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1673
As he entered Madame Viverette’s shop, Raziol was met with silence, stillness and sunlight.
For the first time that day, he thought he was still dreaming. He thought none of it had been real; not the breakfast he had with his father nor the time he spent getting dressed (Sulvain’s cloak carefully draped over his shoulder) nor his nerve-wrecking but firm walk to the shop. Because, he reasoned, if all of that led him to this— a door that gave way too easily, floorboards that creaked with lack of use and air filled with unswept dust…
It simply couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening. After months of holding Sulvain’s and his own promise close to his heart and doing everything he could (and never thought he could do) to fulfill them, for this emptiness to be what came out of all the pain and confusion and effort made him feel out of place and out of balance, as if he had gone back to the beginning of this spiraling nightmare.
(It felt almost like a déjà vu, something that happened lifetimes ago, except it hadn’t been more than a few months since then— he, stumbling down the same space covered in blood, dirt and panic, following his newly awakened instincts. He hadn’t found who he was looking for then… until he did, but he was too late.)
Was Raziol late once more?
Were he and Sulvain meant to not see each other again? The mere thought squeezed his heart painfully tight and made his eyes water, his breath catching at the back of his throat.
So he closed his eyes and inhaled, careful, quiet, focused. Trying to look for something, anything, a hint that could lead him somewhere, anywhere. Madame Viverette’s lavender and pollen scent. Sulvain’s jasmine and sandalwood.
But he was, once again, met with nothing.
As he bit down a sob, Raziol tried to rationalize the situation. He could still search in every nook and cranny of the shop… maybe Viverette left him a message behind (did she even knew he was coming?). Maybe she was waiting for him at Sulvain’s department (or was it empty too?). Maybe… maybe…
Maybe Sulvain was already…
No. No. He promised.
Raziol could wait. Maybe someone would come, maybe something would fall into place, maybe a clue would appear written in the stars.
So Raziol waited.
And when the sun disappeared quietly behind the horizon, leaving him trapped in silence, stillness and moonlight, Raziol fought back tears as he slowly walked out of the shop, trying to delay the moment for just a few seconds longer.
But they weren’t enough.
✦
When he closed his eyes that night, he remembered. Vividly.
Sulvain’s gilded hands as he signed Leave Paris, the taste of his urgency still pungent on Raziol’s tongue and the cold trail left behind on his cheek from a caress that would’ve been comforting in any other situation, but shattered his heart at that moment, because it felt too much like a farewell.
I will do everything I can to see you again, he had promised in return. And Raziol had seen it then: among the shadows and the rubble and the dripping gold, in Sulvain’s eyes was the distinct glimmer of love and terror and hope. It was a reflection of Raziol’s own feelings, swelling up inside his chest as they embraced, and pouring out of him in the whisper of I will find you.
No matter what it took, or how long, they would meet again. They had to. There were so many secrets left in the skies for them to find.
✦
Four months passed.
Raziol had counted every single day.
From then on, he had to live with the realization that the time looking for Sulvain would be more than the time they had spent together.
167✦
The first time it happened, he was in a ship set to sail to a new world.
It hadn’t been an easy decision to make; he had looked for any and all excuses to delay that very moment, but with Huygens gone, the Academy seemed too big for him to walk alone. And without the Academy, Raziol only had his father left. And his father had actually encouraged him to leave, to expand his horizons, to search for his own place in the ever-changing, ever-growing world. Somewhere away from the war, he had said. Somewhere you don’t put him in danger, Raziol’s mind added.
It hurt. To know that away was the best place Raziol could be to protect those he loved, no matter how close he wanted to be, how tight he wanted to cling, how safe he wished to feel around them; it hurt to realize that letting go was the only way he could move forward.
Because during the past uncertain months, every time Raziol left his house, he inevitably found himself walking the streets that would take him to Viverette’s shop… and to Sulvain’s apartment. Just in case something had changed. Maybe something, or someone, would be, at last, waiting for him. But it never happened. And, in the deepest part of his mind, he knew it never would. There was no trail to follow; he had to map his own.
So, with a heavy heart that threatened to sink into the deepest part of the ocean, he did.
Before they left the pier, Raziol had already found a private, quiet spot within the ship, somewhere he could watch the people come and go, in a weak attempt to distract himself from the urgency to flee back home. The distant sound of conversations, footsteps, dragging objects and other activities, along with the rhythmic sound of the waves coming and going, all but became a murmur in Raziol’s ears when a familiar silhouette stood out from the crowd.
Immediately, his heart skipped a beat, continuing with a frantic rhythm as his eyes quickly focused on the candlelit figure, walking through the pier with a cape that covered most of his body, leaving only his short curls and pale skin out for the salty breeze to caress. His back was facing Raziol, but the way that he moved through the currents of people made it clear that he was looking for someone.
And Raziol’s heart had been scrubbed raw from all the emotions of the day, leaving his once sheltered hope vulnerable and exposed under the stars; he was desperate in a way that he hadn’t wanted to admit before. And he missed him so much. It was only inevitable.
It came out of him almost immediately, like a wish that one hurriedly whispers after catching sight of a shooting star crossing the sky. “Sulvain—”
The moment he pronounced it, the man turned, as if he had somehow heard him through the distance and, helplessly, the tiniest smile formed in Raziol’s lips, who felt relief wash over him with such force he could’ve almost stagger back. But he was stuck in place as the man’s features finally came to view, revealing a stranger that responded to someone else’s call with a greeting.
As if the air had been punched out of him, Raziol’s lungs felt hollow, his chest sore and his body numb. Suddenly, all the noise came back louder than it had been before, and every face in the crowd became blurry as his eyes filled with tears that he tried to blink away, unsuccessfully. You should have known, a part of him said to the other that was flailing, trying to find the strength within himself to not fall into the darkness of his worst thoughts.
He should’ve known no miracle would happen. Time and time again, it was as if life itself, bigger than him, wanted to let Raziol know that he would not come back. Raziol had looked everywhere he could and retraced every step. Sulvain was gone. No matter how much he refused to accept it, something would always happen and serve as a reminder.
But Sulvain had promised. Raziol, too. Even in an unfamiliar land, Raziol would make sure to find a trail that would take them both back to each other. There was no other way to go on.
When the ship finally sailed, his fingertips were tracing the gentle expression of the first gift he got from Sulvain. When he found the irregular line of a fissure, he tried not to think of how his heart was covered in similar ones.
✦
At times, it was unbearable how much Raziol wanted to go back. Some days were easier to navigate. Others, he would stop in the middle of whatever he was doing to try and control his breathing, lest he start crying in less than appropriate places, in front of people that already had a scrutinizing eye on him.
In the worst sense possible, he felt like a child: small, lost, left behind and with the need of a warm, familiar shoulder to dry his tears on, the almost ridiculous want of a pat in the back and the crushing, nausea-inducing hunger for a home-cooked meal, like the ones his father only knew how to do.
Then, against all odds, he carried on.
1682
Raziol would find Sulvain in his sleep and lose him again upon waking.
✦
In a still-recurring nightmare Raziol had, he arrived at the Church too late.
Sulvain’s body would be lying still on the floor and, as Raziol went to hold him, he would sink into the puddle around him that only got bigger and bigger and bigger, almost like a river, then a sea, then an ocean, slipping through Raziol’s fingers until all that he had were palms stained with gold and a throat raw from the cries that it let out.
He could never wake up before that.
✦
In a still-recurring dream Raziol had, when Sulvain whispered his name, his voice was warm with adoration. It was a brief, muffled, distant exhale. But Raziol could still feel it settle inside his chest, right next to where his heart was, like a star that broke through the darkness and led him to safety.
He would wake up before he could memorize the sound.
1710
Exploring the world had been a want for most of his life, but, after that night at Versailles, it turned into a necessity. Each decade that passed was accompanied by the anticipation that reminded him that sooner or later he would have to leave everything behind again to settle somewhere he could start anew, for Raziol could only come up with so many excuses to explain the lack of aging signs his body should be showing.
No one would ever understand. And, more than that, Raziol still didn’t understand either.
There had only been one person who could’ve helped him explore the changes his body had gone through. And he was gone.
✦
No. Sulvain was still out there.
He promised. They promised.
They would meet again. Raziol would find him. It was only a matter of time.
✦
He would stay the same age he had when he lost everything and gained a world too big to fit in his hands in return.
1756
In the middle of all the change, one thing remained the same: he was still in love with the stars.
The feeling grew deeper and deeper with each breakthrough, new theory and celestial discovery that happened at an ever-increasing frequency, the calculations and conversations seemingly never-ending. If he was lucky and careful, he would sometimes be involved in said process, the words and numbers stumbling out of him quick with excitement that had never worn out despite the passing of time, whose pace didn’t seem as heavy when it allowed him to be part of a moment shared by many and useful for more.
As the universe expanded, Raziol couldn’t help but look up at the sky on quiet nights, a proud lump in his throat as his mind whispered to the stars Master Huygens, are you seeing this?
✦
One summer night, he closed his eyes and tried to remember.
How the stars shone through a window and filled the room with a soft glow, both of them in the middle of it, holding each other close. The moon was barely there, but Raziol could still recognize the discrete curve it traced in the sky, almost like a secret, that would later reveal itself to be a warning.
But they hadn’t known then, their minds hazy with bliss as they danced and kissed and embraced. Right then, they were starry-eyed lovers, blinded by the light that poured out from their smiles and the warmth of their words.
The future he had talked about back then was limited, finite. Almost a century later, Raziol wished he could correct himself.
“This is the future I wanted to share with you,” he whispered into the dark, and when his lower lip started trembling, he hid his face between the pillows, wishing for a sleep that never came.
1824
It still happened among big crowds, especially in cities Raziol had just arrived to. Disoriented and sometimes frantic, he would brush past someone as tall as him, as pale as him, with the same hair color or the same graceful walk, and Raziol’s heart would jump, as if startled, calling out his name.
But Raziol knew better; after it happened more times he could count (or dare to admit), it only took a quick second look for his hope to settle down and retreat to the spaces between his ribs, where it sheltered from the harsh reality. The consequent pang of pain that echoed through his whole body was something he had learned how to live with over time, albeit unpredictably. It either got louder and louder, a ringing in his ears that turned unbearable, or it faded out into a distant sound, gone by the next morning.
It made him feel like he was walking in circles. He knew from the very first days (those sleepless weeks) that it wouldn’t be easy living with the uncertainty of whether Sulvain was still alive, whether they would find themselves in the same place, whether the universe that had torn them apart would allow them to reunite… and let them stay together at last. And it hadn’t been easy, at all. But it was bearable; it was enjoyable, even. Until it wasn’t, and he was back at being gnawed through by the doubt.
He knew one day it would be over, in one way or another. They would either meet again or the memories would fade until there was nothing left to return to.
Raziol didn’t know which possibility he feared more.
✦
It was getting harder to recall the exact color of Sulvain’s eyes or how Sulvain’s laugh felt against his chest or the timbre of Sulvain’s voice when he spoke. In a way, those were losses too, and Raziol’s heart felt them as such, deepening the fissures it had when he first left Paris.
The only reason he was willing to carry the grief was because it fed his flame of hope. Sometimes it seemed impossible, but then Raziol remembered he had found him once already after crossing a city. What was the world? What were over a hundred years between them? Some stars were apart by greater distances and were still part of the same system, destined to orbit around the other and meet at some point.
They only needed to reach the furthest point apart from each other. From then on, they would only get closer and closer and closer.
1895
There were mornings where he would wake up after a dreamless night, the shape of Sulvain’s name hanging heavy from his lips.
He wouldn’t dare to pronounce it, even for himself.
1976
There was a sense of freedom that took over him whenever he drove his motorcycle, most likely caused by the wind sneaking under his clothes, awakening goosebumps on his skin, making him feel like a comet crossing the sky, swift and weightless and bright. The world seemed small for just a moment, and he could go anywhere he wanted, either following a path or creating his own.
That day, he was driving to a spot outside the city where he could go and watch the stars comfortably by himself. There was a meteor shower meant to happen during the night, and he wanted to have the best view; if the sky was clear enough, he could watch the planets as they crossed the heavens, too.
Then, in the distance, he saw it: a van parked on the side of the road, its hood open (but not smoking, luckily), allowing the driver hidden behind it to rummage in search for whatever he needed to fix. And Raziol knew next to nothing about vans, but something (a pull inside his chest, maybe) made him slow down before he could pass it by, stopping completely in a spot near.
You don’t know what you’re doing, a part of him said to the other that made him turn off the engine of his motorcycle with a soft click and hop off of it, not even considering what he planned to do for even a second and just letting his body take him wherever he needed to be.
(Later on, he would think of it as a gravitational pull, like the one that had made their eyes meet across the library back then, during their first meeting.)
“Hey, do you need any help?”
Raziol had barely finished exhaling that last word when it suddenly hit him. Discreet at first, hidden under the piercing tangs of oil and gasoline, he recognized a strange yet familiar trail of jasmine and cedar wood.
(He remembered. Vividly.)
When the other driver straightened and turned to look at him slowly, Raziol had enough time to recognize his silhouette all over again.
(He had walked in circles for so long, it was easy to go back to the beginning of it all.)
The hair he had threaded his hands through,
(Where were you?)
the shoulders he had rested his head on,
(What took you so long?)
the jawline he had kissed tenderly,
(Why did it take you this long?)
and the eyes he had looked under the sun, whispering sweet nothings to, in that exact shade of green no one else had.
(Who are you now?)
And after one, two, three quick, strong heartbeats, the name that he hadn’t dared to say out loud for so long (too long, longer than they had wanted when they promised) fell hopelessly from Raziol’s lips, his voice barely more than a broken whisper.
“Sulvain?”