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Gaspard unconsciously shivers as all becomes black and numb, the press of cheek like sinking into his pillows. There he is now, his hair grown back longer, his mustache full and his eyes hidden behind yellowish orange frames. He remembers through this fact the fall of curls on the hairdresser's tiled floor, and feels a pang of regret. But his body is now up and about in Nice's prettiest streets, the line of clothing stores a bit less boring than a few years ago. High fashion, Yves-Saint-Laurent meets Margiela, large shoulder widths on display ; just as the decade called for. The 80s. Gaspard himself is wearing one of those ragged white t-shirts, with discreet holes lining the collar and the hem of sleeves upturned. He has jeans so tight, a lighter shade of blue on his buttocks, which he turns around to see, placing a hand on them briefly as if to acknowledge it. He's reminded of Gina X and gay parties, and grins at how perfect it all is. The sky is blue, cloudless. He's living the dream.
Gaspard walks on black concrete, appreciating the desert streets and shining tramway lines in the sun. His hair flows behind him just like in a commercial, and he's reminded of the overtaking of photography in advertisement : Mondino, Goude, everything mixes up in his head as this street adjacent to the Place Masséna elongates more and more. Propaganda posters scream their fashion on windows now, and Gaspard feels compelled to push the doors of a Fnac store in the middle of 'Encounters WIth The Third Kind' type of apocalyptic prevention. Do not feed them ! Government will take care of negotiations – What ?
All's bright and yellow inside the Fnac. There's hardware pretty much everywhere, phones not even out yet, screens and holograms. And other oddities, with keys like typewriters, or surround speakers. A sound so crisp and clear envelops the room. It's a song, a melody he knows exists only in this realm.
It's his music.
Not music he's composed yet, but music he knows he will, and here lies all the poetry of it.
"Say, say... Would you tape yourself for me ?"
He talks to this music like he'd talk with his broken consoles and E.T goodies. With a mouth full of calembours and sweet smiles, head looking up towards the ceiling. The music answers with an arpeggio, and Gaspard raises and tenses both of his hands like a magician, capturing the essence of something he tends to ignore in his fingers. The prickly feel in his toes, a head full of clouds and hair tied up in a comfortable ponytail. Gaspard supposes he's that now, sitting down on the grey carpet of the store with a cassette in his hands. The form escapes his mind. One time it's blue, and when he blinks it's white and gold, smaller than a toy. God, what is this music he can't seem to fathom right yet ? He's Gaspard Augé, musician and shaper of his own dreams. This appearance, unable to stay sharp like a reflection of crystal in his eye... It's bothersome.
The Fnac crumbles down under the weight of uncertainties, only stays the feel of carpet against his butt and legs, as Gaspard's eyes process all but pitch black. He swallows, and no one finds him here, even though he had hoped and prayed for Xavier to come and take him by the hand towards greener hills. He's not there this time, but the gears of Gaspard's heart keep turning, screeching with the need to understand what this is all about. Ah, stupid mechanical heart. Gaspard understands quite well by now that his awareness slipped away from his fingers. He doesn't get how exactly that is a dream anymore, so his reign over Dream Land comes to an end too, dates carved in a rectangle of bronze : 1979 - 2019.
And he's fucking hallucinating, with the plaque now hanging on the wall, supported by a thread of gold. Maybe that the void was in fact the streets of his town painted in black. Hoping to be right, he looks up and sees stars. Yes. That's his town.
Vincennes ? Besançon ? Only one way to know.
Gaspard sits back up, the ever changing cassette still in his hands and his hair in a ponytail. It feels like needles in his legs, and wind blows in the slot dug in his solar plexus, a slot made for the very tape he's holding. All is painted black, painted, but when he turns around to certify sameness behind his back, he notices a silhouette.
"Xavier !"
Xavier gives the faintest smile and simply comes to him, Gaspard still oblivious to the machinations of his brain, control far from his hands, confined to the realm of the heart. Without a time to breathe, familiar lips then kiss his, though the act is still foreign to the awaken him-
Awaken.
Gaspard finally remembers, but lets him continue all the same, speechless and with hands creeping down his back. He shivers at the touch and the cassette is then taken from his trembling hands, inserted by Xavier in the slot without much hesitation.
"Come on Gaspard, let me hear what your music sounds like."
Gaspard inhales deeply at the words and notices the unmistakable stench of Vincennes, always entwined with the polluted struggle of Paris. So that's where he is, probably. Where all finished and began, the birth of all passions, with a library card he probably never gave back to his grandma and swimming trunks too tight to be worn again. Xavier caresses his torso as the cassette winds up and Gaspard feels a bit detached suddenly. A bit out of himself, his gaze a bit unfocused... He's never used that slot before, and all brutally flatlines in his head as it finishes. Like a click in the brain, a switch you can flick only once, he loses balance and becomes a mere player, an instrumentalist, a robot. Xavier hurriedly catches him before he falls and lays him there on concrete, with quite a worried expression modeling his face. But Gaspard stays unmoving, his stare fixated in the fog and his mouth open to let out the eerie notes of Captain. He can barely process sound anymore, only idly live, breathing steadily as he lets music talk for him... Quite literally.
But the gears of his heart continue turning like clockwork, and Gaspard closes his eyes to the sound of childhood.