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“What are you doing?”
Verlaine leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed in front of his chest and one of his eyebrows raised. His gaze was fixed on Rimbaud, who turned around to look at him.
“I’ve just finished installing the record player I bought the other day,” he explained easily. “The one from the antique store.”
Rimbaud stepped to the side which gave Verlaine free view on the old gramophone. It had a vintage look to it with an elegantly gilded pavilion. Both the golden coat on the metal and the reddish wood looked old and the colour was peeling off, which was why it had only cost Rimbaud a few bucks when he purchased it. Nevertheless, he seemed proud of it.
Verlaine thought it did not fit into their current apartment at all – the wood did not match any of their drawers and tables, and its vintage style looked out of place next to the modern furnishing. He did not say anything about it, however.
“What are you gonna do with it?”
“Use it for its intended purpose, of course.” Rimbaud pulled out a record he had bought as well. The album cover was so old and used that it was barely recognisable, but the motif suggested something classical. Verlaine tilted his head to the side and watched as his partner put on the record.
A quiet crackling could be heard before soft string music started to play. Rimbaud sighed contently and closed his eyes for a moment. He laid his head back and a smile tugged at his lips.
“This reminds me of home,” he mumbled. Rimbaud had never talked much about his time before he became a spy – sometimes he would say things like this out of nowhere and not elaborate, even when Verlaine asked. He did nevertheless promise Verlaine he’d explain one day.
“How so?” Verlaine inquired this time as well, without expecting an answer.
There was a moment of silence only filled by the now rising string music accompanied by a piano. Rimbaud opened his eyes to look at Verlaine with a thoughtful gaze. Verlaine expected that he'd be told the same thing as usual, so it startled him when he was offered a hand.
“Come here, I’ll show you.”
Verlaine’s legs took an automatic step forward, towards Rimbaud. Slow and with hesitation, he stretched his own arm out until his hand touched his partner’s.
Rimbaud was patient and waited until Verlaine had stepped closer to him before taking his hand and carefully pulling Verlaine in with his right hand on his waist.
Despite what Rimbaud always said about feeling cold and his constant shivering, his skin was warm under Verlaine’s touch – to his surprise it was soft as well, there were barely any signs of scarring which was a miracle considering their line of work.
Their hands fit perfectly into each other, and Verlaine rested his other one on the bicep of the arm that reached for his waist.
“So, what now?” Verlaine asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Now we dance.”
“I don’t know how to dance.”
Rimbaud chuckled briefly. “I’ll show you, then. Just do the opposite of what I’m doing.”
Without warning, Rimbaud raised his right foot and brought it towards Verlaine’s left one, hovering in the air. It took Verlaine a few seconds to realise and understand what he was supposed to do: take a step back with the foot, so he did. It was followed by a step to the right that almost felt automatic, then he closed his feet.
What followed then was a step back from Rimbaud and Verlaine followed, then to the side. He closed his feet. Then he went backwards again.
It was a sequence that was easily enough to remember, two sets of three steps that were repeated over and over again. Things changed a little when Rimbaud began to spin them clockwise, very slowly, only a little bit at a time and exactly one full turn with six steps.
Verlaine didn’t like dancing.
Or at least that’s what he wanted himself to think. He wanted to think about it as one of those silly things Rimbaud did to try and prove to Verlaine that he was human, that he felt things, but in the end it would leave Verlaine feeling even more empty. However, in reality, Verlaine let out a satisfied sigh when he finally memorised the steps, didn’t have to stare at his own feet anymore, and was able to do them without a mistake.
He let the music and Rimbaud lead him, first only in their little circle, then through the entire space of the small living room. They avoided tables, chairs and sofas carefully, but in Verlaine’s mind those things didn’t even exist.
It was just him and Rimbaud dancing. So, so close to each other that it took Verlaine’s breath away every time he realised this.
Rimbaud seemed happy as well. When Verlaine finally looked into his face, his partner was smiling fondly with his eyes on Verlaine himself. The worried wrinkles between his eyebrows had completely disappeared for once, and instead he was wearing a joyful look. Rimbaud gave Verlaine’s hand a short squeeze which led him to mirror the smile.
The music carried them through the room, in circles without ever making Verlaine feel dizzy. He felt as though he was not in this small enclosed space anymore but somewhere in a prestigious ballroom with a real orchestra or maybe outside in an open field of grass and flowers with a battery operated radio. Just the two of them, enjoying each other’s presence.
“So the dancing reminds you of home?”
“Not exactly,” Rimbaud disagreed. “It reminds me of the past but this right here is my home.”
Verlaine held onto Rimbaud a little closer and tighter after this.
Rimbaud was warm. Not only was his touch pleasantly warm, but everything about him was. The way he smiled, the way he was so patient with Verlaine, the way he calmly beamed with excitement when Verlaine suggested dancing to the B side of the record as well.
Verlaine turned the vinyl. A few seconds of crackling, then slow piano music. He faced Rimbaud and found him politely bowed down with his hand offered for Verlaine to take once again.
“May I have this dance?” He asked.
Verlaine let his hand slide into Rimbaud’s. It felt natural at this point, like this was where his hand belonged.
“Of course.” He let Rimbaud pull him in as the music continued to play in the background.