Work Text:
One Year Before
Outside the Facility
Rimbaud felt the firm barrel of a gun pressed against his back. He froze, although it was more out of shock than fear. He knew whose hand was holding that gun without even needing to spare a glance behind him. And despite the warning bells ringing through his mind, he trusted that hand not to pull the trigger. Trusted the man - his partner - despite the coldness of the action. He might just be naive, but he was sure that he could sense Verlaine's hesitation.
“What are you doing?”
Rimbaud’s voice comes out more quiet and unsure than he intended.
“I’m sorry Rimbaud. But I want to save myself. My other self…”
His other self, the unconscious boy. The child being carried on Verlaine’s shoulders, peacefully ignorant of the turmoil surrounding him. The child who wasn’t a child, but a being constructed in the facility Rimbaud and Verlaine had just invaded. Chuuya Nakahara. Rimbaud was the closest person to understanding the complexity that was Paul Verlaine, but despite what they shared, he knew that Verlaine shared something fundamentally deeper with this child. Their origin, their supposed lack of humanity.
And now Rimbaud felt fear. He knew Verlaine would pull the trigger, albeit reluctantly, if he identified Rimbaud as a genuine threat. They had spent so much time deconstructing the wall between them, but this moment was the pivotal point. What happened next would either destroy and wash away the remaining debris that separated them, or rebuild that wall numerous times higher and wider than it had ever been.
“Paul...”
He sensed the man behind him tense, the press of the gun digging deeper.
“If it means that much to you, then I’ll help.
We’re on the same side. I’m on your side.”
A moment of nothingness.
Then a breath, before the pressure on his back is relieved.
Gold eyes meet blue ones, both unsure but hardened with resolve.
Breaking the silence, Rimbaud begins to move.
“Let’s go, we don’t have long until they catch up.”
Blue eyes study Rimbaud for a moment longer. Verlaine is a difficult man to read, but Rimbaud must have done something right, because his gaze starts to soften and he stores away his gun. He begins to open his mouth, his eyebrows creased in a look of regret that sits unfamiliar on his face.
“Rimbaud, I’m so sor-”
But the clock is ticking, and the shouts from the men pursuing them are growing ever closer, so Rimbaud turns away and readies himself for their escape.
“Paul, there’s no time. You can make it up to me later but right now we need to run.”
So they ran.
…
Present Day
Their days of running were long gone.
Well… mostly.
They still had to take certain precautions to keep the boy and themselves safe, of course. But living in a rural farmhouse and using false identities that changed every few months was a small price to pay. The sound of Chuuya’s laugh echoing through the hallways, and the way his face would glow with pride as he showed Verlaine each and every one of the eggs he had collected from the hens in the morning, made it all worth it. They would do anything to keep that smile on his face, even if it meant that Verlaine had to go by the most ridiculous names and Rimbaud had to restrain himself from laughing every time the other man referred to himself in public.
Small things like that didn’t matter anyway. Because at home, right now, they were just themselves.
Rimbaud and Verlaine.
In their humble washroom - with smooth vintage tiles decorating the floor, the sweet aroma of soap filling the air and three toothbrushes sitting on the basin - they were just two men.
Two men tired and very much in love.
It had been a slow process at first, settling into this familial routine while simultaneously unpacking the feelings they had for each other. It was still a work in progress, but a surprisingly large amount of change can happen in merely a year. And here they were now, with Verlaine resting against the end of the bathtub and Rimbaud kneeling on the tiles behind him, slowly brushing through strands of blond hair.
Neither of them were quite sure about how much time had passed, but judging from the water that was beginning to grow cold against his skin, Verlaine assumed it had been a while. He hoped it would be for longer still.
Much had changed in the last year, but a few things stayed the same. Verlaine still felt detached to the concept of humanity, considering himself a fraud amongst the public. He still wasn’t sure what being human felt like, but he was pretty certain this was the closest he’s ever come to understanding it. There was no language Verlaine knew that could describe the ease he felt as Rimbaud gently untangled the knots in his hair, his fingers light and careful. There was nothing in this hellish world that he could compare to the way his heart responded to Rimbaud's gentle whispers of their love, like it was something sacred. Like Verlaine was something sacred.
Nine times. He breathed the words in.
“I love you, Verlaine. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Verlaine was never good at comprehending his own feelings, let alone expressing them with words. But he tried. Closing his eyes, leaning his cheek against Rimbaud’s palm - calloused, yet delicate against his skin - he tried to show Rimbaud how much it meant to him. Through a rare act of vulnerability, Verlaine spoke a thousand pent-up words - that he trusted Rimbaud, that he was grateful. Pressing a tender kiss against his fingers, like a promise, he showed Rimbaud that he loved him too.
He loved him so deeply and desperately that he ached. What could be more human than that?
And Rimbaud didn’t mind the silent response. He found it endearing, actually. He could sense Verlaine’s slight smile, and watched as the tension in his shoulders dissipated until there was nothing left. He couldn’t help but smile himself, perfectly content, as he finally began to thread the shampoo through fair, silky hair. To be this close, for Verlaine to let him be this close, was more than he’d ever hoped for. And now it was a regular occurrence, a daily routine.
He would go through hell and back a thousand times if it meant he could stay like this forever. If he could see Verlaine like this for the rest of his life.
Happiness was too weak of a word to describe the feeling that had settled through them at this moment. As Rimbaud gingerly rinsed the last of the shampoo away, Verlaine was grateful - and not for the first time - that he had hesitated on that day a year ago. And even though they’d both talked it out and Rimbaud had somehow managed to forgive him, Verlaine still felt bile rise in his throat whenever he recalled that he’d once held the other man at gunpoint.
But he did his best to avoid the sense of self-disgust, at least for now, and channelled his energy into thanking the universe for blessing him.
Verlaine had never been one for poetics, he couldn’t fully comprehend how a person could view a subject so mundane and make it their muse. He assumed it was probably because he wasn’t quite as human as they were. But, recently, he’d found himself sitting on their porch in the dead of night and silently watching the stars glimmer in and out of view. And every time he couldn’t help but think of how these little lights - as ethereal as they were - didn’t stand a chance at rivalling Rimbaud. His Rimbaud. How lucky he was.
He mindlessly reaches behind him now and intertwines Rimbaud’s hand with his own, and his partner wordlessly responds by rhythmically rubbing his thumb back and forth against the back of Verlaine’s hand. There are still remnants of soap on his fingers and stray hair strands have found their way between their palms but it’s perfect. It’s all so perfect. And they stay like this for a while.
At least, until Rimbaud chuckles to himself.
“Paul, I need both of my hands for this.”
“Oh. I suppose you do.”
With a comforting squeeze, Rimbaud separates their hands and reaches out for the conditioner, the last step of this routine. Delicately massaging the product into the ends of Verlaine’s hair, he thinks about their past for a while. Thinks about all that has changed, how he no longer has to wash blood out of Verlaine’s hair, but flour. Let’s just say the former King of Assasins is quite the novice in the kitchen. And Rimbaud thinks about their future too. Thinks about the boy, fast asleep in the room above them. He thinks about them, as a family.
And thinks about what they’ll have for breakfast tomorrow.
“Paul…” he begins, as he rinses off the last bits of soap that are stubbornly stuck to Verlaine’s neck.
“Hmm?”
“I think maybe I should be the one to make breakfast with Chuuya tomorrow morning.”
There’s a brief pause before Verlaine laughs softly.
“Maybe that would be best.”