#which eases the strain on my soul ahahaha | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonb-eam · 4 years

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oh nat, i know we've basically made you write the entire p&p au from eliott's pov with our asks but i just can't help myself, esp after seeing the last ask about the telescope scene-so here it goes: have they ever talked about lucas' past- how lonely he must've been losing his parents at a young age? bc he still refers to his aunt/uncle as mr/mrs banet,like they're family but there's a distance. also i love that eliott loves the banets in your au as opposed to the og darcy who hated the bennets.

ahahaha we have managed to cover a lot of ground with the asks but it’s okay darling!! thank you for your question 🧡🧡🧡 (this one also ran away from me a bit, so i’ve but it under the cut)

When Eliott first met the Banet family, he didn’t know what to make of them.

They were loud, that much was true. Bold and indelicate. Simultaneously warm and welcoming but also intimidating. They were clearly close, as evident from their interactions and the way the spoke to one another. Eliott could see shades of himself and Daphné in the way the Banet sisters and Lucas would be arguing one moment, petty and childish, then fiercely defending one another in the next.

Mrs. Banet frightened Eliott the most. Her strong opinions and bouts of cluelessness likened her to his aunt initially, a comparison that made him turn in the opposite direction whenever he saw her approaching. Mr. Banet was more of an an enigma, quiet and withdrawn, but with a shrewd, intelligent gaze.

But these were only glimpses into the Banet family. Impressions that Eliott gathered from balls, when he had nothing to do but observe the guests from a distance.

Then, Lucas agrees to move in with him, and Alexia tells him, You’re already family, darling, and Eliott finds himself in the middle of Beaufort’s kitchen with Mrs. Banet clinging to him and rest of the family watching on in amusement, and it hits him properly, in the midst of it all, that he is a part of this family now.

Their chaos is his chaos. Their ridiculousness and dramatics are his to bear.

The thought makes Eliott so wildly happy that he thinks he might cry all over again. He can see them together: the Banet’s, Lucas, himself, Daphné, Madeleine. One overly large, patchwork family, one that’s made as much as it is born. One that’s real and imperfect and so full of love.

So, when Eliott finds himself alone for a moment at their garden party, which Lucas keeps insisting is not a wedding even though it may as well be, and he spots Mrs. Banet walking towards the food table, he drains the rest of his wine glass, and subtly intercepts her.

“Eliott,” she says happily when she sees him, linking their arms together. “I was wondering when you were going to come to talk to me.”

Not so subtly, then.

“I don’t want to bother you,” Eliott immediately says, and it’s an old habit that makes him wince. He can practically hear Dr. Daucet’s voice in his hear.

Why do you think your instinct is always to apologize, Eliott? What are you apologizing for?

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Banet’s cheeks are pink and her eyes are glassy. She grins, and her smile is that of a woman much younger than her, teasing and girlish. “You are my son now, after all.”

The ease with which she says it stops him short. “Oh.”

She grips tightly onto his bicep. “That is to say that you’re a part of this family, my dear. You’re one of mine.” She inclines her head to where Eliott can see Emma, Manon, Alexia, and Lucas standing in a circle, their heads bent together as though they’re sharing a secret. “And that extends to your lovely sister as well.”

“Thank you,” Eliott says softly. Mrs. Banet pats him on the cheek, and both of their eyes are watery. “That means more than you know.”

“I think I know.” Mrs. Banet says, with a sad tilt to her mouth. “You know, when I first heard the news that my sister and her husband died, all I could think about was Lucas.”

Her gaze drifts to him as she speaks, to Lucas, who is wrestling his crown of flowers away from Alexia, returning it to his head and pouting when Emma says something that makes all of the girls laugh.

“All I could think about was that sweet boy, now left without a family. We never discussed it, she and I, where Lucas would go if anything happened to them, but I knew there was only one possibility. He needed a family. He needed a home.”

Eliott pictures him, his sweet and sensitive and blisteringly smart Lucas as a child, alone and adrift in the world, and his heart grows heavy. His ribs strain under the weight of it. “So you gave him that.”

When he turns to look at her, Mrs. Banet’s smile is melancholic. “I tried,” she says simply. “But I could only ever do so much. I was never a mother to him, nor was my husband ever his father. There’s no replacement for that.” Her fingers touch her mouth, gaze warm as she takes in her children. “But we all tried together, to become something like a family. There’s some of it I would do differently now, for all of them, but I think...I think we’ve done alright.” She rests her head against Eliott’s shoulder. “They’ve turned out wonderfully, haven’t they?”

Eliott pats the hand that still grips tightly to his bicep. “They have,” he agrees. Lucas' head turns, eyes searching in the crowd as though he can hear Eliott thinking about him, and when he sees Eliott with his aunt, his eyes widen, his mouth dropping open.

“Oh,” Mrs. Banet smirks. “He thinks I’m embarrassing him.” She waves at Lucas with her free hand. “Quickly, Eliott: laugh as though I’ve just said something horribly embarrassing about him.”

The thing is, Eliott realizes, Lucas hardly ever talks about his parents.

There was that moment at Montrose, when Eliott’s aunt was badgering Lucas incessantly about his background, and Lucas had mentioned that his parents were poets, and that they had little money. But aside from that, Eliott knows nothing about them.

He understands it, though. Eliott doesn’t speak about his father unless he absolutely has to. It aches to do so, like prodding at an old scar, and Eliott doesn’t want to ask Lucas to tell him anything that he wouldn’t be willing to share.

That doesn’t stop him from thinking about it, though.

He finds himself in the library one afternoon, carefully combing through the Demaury collection of poetry, searching for any volume with the name Lallemant on the spine. His search yields nothing, aside from distracting Eliott from what was supposed to be an afternoon of finally responding to letters that he’s been meaning to respond to for weeks, and it does nothing to satiate his curiosity.

Still, he makes the decision to wait. He will only ask about Lucas’ family if Lucas gives him an opening to do so. Eliott is patient, a quality nurtured in him by his mother, and with Lucas, he’s even more so. There’s no end to how long he’s willing to wait for him. For anything.

But as it happens, Eliott doesn’t even need to ask.

There’s one night in October when it storms: pounding rain and echoing claps of thunder. Forks of lightning that crack the sky.

They spend the evening in the drawing room, Lucas, Eliott and Daphné, gathered around the fireplace with pots of tea and plates of food. They play cards and Daphné wins every hand. Eliott tells ghost stories until Lucas tells him to stop because he’s bored, even though Eliott has a suspicion it’s because he’s scared.

Eventually, Daphné falls asleep, curled up under a wool blanket on the settee, her open book tumbling from her hands down to the floor.

Eliott folds the corner of a page down to save her place, then wraps another blanket around his shoulders, sitting on the floor with his back braced against the the corner of the settee.

Lucas eyes him from his armchair. “Is there room in there for me?”

In response, Eliott holds the blanket open to him.

Lucas sits between Eliott’s legs, leaning back against his chest and letting out a contended sigh when Eliott folds his arms around him, the blanket covering them both.

A cold nose presses into Eliott��s neck and he gasps.

Lucas giggles into his skin.

“You’re annoying,” Eliott grumbles, but he’s smiling, and Lucas must be able to tell without even looking at him because his hand comes out the blanket, flailing around Eliott’s face until it finds his cheek, then poking him.

“You love me,” Lucas says, sounding nothing short of smug, and Eliott bites at the tip of his finger.

But he can’t help saying it, after a moment, ducking his head to kiss Lucas’ cheek, to whisper in his ear just as another fork of lightning casts long shadows across the drawing room floor, “I love you.”

Lucas turns his head to meet him in a kiss, and Eliott can feel it everywhere when he shivers.

“I love you too,” Lucas murmurs when they part. He tucks his face back into Eliott’s neck, and Eliott shifts his hold on him, lifting one arm so he can stroke his fingers through Lucas’ hair.

Lucas lets out a happy noise, and Eliott smiles, pressing his lips to his forehead.

It’s so peaceful there, in the places where their bodies overlap, underneath their warm blanket, that it feels as though they’ve created a world entirely separate from the one they inhabit. The storm may rage and roar, but there, in the Demaury drawing room, exists only warmth and comfort.

Eliott thinks he could fall asleep like this, with Lucas in his arms and Daphné’s soft snores above them, warmed by the crackling fire.

It would be hell for his back, but it would be worth it.

“This is what it is,” Lucas says softly, and his voice almost too quiet to be heard over the rain against the windows, “to speak of longing between souls. We must have fallen from the same star, my dear, for I loved you before I ever knew you.”

Eliott slowly smooths his hand over Lucas’ hair. “That’s beautiful.” His thumb strokes down the shell of Lucas’ ear. “Where is it from?”

“My mother wrote it.”

Eliott lets out a long breath, resting his chin on the top of Lucas’ head. His eyes are fixed on the tall windows across from them, the world beyond them dark and cavernous, lit only by the occasional stark flash of lightning.

“There used to be manuscripts everywhere in the house,” Lucas says eventually. “From both of them. They would read them aloud constantly, and pore over a single line for hours. It’s why I never liked poetry, because it reminded me too much of them. That one in particular...I heard my mother say it so many times, I could never forget it. But I,” Lucas hands fist in Eliott’s shirt, “I don’t think I really understood it until now.”

Eliott's free hand finds Lucas’ under the blanket. He lifts them together, kissing the inside of Lucas’ wrist, nuzzling into his palm.

He closes his eyes, trying to imprint the words onto his heart.

This is what it is, to speak of longing between souls.

“They would have loved you,” Lucas continues, and there’s a subtle fondness to his voice that makes Eliott smile against the delicate bones of his hand. “I’m sure you could have spent hours talking to them about poetry, or about art.” He lets out a soft laugh. “I would have had to fight to get any of your attention.”

Eliott shakes his head. “Never,” he says softly.

Lucas tugs on Eliott’s hand, lowering them back beneath the folds of the blanket to rest on his stomach.

“We didn’t have a lot of money, but I didn’t realize that, at the time. They never acted like it. I don’t remember them ever fighting, or ever speaking about money around me. They were just...happy, I think. They were always happy.”

Lucas falls silent, and Eliott realizes that he’s crying, small tremors rippling through his back that Eliott can feel in his sternum. Immediately, Eliott wants to comfort him. He wants to wipe his tears and tell him everything will be alright, but in this moment, with Lucas picking at the edges of the oldest scar he has, Eliott doesn’t think its his place.

Eliott knows grief, yes, but he doesn’t know grief like this. So he stays silent, pressing his lips to the crown of Lucas’ head.

I’m so sorry, Lucas. A clap of thunder echoes in the distance. The rain continues to beat against the windows. It’s unfair, and that’s all we can say about it. It’s so fucking unfair.

Eliott doesn’t know how long they stay that way for, but it doesn’t matter. He counts time by how many passes his hand has made down Lucas’ spine, by how many shudders he can feel under his palm, by how many times Lucas’ fists unclench from his shirt, only to grip back onto it.

Eventually, Lucas shifts against him, turning his head away from Eliott’s neck, and his voice is a little more solid to say, “I was lucky, you know. There are so many others like me who lost their parents and had to be taken to an orphanage, or to homes with cruel people. The Banet’s, they...they’ve done so much for me. They’ve given me a family, and a home, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t-” He exhales softly. “There’s something missing in me, and it won’t ever be replaced.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Eliott tells him gently.

“I know,” Lucas says, and it sounds a little sad, but it also sounds like something he’s thought about before. Something he carries with him.

When the silence between them stretches out into minutes, Eliott tentatively says, “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

Lucas leans away from Eliott’s chest, sitting up and turning on the spot so he can face him. The blanket drops from his shoulders, pooling around his waist.

His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, his face is red, but he’s smiling softly as he cups Eliott’s cheeks in his hands, pressing their foreheads together and letting a sigh unfurl between them.

“It’s so easy for me to tell you things,” Lucas says. “Well, not easy necessarily, but it - it feels right.” He kisses Eliott, short and sweet, and it feels like thank you. It feels like you’re the safest place I know.

“It’s the same for me,” Eliott whispers. “I hope you know that.”

Lucas’ smile widens. “I do.”

They fire has died to embers, and with it, the warmth in the room begins to be taken over by the damp cold from the storm, so they make the decision to leave, having to try to wake Daphné a few times before bidding her goodnight, then making their way back to their own room, holding hands while Lucas wears the blanket like a cape.

It’s only when Eliott is sitting on the end of their bed, watching Lucas blow out the final candle on the mantlepiece, that he says, hesitantly, “I wish I could read her work.”

It’s too dark for Eliott to interpret the glance Lucas sends him, and he’s worried he’s overstepped, until Lucas steps towards him and says lightly, “You probably could. My father was only published in journals, but she had a book printed, years ago. I’ve never been able to find a copy, but I’m sure you could, with your,” he pokes Eliott in the forehead, “connections.”

“Would you mind?” Eliott asks, grasping Lucas’ finger and tugging on his hand, placing his palm flat over Eliott’s heart. “If I read it? If you would rather I didn’t, I’d understand.”

“No.” Lucas says softly. “I wouldn’t mind.” His thumb strokes across Eliott’s skin. “But thank you for asking.”

“Of course.”

“Her name was Hélène,” Lucas says. “Hélène Lallemant. But the book was published under the pen name Cezanne Olivier.”

The name gives Eliott pause. It tugs at something in his mind, a thin forest green spine and faded gold lettering, but he can’t be sure, not entirely, so he just nods, and says, “I’ll look for it.”

“Alright.” Lucas drops his hand from Eliott’s chest, kneeing up onto the bed next to him, then crawling under the covers, burrowing himself into the pillows.

“Come on.” His voice is muffled. “I’m cold and exhausted, and I’d like you to hold me, please.”

Without hesitation, Eliott goes.

His suspicion is confirmed the next day, when he ventures back into the library and finds that same thin volume. The lettering is faded, but not too faded so as not to be discerned, and Eliott sets it down carefully on the desk in the library, making a plan to return to it after he finishes his meeting with Maurice to survey any damages to the grounds from the storm.

But, when he returns, soaked from the light rain that continues to fall, covered in mud from walking the tree line, the book isn’t where he left it.

He checks the bookcases, on the chance that Madeleine may have re-shelved it, but cannot find it there. He checks the other tables, the drawing room, the study, and grows increasingly worried that he may have lost it somewhere, until he walks past the open door to the bedroom, and he sees Lucas in there, curled up on the window seat with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and an open book in his hand, one with a deep green cover and faint gold lettering.

Eliott watches him for a moment, the way his eyes slowly travel over each line, the way his fingers caress each page before turning it, before he smiles, then quietly turns back down the hallway.

#asks #anon #p&p au #hope you like it love 🧡🧡🧡

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