They didn’t talk about their pasts. After all, he already knew all too well about the book upon book upon book worth of very exact rules that she had t learn starting not long after leaving the crib—rules that taught her exactly how to act every second of everyday and that taught her that her only worth was in furthering her father’s name and reputation—that until she was seventeen years old she believed that her only worth was to follow her parents bidding.
Likewise, she knew all about his illness. How he’d barely been able to take care of himself when he had to take care of his sick father and sister, knowing all the while that those genes sat dormant in him, just waiting to attack whenever they felt like reading their heads to knock him down. That before his sixteenth birthday, he’d seen all the family he’d ever had put into the ground.
So, they didn’t talk about their pasts—they just understood when the other woke up shaking in the night, and did their very best to help keep the nightmares at bay. The past was the past, and the future would come when it did. They were there for each other’s present.