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Foolish isn’t exactly sure when he realised that the Christmas he thought was going to be his worst turned out to be his best. It might have been when, after finding out that his partner was cheating on him, he secluded himself to his little cottage in France to bury himself within his writing, and then one day opened the door to find the new housekeeper on his doorstep – a quiet, dark-haired man named Vegetta. Foolish had stumbled through that introduction, confidently telling the man that je suis très heureux de vous avoir ici – which he now, after frantically re-checking his flimsy French after the fact, realises means something like I am very happy of you to have here, which – yes. It could have gone better. Not that it mattered; Vegetta doesn’t speak French anyway, much to Foolish’s relief.
But – that probably wasn’t the moment. Actually, it might have been as Foolish desperately tries to make conversation with this man who is the only person he’ll be seeing in the days leading up to Christmas; this man who stares at him with a strangely intense gaze as Foolish stumbles through a mix of Spanish and English trying to speak with him. He knows, logically, that Vegetta can’t understand him when he rambles away nervously in English, hoping that some of it might get through – but maybe, just maybe – or, maybe, he just likes the way Vegetta’s eyes settle on him and don’t move away; the way it feels as if he’s trying, really trying, to connect with Foolish the same way Foolish is trying to connect with him, even as their separate languages form a barrier between them, their voices muffled from either side. Maybe…
Maybe it was the moment when Foolish was typing away, trying to dredge some form of inspiration up from the murky, tired depths of his mind – and then Vegetta was there, quiet as always – and it’s useless trying to write with him there, because Foolish has discovered, over the days, that he’s most distracted when Vegetta is beside him. He’s only cleaning, picking up the empty coffee mug to refill it, no doubt, when Foolish hasn’t even asked him to, and when Foolish offers him the last croissant he shakes his head and replies in Spanish. Foolish doesn’t understand, but the way that Vegetta’s voice settles over his skin feels like he does. The phone rings – not that phone; the one buried beneath piles and piles of paper, of course it is – and Vegetta and Foolish both hurry around the table and one another to find it. They brush against each other. Foolish tries not to feel like his breath has been swept away, paper in the wind.
Honestly, it was probably the moment when Foolish sat by the lake, roaming outside for ideas as inside became stale, breeze unsettling his hair as he types and types and types. He’s not happy with it, but it’s something – and it’s something more when Vegetta appears beside him, always, always, and begins to clean up. It’s something, it’s absolutely something, when Vegetta picks up the coffee cup that Foolish had neglected to mention had been holding down a huge pile of papers – and up they go, swirling around in the breeze, straight into the lake. Foolish expects to feel panic as Vegetta gasps, frantically trying to catch them – but he can’t help but feel a little relieved; they weren’t anything special anyway, and now maybe he can start something anew – but Vegetta is already running, all the way to the edge of the lake, stripping off his shirt and trousers as he readies himself to jump into the water after them. Foolish tries to stop him, he really does, but all he can manage is a weak “leave them, they’re not worth it!” as the lines of Vegetta’s back freeze the very breath within his throat – and then he’s in the water, and Foolish is following him, feeling like a fool, and now it’s the painful, icy temperature of the lake that keeps his breath frozen.
Yes – that might have been the moment the realisation started. It began, a spark in the fireplace, and the moment after made the fire roar, big enough to warm the whole room as they sit, shivering, wrapped in towels, hair still damp. This is the moment that Foolish finally allows himself to admit it: Vegetta looks beautiful, bare collarbones visible over the edge of the towel, a drop of water from his hair that Foolish aches to wipe away making a path down his temple. He is so animated now – “una – una novela de suspense? Una novela policíaca?” – and Foolish can’t help but reply in kind – “Suspense? Police? Yeah, yes, sí, uh – crime, murder –” – and it’s something. They’re speaking different languages, but when Vegetta asks if Foolish will drive him home later as he always does, entirely in Spanish, Foolish replies as if it was English; as if something within his brain flicks a switch when Vegetta speaks and no matter what language he uses, Foolish understands. So Foolish, desperately hoping that somehow, Vegetta feels the same, answers –
“Of course. It’s my favourite time of day, driving you.”
And when Vegetta says –
“Lo más triste de mi día, es dejarte.”
He thinks, maybe, he might understand, if not the words but the jolt that Vegetta’s gaze sends, heavy and sharp, straight to his heart.
And then, after days of something building between them, crackling and spitting as did the fire behind the grate, Vegetta leaves.
He kisses him, when he goes. Yes – all Foolish has, as Vegetta walks away and onto a plane that will take him far, far away, are the words in Spanish that he told him before he left and the kiss, quick and desperate, tiptoes and nervous hands as they grip the material of Foolish’s shirt and let go before he can reciprocate.
And it pisses him off.
There is no way – absolutely no way that this is how it ends. Foolish won’t let it be – not when the most that Foolish has ever felt is when Vegetta looked at him; when Vegetta spoke, tongue curling around words in a way that Foolish can’t quite manage; when Vegetta brought him a fresh cup of coffee without asking and when he jumped into a freezing lake in the middle of winter just to try to save Foolish’s shitty crime novel – or when he kissed him and told him goodbye in a language that Foolish couldn’t understand.
So, Foolish learns.
It’s tough – there’s eso and ese and esa, and there’s para and por, and there’s el and la but also al, too, sometimes, and then he has to learn the difference between estar and ser, which really sets him back a few days – and after weeks of daily lessons he isn’t even close to fluent but he’s trying. He’s trying, and every time there’s a new grammar rule that tugs the rug from beneath him he closes his eyes and remembers the way Vegetta’s would light up whenever they were able to understand each other, just for a moment, and the barrier between them becomes less and less opaque by the second. He’s trying – he’s really trying, and he really, really hopes it won’t all be for nothing.
Despite everything, Foolish thinks that, after the fire that roared so loudly before flickered and sputtered when Vegetta left, the moment he realises, really realises, is this one.
He’s in Spain, it’s Christmas Day, and he’s asking Vegetta to marry him.
Somehow, he’s got the entire population of the street behind him. There are rumours flying about – “Roier is about to sell Vegetta to this American! Quick, quick, come and see!” – but Foolish is too nervous to focus on anything other than the door of the restaurant he’s been directed to, because Vegetta is right there behind it, after weeks of seeing him only when he closes his eyes, he’ll be really, truly there in front of him, and Foolish will ask him for his hand, and then – and then –
And then he will say yes, or Foolish will go home, alone once more.
The chatter that greets them when they enter dies out quickly. It’s not surprising – if a crowd of about twenty people (and fifty more behind them, outside) stumbled in halfway through your Christmas dinner, you’d be shocked into silence too. Foolish barely registers it; to him, the only sound is the rapid drum of his heart in his ears as his eyes dart about the room frantically – where is he – ?
There.
It takes a moment for Vegetta to spot him, high up on the balcony of the second floor as he is. But he does, after a moment, eyes drifting down to where Foolish stands as if something had called him there; had whispered look, there he is and gently guided his gaze to flushed cheeks and heaving chest down on the ground floor.
“Buenas noches, Vegetta,” Foolish chokes out, feeling stupid, like a fool in love grovelling at the feet of a God. But Vegetta’s eyes widen in a vulnerable sort of way, eyebrows downturned like this is something he never imagined but wanted so, so badly, and he says “buenas noches, Foolish.”
Foolish takes a deep breath.
“Bonito Vegetta – uh, Vegetta bonito? Sorry, that one still confuses me,” Foolish mutters, scratching the back of his head nervously. Then he remembers that everyone is staring at him, including someone who might just be the love of his life, and he straightens, clearing his throat.
“He venido aquí para pedirte que te cases conmigo. Yo sé me parece como una persona loca, porque apenas te conozco, pero a veces las cosas son tan claro, no necesitan la prueba. Y yo viviré aquí, o tu puedes vivir conmigo en América. Por supuesto, yo no pretend que tie star tan tonto como yo, y claro, yo predigo tú dices que no, pero, es Navidad, y yo solo quería… verificar.”
Silence.
Foolish lets out a long, shaking breath. He’s sure he got so many words wrong, surely – surely he embarrassed himself. Surely it sounded stiff and strange and he used the wrong verb and definitely the wrong connecting word, and – could Vegetta even get the gist of what he said? Oh, he should just turn around and run away now, while he still can, while at least some of his dignity is left –
“Thank you,” says Vegetta, and he’s smiling. Foolish holds his breath. “That will be nice. ‘Yes’ is being my answer. Easy question.”
He laughs, as he says the last part, and Foolish feels it reflected within his own chest: a small, short huff of relief, more than anything else. First, relief, and then joy – pure, undiluted joy, as the restaurant erupts in cheers and Vegetta begins to make his way down the stairs, it’s simple joy that Foolish feels, making him lighter than air. When Vegetta reaches him, it’s clear that whatever barrier held them apart before went crashing to the ground a long time ago – when Foolish walked through the door, perhaps, hands shaking – or maybe it froze and cracked in that lake aeons ago, or, maybe, it was never there at all, just a figment of their imaginations, an illusion born of both of their minds, created to keep them apart.
Either way – it’s gone now.
It’s gone, and Vegette’s smile is radiant as he steps closer. Foolish meets him there.
“You learned English?” He asks, full of joy and love and hopeful disbelief that this, here, could be his future.
“Just in cases,” Vegetta replies, and that’s when Foolish kisses him.
This is it, he thinks, as he holds Vegetta’s face in his hands and feels his smile beneath his lips.
This is the moment.