20:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | eames, loki |
Who: Louis and Evan (guest-starring problematic alters)
What: Breakfast at Evan's
Where: Evan's apartment
When: The day after this, and after Loki caused trouble through the door.
Warnings/Rating: Maybe some swearing.
Louis almost didn’t go to the address at Turnberry Towers to meet with his acquaintance from the bar, the one he’d opened up to the night before through text. He hadn’t expected to ever see the man again, honestly - he’d walked out once, and told him in no uncertain terms that he didn’t have much appetite for sex. Getting invited to breakfast hadn’t really been on the menu. Louis had also been under the influence of more than a little alcohol during their texted conversation, a crutch he’d found himself turning to more and more often lately to drown the whispering voice in his mind, and escape the nightmares and leading dreamscapes he found in sleep.
In the end, Louis wasn’t sure what pushed him to actually go, despite there being no evidence that Evan wasn’t a serial killer, and despite the oversharing the night before that he would now have to face in person. Maybe it was the desperation they’d discussed. If he was honest with himself, though, it was really just because he liked what little he’d seen of Evan, and he wanted to see more.
Louis made a few brief stops on his way over, and arrived at the monolithic, ultramodern luxury condo tower around ten in the morning. He had no trouble getting past the security in the lobby, thankfully, and the man allowed him into the elevator without any hesitation. Back in Seattle, Louis had grown accustomed to businesslike suits and a well-dressed, neat elegance in his dress. Las Vegas required something a little lighter, so he was wearing nothing more elaborate than a clean, light blue dress shirt and slacks when he arrived at Evans’s door and knocked in a way he planned to be authoritative. He held a bag in his left hand, and his hair was still slightly damp from the shower he’d taken before stepping out, depressing his usually irrepressible curls a touch.
It probably said something about Evan’s outlook on life that he didn’t once consider the fact that Louis might not show. He stayed awake through the previous evening, as he tended to do after a long series of binges, and he watched the sun come up in his white-on-white rooftop studio with the certainty that blond company would be at the door soon. When the knock at the door came, he was out on the balcony, dressed in striped pajama pants and a five o’clock shadow that was nearing midnight, and he called over his shoulder instead of getting up to answer the door.
“It’s open.”
And it was. Evan, with that certainty of Louis impending arrival, had left the bolts off the doors, and he’d set on a pot of coffee and called for breakfast delivery. The table in the corner of the studio held a bag of bagels and shmear, along with some fresh squeezed orange juice and some links of sausage and wedges of cheese. His mother called that kind of thing “weekend breakfast,” but Evan just liked it because it was easy on the stomach after a few days dry. It wasn’t that he was trying to sober up, because Evan never went that far. But he didn’t have the kind of deathwish he would have liked, and days of high sugar count and kidneys that refused to behave always but the fear of Jack Daniels in him. It would last a few days, this proverbial new leaf, and then it would be amber liquid and pores that sweat sweet forgetfulness.
Evan lit a cigarette - cloves, and the cloyingly sweet smell clung to his skin and hair - and he exhaled into the early morning Vegas heat.
Louis stepped through the door when called out to. He had unknowingly already brought problems for Evan’s dry streak, since the bag at his side held a bottle of good champagne and fresh orange juice from a nearby bodega, and he set it beside the table where the food was laid out after shutting the door behind him.
He liked the apartment immediately, with its large windows and light, modern decorations. It was helped, of course, by the man standing at the window, and the sweet spice scent of the clove mingling with the food. It was much less intimidating than he would have expected from someone who dressed and behaved the way Evan did - Louis had anticipated something a little more austere, something that showed his wealth in heavier, flashier ways. He didn’t waste much time staring at the furniture, though, since Evan arrested his attention almost immediately.
Louis noted the scruff around his chin, and measured him up to his memory of him from The Griffin. His blurry recollection was colored by the high he’d been on at the time, and he hadn’t expected Evan to match up to that man with the perfect cheekbones, rough kiss, and long smile. He lived up to the memory, though, and more, and it took Louis a second of adjustment to recover his train of thought after setting eyes on him again. He masked it by turning to the table, picking out a bagel from the bag. “You were confident I’d come,” he said, observing the spread, adopting as nonchalant a stance as he could. “Although I suppose I didn’t give you any reason not to be.”
Evan grinned, and his gaze slipped from the bag (something alcoholic), to the man (as many blond curls as remembered), to the way he busied himself with the bagel when he got nervous. There was a time when Evan would have pushed away from that window, left the balcony behind and made Louis forget all about that bagel. There was a time, too, when Louis would have found precisely what he expected in Evan’s apartment - exorbitant wealth and decadence. But these days, it was easier to keep track of ghosts when they had fewer places to hide, and the pale woods and whiteness lent brightness to a dark mind and soul.
“I knew you’d come,” Evan finally said, pushing away from the balcony and into the apartment. He crossed the space with the lazy lope of a lion in his den, harmless in striped khaki and skin, and he stopped just beyond Louis’ shoulder and took the bag from between his fingers. That dark clove cigarette hung at the corner of Evan’s mouth, effortless, and he poured them both the makeshift mimosas with the thoughtlessness of someone who’d done it a million times, for a million other men.
Evan handed out one of the glasses, and he pulled the cigarette from between his lips. A long drag later, a sip, and then he chuckled. “You knew you’d come too. Admit it.”
Louis watched Evan’s approach, allowing himself a moment of appreciation for his easy gait and the expanse of his chest, but only so long as he was able to continue pretending he hardly cared. He didn’t hide it so well when Evan came close and took the bag from him. There was a dark sweep of his eyes under blond lashes in that quick moment of closeness. Evan’s very ease made him want to grab him by the waistband of his pants and pull him to him.
Louis looked down again, and picked up a knife to cut the bagel in half. No, he hadn’t seen anything he’d liked. “I thought I might not,” he said. He didn’t look up again until Evan was holding the glass out. He took the glass. Evan was close enough that Louis could smell the crisping paper at the end of his cigarette, close enough and smug enough that Louis was bound to do something stupid. He moved around Evan instead, sat on the edge one of the nearby chaises, and took a sip of the fortified orange juice, grateful for the alcohol on this bright morning, however light the content. There was nothing careless or easy about the way Louis moved. Everything was calculated for effect, carefully managed to avoid a slip up, never chanced. The voice at the back of his mind told him that Evan should have wondered if he’d come, should have worried, anticipated, known he ought to grovel and make it worth his while. He should have been not just another man in his apartment, but someone unique. He deserved an anxious need to please and the other man’s body splayed out before him, whether his appetites were up for it or not.
Louis resisted the urge to rub his temples. “But, clearly, I’m here now. So maybe you’re right.”
It was a strange thing to say, but it was Evan’s observant nature that had led him to choose his course of study in college and, even with the sedatives and the new shock of alcohol as he tipped back the juice, he was watching. His eyes, ever changing and a stranger amber-fucked-blue in the early morning light, followed the other man’s movements, noticing everything. From the stiff hold of an elbow, to the taut line of a leg, to the carefully managed press of foot to floor, it was noted, and Evan chuckled a sandpaper laugh after he was done with his entirely indiscreet stare.
Evan avoided the chaises, the chairs, anywhere that would make polite sense to sit, and he found his way to the large floor pillow near the window. He sat back, shoulders against the glass that led onto the balcony, and he finished the cigarette and stubbed it out on one of the many ashtrays that dotted the surface of the studio. He scratched his stomach a moment later, blunt nails against a spattering of dark black hair on golden skin, and he took another sip of the booze-juice while looking over the rim at the uncomfortable blond across the room.
“First lesson. Never say maybe. It makes it sound like you aren’t absolutely sure. You, Louis, should be absolutely sure.” The dead girl paced the balcony, but Evan didn’t look over at her. Instead, he finished the juice in one, fast gulp, and then he used the glass to motion Louis over, away from his safe spot on the distance chaise.
Louis watched the smooth lines of Evan’s lean against the window, and couldn’t keep from watching the scrape of his nails across his stomach. It was almost hypnotizing watching him move around the apartment. Everything about him came so easily that it was hard to believe it wasn’t calculated, the sort of carelessness Louis often attempted to project and failed at miserably.
Louis took a long swallow from his glass to give himself something to do, and he was just setting it down on the floor, his fingers trapping the rim, when Evan spoke. “I didn’t know I’d come here for lessons,” he said. When Evan gestured to him he stood reluctantly from the clearly much better, much easier to handle spot on the chaise and walked across the room. He could already foresee that this was a terrible idea. He sat on the floor, a few feet from him still, the distance offering just enough of a barrier to make him feel sure he couldn’t embarrass himself too badly. “I thought I’d come here to give you an education in desperation.” He finished the mimosa that he’d carried with him, and set it aside. There was a little dry, sarcastic humor in that. “You’re terrible at it. You could use a tutor.” He nudged the glass away with his fingers, decidedly not looking at Evan’s chest. “I’m not sure about much,” he murmured. “Certainly not about myself.”
“I thought you were that tutor,” Evan said, a glint of white teeth and a rake’s smile. His eyes, however, were empty - warm, yes, but empty of anything that even began to savor of desperation, that could be mistaken for it. “You’d have to be really fucking awesome to get me to be desperate, though, and that isn’t an insult to your very many charms.” He reached out the back of his hand, slid his knuckles against an angle of cheekbone, a swipe of jaw. Then, settling back, he folded his hands over his bare belly and just looked at the pale man who sat so uncomfortably beside him. “First things first; it’s all in the attitude. Relax. Lean back against the wall, stretch out a leg, pretend you don’t give a shit that I’m staring at you like you’re candy in a shop.” He sat forward, and he put a hand on Louis’ knee. “You’re used to it. You expect it. Men should want you. Why shouldn’t they?” A smirk. “You’re gorgeous.”
Louis didn’t move when Evan brushed his hand over his cheek, watching him for a moment before turning his eyes away. He was supposed to not care when he was being stared at, touched, desired. How? Even the idea of someone wanting him made him want to bend to whatever they asked of him, and he’d always adopted a position of stiff, brittle strength to try to keep that at bay. He couldn’t tell if Evan believed what he said, or he was complimenting him for show. It seemed like genuine praise, but if so, he didn’t know why, or how to acknowledge it while coming across as relaxed at the same time. “Easier said than done,” he said.
Louis made a conscious attempt to relax nonetheless, unknotting one tense muscle at a time. He’d been attempting nonchalant when he walked into the room, joints locked and muscles pulled tight with the effort or portraying confidence he didn’t have. Perhaps he had been going about it the wrong way, though pretending he didn’t care about Evan’s hand on him, that he took it for granted, was one of the most difficult tasks he’d been faced with in a long time. It went against all his instincts to be grateful for that kind of attention, the ones he usually beat back by cutting off entirely. “So it’s just about pretending the attention is deserved, and that it’s nothing special,” he said, to sum up his advice. He sat back a little, eyes catching on Evan’s, as he wondered what it would take to make him want something desperately.
“If you pretend long enough, you’ll start believing it,” Evan said, a lazy sweep of eyes accompanying the proclamation. The other man’s effort to relax had been so obvious, so deliberate that it made Evan chuckle. The entire point was to not make it look like work, and he was pretty fucking sure Louis just thought too much about everything. “Maybe start by shutting down what’s up here,” he suggested, one broad thumb swiping against Louis’ forehead. The truth was, that Evan had no idea what he was doing, and he had no idea why, but he was enjoying it, and that was enough for him. He had always been a true hedonist, down beneath the skin, and not being able to follow through hadn’t changed his thinking about life.
“Your turn,” was Evan’s next volley, a second later, and he sat back, withdrawing all hands, all contact. “Tell me about desperation,” because that was definitely something Louis had that he didn’t. Louis put out hunger in waves, tangible craving of all kinds wrapped up in each kinked curl, in each long limb, in each starving look from pale eyes. Evan had never wanted anything in the way that Louis, seemingly, wanted everything. For Evan, life had been a series of whens not ifs, and he wondered what the hell an if even felt like. Now, dulled by medicine, even the whens had stopped mattering.
The dead girl sat down behind the on the balcony, a pale specter with her back against the glass. She wore pink, and Evan glanced over at her. He didn’t even care if she left, which all fell into place with the numbness that was him. Desperation, right. He turned his attention back to Louis. “Tell me.”
Louis wasn’t foolish enough to think that simply being told a strategy for pulling others in would solve all his problems and make it suddenly easy, but he did consider it. He was right, after all. He’d known for a long time that he over thought practically everything, when what he wanted was often so simple, so basic. “If I knew how to do that, you wouldn’t need to tell me to do it,” he pointed out, watching Evan lean back with a little wistfulness. Those easy touches were an unreal sort of balm, an imaginary oasis. Nothing was going to come of them, but they had all the illusion of promised satiation. He could imagine it, at least.
He followed Evan’s gaze when it darted away, but there was nothing there to see. “Desperation is...all the things you are not,” he said, turning back to him, observing his easy lean, still feeling the impression of his thumb on his forehead. “It’s not just starvation. It’s wanting something so intensely you wish you didn’t.”
Louis leaned toward him. “I wish I was like you. I wish I didn’t care, or that everything came so easily to me that nothing was ever a disappointment. But there comes a time when you’ve wanted something for so long that you begin to dread it, because if it ever did come, you couldn’t stand it if it went wrong.” On impulse, he slid closer to Evan, and for once, he chose not to analyze, or over think. “So you don’t take what you want. You fear it, fear doing something wrong to destroy it, and hope that some day, it will come to you on its own.” Louis looked at him and saw the same dead calm behind his eyes that he’d been seeing since he came into the room. He shook his head. “I might as well not be here,” he said. There wasn’t any malice in it, really, just fact. He, per what he’d said, hadn’t tried to fool himself it might be otherwise. “It wouldn’t change a thing.”
Evan listened, and he watched that stretch and lean toward him, the way the long, elegant limbs slid forward, closer. He reached out a hand once Louis said he might as well not be there, and he tucked a riotous curl behind the other man’s ear in a gesture more appropriate to a woman or a love story. “No, I’m enjoying your presence,” he said, because he was. It wasn’t a powerful feeling, no, and he wouldn’t die without it, but that was they way of things lately. Nothing strong. Nothing burning. “I felt passion once. I felt the desire to take someone and strip them naked and make them scream my name, but that that was lust, not desperation.” He chuckled, knuckles sliding down along Louis jaw, his chin. “I’m not sure I would be able to feel that, even if everything went back to the way it was, before the dead walked and things couldn’t be fixed with all of my parents’ money.”
Louis had to school his face when Evan tucked his hair behind his ear and started talking about what he might have done to someone once in a fit of lust. Louis fell unthinkingly back into the habit of rigid control. "You've never had a reason to be desperate," he said. He was going to ask Evan about the dead, and what had happened to change everything, but the stroke along his jaw stopped him. It was almost too much, all this touching and caressing that taunted and went nowhere. There was a harsh shove from within, and he reached up and trapped Evan's wrist with his hand before he could pull it away. He slid his hand up Evan's arm and over his shoulder to settle behind his neck, long fingers tangling in his dark, thick hair. "I could give you one," he said. His eyes had taken on an entirely different cast, amused and mischievous as it was dark. The corner of his lips tugged up, almost unrecognizable from the stiff line of his mouth a few moments before.
Evan was surprised to have his wrist trapped, and it materialized on his features with a hint of a smile, just a little bit of widening in the eyes, surprise, but also that lazy pleasure that said he wasn’t surprised often and, look, here it was. He didn’t yank his hand, and he didn’t tug, and he glanced over at the hand that slid up his arm with the same kind of laziness, not moving his head to chase the movement. He tipped his head back with the fingers tangled in his dark hair, all lazy entertainment and the bared offering of someone who wasn’t afraid of shit, especially not this. Now, the smile, that got his attention. Because while Evan knew that desire could change someone, it generally couldn’t change them that much - the grab, the touch, sure. The rest? He smiled his own smile, one gone wider, someone else’s smile. A second later, an arm was around Louis’ waist, one much stronger than anything Evan could manage. It was a contained kind of strength, power in a body that wasn’t accustomed to it. The smile that came along with it was cocksure, and so much less dead than Evan’s own. “Hello there, darling. And who, might I ask, are you?”
The presence that had, for the moment, taken firm hold of Louis’ limbs allowed for just enough of Louis’ normal smile to leak through his expression to give the seizure of control the air of a joke. The arm around his waist made his head tip back, amused but also not submitting in the least. He didn’t have the physical strength of the man who’d taken hold of him, but from the way he held himself there was little doubt that if he seemed not to have control of the situation, it was only because, at least in his own mind, he had simply let out the slack on a firmly held line, and could pull back on it at any moment. Used to the dramatic punctuation of a dark, arched brow against pale skin, a blonde one raised, and he stroked his fingers minutely through the black strands between his fingers. “Now that would be telling,” he said.
Loki liked the looks of this man, but he liked this strong, feeling force hiding inside him better. He’d lived a very long time - a very long time indeed, and his closed-door interests had always been varied and adaptable. If something was available to be tried, he tried it, but discreetly, quietly, preferring privacy to gloating over conquests. But the difference between the person he’d been then and the one he was now, was that, once upon a time, he would have waited for some sign the other party was interested before making a move of any kind, not unlike Louis himself. What he was trying to teach Louis now was what he’d learned through his exile - that taking what one wanted was so much more rewarding, and offered both power and all the worldly benefits of never backing away from objects of desire just because an obstacle stood between.
Without hesitation, Loki slid forward and straddled him, sliding sharply up without preamble, remaining in that grip. “You’re going to help me illustrate a point,” he said, mirthful but businesslike. The Scottish in his speech had completely fallen away, leaving clipped, seemingly English tones. He touched underneath his chin with his other hand, long fingers keeping his gaze fixed directly on his own, and stroking a thumb across Evan’s lower lip, teasing the force that had reached out and grabbed him. He leaned in. “This is easy,” he said, maybe with a touch of venom, all for someone else’s benefit. This wasn’t really about what Loki wanted. This was about what Louis wanted, about showing him how simple it could be to no longer fall prey to desperation. The sooner he came to that realization, the sooner they could start doing some real work. “But only so long as you never let anyone tell you that what you want is out of bounds. Even yourself.”
His gaze refocused on Evan. “I prefer you,” he told him, the one behind his eyes just then. “I never could tolerate people who lean on depression as reason not to act.” He dropped his fingers from his chin, studying his expression. The amusement had fallen away as well, somewhere along the line. “They’re useless, blunt instruments. Even those of us who are broken have an obligation to mend ourselves and have a use.”
Even Eames had trouble getting through the fog of medication in a shared mind. He had the same physical malfunctions that Evan had, the same malaise and general numbness, at least here. Beyond the door it was better, but not erased, but he’d never really wanted it gone as badly as he did in that moment. He’d done very little to exert any kind of influence in Evan’s mind, preferring to be a spectator, disliking Arthur’s penchant for control of the young man whose mind he shared. But this, this was unacceptable, this inability to act, to feel the kind of anger that would give more strength to his limbs. He was going to have to do something about it, he decided, though he really didn’t want to. He’d need to ask Arthur’s help, and he hated asking Arthur’s help.
Still, the eyes that looked back at Louis-turned-someone-else-entirely had that same calm from before, if coated with an odd layer of smirk, of fun. He let the other man stroke a thumb over his lip, but it all had the feeling of a cat allowing himself to be petted, rather than a man having something taken against his will. His hands slid to the other man’s hips, and his smile broadened. “I’m not sure that’s the best way to teach him that particular lesson, darling,” he said, clearly unperturbed by any of it. There was raw strength in the hands that clutched, that slid from hips to the outside of Louis’ thighs. “Your desperation tastes stronger than his does. He wants love, you want something altogether different,” he said, that same easy tone to his very British voice - Evan was certainly not British.
“Yes, well, he doesn’t lean on depression. He’s medicated, and withdrawal is something only those with something to live for are willing to endure.” Evan’s hands slid down to Louis’ knees, Eames’ sure grip guiding them. “Bring him back. I like him better than you.” Smile.
"Soon enough, he'll move beyond all that, and develop a palate for finer joys." Loki's gaze traced up from the strong hands sliding over his thighs, following those amused eyes. He smiled. "I've never been desperate," he said, with conviction that said much for why he'd made such a successful liar all these years.
Loki didn't mind the hands on him, as sure and comfortable as the grip was. He didn't mind any hold that he felt he could escape when he wanted to. "Shame," he said, at the request that he go. "I'm almost growing fond of you and this hopeless thing you live in." His smile widened, poisonous, dangerous, the words a promise. He was going to have fun winding his way into what ever door this man hid behind, and it would be one of those finer joys, teaching him a thing or two about desperation on his own terms. "I'm going to have to find you, I expect."
The god didn't obey orders, but he'd made the point he'd wanted to make. He was satisfied for the moment. He also knew that it made for a much better trick if he dropped back out now. He relinquished control back to Louis without warning.
Louis had spent most of the short ordeal attempting to wrest control of his own body back and wishing this was all some terrible nightmare. Loki had never done this before - he hadn’t known he could, and the possibility alone terrified him. And now he was sitting in Evan's - Eames' - lap, with his hands still clasped around his knees. Louis pulled his hand away from his head, color flushing high on his cheeks, turning otherwise pale and silent. He knew he ought to apologize - say something - but he was so completely ashamed that he didn't even know how to ask him to let go so that he could climb off him again.
“It’s quite alright, darling,” Evan said, the British accent clearly marking him as still not himself. “I have an acquaintance that does that all the time, steal his person without permission.” He didn’t add that Arthur wasn’t precisely a villain, because it wouldn’t help Louis feel any better. He didn’t add that he, himself, had clearly done the same thing just then - well, because his motives were different. In the end, he did the only thing that he thought might make Louis feel better.
Lips slanted over Louis,’ the kiss more heated than the one from Evan in the club. Eames, even after months of confinement, didn’t have Evan’s sense of hopelessness, of taking without wanting in return. He was a different sort of man, a slower lover, and the kiss savored of all that. He nudged Louis away as he pulled back from the kiss, giving him an easy excuse to move, and he motioned to the orange juice. “Take another sip. It’ll help.”
If Eames was worried about the intruder’s threat, about being found, that didn’t show either. He was skilled at remembering details, and that’s what he did just then; memorized, should he ever need it, in a dream or out. And, hopefully, to pass the information along to Arthur for research work, which Eames considered dreadfully dull.
A second later, Evan was back, a lazy blink making it supremely evident somehow.
The kiss caught Louis just as he began to properly apologize, and cut any response off completely. It was just the balm he needed in that moment, preventing him from thinking and soothing his twisted nerves. He sank forward against those slowly dragging lips almost without hesitation, the tension and fear sliding out of him in a tangible way. It was different from what he remembered of Evan, softer and smoother, and he was unspeakably grateful for it.
When Eames broke away, Louis swallowed, and nodded. The kiss had calmed him from the edge of real panic, and given him something to cling to in the face of his alter's continuous assault. When it came down to it, that was what he wanted. He didn't want to crush someone under his heel. He wanted them to come to him on their own, even if just the once, as he fully expected that kiss to be.
Louis carefully extricated himself from Eames, picking up the glass and downing what was left in a few long swallows. He set it aside and turned back to see Evan. It was strange, how easy it was to tell the difference. "I didn't know we were in the same position," he said, quietly, the darker Scottish roll at the ends of his words back in his speech. Then, "Why aren't you interested in living?" Maybe it was an unfair question after all that, but it had stuck with him since Eames had mentioned it, and since Evan had mentioned the dead. He had another question, too, but it could wait a little.
“Here’s to being in the same position,” Evan said with that same unconcerned mien. He lifted an imaginary glass in a toast of solidarity, his own glass something he’d lost track of along the way. As for why he wasn’t interested in living, he’d never really thought about it like that, and his expression turned pensive as he looked out the window, past the balcony and the girl, to the desert beyond. “It’s not that I’m not interested in living. I just am,” he said, because that was basically it, wasn’t it? He just existed. He didn’t feel, or want, or fear. He was was.
“Be careful with that one,” Evan added belatedly, lifting his hand and two fingers to point at Louis’ temple. “He’s dangerous.” Evan, student of life, note taker of nuisance, didn’t need his naturally observant nature to tell that much. “Anyone know about him?” Anyone that could control him, maybe because, despite Eames’ new desire to rehabilitate the drunkard he shared space with, Evan wasn’t brave, and he wasn’t a hero. He left that to his sister, he thought, lip quirking up in that familiar almost-entertained smile.
"Why, though?" Louis asked. "You have everything. What changed?" Louis got the impression that there had been a time when Evan had been an indomitable force of life, in sexual encounters or otherwise. Thus, whatever had happened would be necessity need to have been drastic, one hardly needed to be a detective to figure that one out. Someone was dead, it sounded like. A family member? A lover? What could leave him in a state where he no longer cared whether he lived or died, without even the motivation to end his own life?
Louis looked away. "I know," he said. "And no. You're the first to know." He glanced back to him. "I assume you understand why I haven't told anyone," he said. Louis had known from the beginning that he would need to keep Loki's presence quiet. Loki himself had avoided taking control of him thus far to keep from sounding any alarms, but he wasn't afraid of a depressed drunkard. Louis' constant worry since the doors had opened was of someone discovering Loki and deciding that he ought to be contained to keep the man inside him in check. Loki was his burden to deal with, and, at least for now, he believed he could hold him back. But Loki had killed several soldiers the last time he'd gone through the door, and, even in self-defense, it seemed unnecessarily cruel. Louis had determined to keep him from crossing over again any time soon - and maybe that was what had prompted this. Maybe he was trying to force Louis' hand.
Why. Evan didn’t have an answer to that question, because it had all started before the drugs, before jail, before the accident. He wasn’t self-aware, not anymore, and he really didn’t want to be. “I have everything,” he repeated, a chuckle and a shake of his head accompanying the words. “Everything is different for everyone, Louis. Don’t assume I ever had everything.” He watched the wheels in Louis’ mind turn, smiled at the way those wheels shone behind Louis’ eyes. “Don’t try to figure me out. I’m not a rake that’ll make a great husband some day, and I’m not someone you want to save. You wouldn’t like the version of me that you’d get if you managed it,” he said with candor.
“Tell someone you trust, who can help,” Evan suggested, because that obviously wasn’t him. He was in a drunken stupor by this time most days, and he wasn’t going to save the world from gay villains. “I understand why you haven’t told anyone, but you need to.” Those were Evan’s words of wisdom, not that he followed them up with any kind of action, nor would he. Eames, in his mind, was already planning things, but Evan was just Evan, and he thought his dry spell had lasted enough. AA, then a bar. He deserved it after this morning.
"You're right," Louis said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. That was a foolish assumption." Charm and intelligence and appearance and riches could still all mask something hollow and unsatisfied. Just because Evan represented the things Louis wished he had, or was capable of, didn't mean his life had ever been perfect.
Louis couldn't help but try to put Evan together. It wasn't just what he did for a living - figuring out what made people tick had always fascinated him, especially when he was already interested in the person to begin with. He felt a caught out, and thus his response was a little defensive. "I never thought that," he said. He didn't hope for things like Evan was describing anymore. At most, he wished he could do something to drag Evan out of his stupor for his own sake. Then again, though, Evan might be right. Perhaps the terrible truth was that if Evan was in his right mind, he'd have no time for or interest in someone like Louis.
Who could Louis tell? Who did he trust who could help him? Iris was much too fragile for him to impose such a burden on her. Neil had problems of his own. Kate he'd yet to talk to since coming to Vegas, but he imagined she must be busy managing her own life. Everyone that came to mind was either a new acquaintance or hardly needed his difficulties dropped into their lap. "I'll try to find someone," he said. He'd always been accustomed to taking care of his problems himself. To shift that responsibility to someone else, even in part, was going to be...difficult.
Louis stood. It was time for him to go, before he did something else to embarrass himself. He collected himself as best his could manage after the strange, slow train wreck of the past hour, standing a little straighter. "I'm sorry if I ruined your morning," he said.
“You didn’t,” Evan assured him, which was true. He watched the other man stand, watched that long stretch of leg with the kind of interest that an art patron gave to a painting they found extremely attractive. “Let me know who you tell,” he offered, assuming it would help Louis actually do if it there was someone to report to. He wasn’t aware that Kate was related to this man in front of him, but he would have laughed to learn Jack’s unhappy wife was the sibling of this unhappy man. Kate was a lot of things, but she wasn’t afraid to go after what she wanted, and he would have never made a connection between the two.
Evan didn’t stand to bid the other man farewell, though he considered it. Instead, he merely looked him over once last time, deciding he’d check on him in a week if he didn’t hear back.