Work Text:
Paul Verlaine is a pleasure to observe.
From the fact that he always puts sugar in his coffee to the way he can make the most casual small talk with his victims before ending their lives - he is poetry. His dissonances, his harmony, the unwavering certainty of his pose combined with the elegance of his gestures. His logic. His taste in literature.
Arthur listens to him - tries to listen - and adjusts his scarf slightly, for he struggles to breathe. It's not pneumonia nor anxiety. It's his partner in crime who has grown into a beautiful young man with a melodic voice meant for citing poems and an unmistakable aura of well-controlled power. When did it even happen? Arthur remembers carrying him out of a destroyed research center, him, unconscious and badly injured. He remembers him barely verbal and withdrawn, remembers the fits of rage, the confusion in response to basic kindness, the...
"Rimbaud."
He glances up, trained to maintain a calm expression but screaming internally, this is the end of me.
"Are you tired? Or is something bothering you?" Verlaine puts the book down and tilts his head slightly. A gesture of concern, but also vulnerability. Arthur was taught how to read body language many years ago.
He has never been taught how to react in such situations, though. He was only taught to not fall in love.
He swallows hard - a sign of unease. "Many things are on my mind at any given moment. I apologize for inattentiveness."
Paul doesn't reply. He dislikes his partner's poetic manner of speech that inevitably seeps through when Arthur shares his musings, and even more than that, he cannot stand it when he's reminded of his own inner melancholy. How contradicting, how deeply human. Unhealthy at that, but people are irrational creatures, and after all, it's the dance of sensibility and madness that creates all the beauty in the world. It takes two to tango. Ah, what are counterarguments if dialecticts feel so sweet to the frayed heart?
Arthur Rimbaud is a hopeless romantic. And he could brush it off - how could one not fall in love with everything one beholds or comprehends at his level of understanding the nature of things? - but there is another side to this truth, and it is much simpler.
He glances up once more at Verlaine, carefully, sneakily, as if he is stealing this rare moment of peace. (Abduction is always a part of a mission, it deserves euphemisms. But this - alas, this is plainly stealing, a selfish act). The man is putting sugar in his coffee. Three teaspoons, as usual. How annoying - how deeply beautiful.
The truth is, Arthur can find anything beautiful mostly because he is a lonely, lonely, lonely person. "Starved people will eat anything," they say, but such claims disgust him. They imply that the world is divided into categories of "worthy" and "unworthy". Rimbaud prefers to put it that way: "A true lover will find anything lovable." He says that to himself and then showers in almost boiling water to compensate for the absence of human touch, and writes four pages a day in his journal because he has nobody to talk to. He once thought he had a preference for men over women, now he would die for a kiss from either.
Oh, is it virtue or starvation? Has he cultivated love in himself or has a lack of it shaped him into who he is? Does he truly love Paul or is it- is it idealization caused by loneliness?
"Rimbaud, if something is wrong, blink 'yes' in morse code."
Huh? Arthur blinks, but just once and because of surprise. Paul is looking at him intently, calm on the surface, but internally ready to rush in to save his partner's life.
"No, everything is okay. Thank you for caring." A soft smile appears on his lips. He was the one who taught Verlaine about the blinking in morse code trick, after all.
"You are acting strange today," the younger notes.
"I.. know," Arthur frowns, then winces as he feels his disguise crumble. He rubs at his shoulders more to win time than to warm up. "It is just that... I guess it can be put that way, it's just that I have been feeling blue lately. And I am aware of the reason, but not much can be done about it."
"It's so you," Paul says with a neutral face. Comfort of being known and the humiliation of being figured out, a deadly mixture in one simple sentence. "Putting up with things that bother you, and not doing anything to change that."
It's much more subtle, Arthur wants to protest but doesn't. I do not ignore wars, discrimination and other global problems. I simply prefer different, less straightforward methods than you. They have had enough debates on this topic, though. There is no need to bring it up again.
"Perhaps, someday you will understand." He averts his gaze.
After all, what is true love if not selfless? Arthur draws a deep but quiet breath. If he truly loves Paul, he should be able to find joy simply in the fact of his existence. He wishes he could. His skin screams for touch, and perpetually rubbing his hands together does not bring ease anymore. Oh goodness, are those tears welling up in his eyes? Is it that bad?
Arthur knows how to stop himself from crying. He was taught this. Paul takes a sip of his coffee. He must have noticed, but says nothing. They finish breakfast and go out - they have tasks to complete today.
They stand together at the bus stop, since public transport is a much more discreet transfer method than a personal car. Arthur hugs himself, blames the cold. It's not totally a lie.
"Interesting creatures..." he hears Verlaine murmur under his breath and turns to see what caught his attention.
"Why humans wilfully bring wild animals into their homes, though they get nothing but ruined interiors, is beyond me," the man sighs, gesturing at a lost pet poster. He had recently adopted a habit of saying "humans" instead of "people", and it saddens Arthur immensely. Much more so than knowing that somebody lost their dog.
"Maybe because they need somebody to take care of," he mumbles absentmindedly. "Maybe because they are lonely."
Paul stares at him somewhat blankly.
"Were you lonely?" he asks.
For a second, Arthur is taken aback, he isn't sure if he pales or blushes, of if he just shouldn't have stood up this quickly. Then it hits him.
"Paul, no." His partner's self-deprecation would kill him faster than the illness. "Oh, how many times do I need to tell you that to me, you are an equal? Not just me - nobody in their right mind would question your humanity. The way you were treated in the past and what it taught you is all so deeply wrong... You believed me when I explained physics and forensic science to you, is it so hard to believe me when I say you are human?"
As he speaks, Verlaine watches him with these piercing eyes of his, the ones Arthur has seen far too many times to remember how insightful their owner is. He draws conclusions. The corners of his lips rise slightly in a composed smile, and Rimbaud's voice falters.
He is the loneliest thing in the entire existent universe. He is tension turned to glaring emptiness, personality scribbled on top for a cover-up. He knows loneliness intimately like a part of himself.
And desperation or attachment be it, is either not enough to be a beginning for something more? Compassion or grattitude, partnership or rivalry, can love not bloom from any kind of feeling or relation, for it is innately hidden in everything from the very beginning? It can take twisted forms and it can be purified, but is it not neverending, and so, is it not worth trying?
And a part of him whispers, "Not in your case, Paul. Your very creation was defiant of the laws of nature." Verlaine knows this too well, and he might not experience "love" the way humans do. But he also knows that love leads people into wars and to victories, into journeys and to discoveries, per aspera ad astra - and damned be he if he doesn't try to figure out what it is about. (What it is that he might have been deprived of since the day of his creation. What he has been substituting with destruction and too much sugar in his coffee.)
They get on a bus - it's half-empty at this time of the day - and take two seats in the very back. Rimbaud is rubbing his hands together, as usual. Thinking of his further actions, Paul remembers the cheesy romcoms they have watched together a few times out of boredom and longing for normalcy, and rests his head on his partner's shoulder.
It should work. It does.
Arthur shivers briefly, but not from cold. He smiles, Paul more intuits it than sees. A hushed "oh my, what's the matter?" is left unanswered. It's one of many little rhetoric phrases humans use a lot. Then, a gloved hand touches his palm.
"May I..?"
He shrugs and makes a noise of agreement. Slender fingers intertwine with his and squeeze gently. The weight of the other's hand is so alien yet so comforting - as a gravity manipulator, Verlaine could have altered this pressure to his liking, but it only means anything to him because it's the exact weight of Arthur's hand, as is.
He has just entered a previously unknown domain of human experience, and god knows, it's sweeter than any amounts of sugar. The void that is his very essence fills by just a fraction of a percent. Paul doesn't want this to ever stop. And though he may not be fit for human relationships, out of all people, his partner has come closest to understanding him. If anybody could "love" Paul, it's him, whatever that means.
By the time they reach their destination, he is leaning on Arthur so much he is almost lying on top of him, eyes closed serenely, and Rimbaud is tracing circles on his back with one hand and gently twirling his hair with the other. Both are smiling.