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Summer was Armin’s favourite season.
Gone were the chilling winter winds that bit at his skin and made him shiver - summer was here, and Armin loved it all - the warmth, how full the trees were, how all the flowers came into bloom and the ocean became warm enough to swim in. Their town filled with holiday-makers and took up all the best spots on the beach, but that just gave Armin and Jean the excuse to go off to their own secret spots on the shoreline or take their bicycles down the forest path to get to the lake.
Each year when summer came Armin was filled by this overwhelming sense of nostalgia. He couldn’t help but remember that first June he’d spent in France, back when his hair was still long and he couldn’t speak the language. The clink of milk bottles as he brought them inside on a bright summer morning, teens speeding down the road on their bikes, a cool breeze against warm, bare skin - it all had Armin’s stomach in knots, turned him into the lovestruck mess he’d been back then.
Armin and Jean usually spent each summer the same way as their first, just without all of the pining and awkwardness. They would go to the beach and take long walks and cook together while singing along to the radio. It was always hard to peel Jean away from his camera when the sun was out, and when it was in, and he wasn’t working, Jean spent a lot of time in his room developing all the photos he’d taken.
Five summers had passed since then. This year, they were doing something a little different.
The countryside flew by. Jean had always like to drive fast, and Armin was clinging onto his seat, half terrified, half exhilarated. It was only a three-hour drive, but Armin thought if Jean kept this up they would be there in two and a half.
Paris.
There had been so much talk of it, so many plans that fell through. They had both been so busy, and all their time off work seemed to be filled up by sudden emergencies or events, like Armin’s parents finally coming to visit, or Bertholdt and Annie’s wedding. But this time, they were going. They were on their way. Jean would have quit his job to make this, and Armin probably would have too.
They could only stay for the weekend, but that was more than enough time. Maybe Jean wouldn’t get to explore the city as fully as he wanted, but all that was on his mind was the event they were going to. Finally, finally, after years of nagging and prodding, Armin had finally convinced Jean to submit some photographs for an exhibition.
And his entry had been accepted.
In a small room off a busy street in Montmartre, three of Jean’s photographs had been hung up on display for anyone who wanted to see them. He’d cried when he found out, just a little bit, and Armin had pretended not to notice as he congratulated him and promised that they would find the time to go to Paris and see them there in person.
Jean’s mother had wrangled the time off from her boss, and she was looking after Cerise and the house. Jean had given a meticulous list of things to keep in check and she’d rolled her eyes and promised it would all be fine. Armin wasn't worried about the house. He was worried about Paris, a little, about what it would be like to go back to a big city after all these years. The city was all that he’d known before he moved to France, and he hated it. How impersonal it was, how everything was all the same.
Jean could tell he was stressing. He always could.
“You’ll be fine,” Jean said, slowing down a little, taking one hand off the wheel and placing it on Armin’s thigh.
Armin felt himself calm down a little at the touch and he put his hand on top of Jean’s.
“I hope so.”
They were staying in a room with two single beds just to be safe, and Armin had the map ready as they approached Paris to direct them there. Jean’s excitement was coming off him in waves and despite his nervousness, Armin couldn’t help but find it contagious. When they parked, Jean quickly got out of the car and looked up around at the buildings, awestruck.
He’d tried not to look too much when he was driving, but now that he was out of the car he wanted to take everything in. He’d never been somewhere like this before. It was a dream come true in more ways than one. Growing up, Jean had never expected that he’d have the money or the time to come to Paris, let alone have his photography an exhibition there.
Once they were checked in and had set down their bags Jean pulled the curtain over the window and pulled Armin in for a kiss, smiling against his lips.
“We made it,” he grinned.
“We did,” Armin smiled back.
They stopped at a cafe for lunch and sat outside in the sun. Armin was a little overwhelmed by how much was going on but Jean relished it. He let his coffee go cold because he was constantly picking up his camera to capture little moments that Armin would have missed if not for him. When they were done, they set off for the exhibition, because Jean didn’t think he could wait for a second longer. He wanted desperately to take Armin’s hand as they walked down the streets, but with all the people around he knew it was too dangerous, so they both held their sleeves instead.
Seeing how happy and excited Jean was took the edge of a little for Armin. Nothing bad was going to happen. He wasn’t back home; this was somewhere new. An entirely different adventure that he got to have.
The door to the place where the exhibition was held was invisible if you weren’t looking for it and barely noticeable even if you were - it was tucked away down a sidestreet in the arts district. Jean didn’t care that it was so out of the way, he was still shocked beyond belief that he’d managed it in the first place. He knew his work was good. But he never even considered that it would be good enough to people in Paris, that they’d get him.
“You ready?” Armin asked, reaching out to touch his arm.
Jean nodded. “Yeah.”
They stepped inside. The room was tiny, and the walls were covered in lights that framed perhaps a hundred photographs that were on display from ceiling to floor. It was immediately overwhelming, so much to take in, but Armin found that fascinating and he immediately started searching for Jean’s. He knew what they looked like; Jean had spent hours agonising over which ones to send and Armin had been with him for every moment.
Jean hadn’t taken more than one step into the room. He was wiping his eyes, hoping that Armin or the other two people in the room couldn’t see him crying.
He did it.
Even if this place was small. Even if not many people would see what he’d done.
He’d done it, regardless.
“Jean, look!” Armin said, his use of English and his accent earning him a raised eyebrow from the man and woman in the room, which he ignored.
Jean turned to look and saw the three spaces in the room where his photographs were, a small badge under each which said his name. He felt his heart swell with pride.
The first picture was of Bertholdt and Annie on their wedding day. They had snuck off during the reception. Jean figured they both needed some peace and quiet, though Annie’s father had sent Jean off looking for them, and he’d found the couple on a bench outside, both fast asleep. Bertholdt was slumped down, his chin touching his chest and his legs spread out in front of him. Annie was lying with his arms around her in his lap, legs tucked up onto the bench, her wedding dress muddied around the bottom where it rested on the ground. Her hair had all fallen out of its bun and was a total mess.
Jean had snapped a photograph and left them there to rest.
The second was of a group of children playing on the beach, all siblings of various ages. Jean had asked their mother for permission before taking the picture. It looked like two of them, twins, were in the middle of some kind of secret dance they had devised, while the eldest fussed with the small baby and the toddler sat alone about to find out what sand tasted like. Jean loved that one, purely down to the chaos of it contrasting with the calm beach behind.
The third was his favourite.
At first glance, you might only notice all of the moss-covered rocks taking up most of the view. Unlike most of his pictures, this one was taken on a cloudy day. The sky was dark and made a threat of rain. In the very background, there was a figure, lying back on one of the rocks with his hands up in the air as if to invite down all of the water from the sky. Armin was barely visible, but Jean thought that you could still tell he was laughing just by looking at the way he was holding himself. He couldn't explain why it made him feel so much joy to see that image. It was supposed to be dark, moody. But it felt exciting to him.
The man from the other side of the room walked over to Armin and started speaking to him.
“They are good, are they not?” He asked in French, his eyebrow quirking up.
“The best,” Armin replied, his accent perfect.
That night they pushed the single beds together and lay either side of the small gap, holding hands and staring at each other. They were both exhausted after a long day of doing touristy things, but there was still more to do tomorrow.
“You know,” Armin said quietly, squeezing his hand. “My grandfather would have been so proud of you for this. He always believed you had a gift.”
“I could only manage it because of you,” Jean replied, thankful. “You’re the one that convinced me to try it.”
“You’re still insanely talented.”
“Says you.”
Armin blushed at that, rolled his eyes, but scooted a little closer.
“Seeing that picture of Bertholdt and Annie…” Armin started, but trailed off, not wanting to say the words.
“What about it?”
“Makes me wish… ahh, I don’t know. It’s stupid.”
Jean propped himself up on his elbows and looked at him. “Does it make you wish that was us?”
Armin’s face turned scarlet and rolled over. “Well it could never happen, could it?”
Jean poked him. “If it could, would you want to? Would you want to get married?”
“Jean!” Armin spluttered, hiding his face in his hands. “You can’t just say things like that!”
“Sure I can,” Jean laughed at his shyness. “I’ll say it again. Would you marry me, if we could get married?”
Armin couldn’t tear his hands away from his face, just nodded. Jean grabbed his camera from the bedside table and took a photo of him.
“You never know,” Jean said. “Maybe one day we could.”
Armin let out a small laugh and peered at him through his fingers. “As if.”
“You never know. We can always pretend. I can call you my husband in secret.”
“Sure, why not,” Armin laughed, and Jean took another picture.
The pictures he took of Armin smiling and laughing were his favourite. He would never send those off to be shown at an exhibition. He liked to keep them for himself, to be the only one who got to see them.
“Hey,” Armin said quietly, lying back down and poking him in the chest. “We’re in Paris.”
“We are,” Jean beamed.
“Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For being you?”
Jean’s laughter rang out in the quiet. Armin loved that sound. It sounded like home to him. Of summer nights and happiness and adventure and finding inspiration and learning what it was like to love a place like it was a person. Maybe they would never be able to get married, but Armin knew that Jean was the person he wanted to spend his whole life with, no matter what.
“I love you, Jean.”
“I love you too, Armin.”