A Portrait of Louis

by The Brat Queen

Used with permission from The Brat Queen

All usual disclaimers apply.

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Let us ponder for a moment the beauty that is my choice in eternal companions.

Louis is, to my own way of thinking, quite ideal. Speaking purely in terms of the practical choice I had in the matter I find that on the whole I did quite well and can, when it comes right down to it, voice little complaint.

He agrees with none of this, of course, but that’s hardly the point.

Let’s start with looks.

Louis is, as everyone knows, beautiful. That’s been done. Covered by me and half the world over (including, I find to my great interest, people who have never even met him) it’s hardly something to really dwell on now.

So let us discuss specifics.

What you do not know is that he has little patience with his hair. He would, I think, cut it into a short fashion except that I would never speak to him again and it would require the effort of finding the scissors. Barring that instead he does not fuss with it much. It remains loose or in a ponytail depending on his mood or his need to get it out of his eyes.

If he needs to present himself severely to someone it will be a ponytail.

Most of his business dealings or conversations with our servants involve the ponytail.

His hair is black. Understand this to be established on the record. He persists, however, in telling me that it is brown. His reasoning, he says, is that when he was a mortal his hair would be sun-bleached from working in the fields (much to the horror of his mother who was, I’ll add, an incredibly annoying woman) and turned into a shade of brown. Ergo, he has brown hair. I have argued for years that sun-bleached color does not matter if his God-given color is black. If he dyed his hair purple it would be purple but still not alter the genetics that put forth black hair.

I’ve yet to win.

His eyes are green but everyone knows that.

His eyelashes are very light and delicate things. They are not very long, as eyelashes go. My own are much longer, so much so that Louis often comments upon it. Louis’ are rather normal.

His face is composed of angles which are very severe. He is, in truth, not very fine to look at unless you are seeing him in the right way. It is not so much the features of his face which make his beauty but instead his composition of them. The movement of muscles into expressions transforms his appearance and draws attention toward him. It is his emotions that create his true beauty.

It has been stated by others that Louis is most beautiful when he is upset. This is a fallacy. It is created based upon the fact that the only expressions anyone ever sees of him are that of being upset. Rarely does the outside world merit a view of his inner thoughts unless he is displeased with it. Because the composition of emotions on his face creates his beauty this inspires the false conclusion that sadness or anger creates true and ultimate beauty within him.

This is, however, not true. His true beauty is in his happiness. The real secret here is that I’m the only one who gets to see

It is, I am of the opinion, the world’s misfortune and my own personal treasure.

An unknown fact about Louis is that for the most part he has little to no use for the world around him. He is, deep down, of the opinion that most people that come into contact with him are not truly worth his time and therefore need to work rather quickly and hard to prove to him that their continued existence is worthwhile. Surprisingly it is often I who am considered to be the easygoing and far more pleasant boss to work with. Our servants tend to scatter and turn mute whenever Louis walks into a room.

An additionally little known fact, even to Louis himself, is the fact that he is a very intimidating person. He does not, on the whole, intend to make people fear him, even the servants that I described just now. If they cross him he will make no effort to hide his displeasure. However in day to day life he does not intend to come across as sharp and deadly as he does. He just does. No conscious effort is involved.

It is, I think, the aristocratic bearing that his middle class parents bestowed upon him. But that is my own theory.

Louis can, when aroused to do so, be incredibly kind and tender. The views of this are rare and not often seen by anyone save myself, but when the time and occasion comes for it he will cross Heaven and Hell to provide for someone he cares for. Children, in particular, are sacred to him.

Louis’ opinion of animals is a mixed one. The beauty of horses is something that moves him greatly and even to this day he keeps stables of them scattered about the world. Dogs, on the other hand, are tolerated with bemused looks of irritation for the sole purpose of my pleasure and would be, if he were left to his own devices, relegated to the same farms as his horses are.

Birds, fish and cats are, for him, easily forgettable and do not tend to arouse a particular interest out of him.

I am, for the most part, a far neater person than he is. While I am given to owning more things than I perhaps need at any one moment I am at least able to keep some form of organization either in closets and drawers or even in stacked cardboard boxes of my possessions that are scattered about our homes.

Louis, on the other hand, keeps a languid hold on his possessions, frequently shedding them as he walks through the house in a manner not unlike feathers from a bird in flight. Walking into the home will typically deposit a path of coats, bags, keys, wallets, sunglasses, ties and other such small items. Working at his desk will create an ever-widening spread of papers, mail, correspondence, writing instruments, electric wires and favorite books. Each new project or entrance or activity will add yet another layer upon all of this until weeks have passed and he walks about in mild confusion wondering where all of his things have gone. Sometimes it makes him happy when I can find the items for him, sometimes it merely makes him annoyed with himself. He always does it, however.

With himself Louis has little to no patience. Things should be done and be done now and be done perfectly or not at all. The slightest mistake on his part brings down the worst condemnations, many of which pain me expressly because I know he is only repeating habits that I instilled within him years ago. I attempt, as time goes on, to ease these things out of him but my luck is slight. I battle, as always, against his own belief that at no time has he earned my respect or affection for him.

He knows that I, in turn, battle the same thing about his feelings for myself. It leads us to maudlin moods sometimes.

With me, however, Louis’ patience is more long lasting. That he is with me at all after all I have done is testament to this. That he puts up with my nightly flights of mood, immature flashes of emotion and inexplicable tempers affirms this for one and all. He holds more patience for me than I hold for myself, though he is not without limits. It is possible for me to push him too far and then I am pushed back by a wrath which is painful and indefensible.

Alone with me Louis is to both his and my way of thinking an inseparable part of my body. Given time and room he and I will stay close to one another and touch if we can and at least try to remain within eyesight if we cannot. Drawing close to me in the dark of night he becomes a beautiful and shy creature, eager to please yet unsure of his skills in doing so. He does not disappoint me, though, and in truth never has. It is his mouth that is the most adept and he uses it in a manner that is earnest and infatigable. He could, I think, be happy doing nothing but for all time.

Around Louis I am not myself. Or I am but in ways unknown to others. My sense of humor is different, as is my overall mood. Even in the most vicious of our fights I am happier with him than without. And when I am around him I have permission and ability to do things that otherwise I never would. My innocence is something known only to him, as is my sense of discovery and wonder. To others I have no such abilities and am often made fun of for it. But with him, at least, I can trust myself.

Around me Louis is a soft thing, a creature happy to wrap around me and increase my body warmth with his own. To him I can be heroic, which both delights and startles me, and around him I can be happy.

He is my own. All in all, I am pleased with him.

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