Leo barely flinched when the other man burst out in laughter, and he only moved to put his hands on Julian’s bony knees, a simple question of not falling backward should his balance fail him. But he knew that touch; although a double-edged sword, stood a chance of helping when they were overwhelmed, unable to get a word out, and on the verge of spiraling. He’d learned that long before science and psychology had finally gotten that right. As well as patience, understanding, compassion - he didn’t have much of it to spare lately, but for this one? Those desperately sad eyes told him that he ought to try, just this once. He could get lost in those eyes- and no [...] instead, he shushed him, almost like a mother would her child. There was no sense in both of them tripping over their words.
“The whispers have gotten worse.” That was vaguely concerning, but not exactly out of the ordinary - Julian was alone in a city of ghosts, and trapped in a shitty pre-war home in Flushing with a Brujah Elder; Leo would have been surprised if he hadn’t been struggling in one way or another. “And-” Leo sighed. Tomorrow, he decided, he’d invest in a TV and a Switch or whatever newfangled console was floating out there. Tonight, however, they would talk. “Okay.” He could deal with this. They - could deal with this.
“Soil. Salt. Rage. Leo nodded slightly, knowing that Julian would pick up on his meaning.
“It’s my vida in a couple of words, and it was my love’s mantra.” And Julian didn’t know, couldn’t have known until he told him. But considering both of them seemed were pretty serious about this odd living situation that they were still getting used to, it probably was about time that he did. “Soil. Amb- with - soil comes sweat,” Leo started, keeping his voice on an even keel. “And the sun, beating down on your neck as you work in the fields from -” Leo faltered for a moment there, as he struggled to find words to match the French words that he’d so gotten used to over the years. “From the cradle to the grave.” That faint longing to witness another sunrise was promptly ignored as another case of nonsensical affairs that belonged to a human heart.
“Salt.” Slightly more complicated, that one, because even a simple ‘I fought a guerilla war because of taxes on salt’ somehow inspired more questions. “A lot of wars have been fought over salt. But not by farmers who refused to speak French, used their local terrain to their advantage, and killed soldiers and taxmen. Chains, because every rebellion is fated to die out sooner or later, and its people are branded, imprisoned, or executed. And rage, because I died a slow death on that galley-ship, and I remember thinking that it was all just very fucking unfair.” There was a slight, unintended growl in those last few words, but then his fingers stilled. “I know other words - galérien, angelet, els Angelets de la Terra - are probably floating in that network somewhere, but without context, who’s to know who it’s about?”