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At night the vast ocean appeared like a polished onyx.
It was deep black with splatters of white from the stars’ reflections, and the surface was smooth when there was barely any wind blowing. The sea was always in motion, however, and so the stars’ light moved and warped but still it wasn’t bright enough to see very far. The cliffs that surrounded the small and secure beach loomed in the distance as nothing more than dark shapes in front of the night sky.
Some weak waves washed over Verlaine’s bare feet. He didn’t shiver despite the temperature being lower than expected, as he had gotten used to the cool water over the past ten minutes. The waves barely made any sound when they rolled over the sand and got pulled back, only the occasional murmur could be heard.
A gentle breeze that carried a salty yet fresh scent brushed past him. To Verlaine it was the smell of freedom. A smell that took a weight off his chest like nothing ever had before.
He inhaled deeply, let it sit in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling again.
“Are you alright, Paul?”
Verlaine turned around at the sound of a familiar voice.
“Yes, don’t worry,” he answered. A tall man with long, black hair stepped next to him and shivered when his toes came into contact with the water.
“Did I wake you?”
Rimbaud shook his head.
“I was awake already, waited for you to come back. I became concerned me when you didn’t.”
“I’m sorry for worrying you.”
Rimbaud sighed deeply. Not in annoyance or frustration but because he, too, felt the freedom in the air.
“Is the boy asleep?”
“Yes, Chuuya’s sleeping like a rock.” Rimbaud chuckled but became serious very quickly. “He’s what I meant to talk with you about.”
Verlaine had seen this coming. Ever since they had arrived here about a week ago, there had been a tension between the two former spies. Neither of them had addressed it in front of Chuuya as they didn’t want to stress him or confuse him even more.
A small amount of weight returned to Verlaine’s chest. ‘It’s not too late to go back’ or ‘This was a mistake’ were sentences he was sure he wouldn’t be able to bear. Especially not from Rimbaud, not right now. His partner sighed again.
“I was unsure about this at first, you know,” he started hesitantly. “Taking – stealing Chuuya and abandoning my duty. We’re fugitives now, enemies of the state. France will search for us.”
Rimbaud was not looking at Verlaine. He was staring at a point far, far away beyond the horizon.
“I don’t how long it’ll take them to find us. Could be months, could be tonight. They could be planning an ambush right now and who knows who they’ll send to take us out. But you were right.”
“What do you mean?” asked Verlaine when Rimbaud did not continue for a while. He didn’t receive an answer immediately. Rimbaud remained quiet and only the waves filled the silence. If the sea hadn’t been there Verlaine was sure he would’ve gone insane during the wait until Rimbaud finally spoke again.
“Chuuya deserves a life.” He chuckled with a shake of his head. Verlaine thought to see his eyes watering but it was hard to tell with no light. “He’s such a lively kid – he’s quickly coming out of his shell, he laughs, he cries, he gets angry. He wants our attention and asks questions.” His voice cracked lightly, so Rimbaud swallowed thickly.
“Chuuya is learning how to navigate this new environment, he loves to discover things. He likes television and video games.”
Now Verlaine was sure that Rimbaud was tearing up, as a tear rolled down his cheek.
“He is a child. He wants friends, he wants to learn about the world. Paul, he wants to live. But can we give this to him? Can we give him the life he so clearly deserves?”
Verlaine remained silent. All the defences he had thought of and all the plans to take Rimbaud down if he needed to had disappeared from his mind. Not for a single moment had he thought that Rimbaud would come to terms with the situation after all. It lifted the last bits of wight from his shoulders even though the atmosphere was still heavy.
“I’m sorry, that was a big question,” Rimbaud admitted in a small voice. “I fear for his future. Our future.”
Now it was Verlaine who was unsure of what to say. Next to him Rimbaud wiped his tears away and cleared his throat.
“I worry about Chuuya. And I apologise for doubting you, Paul.”
“I doubted you too.”
“I would’ve done the same in your position,” Rimbaud said without hesitation. “It’s what makes a good spy.”
“But we’re not spies anymore.” Verlaine turned to look his partner in the eyes. “Now we need to trust each other.”
Rimbaud nodded.
“You’re right about that. We came here to build a new life.” He flashed Verlaine an unsure smile. “I wish for it to work out. I wish for that so, so badly that it hurts.”
Rimbaud clutched his chest with his hand as tears began to form again. “Forgive me, Paul. Forgive me for trying to stop you. I broke your trust and-”
“That’s in the past now,” Verlaine interrupted. “We need to focus on the here and now. Together. I forgive you, Arthur.”
They stared at each other in silence. Rimbaud seemed taken aback a little, so he did not say anything else. And it wasn’t like he needed to. Both of them knew that their trust in each other had been damaged but they were rebuilding it quickly – and they did not need many words for that. The fact that they could stand there now, forgiving one another, with Chuuya sleeping at the cabin was proof enough.
Rimbaud’s eyes were still wet with tears and he was shivering, so Verlaine suggested going back to the house – they shouldn’t leave Chuuya alone for too long anyway. They picked up their shoes and socks and walked barefoot through the sand.
The sounds of the sea faded and was replaced by the faint buzzing of insects that lived in the greens where sand changed into solid stone ground.
Right in the middle between the cliffs and surrounded by trees and bushes that provided shade stood a single house. It was small and made of wood that had seen many storms, but it was comfortable and big enough for three people.
A single light burnt inside when Rimbaud and Verlaine entered.
Both of them quietly placed their shoes by the entrance before walking towards a door that was a crack wide open to let a little light in from the hallway – just how Chuuya liked it when he slept.
Verlaine gently pushed the door open. Light illuminated a figure on the bed with messy orange hair on the pillow; the boy’s small body was completely sprawled out over the mattress and he had pushed off his blanket.
Rimbaud sighed and walked in, picked up the blanket and covered Chuuya once more.
They quickly left the room again to not wake the boy.
Before they could go their separate ways for the night, Verlaine stopped Rimbaud with a hand on his arm.
“We can give him a future, Rimbaud,” he whispered. “Together.”
Rimbaud nodded with a smile and shortly placed his hand on Verlaine’s.
“You’re right. I’m sure of that now.”