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The bakery Verlaine frequents is only a five minute walk from the train station, and always crowded by the time classes let out. Today is no exception, as herds of sleep-deprived students mill about the crowded interiors in search of their sugar fix.
Slipping past tired customers and trays of invitingly fresh pastries—honey golds and glazed browns and a whiff of sweet nostalgia—Verlaine makes his way to the front counter.
“What will it be today, Paul?” The employee on shift greets Verlaine warmly when he notices him.
As always, Rimbaud is the picture of comfort, all bundled up in his scarf and earmuffs, his wavy hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. The colorful logo of Mainichi Pain peeks out from between the collar of his coat, covered partially by a loose strand of hair. On a normal day, Verlaine would have taken the time to admire that cozy appearance, but right now, his mind is occupied by more pressing matters.
“A slice of tiramisu mascarpone double fudge cheesecake with extra chocolate shavings,” he says in a single breath. “And a small black coffee.”
The smile falls from Rimbaud’s face. “That bad huh?”
“It’s a code red.”
With a nod, Rimbaud moves to the back to start on the coffee. After nearly two years of these visits, he’s grown familiar with what each of Verlaine’s orders means. Croissants and pains au chocolat are for breakfast. A donut is to celebrate the end of exams or an academic achievement. A pâte à choux or two serves as a pick-me-up on a bad day.
And for the most dire of straits, the answer is always cake.
“What did Dazai-kun do this time?” he asks, managing to sound amused and exasperated in the same breath.
Attention on his phone and the recent string of expletives his brother sent in their chat, Verlaine answers stiffly, “The brat dyed Chuuya’s motorcycle neon green.”
A muffled snicker escapes Rimbaud, which he immediately tries to hide by clearing his throat. Normally, Verlaine would have taken offense to someone laughing at his brother’s expense, but Rimbaud and Chuuya get along well enough for him to let it slide.
(It also helps that Rimbaud has a lovely laugh.)
“Dazai-kun is still as mischievous as ever, I see,” Rimbaud comments.
“He’s a menace to the general public.”
There are times when Verlaine finds himself wondering if Chuuya really needs a childhood friend. He could probably make do with one of the punks from his youth association—unhinged as they may be, they’re nowhere near the level of headache Dazai causes simply by existing. None too eager to get back and deal with the little hellspawn, Verlaine works out a threatening message on his phone while he waits for his order.
In the background, the sound of chocolate being shaved intersperses the quiet hum of the coffee machine. Storegoers trickle in from outside, their excited chatter rising and falling like the tides. Rimbaud’s long coat makes a slight swish as he moves about the kitchen, rustles and crinkles and shuffles accompanying his seamless actions. Verlaine has always found comfort in this mundane ambience, but today, it only serves to make him more impatient.
By the time Rimbaud hands him his paper bag, Verlaine has already left the exact change on the counter. Muttering a thanks, he reaches inside to grab his drink and notices an extra item.
“Did you make a mistake, Rimbaud? I didn’t order this,” he says, pulling out a small pastry box stacked on top of the first one. Through the clear plastic window, he can make out a heart-shaped pâte feuilletée decorated in red and white chocolate chips.
“Ah, that.” Rimbaud averts his gaze, looking sheepish. “It’s our Valentine’s Day special. Due to a miscalculation, we ended up with a lot more than we’ll be able to sell. Consider it a complimentary gift, since you come here every day.“
Verlaine places the box back in the bag with a hum. “Well, thanks. I’m sure Chuuya will like it.”
That should have been the end of things, but then there’s a tug on his sleeve, and he looks up to see Rimbaud wringing his hands nervously.
“Actually, it was meant more for you…”
“But I don’t eat pastries. I think Chuuya would enjoy it more.” And he really should be getting back before his brother commits a crime they can’t cover up.
“Just try a bite! It’s not as sweet as some of our other items,” Rimbaud insists. “I’m sure you’ll like it if you give it a try.”
Setting his bag down on the counter, Verlaine crosses his arms in displeasure. He should have just left at this point, but Rimbaud was using that matter-of-fact tone that made him want to argue back out of spite. “I don’t need to try it to know I won’t like it. It’s not my thing, and that’s that.”
“That’s a bit close-minded, don’t you think? How can you know for sure if you haven’t tried it?”
Verlaine sighs, feeling his patience starting to wear. As soothing as Rimbaud’s voice is, as huggable as he looks with all those layers on, there’s one thing about him that Verlaine absolutely can’t stand, and that’s his unflagging obsession with spreading the gospel of baked goods to the entire world.
Rimbaud doesn’t just love bread. He lives it. He breathes it.
Bread is his raison d'être.
He’d made multiple attempts in the past to convert Verlaine to his ways—with a suggestion to try this cheese tart or that fruit pastry, or a reminder about a new seasonal menu item—but he’d always dropped the topic after a blunt refusal. Annoying as it was, Verlaine had learned to tolerate these bouts of passion for the sake of peace.
Now, he sees what a mistake that had been.
“Rimbaud, for the last time, I’m not going to eat it. Not now, not later, not ever. There is nothing in this world that I hate more than bread and baked goods.”
For a second, Rimbaud’s crestfallen expression is all that fills Verlaine’s vision, and a pang of guilt runs through him for having caused it, but then Rimbaud leans forward with a frown and says, “Don’t be ridiculous, Paul. What kind of person doesn’t like bread? That’s not normal.”
At the sound of those oft-repeated words, Verlaine’s blood boils.
“Me!” he snaps, slamming a hand against the counter. “Because I’m a coeliac and lactose intolerant! Every day, you try to get me to eat your goddamn bread, and every day I have to refuse! I’m sick of it! Why can’t you get it through your thick skull that some people just don’t like bread!”
All his life, he had been subject to endless badgering from people who reveled in forcing their own narrow opinions on him. It wasn’t enough that he didn’t like bread—they had to know why, to what degree, how such a defect was possible. They’d pester him over and over, always with those stupid, accursed words. And when they found out the truth about his condition, they’d look at him with pity, as if he had been forsaken by God himself.
The same way Rimbaud is looking at him now, mouth agape, brows pulled together in horror.
An eternity passes as they stare at each other wordlessly. The air between them is tense enough to stifle all chatter, their surroundings falling into harsh silence.
Rimbaud breaks the deadlock first, voice shaky as he says, “Paul, it can’t be…I—”
But Verlaine is already pushing his way past the onlookers, his purchase left behind as he storms out of the store and into the chilly mid-autumn streets of the business district.
For a while, he walks aimlessly among the street-goers, trying to cool off his annoyance. He should have been used to getting grief for his condition—he’s had an entire lifetime to learn how to deal with it. But something deeper gnaws at him, nauseating and thorny and irritatingly hard to quantify.
It’s only after a few blocks that he realizes what he’s feeling isn’t anger but disappointment, because the person he wanted to trust had turned out to be no better than the rest.
***
“So, are you planning to make up with Earmuffs anytime soon?” Chuuya drawls, half of a cheese danish in his hand as he leans against the doorway of Verlaine’s room. “Or are you just gonna sulk till the end of time?”
Without looking up from his laptop, Verlaine continues to tabulate the data for his lab report. “Why would we need to make up? We aren’t fighting in the first place.”
“You haven’t gone to the bakery this entire week. It’s pretty obvious something went down between you two.”
Verlaine copy-pastes a graph into his document and tries to center the stubborn thing. “Nothing happened. I just think there are better bakeries we could be going to. In fact, I’ve been looking around for alternatives.”
“Better bakeries?” Chuuya says in disbelief. “Even though you’re basically in love with Earmuffs…Did he turn out to be a flat-earther or something?”
“It has nothing to do with Rimbaud. And I’m not in love with him.”
“You literally wake up half an hour earlier every day so you can go to the bakery and talk to him for five minutes.”
Is the coefficient of friction supposed to be this high? He tabs back to his data chart and notices a misplaced decimal point in one of his columns. Ah, so there’s the issue.
“I go to the bakery for you, mon chéri, since you like their bread so much,” he murmurs, fixing the data value and waiting for the changes to reflect in his graph.
“Oh, please.” A pair of footsteps approaches his bed, and then Chuuya plops down next to him, legs crossed. “I said their coffee bun was good once, and you’ve been bringing back stuff every day since then. We have so much bread. There’s bread in the fridge, bread in the cabinets, bread in my sock drawers…And I’m the only one who eats it.”
As if to make a point, Chuuya takes a bite out of his cheese danish and chews it wearily. “So tell me again that you’re doing this for me, and not because of your schoolgirl crush on the anemic dude who works at the bakery.”
Letting out a sigh, Verlaine sets his laptop aside on his nightstand. “My dear brother, you seem to be convinced that I have some sort of crush on Rimbaud, but I assure you, it’s the opposite. In truth, I despise him.”
Chuuya snorts. “Yeah, and I’ve got a thing for Daza—holy shit! That was a joke, don’t go breaking the goddamn headboard!”
“Are you sure?” Verlaine demands, mind racing a kilometer a second. He’d always suspected there was something going on between Chuuya and the lunatic with the vehicle obsession, but to think it was Dazai who held his brother’s heart… “You do look at him with a certain intensity at times…Curse that foul demon for leading you astray!”
“For fuck’s sake, the only thing I’m looking at him with is bloodlust! Because I want to bash his head in!”
The headboard cracks between Verlaine’s fingers, and he would have loved for it to be Dazai’s bones instead. “You’re looking at him with lust?!”
“Putain de merde, do you even hear yourself right now!” Chuuya shouts, kicking him in the side.
Unfortunately, Verlaine doesn’t get to pry any further into this alarming state of affairs, because the doorbell rings at that moment. Filing the conversation away for a later time—and mark his words, there would be a later—he gets up from his bed and makes his way to the front door, Chuuya’s footsteps padding softly after him.
When he sees who it is through the peephole, he almost considers pretending not to be home, but Chuuya catches on and shoves him aside.
“It’s Earmuffs, isn’t it?” he says, and once he confirms through the peephole, he gives Verlaine a pointed look. “Open the door.”
Begrudgingly, Verlaine complies.
Rimbaud is standing on the other side, shivering despite his thick coat. His earmuffs are missing for once, like he’d forgotten to put them on in his rush, and a small paper bag is clutched between his gloved hands. For a moment, concern washes over Verlaine at the sight of his friend’s red face and frost-kissed ears, but he quickly forces it back behind a mask of indifference.
“What do you want?” he asks, his question coming out harsher than intended. Enough time has passed since their last meeting that he’s started to feel a little bad about his outburst, but some stubborn part of him still refuses to give in so easily.
“I wanted to apologize to you,” Rimbaud admits.
Verlaine almost doubts his ears. “Apologize? Why?”
“I wanted to show you the wonders of bread. I thought if I tried hard enough, I could get you to like it too.” Rimbaud casts his gaze downward in regret. “But in the end, all I could give you was the empty compassion of someone who pretended to understand you…simply apologizing wouldn’t be enough.”
Reaching into the paper bag, he takes out a small pastry box. Before Verlaine can protest, he continues in a reassuring tone.
“If you had truly despised baked goods, I wouldn't have pursued the topic any further. But Paul, you always make such a wistful face when you see the bread at the bakery. Like you wished you could try it. Ever since our falling out, I’ve been thinking about what I can do for you. And finally, I came to an answer.” He pulls back the lid on the box and holds it out, revealing the heart-shaped croissant inside. “If it’s gluten and lactose-free, then you can enjoy it too, right?”
For a while, Verlaine only stares at the offering, unable to process the sight before him. “This is…you made this for me?”
From beside him, Chuuya lets out a breathless holy shit, which aptly sums up Verlaine’s own feelings. For Rimbaud to go through all that trouble just to let him try bread…the thought is enough to send a flood of warmth through his frigid heart. Gingerly, he picks up the croissant and takes a tentative bite.
“It’s good,” he says in amazement, marveling at the way the flavor settles on his tongue, buttery and featherlight. If this is what he’s been missing out on, he can understand why Rimbaud wanted him to try it so badly. “Really good.”
Rimbaud’s face lights up in relief, and he takes a swaying step forward. “Really? That’s wonderful! Seeing you enjoying bread makes me so ha—”
The rest of his sentence dies in his throat as he suddenly pitches forward. Verlaine’s arms instinctively shoot out to catch him, and then he’s falling back under their combined weight. They land in a clumsy heap, sprawled out halfway across the genkan.
“Rimbaud! What’s wrong?” Righting himself, Verlaine tries to shift Rimbaud into a lying position as Chuuya rushes to his side.
“Hey, get a grip, Earmuffs!”
“Sorry,” Rimbaud whispers, eyes drooping from fatigue, and it’s only now that Verlaine realizes how pale he is. His pulse hammers out an uneven beat against the hand Verlaine has wrapped around his cold wrist. “I wanted to make the perfect bread, but I might have overdone it. Seven days…was probably too much…”
“Don’t tell me…You spent that entire week baking bread?” Verlaine breathes out incredulously. “On top of work and school?”
Rimbaud has always been a bit overzealous about developing new recipes, but his weak constitution means that he can’t exert himself for too long. For him to disregard that—and for something so insignificant as bread, for someone as inconsequential as Verlaine—is as baffling a thought as it is horrifying.
When no denial comes, Chuuya lets out a huff. “Are you an idiot? Why would you go that far for my lameass brother?” Despite his harsh tone, he keeps a tense grip on the edge of Rimbaud’s sleeve.
Rimbaud smiles weakly, directing a fond gaze at Verlaine. “Since my previous gift didn’t work out…I wanted to give you something better. Happy Valentine’s Day. I’m so glad I got to know you.”
With a final shuddering breath, he goes still, his hand falling limp in Verlaine’s grip.
And it’s as if the Earth has lost the anchoring gravity of the sun.
“Rimbaud!”
***
Time is capable of many things.
Healing wounds. Scabbing over painful memories. Deepening the gap between two people who are slowly drifting apart.
Making dough rise.
The timer marking an hour’s passing sounds, and Verlaine wipes his hands on a towel before turning it off. Leaving his stand mixer, he walks over to the opposite counter to check on the dough he set aside for rising. By now, it’s filled out the bowl quite nicely. He gives it a gentle tap, and the surface springs back in place. Perfect.
The dough is dumped onto a free section of countertop and divided in half. Flour-dusted fingers pat the dough down and roll it up, pinching it end over end to form an oblong shape. As a final touch, the surface is meticulously scored with a sharp razor blade.
Leaving the loaves to rise a bit more, Verlaine goes back to preparing the dough in the mixer.
Out pours the flour from its measuring cup, falling like a stream of snow into the mixing bowl. The dough hook spins round and round, weaving gluten strands into existence. A single bare light bulb in the ceiling flickers as it watches dutifully over his endeavor.
Ever since he lost Rimbaud, the world has been dim—much like this sunless room he is now confined to. In the beginning, all he could do was despair, cursing himself for his foolishness, and for not realizing sooner what Rimbaud had meant to him. But eventually, that self-loathing had given way to numbness, and then that numbness had shifted into a desire for atonement.
So here he stands now, making bread. It is both penitence, and an act of solidarity.
To understand someone is to walk in their footsteps. If that’s the case, then the greatest way to honor Rimbaud, who never once stopped reaching out to Verlaine, is to learn more about his beloved bread.
Even now, it’s as if Rimbaud’s warm presence hangs in the air, directing Verlaine to add more yeast, or let the dough rise for another fifteen minutes. His mind is at peace, like the freshly fallen flour. Everything is bread. Everywhere is bread.
His state of zen is swiftly shattered by the basement door flying open and a tiny figure stomping its way down the stairs.
“Alright, you NEET, are you done LARPing as a contestant on the Great British Bake Off, or do I need to kick your ass back into gear?” Chuuya says as he marches up to him.
“Perfect timing.” Verlaine grabs a tray of bread slices off the counter. “I just finished this batch. Give it a try.”
Rolling his eyes, Chuuya snatches up a slice and bites into it. “The texture is off. You probably overmixed the dough or something,” he comments after chewing for a bit. Then, he tosses the bread slice aside and jabs a finger at Verlaine. “Look, how long do you plan on living in the basement? It’s been three days. Mom wants her oven back.”
“You don’t understand,” Verlaine says solemnly, pinching a bit of bread between his fingers to test the springiness. “There is nothing in this world that interests me anymore. The only one I want to see is no longer here.”
Chuuya lets out a groan. “Stop being dramatic! He’s not dead, just hospitalized! So hurry up and go visit him, you shitty aniki!”
“No.”
“The fuck you mean, no?”
Verlaine wipes a flour-covered hand off on his apron. “After the way I treated him, I have no right to see him. It’s for the best, really. If I showed myself before Rimbaud, it would only cause him more pain.”
Clicking his tongue in annoyance, Chuuya makes a beckoning motion with his finger. Verlaine leans in, curious to hear what his brother has to say, only to be slapped across the face hard enough to make his neck crack. A strangled cry escapes him.
“Listen up, loser,” Chuuya snaps, a hand on his hip. “You’re too damn old to be acting this edgy. Now take your shitty bread and go visit Earmuffs, or I’m sending him all those cringey poems you wrote about him in your physics notes.”
Still holding his stinging cheek, Verlaine allows himself a smirk. How cute of Chuuya to think that a threat of this level would work on him. “Nice try, but who said I was writing anything about Rimbaud? Everything is encrypted, so you wouldn’t be able to understand it anyway.”
“In case you forgot, I know a slimy mackerel who loves to read messages that aren’t meant for him.”
“So you are seeing him!” Verlaine accuses, already making plans to have Dazai shipped off to Antarctica.
“For the last time, no! Now are you going or not?”
Verlaine considers his options. On the off chance that Dazai actually managed to decrypt his poems, his life is over and he’ll have to move back to France to live with his annoying old man. On the other hand, he did scramble everything with AES-256 encryption after transliterating the text to Japanese, converting that to Shift JIS, and performing a transposition cipher. Twice.
“You’re bluffing,” he decides.
This time, Chuuya is the one who lets slip a smirk, wide and cheeky and promising worlds of pain. Then, he takes a deep breath and starts reciting, “Votre âme est un paysage choisi / Que vont charma—”
Verlaine slaps a hand over Chuuya’s mouth. “Put on your coat. We’re going to the hospital.”
***
In nearly all areas, Verlaine is a perfectionist. Whether it’s for schoolwork, or digging up dirt on anyone trying to get close to Chuuya, or learning a new hobby, he leaves no stone unturned in pursuit of his goals. Preparedness is power, and he, having it in spades, is always calm and collected.
The same cannot be said for when he finds himself without a plan.
“Chuuya, we have to go back,” he declares all of a sudden, a twist of the knob away from opening the door to Rimbaud’s hospital room. “We didn’t bring any flowers. You’re supposed to bring flowers when you visit a sick person, otherwise their recovery may be impacted. Quick, we need to go back and—”
“I've got your flour right here!”
Chuuya cuts him off with a plastic container of bread to the face, and before Verlaine can react, a pair of impatient hands shoves him into the room. He’s still juggling the container when a voice he’s dearly missed calls out from behind him.
“Paul? You came?”
Frozen in place, all Verlaine can do is stand there as his heart beats out a dreadful tune in his ribcage. Rimbaud is right behind him, only a few meters away. Just by turning around, he’ll be able to see that achingly familiar face again, set with its usual melancholic smile. But his feet stay firmly rooted to their spot.
As if sensing Verlaine’s misgivings, Chuuya moves to block the doorway, the set of his shoulders clearly conveying his thoughts—you ain't leaving here until you apologize.
“Paul? Can you come over here?” Rimbaud calls out again, and the gentle plea in his tone has Verlaine’s feet moving before his mind can catch up.
Slow, stiff movements bring him towards the bedside.
“Rimbaud,” he starts hesitantly, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but then he looks up, and the speech he spent the entire car ride drafting immediately evaporates into thin air.
Because Rimbaud is smiling at him. Despite being laid up in bed with an IV attached to him and swathed in more blankets than he can count, Rimbaud smiles as if he couldn’t be happier to see Verlaine.
Everything Verlaine wants to say and everything he could have said in that moment converges into a chaotic, unintelligible singularity, and, tongue-tied, he holds out the container like a peace offering.
“Here.”
He can feel Chuuya glaring daggers into his back for the lack of effort, but Rimbaud only takes the container with a hum of appreciation. Pushing aside the journal he had been writing in, he sets the container on his lap and takes off the lid.
“Did you make this?” he asks, faint amusement quirking his lips when he sees the contents.
Verlaine swallows, gaze falling to his feet. “Yeah.”
It’s not enough. Not by far. Of course, there was no way he could have learned in three days how to distill the entirety of his turbulent feelings into a single loaf of bread. Compared to Rimbaud’s kindness, his gift is nothing more than half-risen sentiments and empty carbs.
Regardless, Rimbaud’s hand finds his, pulling him closer. “Thank you, Paul. I love it.”
In the face of that gentle tone, Verlaine’s vision clouds over, and the dizzying weight of what he’d almost lost robs his lungs of their breath. What in the world would he do without Rimbaud?
Rimbaud, who gave him a discount on baguettes when he heard that Chuuya was going through a rough patch with a friend.
Rimbaud, who always listens attentively no matter what the topic is, and makes his mornings so much brighter.
Rimbaud, who handed him a Valentine’s Day gift with a slightly bashful expression.
“I’m sorry, Rimbaud,” Verlaine chokes out, sinking to his knees. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate your Valentine’s Day gift. I’m sorry for not coming to see you sooner. And when I said I hated bread…of course that wasn’t true. There’s no way I could hate something you love.”
Rimbaud listens to him patiently, wiping away his tears with a thumb. “It’s alright, Paul. Everything’s alright. I accept your apology.”
“I don’t see how you could. After how I treated you…”
“It’s the simplest thing in the world,” Rimbaud assures him, his hand lingering on Verlaine’s cheek. “You said you couldn’t hate something I love. Then, Paul, you mustn’t hate yourself either. So please forgive yourself.”
Rubbing at his eyes, Verlaine gives a reluctant nod. Forgiveness is more than he deserves, but he can’t say no to an earnest request from Rimbaud.
It’s not until a beat or two later that the implications of Rimbaud’s statement actually catch up to him. “Wait…Are you saying you like me?”
It’s a ridiculous suggestion, and he regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth, because Rimbaud’s calm expression turns several shades more baffled.
“What?”
“What?” Chuuya repeats from behind him.
“I must have been mistaken.” Verlaine hastily holds up a hand in apology. “Sorry, that was a weird thing to say—”
“Paul, you must be joking, right?” Rimbaud cuts him off, sounding uncharacteristically exasperated, and maybe even a little annoyed. “I gave you a Valentine’s Day gift…”
“You said it was because you had leftovers.”
Rimbaud sighs, pinching his brows together between his fingers. “That was a pretext, because you wouldn’t have taken it otherwise. Should I assume you didn’t get the message with my second gift either?”
“I just thought you were being nice? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I really apprecia—”
Two slices of bread press against his face from either side, and then he’s tugged forward until slightly cold lips meet his. It’s only a few seconds—of shock giving way to pickled ginger and freefall and a hint of vanilla—before Rimbaud pulls back to smile at him dryly.
“Truly, you must be un sandwich idiot. Do you think I stay up late making bread for just anyone?”
“I suppose not,” Verlaine breathes out, already missing the fading warmth on his lips.
They’re still close—close enough for him to see the specks of brown in Rimbaud’s golden eyes, for Rimbaud’s breath to ghost along his skin like a heated caress. Verlaine would have leaned in and closed that insignificant distance between them once more, if it weren’t for Chuuya loudly clearing his throat in the background.
“In case you forgot, I’m still here,” he says, sounding more than a little traumatized by what he just witnessed.
Breaking apart from Rimbaud with a start, Verlaine makes his way over to Chuuya as nonchalantly as he can. “Why don’t you wait outside for a bit, mon chéri?” he suggests, ushering his brother outside by the shoulder. “I’ll come get you later.”
“Nah, it’s fine.” Chuuya brushes him off and walks ahead on his own. “I came to make sure you didn’t fuck up and to check on Earmuffs, so I’ve got no reason to hang around now. Good to see you, by the way,” he adds, giving a wave to Rimbaud, who waves back. “Anyway, I’ll go hit up Albatross or something. Text me when you get back, alright?”
“Don’t let him talk you into doing anything reckless,” Verlaine warns as he follows after him. “The last time you were with that punk, he took you skateboarding on the train tracks. The time before that, he had you dangling from an attack helicopter. If you end up in the hospital again, your brother won’t know what to do with himsel—”
“Agh, shut up, shut up, shut up!” Chuuya covers his ears and runs away at light speed, leaving Verlaine to watch his retreating figure.
“That impudent side of him is cute too…”
When Verlaine returns to the room, he finds Rimbaud munching on a slice of his bread. With the plastic container on his lap to catch the crumbs, Rimbaud takes small, sampling bites and chews, brows furrowed in concentration. He eats it so seriously that Verlaine can’t help but chuckle.
“How is it?” he asks, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.
Rimbaud makes a thoughtful face. “It’s a good first attempt, but it could use some work.”
“Not all there yet, huh? Maybe you can give me some pointers.”
“Sure, I don’t mind. But wouldn't it be a waste of time, since you won’t be able to eat it?
“It’s not a waste,” Verlaine says, reaching over to take Rimbaud’s free hand. He draws tiny circles into his palm with a thumb, like silent reassurances. “I want to make the best bread for you.”
Rimbaud’s eyes soften at that, and Verlaine would have repeated those words a million times if it meant seeing that expression for even a second longer. “I’d like that.” He rests his head on Verlaine’s shoulder, smiling into his neck. “But I’d like it even more if you would make bread with me.”
Laughing lightly, Verlaine presses a kiss to the top of his head. “If it’s with you, mon amour, I’d be happy to make bread every day.”
***
Verlaine never wants to make bread again.
Holding his breath, he tries not to fidget as Rimbaud pokes and prods his latest attempt at brioche with all the scrutiny of a counterfeit gemstone inspector. A pinch here, a tug there—not a crumb on the bread loaf goes untouched.
Then Rimbaud—his dear, beloved Rimbaud who is currently making a face that has him mildly intimidated—pops a piece into his mouth, chews for a bit, and declares, “Too dense. Once more, from the top.”
Normally, Verlaine would have gladly complied, but he’s been kneading dough for the past eight hours, and this is not what he had in mind when Rimbaud suggested he come over to hang out. Was it too much to hope that they could have had a nice, relaxing time, maybe curl up on the couch to watch a B-rate movie while he criticizes the physics in the action scenes?
Instead, he had been dragged into the kitchen before he even finished knocking on the door, an apron and some hair clips shoved into his hands.
“Making good bread is a monumental task,” Rimbaud had said with grave seriousness as he preheated his industrial two-deck full size electric convection oven. “If that is the path you have chosen, then I will forge you into the very best.”
And so began the bread-making session from Hell.
Baked goods, unsurprisingly, bring out a terrifyingly Spartan side of Rimbaud. As an instructor, he has no qualms about voicing his critiques, whether it’s to point out that the dough needs an extra milligram of flour or that the temperature of the oven should be raised a few degrees. And yet, in spite of his cryptic suggestions to feel the dough or let the spirit of your countrymen guide you, his patience is as limitless as his strictness.
When Verlaine mixed up the salt and sugar, all Rimbaud said was, “It happens to the best of us. Let’s start a new loaf.”
When he dropped the dough on the floor in his haste, Rimbaud went to the corner, wept a little, and then came back and told him it was okay while blinking back the tears in his eyes.
When fatigue made his kneading clumsier, Rimbaud guided him with a hand over his and stuck to him just close enough to make the entire experience very distracting.
That is to say, Rimbaud is not a bad teacher, and Verlaine certainly doesn’t mind the view, but his fingers have lost all feeling and he passed his limit two hours ago.
In a last ditch effort, he powers down the stand mixer. Rimbaud approaches to see what the issue is, and that’s when Verlaine wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him forward until they're pressed flush against each other, faces only a breath apart.
“This has been a riveting experience, but don’t you think we should take a break?” Verlaine says, smiling endearingly. And then, because he really needs that extra bit of persuasive power right now, he adds with a wink, “It won’t do you any good to push yourself so soon after getting discharged, Arthur.”
Rimbaud blinks in surprise at their sudden proximity, before relaxing against Verlaine. “Paul…” For a heartbeat or two, they remain lost in each other’s gazes. Then Rimbaud leans forward, close enough for his hair to tickle Verlaine’s cheek, until their lips are just shy of touching, and whispers, “Nice try. Now get back to work.”
Verlaine fights back a groan as Rimbaud smoothly separates from him with a laugh. If Rimbaud weren’t so infuriatingly likable, and self-assured, and kind, Verlaine would have…probably kissed him. Angrily.
He’s about to turn on the mixer again when his phone buzzes with a call from his brother. Happy for the distraction, he eagerly picks up.
“What’s up? Finally done with your playdate?” he teases, but the response he gets from the other end makes him turn paler than the abandoned dough in the mixing bowl. “You what?” He braces a hand against the table, his concern growing with each word he hears. “Alright, just…hang tight. I’m coming over now.”
As he ends the call, Rimbaud gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “What happened? Is Chuuya-kun okay?”
Dropping his head into his hands, Verlaine makes a strangled noise. “Chuuya got detained for hitting someone with his motorcycle.”
“Mon dieu.”
Verlaine would have gone with something a bit less tame, but the sentiment remains.
He continues explaining the situation as he tugs off his apron and removes his hair clips. “He says he was turning a corner when Dazai-kun, who was riding with him, suddenly covered his eyes. He ended up hitting someone head-on before he could stop fully.”
Leaving the kitchen, they cross the short distance to the front of the house in harried steps.
“Is the victim alright?” Rimbaud asks, his voice filled with dread as he pulls his coat off the rack. “It wasn’t fatal, was it?”
Verlaine shakes his head, one shoe pulled halfway on. “He’s fine. Unfortunately.” Realizing he should probably elaborate on that morbid statement, he says, “The one who got hit was that Shirase brat. Luckily for him, Chuuya wasn’t going that fast, so his injuries aren’t life-threatening.”
“Shirase…if I recall, he was the one who spread rumors about Chuuya-kun and got their entire class to ostracize him?”
An image of his brother’s hunched figure sitting alone on the piers flashes through his mind, and he has to bite back more than a few choice words. “Right.”
“A shame he didn’t perish,” Rimbaud mutters as he finishes tying off his scarf.
A cold wind greets them when Verlaine pushes open the door, and they instinctively huddle closer.
“A shame indeed, but it’s probably for the best. The officer on call has a soft spot for Chuuya, so we might be able to get him to overlook the offense this time if we appeal to his emotions. Maybe having Chuuya cry would make it more believable.”
“An appeal to emotions…shall I fake another fainting spell to make it more realistic?”
Without breaking pace, Verlaine casts Rimbaud a curious look. “You’d do that?”
“Chuuya-kun is like a brother to me. It’s the least I could do for him,” Rimbaud says, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips, and those words touch Verlaine more deeply than any je t’aime ever could.
That’s the thing about Rimbaud that has always amazed him—his ability to connect with others. Verlaine had once found that compassion of his patronizing, but now he knows that Rimbaud means every bit of kindness he gives. And maybe that’s always been the case, since the day Rimbaud looked his way with a welcome in his eyes and offered him a two-for-one special on croissants.
There’s a tug on his sleeve and Rimbaud’s insistent gaze urging him on, and then they’re hurrying down the street towards the police station, the wind in their faces and the toasted gold of a sunset behind them.
And there’s no one else he’d rather have with him to bail his brother out of jail.