Cecil felt misery curling in his stomach. He had believed it. He had really, really believed what Carlos had said in the Arena. He wondered now how much of it had been blind wishful thinking; he wondered how he had managed to extrapolate so much feeling on Carlos' part from a few public dates, a few private conversations, and a brief moment on a rooftop with Carlos' hand on top of his. He wondered how he had been so definitively, pervasively wrong.
More than that: He was realizing, in the distant, under-the-skin way one realized the air was getting heavier before a storm, that he did love Carlos. For all he had been saying it for the better part of half a year, this was more than an embarrassingly public crush on a celebrity from a foreign world, and more than dates and hand-holding and candid photo shoots in tasteful and well-coordinated outfits. He cared for this beautiful, awkward, seditious scientist in a way that felt important-- in a way that he (he!) didn't feel he could communicate.
It was both the source of his crushing disappointment, and the reason that lying to the entire Capitol about it even seemed possible. Because Carlos - Carlos as a living, breathing, person, Carlos as his entire self with all its imperfections, Carlos standing not on a pedestal over Cecil but sitting right before him looking thoughtful and sad and guilty - Carlos was more important than any relationship, true or false. Carlos was worth protecting.
He looked up at Carlos. There was resolve in his expression. This was not the time or the place to say any of this - not knowing what they had ahead of them. But, well-- people said something about how actions spoke louder than words, right? That was a thing people said. (Cecil was willing, this one time in his life, to allow himself to believe that that was true.)
"Look," he said, "I am a journalist. I think I'd have to be pretty good at acting to get a job reporting facts in the Capitol!" This wasn't remotely sarcastic - this was a genuine argument in his favor. "So. You won't need to worry about me."
(All the words he was saying made it sound like they were really doing this. God. They were really doing this.)
no subject
More than that: He was realizing, in the distant, under-the-skin way one realized the air was getting heavier before a storm, that he did love Carlos. For all he had been saying it for the better part of half a year, this was more than an embarrassingly public crush on a celebrity from a foreign world, and more than dates and hand-holding and candid photo shoots in tasteful and well-coordinated outfits. He cared for this beautiful, awkward, seditious scientist in a way that felt important-- in a way that he (he!) didn't feel he could communicate.
It was both the source of his crushing disappointment, and the reason that lying to the entire Capitol about it even seemed possible. Because Carlos - Carlos as a living, breathing, person, Carlos as his entire self with all its imperfections, Carlos standing not on a pedestal over Cecil but sitting right before him looking thoughtful and sad and guilty - Carlos was more important than any relationship, true or false. Carlos was worth protecting.
He looked up at Carlos. There was resolve in his expression. This was not the time or the place to say any of this - not knowing what they had ahead of them. But, well-- people said something about how actions spoke louder than words, right? That was a thing people said. (Cecil was willing, this one time in his life, to allow himself to believe that that was true.)
"Look," he said, "I am a journalist. I think I'd have to be pretty good at acting to get a job reporting facts in the Capitol!" This wasn't remotely sarcastic - this was a genuine argument in his favor. "So. You won't need to worry about me."
(All the words he was saying made it sound like they were really doing this. God. They were really doing this.)