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1.
His hands were still shaking.
It had been a while since they had arrived to Sulvain’s apartment, only then letting go of each other in an almost unwilling movement, but it was necessary; Sulvain had insisted on Raziol’s need for rest, and he couldn’t muster the strength to disagree, which did nothing but prove the necromancer’s point.
It had been a while since Sulvain had arranged the mattress, blankets and pillows, the quiet of the room only broken by the whispers of soft fabric rustling against itself, as Raziol stood still next to the bookshelf, trying to calm his buzzing nerves and the sickening twist in his gut. But the feelings were relentless, and his hands were still shaking despite knowing that he was safe. But wasn’t that the problem? He was safe. Sulvain, too. And yet, back at the Academy…
It had been a while since Sulvain had given Raziol some privacy so both of them could change to something more comfortable. Once that was done, Sulvain had closed the distance between them with quick, careful steps, concern written in his expression as he wrapped his arms around Raziol’s body, holding him tight against him.
And as Raziol embraced him back, his hands were still shaking.
Panic lingered between his ribs, squeezing his lungs, so when he exhaled against Sulvain’s shoulder, it came out as a tremulous breath. He was trying to fight back the tears that threatened to spill even with his eyes closed, but nothing helped; the image of Jean had been burned behind his eyelids and his desperate efforts to vanish it from his mind did nothing: he could still picture every single detail vividly— the trails of blood, his pale skin, his shredded clothes covered in dirt and violence.
Sulvain felt Raziol bury his face on his neck in an attempt to hide himself from the harsh reality of what he had witnessed. The necromancer used one of his hands to caress the small of his back, carefully, almost hesitantly, wanting to console him further. But what else could he do? Raziol’s mind was now stained with visions of death and murder; not even the most powerful magic could undo that.
Despite himself, there was something like relief pulling on one of his heart strings, making his chest tight with gratitude and consequent guilt. What he had seen in Death’s realm still echoed inside his mind, questions ringing in his ears, insistent in being answered, and the only thing that muffled all the disastrous noise was the one certainty he held in his arms.
It hadn’t been him. It happened in the Academy, it happened to a scientist, it happened to someone Raziol knew. But it hadn’t been him.
Unconsciously, Sulvain brought the astronomer even closer. He only noticed when Raziol’s whole body shuddered, the movement almost imperceptible, and immediately Sulvain loosened his hold, something like shame weighing on his shoulders as he let go of him completely.
If he had been looking up, he would’ve seen Raziol’s expression falling, taken aback by his sudden distance.
Forgive me, Sulvain traced on the astronomer’s palm, and he almost wanted to scold himself for forgetting. I’m only making you cold.
Raziol exhaled, his free hand reaching out. “It doesn’t bother me,” he replied, quickly, voice barely above a whisper. Sulvain looked up at him, eyes wide, and seeing his teary expression made him regret his foolish words immediately.
“I like being near you.” Warm fingers grazed Sulvain’s wrist, tenderness blooming on their way down. “I–I need to be near you– right now…,” his voice faltered, the next word a broken breath almost lost in the space between them. “Please.”
Sulvain didn’t hesitate. He took a step forward, closing the distance as he wrapped him in his arms again, swiftly, running his hands along his back with reassurance and care, an apology hidden in the gesture.
All through the night, they didn’t let go of each other again.
2.
As sunlight made its way through the spaces between the leaves, shadows danced over Sulvain’s closed eyes.
Secluded in a clearing in the woods, the surrounding trees held a sense of familiarity that compelled him to bask in it and ease himself into doing things he hadn’t done in a long time; like listen to the birds that chirped and sang somewhere in the distance, welcoming the early morning, and let the breeze graze his skin softly, and close his eyes as unhurried fingers threaded through his hair just as gently.
His head was resting in Raziol’s lap— an arrangement they got themselves into thanks to the astronomer’s nervous suggestion, and Sulvain’s first surprised, but then equally shy, acceptance— and, even though they had both been a bit tense at first, trying to remember how proximity worked with someone else, it’d been easy to give in to the comfort they found in each other.
Laying still, memories glimmered in the corner of Sulvain’s mind, distant and undefined. A presence, warm like the sun and sure as the present, brushed them away.
He felt the movements slow down as a curious hum came above him; something had caught Raziol’s attention. His affection ceased and Sulvain opened his eyes, looking up as a question tingled in his fingertips.
Raziol was holding the book that Sulvain had left in the basket in which he had brought all that was needed for their picnic date. He turned it carefully in his hands, looking for the title engraved in its spine.
“Is this the novel mademoiselle Viverette lent you?” he asked, a melody of curiosity in his tone.
Sulvain knew he could write his answer on the notebook he always carried with him (by then resting on his chest after illustrating, with great detail if he did say so himself, how a cloud that had passed over them did, in fact, had the resemblance of a lizard), but he liked the feeling of Raziol’s hand against his own, and the light titter that he sometimes got out of him whenever he grazed a certain spot, so he spelt it instead.
It is. I forgot I left it there.
Endearment filled his chest when he saw Raziol huff a small laugh. The astronomer tried to conceal his reaction, but the remaining curve on his lips gave it away.
He seemed to hesitate for a moment before speaking again.
“Can I read some of it to you?”
Sulvain blinked, the proposal unexpected. It was a small gesture, a kindness that shouldn’t have been surprising coming from Raziol, and yet— I have read a couple of chapters already. Do you mind?
Raziol’s eyes seemed to spark. “Not at all! Even better. I just want to know what you like,” he admitted, his voice falling quiet until a murmur was all that could be heard.
But Sulvain heard him. Like flower petals falling into water, the delicacy of Raziol’s words fell gently on the surface of his heart, forming ripples that expanded until they covered every corner of his being. Such an honest statement, Sulvain didn’t know what to do with it.
(A memory. Too sudden to ignore, too light to push down. His hands spooling a vivid thread. Death knitting it. Both of them sitting close, never touching. He, looking down. She, looking at the life they created.
His admission, bashful. I don’t know if I deserve it.
Her laugh. Not mocking nor cruel. Just sweet and sympathetic.
“That is not what I asked, dear. Do you want it?”)
He did. Please do, then.
It was only after receiving permission that Raziol opened the book, passing the pages until he found a pressed, dried up cornflower marking the chapter Sulvain had last left it at. He saw the astronomer smile in a way one would do to an old friend, as if stumbled upon a serendipity, and, as he watched him inhale carefully, Sulvain closed his eyes again.
And so, Raziol read.
It was like falling into a dream, one like those he hadn’t allowed himself to have in such a long time; as tender as Raziol’s hands through his hair, as clear as his voice reading out loud to him, to the grass, to the clouds. Despite how easy it felt, Sulvain couldn’t drift to the land of sleep; how would he dare, when his wake was nothing but serene?
He turned his head towards Raziol’s palm, an unintended movement controlled only by his heart’s desire. Raziol’s voice quivered for a second before continuing.
“‘Oh, sister,’” he recited, “‘I have fallen ill with the sweetest Infection. There is no other way to properly explain this feeling. How it fills me with something richer than blood, as vital as water, spreading through every vein with a tickling sensation that only intensifies whenever I see him’, Valentine sighed as she took Madame de Montmorency’s hands on her own, as if pleading for mercy. ‘The mere sight of him is enough for my heart to swell!'
‘I wish I could help you, ma bichette, but you have yet to tell me his name.’
The demoiselle’s expression turned pained and her next words stumbled out of her.
‘I have yet to know his name, as well. Oh my… But it matters not! Whenever my soul cries for him in the night, it always declaims his rightful title instead. My love, it calls, my love!’”
It was Sulvain’s turn to suppress a laugh. So innocent!
“‘Do you at least know what he looks like? Or have you only fallen for his shadow passing through the Gardens?’ Madame de Montmorency demanded to know, as each word that fell from her little sister’s mouth convinced her that there was nothing she could do to help her, for Valentine’s affections were nothing but illusions of her age.
‘I do know! He’s a walking vision, shaped by Love’s precise chisel, his sharp edges eroded by Beauty’s gentle hands. His frame is solid, his movements meditated, his steps quiet. Whenever he walks into a place, everyone’s heads turn in his direction. Even if they don’t look at him directly, they become aware of his bright presence, and those who do get to meet him, get enchanted by his eloquence, expressed in paper-light words.’ Valentine continued to talk despite his sister’s best efforts to stop her, unwilling to be interrupted. ‘He has…’"
It was Raziol who took a pause, taking in a gust of air. When he read again, his voice sounded a little bit closer, but Sulvain didn’t pay it no mind. He liked him close.
“A crown of dark curls that one could only fantasize about running their fingers through. Cheeks that seldom blush, but, when they do, it’s in my favorite hue of the sunset. A sharp jaw that softens with his kind smile. A pair of cold lips which temple when they melt into mine…”
A pause. Sulvain almost frowned, confused. But the characters haven’t gotten that far…?
When he opened his eyes, instead of finding Raziol staring at the book, focused, he was looking at him, head tilted, his expression warm with something that could only be—
A heartbeat (his heart, beating) and it only took a second for Sulvain to realize: Raziol was describing him. It was a sweet portrait of his affections and Sulvain had almost forgotten the last time someone had looked at him with so much candor and devotion, unafraid.
Raziol’s hand left his hair and, as Sulvain’s mouth fell agape, he used one of his fingers to trace a line from his brow bone, down his cheek, all the way to his jaw, deliberate despite having been caught.
“And how could I forget?” his whispered tone revealed a smile between breaths, and, with the sun peeking behind him, he was a watercolor daydream gilded with gold. “A pair of eyes that hold endless spring days in their color.”
There was only one thought in Sulvain’s mind, a feeling that fluttered in his heart, that he had yet to find the words to express properly. So he took Raziol by the back of his neck.
When they kissed, like two stars colliding, their lips met in the middle.
3.
Sulvain went to unfold his arm guards when the question came behind him, low and hesitant.
“Can I help you get dressed?”
Turning around, he found Raziol standing halfway dressed himself, his trousers loosely hugging his waist and legs. He wasn’t looking at him; instead, his eyes were focused on his own hands, nervous fingers tapping against each other. But, going by the blush coloring his cheeks, Sulvain knew that his attention was set in the necromancer’s movements, expecting an answer, almost eager for it.
For his question had been more than a question. It had been a declaration. I want to dress you. It had been an admission. I want to help you. It had been a confession. I want to be close to you. Can I?
And when had Sulvain ever denied something to him?
His only response was to proffer the black piece of cloth, a smile blooming over his lips under the brightness of Raziol’s wider one as he was given permission to do as he pleased. Sulvain couldn’t get enough of it; how easy it was to make him happy, how light his body felt around him, how natural it was to relax under his touch, finding himself safe and cared for.
In the back of his mind, Sulvain was aware of how dangerous it was to get used to the astronomer’s presence. Both experience and probability tried to shield his heart, cover it with a gapless armor that wouldn’t let neither starlight nor hope inside, a fruitless attempt to protect him from the inevitable. It urged him to fight against his own feelings, to remember the vow he had made a long time ago— so long, and yet he could never bring himself to forget it— and it tried to convince him that it would be for the best. For both of them.
But Sulvain was tired of fighting. He had done so for longer than he had lived, longer than he had loved— and how could he privy himself from this? From Raziol’s careful touch as he placed the guard’s ring around his middle finger, running his hands over his arms as he adjusted it, stepping closer to fix its folds over his back, all with methodical attention? The hands on his shoulders that lingered just a little longer than necessary, the tips of his fingers brushing the center of his chest as they tied a small knot, a gleam of satisfaction and giddiness dancing inside his blue eyes.
It was as simple as it was sweet. Time and time again Sulvain had found himself incapable of foregoing these moments and the feelings they awoke, bringing his body back to life, reminding him how easy it was to be human. Raziol’s kindness and words and unwavering sincerity had disarmed him; he had reached under his skin, between his ribs, for the most tender desire Sulvain had: to have someone by his side who stayed despite— everything.
(But he had found her once, and in what felt like a heartbeat, he’d lost her, too; he hadn’t been able to grasp her close enough, to run away from the dark fast enough, to raise his voice loud enough for his pleas to be heard; and he had—)
(Wouldn’t this be the same? Something inside him quivered at the thought. Wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it? Wasn’t it?)
(Wouldn’t it be worse, if he knew— all of it? Raziol had shown him, had said to him, that he wasn’t scared of who Sulvain was; his lack of life, his ties with death, none of it had made the astronomer pull away, on the contrary. But—)
(What had he said? No secret, however strange—)
Raziol’s palms slid around his waist when he started buttoning his tunic. As Sulvain came back to the present, getting out from the turbulent waters of his bottomless thoughts, he slowly drifted into a sweeter memory, a déjà vu so strong he had to blink a couple of times. Back at the Maison des Libellules, with Sulvain’s ichor still staining the floor, they had found themselves in a similar scenario (and he had Vivi to thank for that); except that, then, Sulvain had only felt exposed, almost-caught, fumbling over secrets he wasn’t ready to reveal just yet.
A lot had changed in a couple of days. One thing remained the same, though: Raziol was still there. Despite everything, he stayed.
It filled him with light and certainty; he would do anything, everything, for them to remain close. And if the heavens favored him, he would like to be closer—
They were buttoning up his torso when Sulvain took Raziol’s hands between his own, slowing down his movements. The astronomer looked up at him with a question in his eyes, his expression open and attentive, and he replied with a caress to his knuckles, his fingertips brushing over them one by one.
He would’ve waited until the astronomer was done, but something inside Sulvain had come loose, perhaps encouraged by the other’s attention and gentleness, so his body was responding only to what he wanted at the moment. And what he wanted was—
“Is everything alright?” Raziol whispered, a tinge of concern in his words.
Sulvain couldn’t help it. A smile melted his lips and, as he nodded slightly, he pulled him into a hug. He rested his cheek on Raziol’s shoulder, his eyes falling closed as comfort settled in his muscles.
Raziol’s bare skin was flushed against his own, half clothed, but not less vulnerable. Sulvain could feel the sure, strong pace of his beating heart over the center of his chest where his own pulse would be; it echoed inside of him, making both of their hearts sing the same melody for a moment.
And for a moment, Sulvain could think that he was alive.
There was also the warmth seeping into his skin where the astronomer’s hands were placed in the small of his back, and in every spot where their bodies met. It was unlike anything Sulvain had ever felt before; not even the fiercest of fires could compare. It was as if Raziol held a star inside his chest, burning bright and constant, guiding Sulvain through the dark.
It wouldn’t surprise him if it was true. In fact, it would explain everything— how Sulvain’s attention had immediately turned to him that very first day and how, from then forward, he hadn’t been able to look away. How he had fallen helplessly into his orbit, pulled by something stronger than gravity, settling them close, closer than he had ever intended. How the world around him had acquired a new light, so that even the things he was familiarized with the most fascinated him.
Placing a kiss on his collarbone, Sulvain spelled over Raziol’s shoulder blade. Allow me to help you too.
The astronomer moved away just enough for them to be eye to eye, a gentle curve on his lips. “You don’t have to.”
It was as simple as it was sweet. I want to.
Raziol let out a small laugh in a soft breath. “You know, Sulvain,” he began, raising one of his hands to ruffle the necromancer's hair, making him smile widely, his cheeks flushing gold, “you can be very stubborn sometimes.”
So is that a yes?
4.
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
You don’t have to.
“What was it that you said? I want to.”
The Academy’s entrance was guarded by a heavy door that, in occasions, would creak open or slam shut if not handled properly; but, in the best of times, it benefited careful lovers—not secret, for their love could not be considered such, written in the stars as it was—by staying quiet even as it opened to a cold dawn, the streets of Paris dimly lit by its lamps and the rising sun.
Sulvain had to leave. Yet, he still turned to look back at Raziol one last time, his expression fond. He cupped his palm on his own. I’ll come visit soon.
The pink coloring Raziol’s cheeks only got accentuated by the sudden temperature change around them. “I’ll be waiting.”
Sulvain watched as Raziol quickly checked the streets behind him and the hallways behind himself. Then, in a movement so fast it could be passed as a breeze, a kiss was placed over the corner of his lips. A farewell gesture.
“Be safe,” he said, easy, simple and sweet.
5.
Sulvain might have arrived at the Observatory earlier than expected. Still, he wasn’t the only one; murmuring scientists, avid astronomers and curious scholars were gathered around the Academy’s treasured telescope, still veiled as his owner had yet to arrive.
It wasn’t long before it happened. Huygens walked into the place surrounded by a group of peers, all of them engaged in an animated conversation, probably about the most recent discovery they would divulge that night. And behind him, following him close with his hands crossed behind his back, was the person that had made said discovery, quiet and wide-eyed. Raziol.
Sulvain couldn’t help it. At the sight of him, his fingers twitched, longing for contact. Helplessly, a smile bloomed over his lips, and he could feel his expression softening under the candlelight. He wanted to get close to make his presence known (and reassure Raziol that everything would be okay, that he was great in every exposition he presented in and that that one would not be the exception), but he didn’t dare interrupt. Still, his body took him a couple of steps closer, trying to get his attention from afar.
At the same time, Raziol ran his eyes over the crowd, darting quickly from one group to another. Sulvain figured he was estimating how many people had arrived that night, how loud he’d have to speak, how many questions he’d have to respond; but then they landed on him, and Sulvain’s heart jumped as he realized. He had been searching for him.
He raised his right hand, brushing it over his chest where his heart tried to settle to no avail; it fluttered like a moth trying to reach the beacon that called it. Such was the effect that the astronomer had over him: one look, and all their surroundings faded until it was just the two of them standing under the gleaming sky.
Interpreting his gesture as a greeting (which wasn’t wrong; Sulvain had had the intention of doing so), Raziol waved back, a move that he tried to keep from being noticed by someone else. Then, it happened: so discreet and fast it could’ve been an accident, he pointed at himself with his index finger.
But Sulvain knew better. He knew him better than that. He also knew what they had been doing for a couple of days by then and how set Raziol was in practicing at any given chance (something that moved him deeply and made him want to pepper his face with feather-light kisses). There was still a lot for him to learn, plenty of lessons left for Sulvain to teach, so most of the things Raziol said were either short statements or loose words. If there was something he didn’t know or couldn’t remember, he’d spell it.
He was doing exactly that. Turning his head away towards his teacher, pretending he was attentive to the conversation at hand while trying to hide the blush that dusted his features in an incandescent shade of pink, his hand moved, meticulous and delicate. Sulvain didn’t dare to even blink, not wanting to miss anything from the message.
It said…
Oh.
“I missed you.”
A heartbeat. Sulvain felt something like heat rushing up his neck, coloring his face, too.
Oh.
He hadn’t taught him that word yet. He thought there was no need— they were together almost every single day, and upon meeting they would easily fall into a conversation about anything and everything, settling comfortably into each other’s presence as if the distance, being of space or time, hadn’t mattered at all. Anything unsaid in words was told in kisses or caresses, in small gifts or shared looks. But that was when they had the advantage of closeness and privacy; in public, unable to find a corner for them to hide in, but still yearning for the acknowledgement of such sentiments, a message in a language only the two of them understood was all they had.
Sulvain couldn’t believe his fortune. From staring at the distant stars in suffocatingly silent nights, loneliness weighing his body down, to watching them shine in his lover’s eyes as he looked back at him again, as if asking if he’d been understood, making him feel— blessed.
Suddenly, all that he had gone through made sense, for it had led him to that very moment.
Despite it being a shared feeling (something he wanted to let him know), Sulvain couldn’t help it. Overwhelmed by his affections but not having access to the ways he wanted to express them, instead he did what he knew would calm them both. He teased.
In a sign he’d definitely taught Raziol before, he said, “Pay attention.”
Even from a distance, Sulvain heard Raziol gasp as his mouth fell open, something he tried to conceal with a cough. Huygens turned to his student, asking him if he was alright, and Sulvain hid a laugh behind his hands as he watched him stumble over his words, trying to offer an excuse.
He would never give up the giddiness that moments like those caused. Not for anything in the world.
+1.
Raziol’s eyes were fixated on the pools of blood staining the grass. He was frozen in place, barely even breathing, his thoughts slowly spreading through his mind as a red drop fell from a dark green blade, thick, slow, languid.
How much was it his? From his scarred wounds, his metallic mouth, his sharp hands? How much was it from the man he had left atop the branches of the tree he was leaning against? One brief startled look had been enough to know— from the open slashes in his neck and shoulder, still oozing liquid life, staining his once white clothes, his body now an empty husk of what he had once been—
And all because of—
Something more than panic strained against Raziol’s chest, squeezing his heart and threatening to break his bones as it thump thump thumped wildly; it was fear and distress and horror, a lightning-quick realization that there was something wrong with him now and he couldn’t tell where it began and if it ended and he couldn’t tell what he had done and he couldn’t tell where he was— where was he? where was—
His thoughts fell quiet again, slowed by the reflection of the rising sun sparkling over a small dark puddle. He blinked, the hazy sensation of being underwater overwhelming his senses once again, and it took a while before he realized he could inhale air without the risk of choking.
His mind was all over the place, scattered. His hands were fists, stained with wet grass and humid dirt, fingers hidden in fear of what he might see in them. The sun was falling over him, grazing his skin almost hesitantly, and there was a dull pain behind his eyes. Where was he?
As he raised his head hesitantly, trying to see beyond the fog in his brain and recognize his surroundings, a memory rushed into his mind, swift like a falling star, but Raziol was quick enough to grasp it, holding on to it until it became clear in his mind’s eye. It was— pale, gentle hands that (he knew he knew he knew he remembered) felt cold to the touch, but were still so comforting. Fingertips that brushed his hair behind his ears, thumbs that pressed against his temples, palms that cupped his face, soothing. Familiar.
Quiet words expressed in precise movements. That night. The night before. What had he said?
“Go,” a stolen last glance and a shared smile that they both knew what it meant. “I’ll be here.”
He’s waiting for me.
A name. Slowly, it took over his tongue, replacing the pungent taste of blood with something sweet, something that took him back… “S—,” he began, and his voice sounded miles away. He tried again, “S-Sul…”
Green eyes under the sunlight. The brush of a nose against his cheekbone. Cold wood against his back as their hands, tucked inside a thoughtful gift, intertwined softly.
“Sulv—Sulvain. Sulvain.”
Where was he? Where was he? Where was he? He’s waiting for me.
When Raziol inhaled, for the first time that morning his lungs didn’t feel like burning; instead, the still air tempered them, cleansing the fuzziness of his brain. As that one true thought repeated inside him, reverberating in his bones, a resolution took shape.
He’s waiting for me.
And then,
I need to find him.
He needed to go back…
It didn’t matter where he was, Raziol needed to go back. To him. To Sulvain. He had left him waiting for too long. He had left him— where? It didn’t matter. He would travel anywhere, look for him everywhere. He needed to find him, go back to him.
Home. He needed to go back home. To him. To Sulvain. Even with heavy bones and sore muscles, with bloodied skin and shredded clothes, he’d run back to him. And if he couldn’t do that, then he’d crawl. Nothing would stop him, nothing could hold him down.
“Wait for me,” Raziol whispered into the morning, hoping the wind carried his voice through the spaces between them and placed the promise it held inside his lover’s heart.