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Getting out of the basement was not what Verlaine expected to do this year. However because of the attacks the Russian Terrorist caused, he had to fill in for his brother, Chuuya, who was in France.
France…
How was France now? Does Eiffel still stand strong in Paris? Are its streets still adorned with ivory over centuries old walls?
Did their old apartment stay as it was when they left? Their plants surely died from dehydration by now, those beautiful flowers that adorned their kitchen counters and windows are dead and crusty without a doubt. Oh how Rimbaud cared for them. Verlaine never understood why one would raise plants in their house for fun, but as he saw how much Rimbaud cared for his little mute companions, he started to care too, and even bought more of them for him, especially his favourites, wildflowers. As long as Rimbaud was happy, he would turn the house into a greenhouse.
That, however, never happened.
He wondered what happened to their bedroom. Are their bookshelves still filled with Arthur’s poetry? Does his journals still stay stacked on top of each other over their nightstand, where he had written pages about Paul every day, while Paul pretended to not to notice?
But ah, of course, Rimbaud was not writing in them anymore. In fact, he was not writing anywhere at all anymore.
His heart gave a tight squeeze at the thought.
He felt frustrated. Was their house still filled with golden streaks of light every morning and amber coloured light every evening? Did the moon still shine beautifully into their kitchen, illuminating the dirty coffee cups left in the sink, or the half empty wine bottles stacked over the fridge? Were their bedsheets still crumpled and messy, guarding the last shape of their final night spent in each others arms? Were they cold, that Verlaine had to heat up just few minutes while Rimbaud brushed his hair, or warm, that Arthur would spend a whole day being lazy under the covers. Does the linen tree on the street still carry its delightful scent into their bedroom from that open window, adorned with flowing white curtains whenever that beautiful scent hit their nose? Arthur always loved that tree, in fact, he told Paul that it smelled like “good June evenings”. Paul had no idea what that meant, but as long as it made Arthur happy, he had no interest in criticising meaningless human attachments to the plants.
His heart tightened again. How dare they? How dare they keep being magnificent when the one who made them so was dead? How dare they stay beautiful while Arthur was absent? How dare they still carry beautiful smells across the street while the one who should have admired them is no longer there to take a lungful of them? How dare they still mirror the domestic life they shared, how dare they reflect the intimate nights spend wine drunk, tangled limbs, naked bodies pressed too close together to be confused as something else, too drunk on wine and ecstasy? How dare the walls still remember their voices, deep soul crushing talks and moans of pleasure, laughter and giggles first thing in the morning and caressing each other’s hair at night?
How dare they still reflect whispered poems and love confessions?
Paul unconsciously touched his braid at the thought. His black ribbon was tied snugly onto his braid, holding his side braid like it did the very first day Rimbaud tied it onto his braid, hanging low on his back. Arthur would gently comb his hair, early in the morning in bed, part it into sections and gently start from the right side of his forehead, gently braiding a golden section down to the very end and tying it with the rest of his hair with that black ribbon.
Delicate and long fingers running through his hair, oh how he missed it! He would do anything to feel them caressing his hair again, delicately combing them and braiding them every morning and untangling them every night with the care of a lovers hands.
A lovers hands….
Paul never wanted to acknowledge what they had as love. One could say he was being petty and arrogant about it, thinking that he was way above falling in love, that he was a lone wolf and will always be, but the underlying reason that was gnawing in the darkest, loneliest corners of his mind was that he believed as an artificial human, he was below the concept of love. He didn’t believe that he could be capable of loving someone or being loved by someone. He was an abomination, a mistake brought to this world by the hands of cruelty and evil. No monster was capable of being loved by someone so… pretty and absolutely magnificent.
Rimbaud was an angel, in his eyes. Sure, not any usual angel, no blind soldier of God, but a deadly spy. However he was too good to be from this world, proving Paul that a monster was more than capable of being loved and desired by a lover, being pulled into eager arms for restless, promising kisses littered across his face and neck, pressed sloppily against his lips, almost carelessly. Anyone who didn’t know Arthur well enough would say that whatever he wished to get from Paul was casual, almost a meaningless satisfaction, but Paul knew better. Because no casual passion would beg for two strong arms to cradle you at night when you are cold and tired and the world is just too much to be you again. And Paul would never refuse filling his arms with his delicate lover.
No… they were lovers, even the most passionate ones at that, the ones who would change the course of history and the lovers that poets would write poems and Shakespeareans would write sonnets of their love and… eventual betrayal.
Betrayal…
No, Paul Verlaine was not a human, a monster couldn’t love an angel so fiercely, and despite the fire of passion, couldn’t handle them so delicately, knowing he was holding an angel in his arms. But Arthur, with his endless patience and eternal love, proved him how painfully wrong he was. But it was too late…
Paul Verlaine finally had a heartbeat, a real one. One that didn’t start with codes, rather the sacrifice of a lover from the past. He was no longer a monster, no longer an abomination. Perhaps, he once was, and the worst one at that. But now… he was just a human, and even worse, a man who missed his lover dearly…
He would prefer his hand to be broken than to betray his lover and shoot him that day, the day he did the mistake of empathising with a boy he didn’t know, who eventually killed his lover like he was just another man against his existence. He couldn’t bring himself to hate him completely unlike the hate he harboured in himself every day and night, crawling under his skin like parasites firing his nerves to attack, to kill, to destroy, a hate only Arthur’s whispered sweet nothings, soft touches and kisses could soothe. But he couldn’t forgive Chuuya either and maybe that’s his punishment. He lost the only person who understood, completed and loved him like no other did on his search for a kin. That kin, however, became a human much earlier than him. And in the end, he was pathetically alone and so terribly sad.
“I'm sorry, Rimbaud. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't treat you like the friend you were. I'm sorry I couldn't thank you for the present you gave me on my birthday. And now that you're no longer here… Now I'm just so terribly sad.”
His heart warmed up unnaturally, like hearing a whisper from a lover from the past…
”I forgive you.”