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Working as spies meant there was no such thing as Home. While they had a place they lived in between missions, Rimbaud and Verlaine would more often than not stay in hotels or apartments around the world. Such was the case right now, all the way in Iceland, winter even, where darkness covered the land all day long. The clock on the wall showed the time—it was getting late and the two needed to rest for the coming day.
Now, Verlaine didn’t have the easiest time going to sleep, for several reasons actually; First, he didn’t dream, going to sleep meant darkness. Second, it left him uncomfortable; he was out of commission and wasn’t working, and that didn’t sit right with him. Lastly, he just had a bad time trying to fall asleep, he never really felt tired and trying to sleep just left him plagued by his own mind. Oftentimes, this all led to Rimbaud going to sleep earlier and Verlaine busying himself with simple things until he might as well have passed out.
Verlaine stayed in the bedroom. Rimbaud once mentioned it was pleasant to wake up with someone dependable in the room, to have his first view be Verlaine, regardless of if he was asleep in bed or still awake and reading at a window. Verlaine also prided himself on his great senses; he noticed even the smallest details, so he didn’t miss how Rimbaud slowly seemed to get more and more agitated. From small twitches, to thrashing around in bed and groaning as if in pain. When Verlaine stepped closer, he saw a frown on Rimbaud’s face.
As Rimbaud was struggling, Verlaine was thinking, what should he do? He’d never had a nightmare so he didn’t know what he himself would want to happen. Should he wake him up? That could potentially be dangerous for Verlaine; Rimbaud was a trained spy and to startle him meant an unforeseen attack. So, he thought some more, and remembered, Rimbaud would always make him a cup of tea. Rimbaud certainly liked the drink; it was warm and calming. Waking up to a warm cup of tea might help him relax in the end.
What Verlaine, however, didn’t think of, was Rimbaud waking up. He sat up with a shocked gasp and a panicked look. Alone. It was still dark and his eyes weren’t adjusted to the night, so he was breathing heavily and looking around for someone, something—please let there be something. And then the bed dipped next to him. He looked over and already felt slightly better. Verlaine was sitting there, a hot cup of tea in hand, with a worried look in his eyes.
“You looked… unwell, so I thought tea would help,” Verlaine admitted quietly. He gently handed the tea over to Rimbaud, who carefully took a sip.
“It’s splendid, thank you,” Rimbaud told him. A moment passed the two just quietly enjoying each other’s company. “I simply had a nightmare, silly right?” Rimbaud eventually said, with a smile that wasn’t really one, it was too pained to be.
Verlaine took a look at Rimbaud, and the other didn’t seem to fare much better than before. “It’s all alright, can I help in any other way?” Verlaine inquired and Rimbaud, ever so slightly, moved. Verlaine understood, so he got behind Rimbaud, sitting on the bed. With gentle hands, unbefitting of the King of Assassins and certainly of a monster, Verlaine carefully started brushing through Rimbaud’s hair with his fingers to braid it.
This went on for a while, in a comfortable silence the two sat alone with each other, Verlaine softly making a braid in Rimbaud’s long, soft hair. As Rimbaud finished the tea and Verlaine the braid, Verlaine spoke up again “Come, let’s try and rest again”.
The comfort of it all slowly lulled Rimbaud to sleep, the last thing he saw was Verlaine’s gentle smile, and the last thing he heard were his partners words “I’ll be here when you wake up again.”
Everything would be alright.