They've been settling into this new normal over the past few weeks since Diego moved in, adjusting to a house that suddenly seemed far too full, even as Luther and Allison are still feeling out the edges of unexpected tension between each other, in the wake of their first real fight in this world. They're getting over it, slowly, but he still hates this feeling, like ozone in the air after a lightning storm.
And apart from the two times when Allison came barging into Luther's bedroom, they never really broached the doors of their respective rooms: they could always settle for hearing the creak of footsteps next door, running water from the jack-and-jill bathroom they shared. Unspoken and yet tacitly agreed-upon boundaries. For over half a year, they'd had the entire rest of the house to themselves, after all: unhurried weekend breakfasts together, or a quick conversation over morning coffee as one of them sped out the door to work, or winding down in the living room in the evening together. He was trying harder these days, too, to dismantle the rigid compartmentalisation he'd set up between his family and his life outside this house. Letting Allison into it.
Now, though, he found that if he wanted a word with her alone in private, and not under Diego's nose— he had to get creative.
(It was a strange echo of their childhood, where they'd had to consciously slip away, find secluded areas where they couldn't be overheard or eavesdropped or monitored by ever-watchful cameras. Over time, Luther had memorised the blind spots: he knew the exact bend in the staircase where they couldn't be seen, and the corner of the library that Reginald didn't monitor, and the abandoned greenhouse on the roof that was an entire slate of freedom for them until those doors had slammed shut.)
But here, in this suddenly too-small house, it means each others' bedrooms, and a more regular broaching of that boundary. So, this evening, and with a vague thought on his mind that he wants to talk to her about, Luther moves to the bedroom beside his, and knocks on Allison's semi-open door.
mid-november: action. all along there was some invisible string tying you to me.
And apart from the two times when Allison came barging into Luther's bedroom, they never really broached the doors of their respective rooms: they could always settle for hearing the creak of footsteps next door, running water from the jack-and-jill bathroom they shared. Unspoken and yet tacitly agreed-upon boundaries. For over half a year, they'd had the entire rest of the house to themselves, after all: unhurried weekend breakfasts together, or a quick conversation over morning coffee as one of them sped out the door to work, or winding down in the living room in the evening together. He was trying harder these days, too, to dismantle the rigid compartmentalisation he'd set up between his family and his life outside this house. Letting Allison into it.
Now, though, he found that if he wanted a word with her alone in private, and not under Diego's nose— he had to get creative.
(It was a strange echo of their childhood, where they'd had to consciously slip away, find secluded areas where they couldn't be overheard or eavesdropped or monitored by ever-watchful cameras. Over time, Luther had memorised the blind spots: he knew the exact bend in the staircase where they couldn't be seen, and the corner of the library that Reginald didn't monitor, and the abandoned greenhouse on the roof that was an entire slate of freedom for them until those doors had slammed shut.)
But here, in this suddenly too-small house, it means each others' bedrooms, and a more regular broaching of that boundary. So, this evening, and with a vague thought on his mind that he wants to talk to her about, Luther moves to the bedroom beside his, and knocks on Allison's semi-open door.