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In a small, cut-off section of Paris, France, a breeze wafted by, sending leaves drifting along the concrete floor and blowing on the steam of two men's hot cocoa cups. Their steps resounded along the concrete, one set of heavy boots, the other sleek dress shoes, though their lazy paces were synchronized effortlessly, with no particular meaning. Birds chirped above them, the sun getting ready to tuck itself into the horizon. It was an evening that could be described only as halcyon, if one were to reflect upon it.
Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud walked through a pedestrian lane surrounded by warm trees that towered as they strode. Tall buildings loomed in the distance, some impressive, some small, none of interest to either of the men. Rimbaud took a small sip from the hot cocoa both had just bought from a small cafe nearby, shivering underneath his practically thousands of layers. Verlaine sighed for the umpteenth time that day. "Rimbaud, let's go back. There's no use staying out here."
"Don't be silly,” The other responded with a small, reassuring smile. “I'm fine.”
"You'll catch a cold!"
Hearing these words, Rimbaud felt his smile grow wider. His partner truly always had his back. Still, he responded, "Do you think I'm so weak a cold would compromise me?"
Verlaine muttered it off. No use in arguing with a Rimbaud who made up his mind. After all, it was he who had wanted to even come outside in the first place. Verlaine had an inkling of an idea why. As he thought this, he suddenly looked down at the ground. He'd stepped on a dry leaf. Like every time he heard the sound of a leaf crunching under his heel, his eyes went a little wide with wonder. Beside him, Rimbaud's snicker turned into small giggles at Verlaine's face. It was their third year together since Rimbaud had rescued him from Pan; their third autumn, how many times had Verlaine stepped on a crunchy leaf? Yet every time Verlaine stepped on a leaf like that, he always made the same awed expression, like a little child trying their soon-to-be favourite dessert for the first time.
Rimbaud wasn't stupid. He knew Verlaine didn't take joy in most things humans did. But he did have one thing he knew Verlaine did enjoy: autumn. He knew it was his favourite season. Why else would he often make such an effort to take Verlaine outside in the chilly breeze?
Autumn was not Rimbaud's thing. Predictably, he preferred summer. That's not to say summer was warm enough for him to take his coat off (he couldn't even do so much as take his coat off, yet people everywhere would be casually walking around in booty shorts!), but in its hottest days, sometimes he didn't feel the need to commit arson on everything around him to keep warm. The only downside was the atrocious tan lines he got on his face from his scarf that Verlaine never stopped making fun of him for.
He took another small sip of his quickly chilling hot cocoa, mirth reflecting in his eyes as he watched Verlaine try to shrug off his stupefied expression, acting like nothing happened as if the same thing didn't happen every time. And every time Rimbaud laughed. How could he not? He even started keeping count of how many times Verlaine wore the exact same expression at the almost exact same sound in his journal — something Verlaine didn’t need to know. One more tally mark to add when he got home. There were already multiple pages full. He grabbed Verlaine's unoccupied hand and started striding over to a bench he saw squat underneath a brooding tree.
"Let's have a seat."
"No, we'll keep walking to keep you warm."
"Our hot cocoa won't be so hot soon. You haven't even begun drinking yours, Paul! We'll sit down to enjoy it."
Verlaine looked dubiously at the cup in his hand. He usually found the drinks sold from others too wrong for his tastes. Too sweet, too thick, too watery, too bland. No matter how many times Rimbaud would drag him around to different cafes to buy him drink after another, the only things he could keep down were the ones he made himself... And the ones Rimbaud made, too.
He began drinking it anyway.
Leaves danced in the wind around them, each waltzing to a tune nobody but they could hear. Light chatter rang around them from the few couples scattered throughout the lane. A toddler holding hands with both his parents jumped into a small pile of leaves, the leaves crumpling with a satisfying noise under his weight. Verlaine noticed Rimbaud shivering again, and removed his own coat to drape over his partner's shoulders. A silent thanks was muttered. Rimbaud knew Verlaine liked the coolness of the air anyways. He scooted over to drape his head on Verlaine's shoulder, his own shoulders pressed stiff with cold. Of course he only did it for the heat of being closer to another person, Verlaine knew, but would that stop him from relaxing under the other’s weight? Rimbaud spoke up.
“Did you like your cocoa this time?”
“No.” Verlaine made a face at what, to him, was a murky-looking drink. “You got the exact same drink as me. Don’t tell me you actually like this.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“I’d rather drink sewer water.”
“Paul…” Rimbaud sighed.
“Why don’t I bring something next time?”
“It’ll be cold by the time I get to you.”
“It’s not my fault you’d only enjoy a drink if it came straight out of being heated by the flames in hell!”
“I’m drinking my cocoa right now, am I not? By now, it’s lukewarm at best.”
“You don’t like it.”
“It wasn’t that bad when we had just bought it,” Rimbaud insisted.
As if to call him out on his obvious lie, a yellow leaf fluttered down from the tree overhead and gently swayed, landing on a smiling Rimbaud’s head, before slipping down to land directly in the center of his hot cocoa — he let slip a small grunt of surprise. Verlaine shook his head in light amusement, taking Rimbaud’s cup from his hand and standing up to throw both their drinks out in a nearby trash can. “What a waste of money,” He muttered under his breath, sitting back down just as Rimbaud called out, "Paul." And pointed towards the sun.
As they both turned their heads, the sun started setting, melting into the horizon in a blend of vivid orange, yellow, and pink. The sky far, far above was descending into a dark blue, like blinds being pulled down to block out the light. And this moment was the sole reason Rimbaud always forced Verlaine out of his house. The sole reason he'd always put up with the cold for his partner (but he would go to hell and back for Verlaine, what was a little bit of cold? Then again, hell was probably warm).
The sunset. It was what he was sure was Verlaine's favourite thing about autumn, because after every time he watched the sunset, there would be a small gladness in his eyes that wasn't there before. Rimbaud would be damned before he didn't do everything he could possibly do to bring that light back into his eyes. He trained his own eyes back on the glowing sphere and watched attentively, respectfully, as thanks to the heavens for creating this one thing his partner could love. The sun would rise everyday, and everyday it would set. That was a simple fact of the moment that nothing on the Earth could change, and for as long as he could, Rimbaud would try his best to witness moments like these with his partner. He didn't dare take his eyes off for a second.
Verlaine wasn't even watching the sunset.
He knew Rimbaud knew autumn was his favourite season. He also knew Rimbaud was wrong about why it was his favourite season. Rimbaud probably thought of him like a little child. Having autumn as his favourite season because of what, dry leaves, some cold, and a sun?
Verlaine couldn't care less about the damn "crunchy leaves". Why would he? The only thing the falling leaves were good for was to put somebody to work raking them up. The first time he'd stepped on one of them he was shocked at their peculiar sound, for sure, but he didn't care much about them once Rimbaud explained to him why they made that noise after giggling at Verlaine's shocked face. He still stepped on them over and over, though, trying his best to make the same expression again and again, because that would mean he got to hear Rimbaud's giggling, none the wiser. Tedious, but who was he kidding? It was worth it.
Verlaine didn't give his coat to Rimbaud because he "liked the cold". Actually, he was freezing half to death without it. Paul Verlaine, master spy, defeated by some cold wind. Still, he gave the other his coat when he had the opportunity, because Rimbaud always took that as permission to lay his head on his shoulder too.
And in reality, the sunset was never what had captured Verlaine's attention. It was who he was watching the sunset with. The sunset in spring, the sunset in summer, the sunset in winter, none were the same. Only the sunset in autumn could properly paint Rimbaud's picture.
Warm rays bathing half of Rimbaud's lightly smiling face in light, air flowing through his hair, though for a minute Rimbaud would forget to even feel cold. The atmosphere around them, time frozen to a pause so still that if he wanted to, Verlaine could stop to count each individual leaf flying in the air. Some trees were nearly naked, some trees still had an abundance of leaves, yet whether on a branch or in the air or on the ground, their tones only enhanced Rimbaud's own colour palette, weaving in seamlessly with even the slightest of details. Blotches of colour almost completely enraptured the man, len flares soaking through the fabric of his very existence.
Verlaine watched until the light from the sun fully sunk and everything returned to normal, then turned his face back to where the sun he was supposed to be watching was, hair hiding his face. When Rimbaud’s rapt attention broke and he turned to look at his partner’s face, through the hair, that same sparkle appeared as usual in Verlaine's eyes, a momentary peace, a brief relief, eyes curved in a pondering stance.
Both were lost in their own thoughts for a brief moment, before the silence was broken by Rimbaud’s renewed shivering, and Verlaine made yet another proposition to head home, steadying the back of his partner as they walked, light from the stars faintly reflecting in each of their gazes.
Yeah, they both felt in their hearts knowingly as they journeyed back through the emptying streets in a quiet lane of Paris, autumn really was Verlaine's favorite season.