Chapter Text

Dear reader,

First of all, thank you for coming across the AO3 website and landing on this story. I hope it finds a way to seduce you and take you on a journey through time and space, from your eyes to the bottom of my heart.

This story is a gift from me to a friend I fell deeply in love with some time ago. They unwittingly found a way to make me happy every day and I never really managed to confess to them despite the time we spent together.

I loved them and still love them unconditionally, and instead of letting that sparkling feeling of happiness fade away deep into my heart, I decided to convey it in the thing I believe I do best: writing.

I hope you'll be able to connect with the way Gavin and Nines love and admire each other even without ever showing any obvious signs of love. I wanted to find a way to convey how strongly they care about their loved one in a simple, light-hearted way, while maintaining the depth and complexity of that feeling.

Writers are crazy. Artists in general have a spark of madness that makes them unique and magnificent. I am crazy as well, mainly crazy in love, with everything and everyone. 

Especially those who are able to make me feel alive.

Keep your loved ones Close to Your Heart.

一 Cha.

CHAPTER 1 : From London To Paris : Poésie Circulaire

The rain poured down violently last night. In the three years Gavin has been here, he has never had to fix the roof of his bookshop on a Thursday night at 2am. He didn't really have a choice, he couldn't waste all those paper manuscripts ーsome were first editions or single copies. Nevertheless, the next morning, the planks were soaked in a moisture of paper, ink and rainwater. 

Reed sighed as he witnessed the damage; it was going to be a long day. 

He remembered the day he opened the bookshop, when a journalist had offered him the chance to be the official salesman for some of the best-known writers. Gavin's bookshop was in the centre of Paris, a perfect place to gather regular customers as well as new ones of all ages. One of his favourite regular clients and readers was a young girl in a wheelchair. She came to read Emily Bronte's novels. Her name was Rose. Although she couldn't read English, Gavin had to find her a translated version of the novels. The first time she came to ask for one, Gavin struggled to find an English-French translator who could send him a copy from England. Fortunately, he had contacts, and the fact that he was half French helped him deal with both sides in more complicated situations. 

"Mr. Reed?" Rose called from the door she had pushed open. 

From the ladder he stood on, Reed turned in her direction, putting away the last of the books on the top shelf of the bookcase, "oh, Rose! I'm so glad to see you, hello, my dear."

"The pleasure is mutual, Mr. Reed, I came to ask about my new book, has it arrived yet?"

Rose was such a wonderful girl, 13 years old and very bright, she loved learning about the imaginary world of literature. 

"Indeed! Let me pick it out!", Gavin headed to the back of his library as Rose rolled her wheelchair down the main aisle, looking at the titles on the shelves, "I left it all wrapped up to let you have the pleasure of owning a freshly opened book!". Gavin shouted from a distance before returning with the item in his hands. 

"Here it is, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Alan Edgar Poe, French version."

"Your translators are wonderful, Mr. Reed, thank you very much."

"I'm glad to hear it," he smiled, " Have a nice day, Rose."

"You too, Mr. Reed!"

Gavin held the door open for Rose and she waved him in after thanking him. They were such beautiful days to start out that way. 

Although the week ended in a very usual way for Gavin, this Friday morning was different. Sure, he had to replace a few manuscripts because of the rain, but... that young man in the black hat who was watching the store from the street was not a familiar face to Gavin and was not dressed like a Frenchman. Everything was black on him, the shoes, the hat, the coat... even his shirt. The only difference was the white scarf and that pale skin. 

He admired the architecture of the store for a few minutes under Gavin's watchful eyes, noting on a piece of paper the number of books he had to replace. He didn't decide to finally enter until shortly before the bell rang eleven. 

"Bonjour, monsieur," Gavin greeted him in French, "Puis-je vous aider ?"

The man looked at Gavin with his cold blue eyes before leading it back into the large room filled with books of all kinds, "actually, yes, do you know any English?". He replied in very uncommon French, a French that Gavin only heard from the English. 

"Absolutely, I'm probably the only bookseller in Paris who is English."

" Great, nice to meet you, my name is Richard Stern and I'm a writer."

"What is an English writer doing here in France?" asked Gavin promptly. 

"I could ask the same thing of an Englishman living in Paris," retorted Richard, "besides I'm not English but American."

Gavin sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, "An American? Here? Gee, I never thought that would happen."

The tall young man sighed, removing his hat, "well... It's a long story."

"Not so surprising from a writer." Reed smiled. 

He held out his hand for a handshake, and the American grasped it, "Gavin Reed, I am the owner as you may already know, Mr. Stern. How can I help you?"

"It's really a long storyー can I ask for a seat?"

"Sure, I even have coffee, would you like a cup?" Gavin motioned for him to follow. 

"Gladly."

Gavin was a friendly man. Or at least that was what Richard thought he was. Reed could be the most awful asshole he'd ever met, it wouldn't have shown. Indeed, the man was a specimen, very bold and provocative but what could Richard say, he was the first Frenchman he'd met who was also English, travel was well known to Gavin and it was something he bragged about to him. 

Speaking of travel, Richard hadn't taken the boat from New York to Paris for nothing. In fact, he had been to most of the great places in the world in recent years. Now, in the spring of 1904, he chose Paris as his final destination. He did not want to discover more. He thought he had gathered enough knowledge and imagination to build his story. 

"What is it about? You don't write a book without at least planning the narrative, I know that well enough." Gavin swallowed his third cup of coffee. 

"They're all poems about people and places I've been lucky enough to meet and see with my own eyes."

"Oh, a book of poetry? It's not something people are very fond of these days, I mean... after the last war thirty years ago, it's a bit... old."

"Are you criticising art?" Richard frowned. 

"No! No, I would never, it's just that sometimes art isー " He stopped in the middle of his sentence when Richard's blue eyes pierced him, "well... forget it. What exactly do you want from me? I'm a busy man, I have a shop to run. "

"I know," the other circled his cup with a finger, "I just need help finalising my book and then selling it. I assumed that since France is a literary country, a bookseller might know the best way to do it."

It's Gavin's turn to frown: "You're not wrong, but I think you need an expert for that. A writer even."

"Aren't you?"

"A writer? No, no I'm not, I was a car seller, I couldn't be a writer."

"I meant an expert." Richard shook his head. 

"Oh... well... Yes, perhaps, I have some knowledge. But am I really a good choice? I mean... how many people have you asked before me?" 

"Only you."

"You should go and ask other booksellers, they might be more knowledgeable than me." Gavin brushed his hair with one hand. 

"But what would be the point? I..." Richard hesitated for a second, "I have a good feeling about you. You're suited for this task."

Gavin wrinkled his nose, thinkink, before he cut him off, "how much?" 

"How much?" Repeated the other, frowning.

"Money. I'll get paid to help you, right? I don't have time to waste, so I better get paid if I'm going to help with something that's going to steal it." 

Reed stood up, walking around the small room at the back of the bookstore, under the curious gaze of the young man. 

"Sure, I can pay you, that's not what I miss, but only when we're done with this."

"Are you trying to trick me?" Gavin stopped walking. 

"No. I'm an honest man," Stern assured, "I'm just trying to write the perfect book."

"Not one book is perfect, Mr. Stern." Gavin gritted his teeth. 

"If you say so, but it can be if the author believes so."

Gavin remained silent, listening to the ticking of the clock above the oil lamp. This journey could be hazardous, there was no guarantee that he wasn't wasting his time with Richard, but the man was right, he also had a good feeling about him nonetheless. 

After all, why not? Maybe it could be a change from the routine and have the opportunity to work with a writer in something more than a business relationship. 

"What can prove to me that you are a good man?"

"Nothing but yourself. So, deal?" Richard held out his hand. 

Reed looked at it and then back at him, grimacing but not reluctant to the proposal. 

"Maybe... yeah." Gavin grasped it, "business is business after all."

"Business with you doesn't seem like an easy matter." The taller man smiled kindly, "well, since you don't have time to waste, we'll start tomorrow. I'll come and see you at the same time as today."

"Eleven hours before the bell rings?" Gavin returned the smile. 

"Absolutely."

What a strange situation Gavin got himself into. But Richard was nice. Polite, sure, but very nice. Gavin may have doubted him, but deep down he knew he was honest. Richard had this manner and way of speaking that made him seem like the kind of guy you want to be friends with. 

The first morning they spent together, Gavin looked forward to it. And his excitement was more than reciprocated when Stern pushed open the bookshop door at exactly 10:59. The little bell above the door rang and Gavin looked up from the book he was reading in his chair. Looking over his glasses, he smiled slightly, "Welcome, Mr. Stern," he said in his French-accented English.

"Good morning, Mr. Reed," greeted the other as he placed his hat on the coat rack. "Are you still interested in my offer?"

"You think I've changed my mind?" Gavin closed his book soundingly, sliding it onto the small table next to a stack of dozens of other books, all different sizes and colours.

"I can expect anything from the French." Richard chuckled.

"How funny," Gavin chuckled, "I like you, Stern, you're such an atypical person."

"I'm not a freak." He gritted his teeth.

"I didn't say that. Take off your jacket, we're going to sit around a table." As Gavin invited him in, the bell tower of Paris echoed in the distance; it was 11 o'clock, right on time.

"Are you always this punctual?"

"I like to be, indeed." He sat down in the chair Gavin motioned him to take. 

This table was round, in the middle of the bookshop, behind the big window. Just like the first time he'd set foot there, Richard realised that there were books absolutely everywhere: on the carpet, the tables, the chairs, the overcrowded shelves, the stairs... It was fascinating to see how many of them were stored in this place. The atmosphere was filled with the smell of paper and printed ink.

"Reassure me," Gavin crossed his arms over his shirt, "you can speak French, right?"

"Of course I can, but only a little. I need to practise."

"Hm, okay. At least you can find yourself in Paris if you haven't already gotten lost without knowing a word of French."

"That's almost insulting."

"I know," Reed grinned as he straightened a stack of books beside him, "so what's our deal again? You didn't give me many details."

"That's easy, I just need some advice on how to get my book perfectly structured. And since I'm in Paris, I'd like to have... a guide that could help me find inspiration to write about this beautiful city. "

Gavin took off his glasses, frowning, "You want me to be that guy, right?"

"Only if you want to, Mr Reed."

"Gavin. Call me Gavin, if we're about to collaborate together, I prefer some familiarity."

Already? Jesus, this man was also an atypical.

"Well... I guess you're right. You can call me Richard."

They exchanged a friendly smile and Gavin put his glasses back on. The connection was going a little too well, but neither Gavin nor Richard was complaining. It was good to have a good feeling with your new partner if you were going to be working together for the next few months.

Nothing really happened this morning, a customer came in around noon while he and Richard were exchanging pleasantries. The man asked for one of Zola's books, La Bête Humaine. He had a strong Austrian accent, when Gavin asked his name, he said he was Sigmund Freud, who was apparently travelling around Europe to gather qualified doctors in Paris. A strange character, but brilliant. At least that's what Gavin thought as he spoke to him. 

"What are you planning to do in Paris today? It's a beautiful day, perfect weather for a walk around the city一 oh! How about Le Champs de Mars?" Gavin suggested to Richard who opened a book while Reed took care of the customer. 

The blue-eyed man looked up from his reading for a second, then turned a page, again to read the lines of a book whose title Gavin could read: Les Misérables, a book he hated in his giant book collection. Honestly, Gavin still didn't understand how people could be so interested in this story... Anyway, it didn't really matter.

Richard replied without losing the thread of his reading, "why not, it might give me some inspiration to start. "

"Hm, tell me, you said you understood French, right?".

"Quite well, yes. But I'm better at reading and writing than speaking," he turned a new page, "and you?"

"What do you mean, I'm half French, I speak it perfectly." Gavin crossed his arms.

"I know," he stared at Gavin with a smile, "but how can you be perfectly bilingual like that?".

"You don't need to know my life, we don't even know each other." 

"I'm trying to fix that, but you're not exactly cooperative, Mr. Reed." Stern stood up as he handed Gavin the book, crossing the room to grab his coat hanging on the coat rack, then his hat. 

"Where are you going?" Gavin frowned, tossing the book into the corner of the room. This man doesn't even care a bit about his merchandise , Richard thought, or maybe he just hates this one. 

"We're going for a walk, aren't we?"

We? Well...

"N-Now? But it's nearly noon..." Gavin scratched his beard.

"We can have lunch walking, there must be benches in Paris. And we don't have time to waste, you're the one who said you were a busy man."

"Richard..."

"Come on, hurry up! I'm hungry for food and inspiration!"

Reed sighed, "Ah... these writers, I swear to God... all the same."

"London? Ah, I was there, a couple of weeks ago, I found myself in the middle of a violent Suffragette demonstration." 

"Oh, I've heard of that movement, I think women should have the vote, it would be fair, but all that violence over it... I don't like it." Gavin sighed, eating his last piece of bread.

"There's not much we can do here, but it was such a sight, it made me want to write poems about British women." Richard nodded to himself, a satisfied smile curving his lips. 

In front of them, Le Champs de Mars was full of people picnicking in the midday sun, girls chatting together, children chasing a dog, men walking... and above them, the EIffel Tower, rising to the sky.

Gavin was looking up at it when he asked Richard, "Can I see your work?"

Stern suddenly turned his head towards him, "See... my work?"

"If we are to be partners, it would be useful for me to see what you have written before to get an idea of how to proceed."

They were silent for a while, listening to the conversations of the people around them, Gavin was swinging his legs in a childish way, waiting for a response.

When viewed from a distance they looked like a strange duo, Richard was all in black, except for the white scarf. Gavin, on the other hand, was wearing camel trousers with a cream shirt, barely ironed, it wasn't even buttoned up to the collar, it was finished with braces the same colour as his trousers. His dishevelled hair made him look more like a street kid than a bookseller. But he had his glasses over his head, so that counted.

"If you see my work, you'll base it on what I've done before, but I need a fresh mind and something new for each place I write about." Stern explained.

"Does that mean I have to find a way to make Paris unique and special in your writing?"

"That's the idea, yes."

Reed stood up, stretched, and looked at the sky. Richard followed his every move until the man winked at him, "Then I will make your Paris unforgettable."

Chapter Text

“I'm tired of all the "somedays", why is it never today ? Today is good, today is perfect, even if by then we'll already be tomorrow. 

Time is too fast and we can't always keep up. For cause, I hate talking about before or after, I only like today, and the present. Who cares about tomorrow if what we feel only happens today? 

I know I shouldn't say that, you always live ahead of me, an hour ahead, a day ahead, even a year ahead some days; it's weird. For you I have to think about tomorrow, because that's our dynamic. As much as I'd like to have a today with you someday, I can only hope it happens tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 2 : Be My Courbet, I’ll Be Your Kandinsky

“Paris is… like a rose that一 no. Paris, touching the sky close to the angels … rah, it doesn’t work.” Richard tore up the page, crumpled it in his palm and threw it across the room.

Gavin sat there grimacing. The man had done it dozens of times, and this was the first and only sentence he had written. "Maybe you don't have the inspiration?"

"I do have inspiration." Richard replied through clenched teeth, emphasising the words. 

"Then it's not the right one. " Reed shrugged.

"If you're so smart, get me a good start, will you?"

Gavin circled his glass with his finger, his head in his hand, "No book could be as light as Paris, flying rose petals to the top of the Eiffel Tower, touching the clouds where the angels hide."

Richard dropped his pen, staring at the green-eyed man who shrugged again, “what? You told me to come up with a beginning, I did."

Stern buried his face in his hands, sighing, "this is bad."

"What do you mean it's bad! I'm not a writer, don't ask me to make a perfect shot on the first try!".

"Okay, okay, no need to shout, it's nothing, it's just... words." Richard massaged his temples.

"I don't even know what you're trying to write," Gavin rolled his eyes, "it's like we went to a bakery this afternoon and suddenly you had a divine epiphany while looking at one of the pastries."

"Are you insulting me?"

"That depends." The bookseller swallowed his glass of rum. 

"I hate you." Stern started a new sentence in his notebook.

"If you really did, you wouldn't be here anymore," Gavin remarked.

"There aren't many options to be honest." The American frantically crossed out his new sentence. 

"You're a liar, Rich, have a drink, you'll find more inspiration." Reed pointed to the untouched glass filled with alcohol beside him.

"If drinking really helped me, I'd be the town boozer," he grabbed the glass nonetheless and drank it.

"How do you think Arthur Rimbaud wrote? He was a drug addict."

"Yes, and he died at 37." Richard sets the glass back down with a clatter against the wooden table, "I'm not going to try to find the writer in me through drug use. I have a hand, a pen and a piece of paper, the rest is just art. Sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn't, you can't force it out." His last sentence came out in an exhausted sigh, shoulders dropping, he held his head in his hand. Richard pushed the glass closer to Gavin without looking up, "give me another drink, please."

Gavin complied, grabbing his glass before uncorking the bottle of amber liquid, "You tell me, like I said, I'm not a writer. I'm just giving suggestions, you have to explore the possibilities and try until it works... I guess."

"I like realism in my work, if I start doing a Rimbaud, it's going to be bad."

"You never know," Reed handed him back the glass, "Gustave Courbet was atypical for his time and his success followed his talent."

"It makes me think of the man who came in last night. He sat in the corner of the bookshop reading something for about two hours," Richard smiled at him in a ‘thank you’ way, "What was his name again?".

"I think it was Kandinsky. I may have written it down somewhere on my client list. He's not from the area, that's for sure. Russian probably." Gavin shrugged.

"Kandinsky..." Stern pondered, sipping his second drink, "I think I saw his name somewhere, on a painting or something, not so long ago. It was referred to as 'new art'; a sketch. I can't remember where I saw it."

He paused quickly in his monologue. He was thinking, probably.  He finished his drink in the quiet evening silence. Richard's head must have been spinning a little as he concluded aloud, "His art reminds me of you, in a way. The way you act, the... atypical version of the librarian, I suppose." 

Gavin's face remained blank, looking at himself, his green and cream clothes crumpled, his shoes worn, his hair dishevelled... Well, Rich was right. He wasn't like his colleague across the street. He didn't look as neat as Stern either.

That was Gavin.

"Sorry, that's a weird thing to say like that." Richard held his head, blushing in embarrassment.

"N-No... not at all. I appreciate it, thanks." Gavin smiled fondly. He, too, was in the clouds from the alcohol. The other avoided his gaze the second he saw his smile and laughed tiredly; if even an American couldn't handle two glasses of rum... But Gavin knew it wasn't just because of the alcohol, it was pretty obvious, he'd read far too many books not to decipher people's physical reactions.

And even someone as cold as Richard couldn't lie to him.

Atypical, hm ?

A short week had passed since they started working together and, despite appearances, they were getting on very well; one evening even turned funny when Richard decided to give in and share the other half of a new whole bottle of rum with Gavin. The words never came, but the heart was there, light, content, lively. 

Something gave him the power to write, but nothing from the dictionary locked in his head really popped out like confetti, it was just disorganised trash of feelings. And that was good enough for now.

Nevertheless, the next morning, around 9 o'clock, Stern was sitting in the Bistro Vivienne, on the other side of the gallery, next to a man reading the newspaper. He was facing the front of the library across the street, studying it, watching people go in to return a book they had borrowed from Gavin or to buy one. It was always like that, routine.

He saw Rose pass by, rolling her wheelchair along the pavement before entering the gallery. The sun was still shining today, the rain was just a memory in Richard's head, a reminder of his first meeting with Gavin. 

He lifted his chin to the blue sky above the stained glass window of the covered roof, his eyes closed, breathing in the fresh spring air as it passed through the gallery hall of a 34-year-old rebuilt city.

“Vous n’êtes pas d’ici, jeune homme, cela se voit.” The man next to him looked at Richard upon his reading, he had a soft smile under his moustache. 

Stern looked at him, a confused expression on his face, he hadn't fully understood what the Frenchman had said.

“Not French, I see it.” The other repeated, in weak English this time.

Richard chuckled, "ah, no, indeed." 

“You not look French, it is why.” He turned the page of his newspaper. 

Stern didn't answer, he was staring at the library again, seeing Rose crossing the hall in the opposite direction, waving at him from a distance. Richard returned the greeting with a slight smile. 

It was too much like a typical morning, something that would be repeated over and over again if Richard came to sit in this chair every morning, gazing at the gallery all around.

It gave him an idea. 

The architecture, the golden pillars, the stained glass windows, the morning light through them, the cool breeze... And Gavin's silhouette through the bookshop window. 

Days went by 一

"Maybe there should be two words here, two verbs..." Richard thought about the melody of it all as he said it out loud, " vanish, disappear... fly away even?"

" Flying go with wind," the Frenchman told him, "wind with people moving."

"Hm..." Richard thought again.

一 Dancing with the wind, 

"I should put life itself? Instead of just people一 it's not people anyway, it's... the atmosphere, the place in its entirety."

"Then life is your word, but you also now need light, because life is luminous." The other nodded, still in his strong French accent.

City’s light一 brightness一 life.

"I think I have something, I need to work on the melody." Richard then scribbled something very quickly, referring to the colours of the gallery itself, personifying it.

The name of the street carved into the wall behind him seemed like a divine idea to Richard, and, proudly, he ended his lines with those words. But then he stopped at the very last part of it:

I discovered Paris.

Richard hesitated to add 'my' to the last sentence, it seemed to sound better when he repeated it out loud. 

"I prefer my Paris, sir," the moustached man said before dropping a sentence in French, not knowing his translation, " c' est plus mélodique." 

"Thank you. I think it sounds better that way too."

The Frenchman nodded, not looking up from his paper as a young waiter took his cup from the table. 

"My Paris..." repeated Richard before writing it down. "Thank you! That was very..." he searched for a word, a French one most likely, but instead he just dropped the English, " instructive."

"Find the melody, it'll do some good." the Frenchman smiled at him as Richard stood up to cross the gallery and head for the library. 

"I'll try, Monsieur... ?"

"Apollinaire, enchanté." He opened his hand for a handshake and Richard returned the favour, "Nines, the pleasure is mine."

"May we cross paths again," Apollinaire nodded, putting his hat back on.

"I hope so."

Richard had introduced himself as 'Nines' to everyone he had met in the few weeks he had been in Paris, and elsewhere in the world too. He was Nines, he was not Stern, Stern was just one name, among others, the one people remembered was Nines, the writer. And that was fine. The only one who didn't know it yet was Gavin. 

Nevertheless, the poem he handed to Gavin the second he pushed open the library door was signed with Nines' name. It actually sounded pretentious, but the smile he'd given his work partner was one of pride and delight, after a "I've finally put something on paper!"

Gavin had then read it out loud: 

Days have passed, vanished, 

Along with the city lights, dancing with the wind

You were resplendent with brightness, with life.

The pages had no more words,

Only golden drawings, lines and colours.

At 37 Rue de la Bûcherie, under the Galerie Vivienne,

I discovered my Paris.

"It sounds like something Baudelaire might have written."

"Does that mean it's good?" Richard wondered.

"I don't know, every poet or writer has their own beauty in their art. I can't judge from what I see, it's still a work in progress, isn't it?"

Richard thought he wanted to have a French edition of his Paris writings, and asking Gavin might be a bit... abusive? He really felt like he was stealing his time for free. 

"I wanted to ask you... would you be willing to be my translator? I've been thinking about it, and I'd like to be published in France too, I'd like to have my work translated into French and... I'd be honoured if you were the one working on it."

Gavin didn't answer, he was processing the news, going through several facial expressions that made Richard a little anxious. 

"Look, Rich... it's kind of a big deal, right? I... I don't know if I'd be good enough for it, I can't write."

"I'll pay you for it, just like the work we already do together. It's no problem for me, really," Stern justified himself, insisting, "please, I really want you to be my translator, I trust you with my work, it's like... I know you won't mess it up."

Gavin scratched his beard, moving from Richard's eyes to the floor.

"Please." Stern begged him.

"But... I'll have to make it melodic, the words aren't the same in another language, I... I can't make it sound the same."

"Gavin... every librarian has a writer in them. This will still be my work, but with a little of your own magic." Richard smiled, gripping his free hand in a confident manner. This made Reed look up at him, an apparent unease in his eyes while the other was in a complete hue. Of what? Gavin had no idea, maybe finally being able to write about Paris.

He sighed, looking at the poem in his hand again, reading it a second, third time, silently. Could he make it equivalent in French? Would it sound good enough? 

"I could try, yeah," the older man admitted, moving to his desk at the back of the bookshop. "Should I keep your notebook or should I... tear out the page?".

"Tear it up, you can keep it, for... practising? I'm not sure this one will be in the book." Richard grabbed the notebook, which Gavin handed back to him after tearing out the page he needed.

"Got it, Rich, go back to finding your wonderful writer's inspiration on the streets of Paris." Reed winked at him, folding the small piece of paper in half before slipping it into the chest pocket of his shirt.

No, Gavin kept rereading the words Richard had written, it wasn't exceptional at all, just some poems about the Galerie Vivienne, and maybe about the library too. But it was fascinating to him, the man was fascinating, his secret world of writing was fascinating, and this work of art, the only evidence of Richard's art that he knew of, was driving Reed crazy. He wanted to see more. 

But would he ask him for it?

"Gavin, look! They fixed the pavement here!" 

"It's nothing amazing," the librarian scoffed as he ate the last of his croissant, "on the days we come here for breakfast, this street has always missed a cobblestone or two on its way."

"That changes everything, don't you see?" Richard stood up, looking for the right angle before doing the canvas thing of artists trying to imagine a landscape with their fingers in front of their face.

Gavin shook his head with a smile, sipping his coffee, "No, I don't see it, Mr. Artist, what do your incredible eyes see?"

"Beauty, absolute perfection."

"That much? Oh come on, Rich, there's nothing to一" 

"No, no, no, you don't understand," Richard cut him off, "this is art! This whole city is a work of art, haven't you looked at the plans?"

"I've been here forever, I don't remember the beauty of the freshly fixed pavements." Gavin teased, resting his cup on the small plate.

The American looked at him, a disappointed face telling him 'you should make a little effort to imagine’, but Gavin wasn't that creative, he actually couldn't understand. "If I'm desperately trying to write about the beauty of this city, could my partner at least feign enthusiasm?"

"You wouldn't like that."

"Maybe, but I could also pretend to be excited."

"It would be a hypocritical loop, and we'd both hate it." Reed put his hat back on and left a few coins on the table, to pay for breakfast. "Let's walk down this wonderful pavement, maybe the stars will hit you again."

It wasn't really extraordinary, it was one of the longest streets in Paris, they planned to extend it in a few years, calling it La Rue Pavée. On this stretch, the street was lined with lights and ivy crawling up the facades of the houses. A few flowers from the flowerbeds were blooming along the road and a couple with a little boy were passing by. The boy was holding a herbarium with a rose drawn on it, probably by himself, a talented young artist or biologist. Gavin greeted the Deschenêts couple and Richard smiled politely at them. 

"I miss the rain." Stern confessed, looking at the flowers.

"What do you mean? The sun isn't to your liking?"

"It's not that," sighed the tall one, "the rain has a certain... melancholy and melody that helps me write. The sun is more to... complete a scenery? I don't know, it's hard to explain. I just like rain a lot."

"I see," Gavin smiled gently, "if it makes you feel any better, it's supposed to rain in a few days, as the news forecast in this morning's paper says." 

"Good. That will help me gather my thoughts and feelings."

"Hopefully."

They continued walking to the end of the street; here a garden一 or rather a park, greeted them. The street was not yet finished, it was supposed to continue, but here there was a park; Although neither Gavin nor Richard said anything, they walked through the grass, reaching the view of the Seine that flowed on their right.

"It reminds me of some poetic novels," Gavin said.

"Really?" the other wondered, "Well, the Seine inspires a lot of writers."

"Not you?"

Richard stared at it, its surface glistening in the sunlight, then saw two women bathing their feet in it, chatting happily. "I'm not sure, it's not the kind of inspiration I'm looking for."

"You're a complicated writer," Gavin admited, "finding something that gives you inspiration is a real challenge, we've been going around the city for weeks and still... Nothing seems to work一 how did you find it last time?"

"I have no idea, sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn't". Stern drew his gaze to Gavin's green eyes. "Some days I want to write about the green of spring dancing around a reborn season, others... it's the freshly printed paper and the quiet but powerful voice of the ink on it."

"It's beautiful."

"I know. I wish I had that much inspiration when I look at my notebook." The writer looked ahead, walking across the grass.

"How did you get it right now?" Gavin grabbed his sleeve, "that was wonderful, what一 what made you so... majestic?"

"Majestic?" Richard repeated, "it was instant inspiration, nothing majestic, Gavin."

It sounded like a lie to Gavin, but only half a lie, maybe he could indeed have instant inspiration, but that shit only came at the most unexpected times, and unless Gavin wrote it down for him, Richard never kept the words he said out loud一 poetry was meant to be told, not read, but what was the point of telling it once and then letting it vanish into thin air? 

Too often Richard felt no guilt at all about letting the sentences he told Gavin slip out in the middle of nowhere, at any time of day. He didn't seem to mind losing those, he'd have more anyway.

And often they would sit around the big wooden table in the library, Gavin humming to the rhythm of some classical tune playing on the phonograph while listing books, reading here and there in them; Richard, looking at him endlessly, almost never blinking, not daring to lose a second of the inspiration that might cross his mind, nor even missing a single gesture, a single blink of Gavin's eye... It was so... mesmerising that nothing in nature or in the rain could match it. Gavin seemed to be made of the stars he had been searching for so long. 

Yet, they all were under his eyes, at any time, dancing, not around the city like the wind, but in a confined space, a library ; dust under the sunlight crossing through the window. Here came his inspiration. Dressed in green and cream, a light heart and a polite smile addressed to RIchard everytime he was looking up to the man staring at him.

Here came his Paris.

Chapter Text

“If you knew, you are the only one for whom my words really are true. But I kinda wish you meant it too when you said you loved me back.”

CHAPTER 3 : Paris : une Adresse, un Homme ; Tout un Monde

It all came naturally, flowing over the paper like water over the windows. Wherever he was, the ink flowed onto the pages. Dozens and dozens were added over the months and Gavin still couldn't understand how this inspiration could be so powerful. For weeks and weeks they got to know each other and the city they lived in, and while Rich's inspiration took its time to come, one day Pandora's box seemed to have been unlocked.

He spent hours sitting there, on a terrace, on the floor, at a table, in a wall, in the middle of the street, or just out loud like a song, the words lived as he breathed. 

Always close to the moment it hit, Gavin was absolutely amazed at the way the feelings hit his friend and he found himself watching him write with pride and joy the lines in his notebook that Reed collected one after the other. He numbered them so that later he could translate them all into French. 

He had already written copies of some of the poems to show to some of his regulars, Rose, mainly. Sometimes Gavin would accidentally leave them in the middle of a book that ended up in someone's hands. And all the time they would come back to Gavin with the same amazed expression on their face "this poet is a genius", "I've never read anything as beautiful as this". And every piece of paper they returned to Gavin was signed with one name: Nines.

Richard was also beginning to be recognised in the city, when it wasn't one of Gavin's regulars who fell in love with his writing about Paris, it was Rose, who came for breakfast, often on a Friday morning at Gavin and Richard's regular café at La Rue Pavée.

Rich loved Rose, she was lively, cheerful and sweet as sugar. She was the friendliest person he had ever met. He spoke of her in his poems too, sometimes Gavin recognised a thing or two that were personified in Rose's being. 

Nevertheless, in Richard's lines, there was always a character he couldn't interpret. He had called it Rain and Reed still didn't know if it was the rain or a real character, it was too abstract. So most of the time he would leave a sentence with the word "Rain" in it as if it were someone.

Coffee had become the master of my senses,

Le café était devenu maître de mes sens,

Together with your smile, Rain could no longer disfigure me,

Allié à ton sourir, Rain ne savait plus m’enlaidir,

11 o'clock every morning, a pen in your hands,

11 heures chaque matin, un crayon à la mains,

The sun never left this place,

Le soleil ne partait jamais d’ici,

In the intimacy of the French library.

Dans l’intimité de La Librairie.

Gavin learned to play with words like a song, to find rhythms that matched those of the English, even with different phrasing, the musicality had to be the same. Richard often told him that to translate was to give a bit of your own style to someone's writing, but all Gavin was trying to do was to leave as much of Nines' style as possible in the poems.

This one was probably one of Gavin's favourites, and he read it over and over again with a stupid smile on his face. Rich had gone out to buy them lunch at the bakery, and Reed took the opportunity to read aloud what he had translated, making sure it sounded as poetic and magical as the original. 

One evening, Rose was browsing the aisles of the library, looking for a new book to read. Gavin was there, recommending some to her, trying to find the perfect one.

"Mr. Reed, can I ask you for one of Nines' poems?" the girl asked in her melodic French, looking at the bookseller with bright eyes.

"Unfortunately, I haven't translated the new one, but the collection will be finished soon. Rich said he felt like the first book would be finished in some time."

"I can't wait to read it all, the few I've seen were wonderful! Your friend is such a talented writer." Rose smiled, grabbing a book from the shelf she was standing next to.

"He is, it's a real challenge to translate everything into French without ruining the verses." He grabbed the girl's book to stamp it so she could borrow it, "Le tour du monde en quatre-vingt jours? Haven't you read that at least twice already?"

"It's my favourite book," she admitted, "I like to read it again. And you never know... maybe there's a poem hidden between two pages about a life far away with Mr. Paris."

" Mr. Paris? " Gavin frowned.

"I know Nines doesn't talk about the city, Mr. Reed, that's obvious. No one can speak so passionately about a city without personifying it in someone you love deeply. So I called him Mr. Paris."

Gavin turned his head in the direction of the window, the rain poured violently against the glass. "I don't think you should go out now, you can stay here a little longer if you like, I can help you sit in a comfortable armchair."

"That would be lovely, thank you." Rose retrieved the book from the man's hand and followed him into the reading area of the bookshop.

As he helped Rose sit in the big chair, Richard came in through the front door, ringing the bell as he shouted Gavin's name.

"Look at this! My notebook's all soaked! I didn't see the rain coming, I had to run from Les Halles to the gallery! I can't believe it!" RIchard yelled as he took off his wet hat and coat.

"Why didn't you wait for it to stop?" Gavin raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

"Because I couldn't concentrate surrounded by so many people. Oh, hello Rose." He greeted her when he noticed she was sitting next to Gavin.

"Good evening Mr Nines." She smiled as she read the first page of the Jules Verne book.

"If I remember correctly, you first went there because it was so crowded." Gavin pointed out to him as he came to take his coat and put it on the coat rack.

"That was a mistake, I didn't find any inspiration there to complete my collection. I need something strong, something... different." He stopped his sentence as he looked into Gavin's eyes again. The look was filled with the powerful drive of someone who craves to complete his duty.

"Well, that's very vague if you ask me, I'm not sure how to help any more than I already do一”

"Can you sit down and do your usual book listing?" Rich cut him off, "It helps me... in a way..." he looked away, shifting his gaze to the figure of Rose who was watching them from behind her book. The man could feel her smile just by looking into her eyes.

"Y-yeah, I could but... how would that help you?"

"It's like habit, comfort, daily work一 which is complicated to explain if you're not in my head." Richard sat at the table in this part of the room, in his usual place, in the same chair, on the same corner of the table.

"All right." Reed picked up his notebook and his most recent manuscripts. "If it helps you focus..." 

Gavin didn't miss the smile that crossed Rich's face the second he agreed. And the next few minutes passed, once again, as Richard stared steadily at Gavin as he worked. He'd pushed aside his soaked notebook to keep only the pen in his hand. No, he wasn't writing anything at all, inspiration was a limitless source of beauty and poetry.

And when Gavin remembered the last few weeks, he couldn't help but realise that every time Richard handed him a new poem with sparkling eyes, it had always been written when they were together, somewhere lost in Paris. However, it wasn't the city that inspired his writer friend, it was Gavin himself and it was all becoming clear. 

The way he only had that strike when he was looking at Gavin, the way he didn't care about writing the words because the inspiration was always there in front of him, the way things didn't even matter as long as Gavin could be there, poetry and art existed in Richard's brain.

Gavin was this Mr Paris that Rose talked about, and he knew it all along. 

The poems he translated all made sense now, and Gavin had never tried so hard to make every word a masterpiece. Writing was such an exhausting activity, and when all you were doing was trying to find an equivalent in another language to make sense of the thing when sometimes only the poet could understand, Gavin soon learned what a twisted gymnastics this exercise was.

His days were not only filled with poems, books and reading, they were also filled with thoughts and questions about Richard. How could this man have written all the other books he had done before coming to France? Was he inspired by the people more than the cities themselves? Had he... fallen for a conceptual representation of a place portrayed by a living being to make them all so unique?

Gavin had had the opportunity to read the lines of one of Nines' books, Venezia , it was called. But everything in it was so different from the way he wrote Paris 一 not in the sense that both cities were completely unique in themselves, but... Gavin wasn't as moved when he read Venezia . There was nothing in common between the writer of Venezia and the writer of Paris . 

The difference was that... Gavin could personally interpret Paris because he could understand everything Nines had written behind it, whereas it was something he couldn't guess by reading Venezia. Perhaps Nines had also found a muse for Venezia.   

Every word Nines had written sounded like a poem to Gavin and he was beginning to see how poetry could be a powerful art when you were able to unlock its meaning.

Paris had never been so flowery, active and thriving. Nines was the town's little celebrity, everyone knew him, everyone wanted to chat with him, but the language didn't help, so Gavin was beside them, translating things back and forth. And most of the time, Richard looked at Gavin more than at the other person. And Gavin would look back at him. 

When they were together, at their usual breakfast café, Rich now talked happily about anything, and they were both always happy to see Rose coming to spend time with the two men. Together they made a strange but very amusing trio, and never for a second were they bored. Especially not Richard who spent his time drowning in Gavin's green eyes. 

He had billions of notes and pieces of paper that he let fly in Paris like petals of a rose. Words, phrases, whole poems, collected by passers-by, read aloud in the streets, in French-accented English for those who couldn't read the language, not understanding any of the written words, but reading them anyway as if they were all stars on paper. 

And whenever Gavin heard them, he wrote them all down, constructing poems with Nines' lost words, trying to think like him, imagining Richard instead of himself, because Gavin couldn't love himself any more than he loved Richard to write about himself. 

The longer they lived together in Paris, the more Nines' poems were written by four hands, sometimes about Gavin, sometimes by Gavin, doing gymnastics with words and rhymes. They were still all signed as follows: written by Nines; translated by Gavin Reed.

He never realised that half of the poems were entirely Gavin's own work, copying Richard's unique and amazing style by letting his feelings guide his pen to paper, and he somehow found the writer in himself by simply learning to play with words. 

And one day, the last poems came in, finishing this book, rewritten dozens of times by both of them, Gavin and Nines decided to call it The Favourite , and The Favourite ended up being the subtitle of Paris .

You are the ocean, they are the sea.

Tu es l’océan, elles sont la mer.

Paris, drowned in green, sailing to the rhythm of my beats,

In the midst of all these muffled sighs, I am the icy wind,

Carrying ideas like waves

Through the streets overflowing with my passion.

Paris, noyée de vert, voguant au rythme de mes battements,

Au milieu de tous ces soupirs étouffés, je suis le vent glacé,

Emportant les idées telles des vagues 

Au travers des rues débordant de ma passion.

Paris, carrying the coffee scent and History piled up at its four corners,

Only winter coolness, the icicles of my being melt

Under the burning sweetness of Rain falling on you, 

Chaos still sleeps between two pages.

Paris, portant l’odeur caféinée et l’histoire entassée à ses quatre coins,

Seule fraîcheur hivernale, les glaçons de mon être fondent

Sous la douceur brûlante de Rain s'abattant sur toi, 

Chaos sommeil encore entre deux pages.

Waiting for a new Hell, 

Rain will let my flames make you shine 

Like the firmament. 

Attendant un nouvel Enfer, 

Rain laissera mes flammes te faire briller 

Tel le firmament. 

I close our dance under roses and cherries,

Following this ocean, carried by the wind, 

Paris will always be my favourite.

Je clôture notre danse sous les roses et les cerises,

Suivant cet océan, porté par le vent, 

Paris restera ma favorite.

Gavin closed the freshly printed book with a proud smile, looking up at Richard sitting across from him, hands clasped, waiting for his partner's verdict. 

"Well..." Gavin sighed, "I think this is the most wonderful thing I've ever done, not to mention helping a writer with his art."

"Thank you. I'm glad you agreed, my work turned out much better than I expected and I can't thank you enough for your work."

"Oh, come on, Rich, it's nothing, really. You did most of the work." Gavin slid the book across the table, stopping it in front of his friend who grabbed Gavin's hand on it. 

"No, I insist, thank you, Gavin, that was probably the most growing and rewarding experience."

The librarian smiled, getting up to make coffee. 

"I'll pay you now that our deal is done."

"That's not necessary," Gavin replied from the other side of the bookshop, "it was more fun than anything else."

"A promise is a promise, that's how we concluded it, I'll stick to it."

Reed handed him a cup, "no, Rich, don't do that."

"Why not? We've been working on this for weeks, I need to make up for the time I stole from you."

"I refuse, I don't want my friend's money, please, let's keep this collaboration out of the fucking business, I've enjoyed it to the fullest too and I don't want money for having fun."

"You really change your mind all the time, don't you?" Richard teased. 

"I've learned to enjoy brainstorming in the crazy world of writers, and I think that's the only thing that makes the experience different from working with a partner, since you're my friend." He sat down across from him. Richard followed him with his eyes as Reed pointed to the book between them. "The only money you'll spend will be on the printer to make copies of this, not on me."

"Are you sure you don't want even a little bit?" Stern insisted. 

"Absolutely. Run to the publisher and ask for dozens of copies of this book, I have far too many requests for your work."

"Don't flatter me, it won't work," the other smiled embarrassedly.

"Actually it does work," Gavin piled a few books on the table, "now shut up and drink your coffee before I kick you out to get your books." 

Stern complied and they exchanged a teasing, knowing look before Gavin went back to tidying up the books and things around him. 

The atmosphere was different now, like a renewal, something light and comfortable, like a home for Richard. This city was a home, Gavin was a home too, and perhaps Richard had found one last place to live, the world he had discovered had led him to this very moment, like the end of a story, Paris was his final destination. 

And Richard would be proud to see Paris as his final book. 

Never had people talked so much about a book in Paris, Nines was at the centre of every conversation and the subject people kept coming back to; Gavin witnessed this all too often. Some recited these translated poems aloud in the streets, in bars, on balconies... everywhere Gavin's French version of his friend's writing had become the music of Paris.

And the weeks passed again, joyful, full of life and happiness, a whole lot of fun and unique moments shared together, Gavin and Richard got on so well that they planned everything for their next work together, their next adventure, their... shared part of each other's life story.

Rich had never been so moved by any of his journeys around the world, not even by one person, though he had met many, Gavin was... that magic he had long sought. They seemed to understand each other in a way he'd never thought possible, they complemented each other and everything was so...

Terribly ephemeral.

Life, time, memories, feelings, touches, looks, smiles... creativity. 

The world itself was hanging by a thread on Gavin's palm, and Richard was balancing, trusting this man as his own soul. Nothing else mattered, nothing else but Gavin and the deceptively infinite creativity the librarian offered to his writing heart.

But a heart is complex, a heart is fragile and naive. And a heart often followed the light like a small insect towards the sun. And a heart couldn't be called a city, not for the fact that a city didn't move with the wind, a heart couldn't be written on paper, a heart was more than a word or an organ, a heart was a metaphysical concept, something you couldn't see, something... that could exist, somewhere, like a little bundle of all the feelings that make up your being in all its complexity一 a little being of yourself, in a big world.

Maybe Gavin's heart was that for Rich, maybe his own heart was that too. Just something that someone was destined to hold, just something that would one day look out into the distance, in the middle of the train station crowd, at 9:45, Gare Montparnasse, and point to someone whose name you don't even know, and say, "This person's heart is the one I want."

And sometimes you just have to push open the door of an old Parisian bookshop, in one of the most beautiful galleries in the city, look at the owner, ask him if he will follow you on your crazy journey inside yourself, in search of that spark of imagination so unknown to artists.

And if he says yes, then your heart has pointed its little finger at his heart, meaning: "This person's heart is the one I want. Don't let them go, they will make you understand what it really means to be alive. Take them by the hand and tell them that you need them by your side, no matter how long it takes, love never gets old, your love for them is unconditional. It doesn't matter if they don't love you as much, just one look they might give you is enough to make a star birth in you."

And at that very moment, your heart has spoken for you, the only thing left to do will be to feel yourself living through the eyes of the person your heart has chosen.

Chapter Text

"There are many things in common between us, but in a way we compliment each other in one thing: I understand them all, I feel them filling my heart a little too much while you are mostly lost, not knowing what they are, not even knowing if you really have them in the end.

It would be great if I could teach you to recognize them, unfortunately there is this giant blue wall between us that forbids me to show you the power they can hold and convey in your own heart.

And you'd think me crazy if I told you that making you learn about emotions would bring me the greatest happiness in the universe.

You taught me how to live again, and I wish I could teach you the same... If only."

CHAPTER 4 :The Wind Flew Away ; You Followed : Lettre d’adieu

Paris as a whole became poetic, lulled by the words of Nines' magical writing, everyone knew one of his poems by heart, singing it out loud wherever they went. 

And like the wind, Richard walked through the streets, light, joyful, his heart full of love and serenity. He felt as if he had accomplished something, a part of his life, his story as a writer, perhaps. That didn't mean he wouldn't write anymore, he would, of course, but perhaps not with the aim of publishing something done. Richard wanted to write for himself now, like a secret book he would never show to the world, Paris was already far too full of him, he wanted to keep the rest to himself.

Richard was thinking of... writing about Gavin now. Not Mr. Paris as Rose called his character, but Gavin himself, as the wonderful, inspiring person he was to Rich's inspiration.

He thought of course of all this, of the little magic that Gavin had on his heart, of all the comfort and power that this man brought to him. That strange fire that could take him across the ocean to the other side of the world just by swimming. 

Yes... he thought of his own feelings as he stared into the librarian's eyes.

He always came to the same conclusion, to every question he asked himself, the answer was always "love". But what exactly is love? How could he explain all that it created inside Richard when one man was near him, when he thought about him, when he imagined him, when he wrote about him, when people talked about him and so on; Richard was obsessed with this idea of understanding what love was, the way his heart beat harmoniously with Gavin's steps around the library.

There was nothing nasty about it, this obsession was somehow a form of admiration fused into this "love" that Richard felt. He looked at Gavin the way you look at someone you admire with all your being, whether it's your friend or the century's most famous painter. If it's both of them, that admiration goes beyond his work, it goes beyond his being, his self, his personality; because you know them, and they know you. That's how any kind of relationship works.

Admiration becomes something stronger, a friendship as easy as breathing, a small part of the happiness that makes up your daily life. 

Every time Richard looked at Gavin, he was in a fairy tale, wondering how the world could be brighter with just one human around. He was still constantly scribbling words in his little notebook, a smile curving his lips, eyes sparkling with joy, the pen dancing on the paper wherever he and Gavin went.

Again this morning he pushed open the library door at 10:59, just before the bell, and again this morning Reed greeted him with his warm smile, glasses on his nose, coffee in hand. Today was another wonderful day to spend with his favourite person. 

"So what's the plan now, Rich?"

"The plan?" Stern wondered, removing his hat.

Gavin gestured nonsensically in the air, illustrating his words, "we finished your book, what are you going to do now?"

"Oh..." He frowned, "I... I don't really know, to be honest. I've been thinking about... staying here? I really like this town, and I've found a routine that I quite like."

Gavin drank half his coffee before answering anything, following his friend as he walked down the aisles of the library, looking for a book on the shelves, "I thought you didn't like routines? What made you change your mind?"

Madame Bovary , it was the book Richard stopped his eyes on at Gavin's question. "No, not that one," he murmured, loud enough for Gavin to wonder if he was really listening to him.

He was, as he replied, "I don't really know, maybe I've travelled enough. Maybe I don't need to see more of the world since I've found... a final destination?" Richard turned to Gavin who was tapping his fingers on the warm cup.

"And does that final destination call you to stay where you are?" The librarian asked, glaring at him as he drank more of his hot coffee. 

"Mayhaps," He shrugged, unsure of the word he chose to answer, "I'd say more like this destination calls me to stop imagining, to stop daydreaming for a minute and just stand there and try to figure out what's overwhelming my real being instead."

"Very poetic." Gavin teased. This made his friend laugh and he abandoned his search for books on the shelf. 

"I don't know if I want to write anymore. I was thinking that Paris was the fulfilment of something in my life, I don't need more." He paused for a dozen seconds, wandering around the library, looking at the high wooden ceilings with chandeliers, the endless piles of nameless books on the floor, the letters, notebooks, pens... the flowers on pots here and there even. Every detail caught his attention before he continued his thoughts, "write something else, why not, something different, more like a thesis on a particular concept." 

"This is a world away from poetry," Reed remarked, "what made you want to do this?"

"You."

The word fell instantly, causing Gavin to lose his thoughts, words and moves. Rich was still walking around, as if nothing had happened, looking at every detail of the library he now knew by heart. Gavin, from where he still stood, never took his eyes off him for a second, searching for a response that never made it to his brain. 

"M-Me?" He repeated instead. 

"You're fascinating, Gavin, you've made me learn so much in the last few weeks, I couldn't have been the same, it's obvious you've changed me." 

Reed had no real idea what that meant. Rich was... peculiar in his kind of way. Not just when he was acting weird like a writer, but all the time, he had that little something about him that made him instantly recognisable in a crowd. 

Or was it Gavin who started to be fascinated by him too? Sometimes knowing that you are loved makes you different, you try to understand what it is that these people love so much about you, that you too start to find little things to love about them back.

Gavin never stopped thinking about Richard, wherever he was. He realised that this man had changed him too, he had made him discover things that were not so obvious at first sight, he had even found a writer in him, not to the point of writing a real book, but enough to write a few meaningful words on a blank page. 

And that alone was enough to give this man a look. One look, or your whole life.

As the days passed, Gavin became more and more intrigued by Rich. Nothing much changed from the previous weeks, only the brainstorming on writing was missing; the rest : their breakfasts, morning chats, afternoon walks around town, even Gavin's work remained unchanged. It was the same routine, the same weather, the same greetings... 

Home, it was home. But it wasn't home enough for Gavin.

Stern was always there, more lively than ever, happy, delighted to be with Gavin all day, as if this Frenchman was the brightest star in the night sky, the very moon, something precious. 

Likewise, Rich was Gavin's morning coffee, the sunlight through the window, a good cigarette in the rainy evening. 

It was them now, them or nothing. 

"Mr. Reed, who is Rain?" asked Rose as she closed Nines' book, keeping the word Rain in English but with her French pronunciation. 

She had come once again on a rainy day, and the storm outside reminded her of that, probably. They were together, sitting on a sofa at the back of the library, listening to the drops hit the glass.

"I'm not sure, Rose, I suppose Rich was personifying someone just like Mr. Paris. But I don't know who exactly, sometimes I just translate it as the rain itself, other times I'm not sure if it's the weather, so I call this character Rain." As he spoke, Gavin couldn't help but notice that Rose's book was full of notes and dog-eared pages. 

"I would like to know who it is, it would help me understand the story much better. It's all still a blur at the moment, although I do know who Mr. Paris is." She tied her long brown hair into a bun above her head, the used book lay on the skirt fabric on her lap. 

"You know who that is?" Gavin grimaced in surprise, putting his glasses back on his nose properly. They were sitting by the window, the raindrops sliding down the glass caught Gavin's eye for a second before he looked back at the girl.

"Of course I know, everyone who's been out with you two knows that Mr Paris is you. Just by the way Nines looks at you, I know he's completely hypnotised by you. I don't know if you've figured it out yet, Mr. Reed, but Nines really loves you, even if he's never dared to tell you."

"Why do you keep calling Richard Nines?" Gavin avoided all the rest of Rose's words, to focus only on that for the moment, it was all he could really process. 

"I think it suits him better to be called Nines," she said with a smile. "Can I ask you a question too?"

"Do I have to answer?"

"That would be better, unless you don't have an answer at all... which would be fine anyway."

Gavin thought, even though he already had an idea of the question, the little girl was going to ask him, "go on."

"I wonder," she began, tracing the cover of the book on her lap with a light finger, "Nines always portrays you as the embodiment of what could be the most beautiful and precious thing in the whole universe, but... how would you describe him?"

"Well... that's a tough question." Reed sighed, brushing his hair, "I don't really know, Richard's really... Richard , you know. You don't understand our conversations but I guess you can imagine they're as... magical as the time we spend together without talking to each other. It probably doesn't make any sense..."

"Yes, it does, Mr. Reed, very much so." 

"Does it? I think the love stories in the books are not the same as Richard's vision of them. Last time I heard he liked mystery novels, something smart and thought-provoking. Nothing romantic gave him the pleasure of reading or writing. What I mean is... "He sighed again, searching for words. His brain was a strange jumble of feelings that forbade him to construct coherent sentences. "I mean, outside of this book, Rich has never shown any signs of..."

"Love?"

Gavin looked up at her comforting smile, he agreed on that point, "yeah."

"If you knew all the things he does on a regular basis when he's around, you'd see that Nines really does show a lot of his love for you." Rose nodded happily, "you may not see it because you're part of this exchange, not next to it like me, but I can assure you from the outside, Nines loves you more than anything. "

Gavin remained silent, processing the information. It was... not really unexpected but hearing it from Rose was absolutely unexpected. This girl was impressive and every time Gavin was stunned by her ability to analyse what she was talking about. She was an interesting character in the world ; Gavin believed that one day she would become a great woman, that she would change the world. 

In this moment, she changed Gavin's world, radically. She made him question his existence around Richard these past few weeks. It was strange to think about, to imagine this writer falling in love with him for no real reason. 

Gavin was not as extraordinary as Rose could be, he had nothing impressive, not a single talent, he was not an inventor, he did not belong to a famous family... Gavin was just a man, owner of a bookshop in Paris, drinking coffee while reading the morning paper, shaking hands with regulars or friends he met in the street. 

Even if the poems told him so, why would Richard love him?

"Do you love him, Mr. Reed?" Rose asked out of nowhere. 

"I don't know." He replied, looking blankly, "I have no idea..."

It was true, Gavin didn't know if he loved him, Stern was the kind of man you could fall in love with for a billion reasons, far more than for himself. 

Yet... he didn't know. Feelings were weird, confusing, and Love was the strangest of them all. Like Rain, Love would have been Gavin's strange character if he were a writer.

No, he didn't know if he loved the man, he didn't know any of his feelings, they were all too confused to trust them with anything. 

He knew he wanted to talk nonsense with him for hours, nothing about the weather or those ‘fine and you’ conversations, the kind of conversation you never remember how it started, the kind that is initiated in a unique way, and you could never encounter the same way again. 

No, he didn't know if he liked him, but he wanted to know everything about Rich: his favourite mint, the way he tied his shoes, why he preferred the word 'bounce' to 'solely', the last exotic flower he'd ever smell, whether a cow was better than a rabbit, betting on how long a snail would last across the road... He wanted every one of those stupid, pointless conversations with Richard, because no matter what they talked about, it was always magical. 

And most of their conversations always avoided talking about the weather, simply because there was so much to discuss together, to learn, to discuss, to convey.... They all offered a wonderful window into each other's souls.

So he thought, for a long, long time, perhaps for days, until he decided to try to find out if he really loved Richard too. If he too finally needed a final destination to understand where he belonged, even if his decision was pure nonsense, it would reflect the time he had spent with Richard over the last few weeks.

Gavin thought about what he should do, and as he did so he remembered that Rich used to travel.  

The suitcase peeking out of his wardrobe needed some fresh air. 

On an early June morning, Richard walked through the Galerie Vivienne with a bright smile, ready to start his new book, ready to tell his dear friend about his ideas. But when he pushed the door of the bookshop at 10:55, it did not open. The sign on it said ‘Fermé’, the blinds were closed, and nothing suddenly made sense in Richard's head. 

"Closed? Why... Why would the library be closed on a Tuesday morning? Gavin's open all the time..." 

He looked around, noticing Mr Apollinaire sitting at the café they'd met a while back, at the other end of the gallery corridor. He walked towards him, greeting him out of politeness. 

"Good morning Mr Nines, glad seeing you." Apollinaire shook his hand. 

"The feeling is mutual," Richard feigned a smile to appear friendlier, "may I ask if you know anything about the bookshop here?"

"Oh celle-là? Owner left yesterday night. I saw the little girl in rolling chair today too. She seemed sad. Then left." 

"Don't you know anything more?" 

"Hm… I heard the library will be sold, or it's just vacation? Je n'en sais trop rien, July is in only one month." He hesitated, frowning. 

"All right... May you remember when the girl showed up?" 

"Yes! Five minutes before you, you can catch her if you are fast, she would not be far." The man struggled to formulate this sentence, but it was clear enough for Rich to understand that Rose was the only one who could know about this. 

"Thanks." He replied, running out of the gallery. 

He had no idea where she might be, but he decided to walk along the bridge over the Seine, shouting her name wherever there were people around. 

A girl in a wheelchair is not unrecognisable, maybe someone had seen her, but how was he going to tell people? Few of them spoke English, and his French was a disaster. He tried several times, and a British couple rescued him, explaining that when they saw her, she headed for the nearest park. 

And that's where he found her, in the middle of an alley decorated with white tulips. 

"Rose!" 

She rolled the wheels of her chair to face him, "oh, Bonjour, Mr Nines."

He wanted to ask her, he wanted to ask if she knew where Gavin was, but he didn't know how, he didn't know how to do it without speaking English. And Gavin wasn't there to translate for him, no one was there to help him with that terrible language barrier. 

"Vous voulez savoir à propos de Gavin?" She asked, and the only word Richard understood was enough for him to answer yes in French. 

"Je ne sais pas," She replied sadly, as in ‘I have no idea, just like you’, "la dernière fois que je l'ai vu c'était il y a deux jours, depuis je n'ai pas eu de nouvelle et je suppose… "

Words, only words, sounds, tones; Richard didn't understand anything she said, he didn't know if she knew about him, he didn't know if she could help him find Gavin. 

He thought he'd lost him forever, he thought Gavin had left him, that it was... over. That he'd never be able to see him again. And he broke down. 

He had lost his muse, his joy, his life, his everything一 Gavin was his everything. What would Paris be without his own Paris? Tears rolled down his cheeks, he shuddered at the thought of never being able to see him again. How was he going to cope with every little thing that crossed his heart? Gavin had changed him so much that it was unthinkable to imagine doing anything without him anymore, he had become an integral part of his life. Not knowing where he might have disappeared to was... 

Atrociously heartbreaking.

He imagined his next days, weeks, months, years, away from Gavin一 a world without him, a whole life without seeing him again, as if he had never existed at all. It was tearing him apart, deeper, harder, until he was choking from the inside. The fresh morning air around him dried up instantly, the flowers, the trees, the people, women's dresses, the sky... everything became dull, disgusting, blurry and bleak. He cried, collapsing on the pavement, letting it all out, all the pain and misery that love had previously given him strength and bliss. 

Previously... Now it was like billions of little needles pricking his heart, limbs and voice. He couldn't say anything, he couldn't express anything but grief, loss and sorrow.

He didn't even once tell Gavin how much he meant to him. How much he cared for him, how enchanting their time together had been. He didn't even say "I love you"

Although he meant it, immensely.

He had forgotten how important it was to tell people you loved them, no matter the time, it might be too late one day. Today was that day, and Richard regretted it, deeply.

It was as if Gavin had never existed, he didn't know how to contact him anymore, he was gone, gone forever, and nothing connected them to each other now. 

"Vous l’aimiez, n’est-ce pas?" Rose asked in her perfect French, looking at the man in tears, kneeling on the floor before her. 

It wasn't true. From the very beginning, it was wrong. Richard had never been able to speak a word of French, nor understand it. He had read Gavin's translations of his own writings, but that was all he knew, and Gavin's conversations with the people around him. But Richard had never understood a word of the language. 

Not a single one. But Gavin's name. 

Nevertheless, he understood Rose's question. All thanks to the little French he could decipher, ‘love’ was a word Gavin often translated. But how was Richard going to answer her? How was he going to phrase the billions of words he wanted to scream at her about Gavin? She couldn't speak English, and he couldn't speak French. 

Silence was the answer as they stared at each other. Then, without a word, Richard nodded. Because of all the words in the world, this silent answer was the only one Rose could understand. 

She smiled. As a ‘I knew it’ response to Richard's pain.

The church bell rang, 11 o'clock again today, but Richard was not having his usual coffee with the love of his life. He was crying on a young girl's lap in the middle of a park. 

The sun was shining, the weather was perfect, the birds were singing and the Seine was flowing; what could spoil the day? 

Richard knew they would be sitting on the grass around noon, having a picnic and talking about whatever. Then laughter, and good times spent together for a while again. 

It would never happen now though, none of it. Gavin was gone and he had taken Richard's heart away with him. 

Several weeks passed, then months. Richard was still writing things. Sometimes he remembered what he'd said to Gavin a while back: he wouldn't write poetry anymore. 

But he did it anyway. To be fair, Richard never stopped writing poems, even after the book was finished, he had so many thoughts and feelings that he couldn't put them down on paper. 

However, since Gavin's disappearance, he was no longer able to recognise these feelings, everything became fuzzy and odd. 

Richard often walked through the gallery, every morning in fact, sometimes twice a day if not more. He hoped every day to see the library open again, to be able to push open the door, to smell the coffee and the old paper, to greet Gavin and hear his voice... he missed him terribly. 

He dropped a poem or two in the library letterbox, hoping Gavin would come back and open it. Other poems ended up being torn, crumpled and thrown on the floor. Like trash. 

They were picked up in the street; people used to love his poems, but now they weren't as beautiful as they once were, they were awful, dark, twisted, full of doubt and nonsense. 

There was no one to translate them, and the few people who could understand English had their eyes and ears bleeding. It was anything but something a writer could do. It was nothing like what Nines could write. It was like a disease. 

He didn't dare try to feel anything else, it was all pain, heartache and remorse. That was also all his new poems were about. 

People wondered where the amazing Nines had disappeared to, but they should all know that artists are made of porcelain, one little thing can destroy their entire art. 

Gavin had been Nines' little something, now it was as if a whole mountain had exploded, crumbling to the ground, collapsing in on itself. There was nothing left, only the foundations. What remained of Nines was his name and the shape of the letters on the paper.  

Yet an unexpected rainy morning gave Stern new hope; the letter in his mailbox was addressed to him and the name on the back made him smile:

"To Richard Stern ; from G. Reed."

There was a picture in the envelope ; a lake一 no, a river? Buildings? It wasn't New York nor America, there was a deck, a port一 whatever ; boats too. Behind the picture, a quote, written by Gavin's hand :

" I’m standing in the middle of the starry night一 to the crossroad of what men call untamed land: an immensity blue between two countries.”

~ 

This is the only letter Richard has received from Gavin in years. 

Richard stayed in Paris as long as Gavin didn't return. It took him three whole years to receive anything else, and that day he knew he had to travel again, not to write about lovely things any longer, but to find the love he had lost and live again. 

The second letter had a drawing and another quote : 1907 ; “Maybe you’ll be able to find where I’m hidden, if you’re brave enough to cross the seven seas.”

The location of the last photo was visible again in this one, different, yes, but Rich could link the two photos together and maybe he was on a boat, maybe he wasn't anymore. But Richard had to find one, to find Gavin, that was for sure. 

This game of hide and seek reminded him of something Gavin had told him long ago... 

"I remember you like mystery novels."

Chapter Text

"To everything I'd have thought of the world, I knew I'd never have been able to tame it entirely. More than that, being a drop in the ocean doesn't help imagining being able to see all of it in a simple lifetime. 

From one side to another, some days I'm thinking about what if we ended up on the same side, for twenty four hours, or a whole life? Daydreaming about each other' places, lives, maybe even about one another. Nine thousand is not enough to stop the heart from loving.

And when I look at the Rain, I wonder if your Sun makes you think of me.”

EPILOGUE

Voyage au bout du monde : Looking for Rain

I knew he was gone. There was a letter to the city hall saying ‘La Librairie de la Galerie Vivienne a changé de propriétaire’ or simply : it has been sold. 

Why is that? I didn't really know why Mr. Reed did it. I guess he needed to think, to change his mind, to find a new place, just like Nines did when he came to Paris. It was very unexpected to happen so quickly. 

I guess it's my fault, and what I told him. Everything has changed since he learned that Nines loved him. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's all my fault.

I've been rereading a lot of Nines' poems since Mr. Reed left, trying to catch the little detail that turned their love story into... a tragic one. There was always Rain who I couldn't really discern, I thought Rain was the mysterious character who drove the story, tying all the poems together, but now... all I can think of is that Mr. Reed has become Rain. 

It's all very confusing. I got a letter from him a couple of days ago, he said he had met some wonderful people on the ‘old silk road’ and that meant nothing to me, but to know that he was heading east, somewhere very far away, to the Chinese Empire, probably. 

I didn't tell Nines, I couldn't really, it was hard to talk together, despite the fact that I learned English so I could communicate. He seemed almost completely broken down inside, and nothing made him feel alive anymore. All the poems I found on the street written by him were a complete disaster, like you threw up the last dinner you ate.

It was such a strange time in my life. 

In the letter Reed had sent me, there was a drawing of a flower I had never seen before, five petals, round in shape. It reminded me of cherries, but it was thinner, probably even less round. I didn't know. 

"If I can, I'll bring back a herbarium with it in it, I'm certain it's a flower you'll like."

No name, no description, it was just a drawing with a sentence. I couldn't even look it up in a biology book, it wasn't European at all. 

Anyway, Mr. Reed had kept in touch with me but nothing told me that he had done the same with Nines, the poor man desperately needed a sign from the love of his life, thousands of miles away. 

Yet it was one morning in 1907, three years after they met, that Mr. Nines came to me, showing a letter he had received that morning: "Rose! You have to look at this!" He ran to the bench where I was sitting, watching the July summer sky of the after-school vacation. 

"Hello! What did you find so interesting?" I smiled at him, answering in English. 

"A letter, look! It's from Gavin!" He sat to my right, handing me the whole paper and a picture. "I've been waiting for this for years! I can't believe this is finally happening!" The man wore the brightest smile I've seen on his face in ages, he was genuinely happy and relieved to know that Mr. Reed was still thinking about him.

I took the letter in my hand, reading the lines as if it was the revelation of a secret knowledgeー kind of like the ancient Egyptian pyramids. The calligraphy was still the same from Gavin, a quick somewhat cursive. His M's and R's looked like waves, and it kind of fit with the story of going abroad, the idea of sailing. That's what I saw in the photo that was linked to it. Water, boats, sky and a woman in the wind. 

I didn't know if Mr. Reed knew this woman or if she was just a stranger completing the photo. But she was beautiful, looking at the horizon with one hand on the hat above her head, keeping it from blowing away with the wind.

"What does that mean?" I asked the man sitting next to me.

"I think it's... a riddle. The last time I got a letter, it was signed 'I remember you liked mystery novels'ー I do! And I think Gavin gave me one."

"Why would he do that?"

"To change the routine? It's been three years... I'm still very confused about everything, but the very last conversation we had together was about my writing, I wanted to quit. I assume that leaving was a way to give me the urge to go on an adventure and maybe give me... inspiration? I don't really know, Rose, I'm trying to find explanations with the little I have." He sighed loudly, wrinkling his nose.

I smiled at him. He still had a lot of hope about this. Nines missed Mr. Reed a lot, that was obvious, but not for a second did I see the flame die in him, it was like... a force pushing him forward to hopefully reach him one day. He could have travelled the world to try to find him, but he couldn't give up the nostalgia that the city of Paris gave him for Gavin.

I think that's why he stayed so long. 

I would have loved to travel the world with him, but I was only 16 at the time, and even if I wanted to, my condition did not leave me much choice, I could only imagine the world through books and pictures.

Nines, on the other hand, could fly with the wind as much as he wanted. But he didn't dare to do so, maybe there was this hope that he would come back one day, or give him the exact address of his location. If he left, maybe Nines would never be able to find him, and vice versa.

Given that this letter was sent three years after he left, Reed was sure he knew that Nines was still residing in Paris, and had not returned to America.

Speaking of addresses, the library had been sold to a young woman who had turned it into an art boutique. She wasn't French, and had a little struggle with the English language, yet she still managed to chat with her customers. I liked her, she was funny. She called herself Mrs. Ame, a shortened version of Amelie, I assumed.

She had a spark of authenticity that brought me joy and renewal. It wasn't usual to see people being themselves without worrying one inch about social norms. And this girl was exactly like that, trying to appear as transparent as possible, being herself, just like her art. 

I asked her one day how she ended up here, and she smiled and told me honestly that it was on the advice of a friend, that she had to be true to herself and live the life she wanted to have. So Ms. Ame travelled the world and found this beautiful place somewhat by chance and decided to be the artist she always wanted to be, despite the criticism. 

She asked me what my dream was and as a 16 year old girl with a disability, I told her that nothing was a dream if you believed in it hard enough, that life was all about goals. I was probably a little too optimistic for her to fully believe this saying. But she seemed quite sympathetic about it. 

I also dared to ask her once why she chose Ame as her name, or what the meaning of it was. I learned that it was a Japanese word meaning ‘rain’ and immediately thought, Does she know Mr. Reed? Or is this just a spectacular coincidence? She just loved the rain, like Nines, it brought her inspiration and comfort. And that made me imagine what would happen if she met Mr. Nines? Would they get along? It was very intriguing to find out. 

I remember the day he came to the park to show me the letter he had received from Gavin, I told him about Mrs. Ame. I was surprised to learn that he already knew her. They met in the morning at the bakery at the end of the gallery. Nines came in for coffee at his usual breakfast spot. 

"She couldn't find the word for one of the pastries, so I helped her order it. She was very grateful." He explained.

"How did the two of you start talking?"

"I asked her if she was on vacation, because I had never seen her before. She said she owned the art store on the other side of the gallery. I didn't know there was an art store, then I realised she was talking about the library."

He told me this story with a kind but sad smile. He really liked the place before it changed. But I wasn't sure if he had ever been to the art store. It almost looked like the library, but with a thin feminine touch and lots of green plants. It was a refreshing place now. 

I was doing what Nines did three years ago, coming in every morning around eleven, having tea with Mrs. Ame and talking about funny things from her past life. I often had free drawing lessons and watched her work. It was very relaxing, she always had some time to chat, considering that she never stopped working for a second. She loved it, it was her way of life. And the few times she stopped was when I was around, for a walk, or just for a cup of tea.

I learned more about Nines when I went to see her. She told me about it on a rainy day, she said she found a copy of his book about Paris in the back of the library before she turned it into an art store. Mrs. Ame said it was fun to see a character named Rain, like herself. 

I think she began to identify with this character, which was very amusing, because it led me to believe that Rain was probably a character created for people to identify with the poems, as I myself did when reading them.

"What happened to you, Rose?" She asked about my legs.

"Oh, that? I fell off a horse when I was little and broke my lower spine. I haven't been able to walk since."

"I'm sorry." She smiled politely.

"It's alright, thanks, I'm still alive, that's all that matters." I smiled back at her, trying to put on a confident face. I knew I wouldn't live forever, but at least I could make the best of the few years I would live on Earth, so I tried to be positive as much as possible. Also, it was nice to have friends to discuss the world with, it always gave me comfort to have a way to travel without being able to. I was very grateful to know Mr. Reed, Nines, and Mrs. Ame. 

"Has Nines ever walked through the door of the art store? I know he can be stubborn, but I think it would do him good to try to get some closure on this."

Mrs Ame thought, frowning, “He did, once, but if you want push him a little to come and have a tea, I would not mind. We could sit all together and chat. I like street talking and park lunch stuff but that would do him good to come back here.” She finished her sentence in a cheerful way. I sensed that she would love to talk to him about his book. 

So I did. I kind of forced Nines to come with me for afternoon tea at the art store. He rolled his eyes once, and agreed because I gave him puppy dog eyes. I didn't know if I thought of him as a big brother or more like a father figure, but he meant a lot to me. 

It was in the middle of December 1907 that we had that tea meeting. 

One of the things I liked about Mrs. Ame was that she kept pushing her glasses back on her nose, they always fell off a little bit and she used to do this movement. It was cute. She often tied her long black hair in a bun over her head, held up with a penー a real artist thing, for sure. She liked to wear floral dresses under her long white coat. She looked a bit like an angel. 

She spoke quite easily when she was used to the people around her. Nines was also such a nice man, and they had more in common than I would have thought at first. Our trio was cosy, but Mr. Reed was missing, mostly because he was Nines' joy and...it just wasn't the same without him. I'm sure he would have loved Mrs. Ame too. 

But over time they became very close and decided to work together. I don't know how, but she managed to bring back the spark of inspiration that Nines had lost with Gavin. 

They did a book together, this time I was the French translator of an illustrated book they called: My Heart Falls for You Like The Rain at Night. This book could be considered a continuation of Nines' poems on Paris, but instead of poems, it was a novel. 

Mrs. Ame told me that it was the story of a little girl who had a magic pen that could take her into a world that she had invented and designed herself. She had her own avatar in it, called Rain, and every person, every creature, called her Rain. I remember the pages were printed in black and white and the cover of the book was the girl in the rain looking through her transparent umbrella. But the funny thing was that the umbrella wasn't real, the rain around it was shaped like an umbrella, and the girl was holding her pen as if it were the handle of the imaginary umbrella. 

Nines then told me that when they were building the character of Rain, they thought of me, as they were both grateful that I was such an inspiration. I was touched. 

A few years later, this illustrated book became famous, and copies spread around the world in 1910. 

It had been six years since Mr. Reed left Paris. Nines still hadn't solved the riddle, but he never gave up on it. 

I still received letters from him. I was now a big girl of 19. I worked with Mrs. Ame in her art store, selling orders for customers and taking commissions for artworks of all kinds. I was also one of her regular customers, asking her to draw me pictures of places and things that Mr. Reed sent me. They now had a specific location and date, with the usual quote behind it. 

And the most beautiful picture I ever received was the cover of the book Ms. Ame and Nines wrote together. 

“I am blown away by this work, they really did a great job, I am glad I found it in this bookshop.”  

ー Canada, june 21st 

This time he wrote a giant letter, mostly telling about his life, as usual, the adventure and encounters he had, but there was one particular section that caught my attention more than the rest:

"I think I found Rain, finally. From the beginning, we both wondered about this strange character, but I studied Richard's wording very carefully, and how he explained this character throughout the story. I know that at first we thought it was you, but then I realised that it couldn't be. In these poems, Rich was only talking about what he knew, what brought him the feelings he wanted to convey. I identified some points in these poems that could be related to you, Rose. But it's not about Rain. 

I'll tell you more about that in my next letter, I just want to focus on the fact that Rain is not someone we know. Rain is the writer's own inspiration. We see Rain everywhere in the book, as much as in real life. He is Rich's comfort and confidence in the things he does. That may sound strange, since I'm supposed to be that in the book, but in some ways Rain is something less volatile than my character. So it makes sense in the end. 

I told you I was also on my way to finding my own Rain, right? Well, I found her. The innocence, light, beauty, intelligence, stability, confidence, and courage were as evident as what Rain was supposed to be. My point is that my own Rain is you, Rose. Rich is not my Rain, Rich is my Love. You understand that. He understood that too, I think, and if he didn't, he wouldn't have stayed in Paris. Well, I'm ready to do it now. I need both of you in my life, and I have tons of things to tell you. 

I'm going home, because that's the only place we know Rain is waiting for us."

That day I wanted to answer him about the art store, but I think he knew the library no longer existed, after 6 years. What still existed, however, was Gavin's love for Nines and Nines' undying, unconditional love for him. I smiled at the thought that they would see each other again. And I smiled for weeks about that. 

In another letter, the last one, he explicitly asked me not to tell Nines about his return. So I kept it a secret for a few more weeks. I kept imagining his boat trip to Europe from the photos of the coast, the hundreds of places imprinted in his mind, the scents he smelled, the faces he met, the sounds he heard. It was all a fantasy, but that's what my brain needed: renewal. Fresh minds, new things to imagine, scenarios to build, and my unconditional interest in the world could not sit around thinking about Mr. Reed telling me his stories from abroad.

In the days following his last letter, I was the most impatient girl in the world, I had no idea when he was going to come back; probably knocking on my door, leaving a note under the gate saying ‘hello, I'm back, let's meet at the cafe down the street at noon’, or even just taking me by the arm on the street.

This amused my routine in Paris. My joy amused Nines' daily life too, and when we all got together with Mrs. Ame, I was full of imagination and ideas for their work together. 

I think I was a big part of their inspiration, especially for my constant joy and positivity. I made my elders smile with sympathy. Maybe they thought I was still drowning in my childhood innocence at 19, but I guess that's something I never lost, like everyone else, I still have that bundle of energy and carefree spirit, it's just that it's not hidden as deep inside me as the others. It helps my friends feel light and a little bit out of the everyday world; Nines used to say that I was a little ray of sunshine.

Anyway, it was on this strange but pleasant evening at the Galerie Vivienne that the front door rang. Ms. Ame went to greet the customer who had just entered but the man pretended to be an old friend rather than a customer. And his voice made Mr. Nines and I open our eyes in surprise at each other from the back of the art store.

Gavin. It was Gavin's voice. I was sure of it, Nines was sure of it.

I knew we were thinking the same thing when he pushed the chair aside and ran to the front door to be sure of what he heard. I struggled to follow him so quickly, but I had never heard so much joy and relief coming from his voice. They both threw themselves into each other's arms without a greeting, it was just pure happiness and reunion. 

Mrs. Ame didn't understand the whole situation, but I suspect she could guess what was going on. We exchanged a comforting look and for the first time in six years, Mr. Reed smiled at me and took my hand, "you have grown into such a beautiful young woman, Rose, it is so lovely to see you again."

I was so moved to welcome him back that I dragged him close to me for the embrace and he almost tripped on my wheelchair. It made us all laugh and I felt like I was home again, just like I did 6 years ago. 

And when I looked at the boys, I couldn't help but expect a confession, a real one, as they both did to me, either by letter or sitting on a park bench. I looked at them with such expectation that it must have been reflected in my expression. Mr. Reed looked down, rising from the hug he had given me. They all became silent, looking at him. He obviously greeted Mrs. Ame, this was the first time they had met, even though she seemed to have known him for months already, thanks to us. 

I couldn't take my eyes off of Nines' sparkling eyes as he followed Gavin's figure around the art store. He was fascinated to see how the library had transformed into something completely different but very colourful and breathing creativity. 

I am still very confused about that day. It was full of all kinds of sensations and I had not been able to recognize and remember them all that day. But I remember Nines taking Mr. Reed for an evening discussion. I stayed with Mrs. Ame inside the art store, but I was glued to the window, watching the two men talking together under the golden hues of the gallery. Nines had taken one of Gavin's hands, he couldn't help but smile for a second, I could even witness his struggle to formulate coherent sentences, what a feat for a writer.

But next to their conversations, their little gestures, their little smiles and their eyes filled with love, I didn't discern an ounce of confession. It remained at its peak the entire time, and not even my ability to read lips could help me see the phrase "I love you" somewhere on their tongues. Not a kiss, not a hug, nothing. And that made me sad.

Their whole beings were screaming those three words, from the inside, from the outside, from everywhere, all around, even deep in my own heart, I was screaming for them. Because I believed in this love story, and I wanted them to be happy. Wasn't that also what Mr. Reed had told me in his letter? Richard was his Love. Why wouldn't he have told him, even if it was the most obvious thing in the universe?

Yes. I never understood that decision, but I think they were both right, sometimes love is too powerful to be confessed. It is enough to move one's heart in such a way that the other cannot understand it. And sometimes this powerful feeling is mutual, but it cannot be revealed to the world, even though it is known on both sides. 

It's unfortunate when that happens, but that's what I learned as true, unconditional love, absolute respect and adoration, and fascination, because that's what they had for each other. I knew it, I was there to witness it every day. Until the end. 

I didn't know I would have lived this long, the doctor always gave me 30 years, no more. But I think the universe gave me a chance, maybe it was for Gavin and Nines, maybe it was because I was looking out for them. Mr. Reed always told me that I was like an angel to him, and that was the reason I was his Rain. 

I don't know anymore. I keep that memory as a reminder and a motto for myself, and I use it to be the best I can be, and bring happiness wherever I go. 

I spent the rest of my life living with Mrs. Ame, because we understood each other quite well, and she had that little something I liked in someone. I never found love, and neither did she. But we were both able to grow with each other's help. We also shared a form of compassionate love for the two boys who danced around each other in constant seduction. 

They never admitted it to each other, no. They lived together, but as friends, wherever they went, they never appeared as anything more than two friends who knew each other better than they knew themselves. 

And the years passed, and I grew older. I stayed in Paris all my life, and I promised myself to stay there forever. I had duties now, one was to look after the copies of Nines' books that I owned, another was to look after my old friend Mrs. Ame, and the last, mostly for pleasure, was to go twice a week to the cemetery, renewing the flowers on the graves of Mr. Reed and Mr. Stern.

I would roll down the aisles, with my colourful tulip bouquets, with an edelweiss on them. It was my favourite flower, it meant eternal love, and that's what I wished for them. Every day. 

One day Mrs. Ame handed me a stack of letters and old papers crumpled with ink, she said she found them in the mailbox of the art store, at the time. It reminded me of Nines' old habit of dropping poems there for Gavin. So I read them. They were terrible, heartbreaking, but I remembered that was the past, and now they were both together, finally. 

I wanted to give voice to those lost poems, so I read them aloud in the cemetery, for all the lost souls, and the two forbidden lovers I came to see twice a week. 

In the end, I think with time, we all find our own Rain . 

Mr. Reed was Nines' Rain. I was Mr. Reed's Rain. And oddly enough, my own Rain was called Rain herself. Life is a strange experience, sometimes we encounter events that seem impossible, but they still happen, and then they become the core of our soul, and define who we are. 

I think what defined me was the love I felt through others. 

I can’t make you love me, 

Why do I, when you don’t?

I love you so much I could die,

Everything is so dark, I can't help it,

You were the only star leading the night,

Now there’s ink everywhere.

I can't make you 

Love me, forever. I wish you did. 

I'm a fool, why did I?

Why do I love you who doesn't love me?

The ocean swallows the sun but

You're my horizon, forever. 

And then, sailing on the water, 

I wish that even at the other end of the world, 

you'll look for a sun to sublimate my rain into infinitely sparkling stars.