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When the gramophone was built, Wilson had his reservations.
Granted, it was nothing like Maxwell’s reaction to the music player– pinched expression, snarled upper lip, narrowing eyes, calling it an ‘accursed thing’-- but Wilson had briefly been stuck on the nightmare throne, and for a few days, maybe even weeks– time was an enigma in this world – he’d been subjected to its continuous droning. He could understand the apprehension of its creation; it wasn’t very often the two saw eye to eye, and not because Maxwell stood at 6 feet tall, while he was a comfortable and perfectly acceptable 5’8! No sir!
…But that was beside the point.
Still, the gramophone offered a little comfort to the strange diegetic noises of the Constant; a moment of familiarity to the rest of the survivors. It wasn’t often that they got to listen to music, and even though there were only a few records that they could craft– anything was better than nothing. It was a memory of a time before their capture.
On top of that, one day, when it was Wormwood’s turn to garden, the curious plant creature had wandered over, and flipped the gramophone on– he was fascinated by everything and anything he didn’t understand. The familiar earworm started playing, and with a contented smile, Wormwood turned back to tend to the crops, only to be thanked by said plants, whose aura’s had pinkened. Turns out, music helped to boost the mood and morale of growing plants, and– if they were pleased, that meant, come harvest, they would drop additional seeds for the survivors, which in turn meant they would have more crops to keep them fed in the harsher months. It was a win win.
With both of those points made, Wilson reluctantly decided to keep it. Though he wasn’t likely to turn the player on himself, unless it was his turn to tend the fields, it would be cruel of him as a leader to scrape an item that brought fleeting positivity to the campsite.
And then, even more strange occurrences happened.
One day, while the group was gathered around the fire, eating supper– the gramophone playing a kitschy evening tune- Warly made a comment about a record that he and his mother used to listen to. “I used to come over to cook Maman Angeline’s supper, and I’d put on her favorite record– it always seemed to cheer her up. I can’t remember how much time has passed, or how long it’s been since I heard that old song.” His face, which had been nostalgic and warm for the moment, crumpled into something more melancholic, “What I wouldn’t give to hear it one more time. Poor Maman Angeline– I hope you are doing alright on your own…”
The tension thickened after that, and everyone went to bed with a stomach full of food and homesickness.
The next morning, as Warly approached the alchemist table, he received a gift from the machine– another strange phenomenon the survivor’s chose not to look a gift horse in said mouth. He peeled off the red packaging and untied the black, thorny-looking bow, and opened the box to find…a record. Taking it out of the box, the man’s eyes widened to dinner plates, as if recognizing what he held in his hand. He quickly rushed over to the gramophone, and replaced the current record with the one he’d received. The music that played when he put the scratcher on the record was gentle, warm– like a springtime melody– like a meal made with love, being cooked on a simmering pot in a yellow tinted room. Everyone gathered to listen, charmed by the comforting, homey piece, and Warly, with a teary smile, placed his hand on the smooth yellow horn of the gramophone.
“Merci,” he whispered.
Wes silently approached the man, and hugged him from behind. The rest of the group followed to offer their love and support to their wonderful cook; it was clear to them all what he had been given.
After that, the others began to wish or talk amongst themselves about songs from their past– hoping they too might receive music of their own. And eventually, those prayers would be answered. It wasn’t often, nor consistent, but once in a blue moon, a survivor would unwrap their gift to find a record of their own. The strangeness didn’t stop there; all records only had one song on it that would play repetitively until time immemorial– or, until-- someone turned off the gramophone, or replaced it with a different record.
In the constant, people had stopped questioning such oddities, and accepted what was.
The only three who had not received a record were– Maxwell, Wilson, and Wes.
Actually that wasn’t entirely true; Maxwell had been given a record. However the man had broken it in half and threw it in the ocean, muttering something about “her sick, twisted sense of humor.”
So really, it was only two.
Wilson had not received one, because he was one of the few who had not mentioned wanting a record at all. He was still a little awkward around the gramophone, and so kept his reservations to himself. And it seemed like because he hadn’t said anything– a record had not been gifted to him… yet . But Wilson hoped that that would continue to be the case.
Then there was Wes, who had also not received a record because– well– because the man hadn’t said anything at all. Even if he wanted to share– he could not speak. And so, most likely, the strange phenomenon that gifted them these soundtracks had nothing to go on.
Though– it wasn’t like it needed a reason to gift the survivors; evident by the clothes they’d received in the past, some of which did not match their aesthetic at all, or would better be suited for someone else. It was often a toss up what the survivors would find in those rose imagery presents; sometimes a treasure, more likely trash.
However, as Wes opened his newest gift for the day, his eyes widened– in his hands was a sleek black record.
“Ohhh, Wes finally got a record!” Willow shouted, drawing the attention of the rest of the camp, who quickly rushed over to see.
“Mr. Wes, are you gonna play it? Are ya? We wanna hear! ” Webber asked, bouncing on his toes.
“Hmm, so Wes got a record– I suppose that doesn’t bode well for me,” Wilson muttered. His theory was out the window now, if even his silent companion could be gifted a record.
“I’m curious to know what kind of music the dear boy enjoys, myself,” Wickerbottom said, hand on her chin as she pondered the answer.
“I’d prefer the silence–more fitting for the fool himself,” Maxwell grumbled, crossing his arms. Wilson glared, elbowing the taller man harshly. Maxwell winced, and rubbed his side, “Say pal, no need to be so rough. It was merely a jest.”
“Hardly,” Wilson glowered back, very aware of Maxwell’s resentment and disdain towards the small mime. “Nobody cares for your opinion Maxwell, so if you don’t want to listen, you can go back to your tent.”
Maxwell’s scowl deepened; he did not leave though, sulking in silence.
“Little friend plays his music?” Wolfgang grinned, gently pushing Wes in the direction of the gramophone.
But Wes didn’t seem eager to put the record on the turntable; in fact he just stood there, silently staring at the record with an odd, bemused smile on his face. A fact that was quickly noticed by the group.
“Monsieur Wesley, is everything alright?” Warly put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Warly was a close friend to all, just as the mime was, but perhaps it was due to them both speaking French, the fact that only Warly could make Wes’s favorite dish, and their generally soft, sensitive dispositions that made them the closest. “You seem a little uncertain?”
Wes seemed to snap out of his interlude, turning to give Warly a placid smile. He turned back to the rest of the worried survivors, and tapped on his wrist, as if to say, ‘Maybe next time?’
The group did not question his decision, though they all glanced at one another curiously.
Wes quickly rushed to his own tent to stuff the record away in his private chest. He returned only seconds later, visibly brighter. In his hands were his pile of balloons. He pointed to the children, and then to the pile, cocking his head in question.
“Ooh balloons! Can Mr. Wes make a spider?” Webber asked, instantly distracted.
“Abigail wants a flower,” Wendy monotoned, as Webber tugged her along.
“Wurt wants a fish to show her merfriends!” Wurt raised her hand, trailing after the pair.
Wormwood, who had a childlike nature to him, bounced over to join the rest. Wx-78 sighed disgruntledly; they approached and tried to take Wormwood back, but in the end, were forced to sit and watch the show as well.
The rest of the survivors turned back to their own tasks at hand; there was wood and flint to gather, meat to hunt, and umbrellas to make as the spring storm clouds began to thicken; a distant rumbling in the sky.
The moment was forgotten…
…All except for Wilson, who frowned as he watched the mime making balloon art with the children.
Wes was smiling– but Wilson could see that his smile wasn’t reaching his eyes.
It was Wilson’s turn to tend to the garden. Wearing an eyebrella, he had already pulled off his gloves to work the muddied fields. While he didn’t like mud under his nails, he much preferred that to his favorite pair of work gloves– which were optimal for science, not gardening – being soiled.
The thunderstorm had finally finished, and the rain had lightened. It still wasn’t ideal for everyone else in camp, but Wormwood had said the rain was wonderful for the garden, and Wilson could already see the advantages at work as the crops had a sheen about them. He didn’t understand what Wormwood had said about aura’s, but as he sprinkled in the new tomato and potato seeds, he felt like the garden was at least 20% faster. Had the asparagus grown a little more since the rain began?
Wilson heard the soft squelch of grass behind him– altering him to someone’s approaching presence. He turned around, looking up from where he was on his knees to see Wes standing behind him, holding a red umbrella. Wes smiled sweetly and lifted his hand in a shy wave.
Wilson smiled back, sticking his hands out to let the rain wash the mud from his arms. “Hello Wes, everything okay? You didn’t get struck by lightning earlier did you? I saw a flash near the campsite, though I’m hoping it was the lightning rod that it had struck.”
Wes nodded his head to confirm Wilson’s hope; he pointed to himself before pretending to wipe the sweat from his brow, a look of relief on his face. Then he pointed to his tent as if to elaborate.
“Ahh I see, stayed in your tent then? That’s good, we wouldn’t want you getting in harm’s way.”
Wes nodded, but before Wilson could worry or question if he’d been helpful while secluded in his tent, Wes turned his backpack around and opened the flap, showing Wilson that the pack was stuffed with traps, as well as four fishing rods poking out.
Not that Wilson would have actually asked. He knew Wes; despite his unfortunate nature, he was a hard worker. He wouldn’t be slacking, even if no one else minded. Wes tended to overwork himself, as if he had something to prove– though ask anyone, and they all would say Wes was a wonderful addition to the team. Bad luck aside, no one would change him if they could– except maybe Maxwell, but Maxwell’s opinion meant fuck all.
Wilson knows he wouldn’t change a thing. He still commented, wanting to make sure the man knew his contributions were appreciated. “You made fishing rods and traps? Thank you Wesley, this will be helpful for gathering food. Though, aren’t the rabbit holes plugged up during spring, due to all the heavy rainfall?”
Wes put his pack back on. Puffing out his cheeks, Wes crouched and began to hop up and down; he would glance around as if watching an invisible fly, before his tongue would dart out and back in again, and he would resume hopping in place.
Wilson chuckled warmly; the young man was always finding ways to make him smile with his performative personality. Even if he could speak, Wilson couldn’t imagine the mime in a more perfect profession. Though he was curious if this would have been Wes’s first choice. While it was clear the man loved his job, was it merely circumstantial? Wilson wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t going to prod the other for answers. Because Wes was in brighter spirits.
Getting to his feet, he dried his wet hands on his pant legs. Then, reaching down, he offered Wes his hand, who happily took it, allowing himself to be pulled back to his feet. “Right, I’d forgotten about those slimy frogs for a moment. That will make dealing with them easier while we fish. You’re always thinking outside the box, aren’t you my dear friend?”
Wes’s shoulders bounced as he silently laughed; he flicked his wrist as if to say ‘you flatter me, good sir.’
Wilson played along, “Well, is it not permissible to flatter someone, when they have done exemplary work?” He bowed graciously, taking Wes’s hand, and planting a chaste kiss on the back of his palm.
….Wilson’s eyes widened and his cheeks began to burn when he realized what he had done. He quickly straightened to his full height, glancing down to gauge Wes’s expression.
Wes was using the umbrella to hide his eyes, and with his white face paint, it was impossible to detect any sort of color in his cheeks, except for the already painted on rosy circles– which were part of his performative makeup. Wilson would have bolted if he didn’t catch sight of the smile Wes was fighting– and failing– to keep down.
Still, apologies were probably in order. Wilson awkwardly coughed into his fist, “Sorry about that– with how you always like to play around, I figured it be alright– If I put on a little theatrics of my own… but if I’ve overstepped then I’m sorry for–”
Wes lifted his head up in shock, quickly shaking his head to dispel Wilson’s anxieties. Now able to better read his expression, Wilson could see a little panic, similar to his own, in Wes’s eyes– as well as something else, that Wilson couldn’t quite pinpoint. It wasn’t disgust or annoyance; those expressions he recognized well, but this– this was oddly foreign. But he felt his shoulders untensing as he realized he hadn’t completely creeped the mime out.
“Yes– regardless, I apologize for the surprise.” Wilson quickly looked around for a change of subject.
Which didn’t take long to find as, besides the light rain still coming down, it was unusually silent in camp. “Where is everyone?”
Wes pointed in multiple directions around the forest.
“Ah, gone out then? Is it only us in camp?”
Wes nodded.
Wilson tried to fight the blush returning to his cheeks. Well, now he was getting more flummoxed. He searched once more for a topic changer so as not to bring up the awkwardness a second ago.
“Ahhh right– I should put something on the Gramophone for the plants. I find it fascinating that plants react so well to music; I suppose they are living things. All living things desire food, water, rest, and– in some regards– entertainment.”
He moved towards the gramophone, frowning lightly. Wes bounded over, looking at the gramophone, and then back at him in confusion. An eyebrow raised in silent question.
“It’s no doubt I’ve made my dislike for the thing clear. While in no way do I hate it the same way Maxwell does, I admit this brings back unpleasant memories during my brief time on the throne. I can’t begin to imagine what it must have felt like for Maxwell, who suffered the same song for god knows how long.” A small, wicked smile snuck onto his face, and even though they were the only two, he leaned down to whisper inconspicuously, “A small price to pay, considering what he put us through, and perhaps, even then a bit too lenient, wouldn’t you say?”
Wes blushed and covered his mouth, but Wilson had seen the smile for just a second. Despite Wes’s forgiving nature– of which Wilson could not believe such kindness could be stored in such a misfortune little thing– the small jab at the magician had definitely tickled the mime’s fancy. So maybe there was a little pettiness underneath that gentle heart.
Wilson returned to his full height; when compared to the 5’3 mime, he felt pretty alright about his height. Which– again, 5’8 was a perfectly average universal height for men!
Wilson turned back to his current resentment; best not to get himself worked up over something else.
“Red cover on the record– I’m guessing it’s the original song that came with the phonograph. Mmm, I’m definitely not fond of that one. I could maybe search for the other records we crafted…” He pressed his hand under his chin, speaking his thoughts aloud, “I wonder if one of the other campers would be willing to let me borrow theirs…though that will mean going through their personal belongings– which I don’t think would sit well with any of them. Webber might not mind; he’s always asking me to play with him–”
Wes pointed to Wilson.
“Oh no, I never received a record. I’d much prefer materials, or even clothes, than a song of my own. Besides, I wouldn’t even know what to ask for if I could. If I listened to music, it was often background noise; never the forethought in my mind. My father and mother enjoyed the classics; I’m familiar with some famous composers, but nothing that sticks out. Though if I heard the song, I’d probably recognize it, as I often do when one of the others plays their song.”
When Wilson looked at Wes, the mime was biting his bottom lip, a look of contemplation on his face. Wilson touched his shoulder, “Everything alright?”
Wes held up one finger: ‘One moment.’
Wes ran off, towards his tent, attempting to not slip on the wet ground as he went. He stumbled, and wobbled dangerously, but managed to keep himself up right, to the relief of both men. Wilson patiently waited by the garden, tapping his foot as he wondered what the mime had gone to fetch.
A moment later Wes emerged from his tent, juggling the umbrella in one hand, while he clutched his other arm close to his chest. Another few seconds of fretting for his safety, and the mime was back at Wilson’s side, safe and mud-free. He pulled his arm away from his chest, presenting a black record to Wilson.
Wilson took it in his hands, eyes widening. “This? You got this this morning, didn’t you?” He glanced back at Wes’s face, uncertain, “Are you sure you want me to play this? You seemed hesitant earlier?”
Wes was chewing on his bottom lip again, seemingly conflicted. For a moment he kept looking this way and that, but never meeting Wilson’s gaze directly. Wilson was about to hand the record back; if Wes was this nervous, he wasn’t going to force the mime to play it. He could deal with that song getting stuck in his head again.
However, Wes seemed to have made a decision. He looked sheepish as he pointed to himself, before reaching out, and resting the flat of his palm against Wilson’s breastbone, right over his heart. With a blush that only Wes could feel, he tapped twice against Wilson’s chest.
‘I trust you.’
That’s what Wilson interpreted the gesture to be. And it seemed he was right, as Wes gingerly took the record, and replaced the one in the gramophone. He reached for the needle, but hesitated. He stepped away, looking to Wilson for help; it seemed he was struggling to continue. Wilson nodded; walking over, he placed the needle on the record, and cranked the handle. A few spins, and the music started up.
A soft, romantic tune began to fill the air.
‘Des yeux qui font baisser les miens
Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche
Voilà le portrait sans retouche
De l'homme auquel j'appartiens’
The singer was French, which, considering Wes’s nationality, made sense. Still Wilson’s eyes widened as the song continued; the tone– the voice, it was familiar. A vague tingling in the back of his mind; just like most songs were. He listened closely; though he could barely understand French, with Warly and a little of Wes’s written help, he was starting to learn.
‘Quand il me prend dans ses bras
Il me parle tout bas
Je vois la vie en rose
Il me dit des mots d'amour
Des mots de tous les jours
Et ça m'fait quelque chose
Il est entré dans mon cœur
Une part de bonheur
Dont je connais la cause’
“This voice– I remember this song. This… this is Edith Piaf, isn’t it?” Wilson asked.
Wes’s eyes were closed, softly swaying to the song. He nodded, answering Wilson’s question, but it was clear to the gentleman scientist that the man was somewhere else. This wasn’t odd; most of the survivors had fallen into nostalgia the first time they heard their recognizable tune. Wilson couldn’t really do anything– just sit quietly and listen, pondering what Wes was seeing behind his eyelids.
As for Wes, he was crouched beneath the armrest of the couch, maybe 14 or 15, listening to Edith’ Piaf’s beautiful, passionate voice fill the tiny apartment, while his mom was splayed out across said couch, singing along. Sometimes he would hear her sniffling– a few times, the words would get choked up in her throat– and sometimes, she stopped singing altogether, and Edith’s voice would be mixed with the broken, pitiful sobs of his mother. Wes didn’t dare reveal himself from his hiding spot, even as he wished to take her hand and stroke it in comfort; showing himself might only worsen her mood.
‘C'est lui pour moi, moi pour lui, dans la vie
Il me l'a dit, l'a juré pour la vie
Et dès que je l'aperçois
Alors, je sens dans moi
Mon cœur qui bat
Des nuits d'amour à plus finir
Un grand bonheur qui prend sa place
Des ennuis, des chagrins s'effacent
Heureux, heureux à en mourir’
During nights like these, when his mother was sipping wine and wallowing in her heartache– listening to her favorite song, Wes would find a spot out of sight, but close enough to still hear the song, and tuck himself away, pretending that they were listening together. That they could be talking, laughing– singing along to their favorite singer. A song that he loved, because his mother loved it.
That just like in Edith’s world, his life could be tinged pink. In ‘la vie en rose’, he was loved. He was wanted. Even though her song was about a lover, Wes would have been happy for either; the love of a man...the love of a mother…the love of anyone.
He parted his lips and began to silently sing along. With no voice, there was no fear of being discovered.
He tucked his knees under his chin, wrapping his thin arms around himself. There was no fear– and no hope either.
“Wesley?” Wes opened his eyes, turning to look at Wilson.
Wilson was frowning. He reached out and touched Wes’s cheek; the mime started, surprised the man had touched him. Wilson was often very careful about touching his face, not wanting to smear his makeup. But something must have happened to make him forgo his usual apprehension.
“Wesley, there are tears on your lashes…” Wilson spoke quietly, as if he was scared speaking any louder might break the boy.
Wes blinked, a tear dripping down his cheek. His mouth parted in surprise. He reached up to touch his own face, as another tear fell.
“Should I turn it off?” Wilson was already reaching for the needle, but stopped when Wes shook his head. His nose twitched; a silent sniffle– he quickly wiped the tears from his cheek.
Wilson pulled his hands back, laying them awkwardly at his sides, at a loss of what to do. “Is this song usually a sad song? I thought it was supposed to be a love song? Je vois la vie en rose– ‘I see life in pink?’ Isn't that the phrase?”
Wes smiled weakly and nodded. Wilson reached into his vest and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to the small mime. Wes took it gratefully, touching his chin with his fingertips before moving his hand forward and down. Wilson understood that as ‘thank you’ in sign language.
As Wes dabbed his eyes with the handkerchief, Wilson stared at the gramophone in silent contemplation.
“Did you…have a partner back in the real world…before getting trapped in the constant?” Wilson inquired. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, but he also wanted to know why this song was making his dear friend tear up. “Does this song make you think of them?”
Wes shook his head, a silent laugh slipping out. Wilson tried not to visibly sigh.
Wes cradled his arms together and began to rock them back and forth.
“A child?”
Wes shook his head, continuing to do the motion.
“...A…mother?”
Wes nodded.
The light flickered on, “Oh! This song reminds you of your mother.”
Wes dropped his arms and nodded. Wilson watched that same smile appear on his face from before; the one that didn’t reach his eyes.
Wilson stepped forward, resting his hand on Wes’s shoulder. “Do you… hate this song?”
Wes shook his head.
“...Do you love this song?”
Wes began to nod but stopped midway, his brows furrowing.
Wilson fingered Wes’s arm carefully; the soft material of Wes’s sweater feeling nice under his hands. “Is this something bittersweet?”
Wes’s nose twitched again, his eyes filling with fresh tears.
Wilson looked up. It was the first time he noticed the rain had stopped. The clouds were still overheard, hiding the sun and casting a gloomy gray over everything. Fitting weather for fitting mood.
But Wilson didn’t want that. He wanted to change it.
Taking Wes’s umbrella from him, he closed it and leaned it against the table the gramophone was sitting on. He removed his eyebrella and shook his head, hoping his hair would fall back into place. He cast the hat aside and turned back to his small companion, offering his hand. Wes stared at his open palm in confusion.
“I figured better memories would be welcome? It’s been a long time since I’ve been forced to dance– but I should remember the steps. Mother would have boxed my ears if I’d forgotten the lessons she paid for. Besides, music as charming as this– it’s the kind you feel like you should be waltzing to, don’t you agree?”
Wes could feel heat returning to his face. His mouth formed a silent ‘o’, his hands shaking. Was Wilson asking him what he thinks he was?
He waited until he was sure what he was hearing wasn’t just in his head: “Would you like to dance with me, Wesley?”
Wes nodded, hair flicking up and down at the velocity in which he agreed. He put his hand in Wilson’s; the older man pulled him in close, resting one hand on the small of Wes’s back, angling their joined hands into position. Wes nervously fumbled, trying to remember how the waltz worked; it wasn’t a dance he was quite as familiar with– he’d danced with a few men in his past, but not many were interested in the pitiful mime, not enough to want to twirl him around a dancefloor. Not even enough to twirl him around their living room. Waltzing had been a luxury to Wes.
Wes finally rested his hand on Wilson’s shoulder, which seemed to be the right choice, as Wilson smiled sweetly, and began to lead the pair around the garden, mindful of the mud and crops. Wes was thankful; he knew that he would have fallen or slipped if not for the protective and supportive hands holding onto him.
‘Quand il me prend dans ses bras
Il me parle tout bas
Je vois la vie en rose
Il me dit des mots d'amour
Des mots de tous les jours
Et ça m'fait quelque chose
Il est entré dans mon cœur
Une part de bonheur
Dont je connais la cause’
“You’re light on your feet,” Wilson teased. Wes looked away, cheeks burning even hotter than before. His saving grace was that he was wearing white face paint; surely Wilson couldn’t tell how badly he was blushing.
The two danced to the music; at one point Wilson twirled Wes in his arms, before dipping him low and sweet. Wes’s hands tightened, afraid he might drop.
“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” Wilson promised. Staring down at him, Wilson had a look on his face that was making Wes’s heart race. It was serene, and full of tenderness. It was an expression Wes was embarrassingly familiar with; an expression he often made himself when looking at the scientist.
It was an expression that he was often the giver of– rarely the receiver.
So seeing it so naturally on Wilson’s face, it took Wes’s breath away. He didn’t even think Wilson realized what kind of face he was making himself.
In Edith Piaf’s world, Wes didn’t belong. In a world sprinkled pink and intoxicating; a world of love– Wes was supposed to be tucked in the dark, forgotten. As the world sang, he was meant to stay silent.
He was silent. This would always be the truth.
But as Wilson held him, twirled him, hummed the melody unconsciously back at him, Wes felt the pink in his cheeks, in his fingertips, spreading across his chest; everywhere.
More tears filled his eyes, but these weren’t bittersweet.
Wilson noticed, and his expression turned to one of concern, “Are you okay? Do you need to stop?” Always the gentleman, this stupid, endearing man.
Wes shook his head and squeezed Wilson tighter, reluctantly to let go, even as the music was coming to its end– though, considering the magic of this strange world, Wes was aware the song would play on if no one stopped it. In that moment, he was glad the gramophone would play on.
On and on; he never wanted this moment to end.
Wilson smiled nervously, “Okay, you just have another look on your face--? I wanted to be sure you were okay.”
Wes was better than okay. He didn’t need a mirror to know there was a goofy smile on his lips. He didn’t need to see himself; he could feel it all around.
Pink. In the music. In the sky as the clouds finally parted, revealing the fading afternoon. Spreading through his whole body, from head to curling toes. And in Wilson’s gaze as he once more dipped the smaller man in his arms– holding them in this moment for what could have been forever.
‘C'est toi pour moi, moi pour toi, dans la vie
Tu me l'as dit, m'a juré pour la vie
Et dès que je t'aperçois
Alors, je sens dans moi
Mon cœur qui bat’
Wes lipped the words he had memorized; the song that he could never forget. Bitter and sweet-- but, for once, sweeter on his tongue than they had ever been. Even without a voice, he sang with all his heart: ‘Je vois la vie en rose’
‘La-la-la-la-la-la
La-la-la, la-la-la
La-la-la-la’