He stares down at their hands, swallowing to try and lose the lump in his throat. "You didn't know," he says vehemently, trying to remind himself that he's here and he's happy and he's not lingering in the past. He offers the briefest of smiles along with a shrug. "It's not your fault. I was a kid, my memory wasn't always very good."

"I always liked to think it was something pretty. Brigitte or Caroline or Eleonore." He had a lot of time to think of what it might have been, but not what it had actually been. "I'm still not sure if she even named me what I am," he admits. "Or if that's just what they call me, like we did Flea."