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By the time the school boys in the middle of the bar start their third drunken song of the evening, Valentin considers calling it a night. The clock over the counter hasn’t even struck eleven that this little group over there is already piss drunk. Fine students of the Latin quarter wasting Papa’s allowance on cheap wine and girls, looking for a night of debauchery and thrills in the darker parts of town where they wouldn’t even walk their dog during the day. It never takes long for the sight to awaken a familiar resentment.
It’s getting late, and he would normally be back home to get a few hours of sleep before heading in the morning to the Durand Steelmill, lovingly dubbed the Devil’s Den. Unfortunately, this routine was rendered irrelevant a few hours ago, when Valentin was sacked, alongside half of their workers. A blessing or a curse, he’s not exactly sure, he simply regrets losing his shot at burning the place to the ground. For now, he decides he’s allowed a last drink before tomorrow comes.
Images of a long gone shop, small but inviting, flash in his mind until he forces them out. That train of thought never did him any good. He’d rather focus on the stores and factories currently hiring his comrades occasionally mention. Lucky him, they’re set to meet again next week. He can hold on until then, until necessity comes knocking at his door once more.
His thinking is cut short when the rowdy crowd starts singing another song and reaching new lows.
Buvons un coup
Buvons-en deux
À la santé des amoureux
À la santé du Roi de France
Et merde pour le Roi d'Angleterre
Qui nous a déclaré la guerre
“Merde à tous les oppresseurs, cochons de bourges.” Another thought that won’t lead him anywhere tonight. Rich kids are never worth the trouble. He readies himself to pay the bill, when one of them catches his attention.
“Got nothing better to bawl?”
The impact is immediate. A few seconds of silence followed by an eruption of laughter and boos, all heads and reactions turned towards the one rebellious young man in their group.
“I’m sorry, who are you again? Who invited him?” from the most boisterous and brute looking of them.
“It’s fine, he’s my roommate. He’s from the Faculty of Health as well. Don’t mind him, he’s always been a bit of a spoilsport.”
“Truly sorry if I don’t see the fun in singing the praise of a dead tyrant.”
“Sylvain, play nice,” his roommate advises.
“Oh, that Sylvain?! Well, would you look at that. You’ve got quite the reputation already,” another continues.
“What reputation?”
“You mean the Sylvain that got into a fight with Alphonse de Hautin?”
“He was the one calling anarchists deranged bloodthirsty criminals when all he knows comes from whatever newspapers have to say on it. I wasn’t about to show that ass any respect,” that Sylvain guy retorts.
“And what was it he called you again? Ah, yes, a country bumpkin know-it-all who’d get on his knees to please Ravachol , if you catch my drift-”
When Sylvain throws the first punch, Valentin figures he can’t leave so soon. Taking a good look at him, one wouldn’t think him this feisty. Large puppy dog eyes and wild brown locks framing a heart-shaped face flushing red with fury. The young man is tall but his target is broader, and once the initial shock has passed, it’s his turn to jump on his attacker in retaliation.
The few customers that had borne the troublemakers’ presence are now scurrying away. As for the bar owner, poor old man Corentin, he’s trying his best to break the fight while the crowd cheers at the exciting turn of their night. And there’s Valentin, who has yet to make a move. The thing is, when Valentin fights, it’s to obtain something. The antithesis of the self-righteous fit that reckless student and pretend revolutionary is throwing. And he is not one for pointless risks. When you don’t have much to bet, you don’t bet on losing dogs. But he trusts his instincts. And right now, voices he knows well, ones that guided him through Hell and got him this far, are whispering not to turn away.
For the trouble, he adds ten more cents to the forty of his bill. Old Corentin will need it. Ten seconds pass and he breaks the student circle too stupid with alcohol to react. It doesn’t take him much longer to grab the royalist fuck by the collar, throw him on the ground, and kick him in his face, breaking his already damaged nose.
A stunned silence follows, a chance Valentin doesn’t miss. He turns to the other imbecile that started it all, still laying there on the floor, gawking at him like the rest of them.
Staring at the figure above him, Sylvain feels the little alcohol remaining in his system dissipate. If he ever expected an angel guardian to come to his rescue, he didn’t envision them with these sharp features and an even sharper gaze. Half of his face is obscured by the fall of asymmetrical blonde hair, defiance written all over the visible part as he looks down on Sylvain and raises a slit eyebrow.
Sylvain doesn’t have a second to comprehend any of it before his collar is grabbed too as he gets dragged away. He can barely breathe, just enough to try to address his savior.
“W-wait! Why are you-”
“Hurry up and shut it,” the other hisses without sparing him a glance.
By the time they reach the door, the spell inside is broken. What this assembly lacks in courage, they collectively make up in pride, and theirs was unceremoniously trampled upon.
“Where the fuck do these two think they’re going?! Get the police, they just massacred Enguerrand!”
“Oh God” . Heaving, hands on his knees, Sylvain feels a wave of nausea coming to him. But he can’t dwell on it, a hand grabbing his arm and pushing him onto his feet, making him trip on the pavement.
“Go to Hell, I didn’t ask for your help! Who even are you?!”
A groan of frustration is all he gets, getting dragged again across the street like a puppet. He fights to break away, resisting against an iron fist. Eventually, shouts echo behind them and he’s let free, only for the stranger to face him with the delicacy of a brick wall, shooting daggers at him.
“For your sake and mine, fucking move.”
His words, low and deep, are enough to pin Sylvain down for a moment. With the sudden proximity, he takes a proper look at the other. He’s surprised to notice the man is shorter than him, yet he’s the one feeling small. This up close, his face doesn’t seem so angular anymore, with hints of an old softness lingering around the edges. His expression, though, doesn’t allow for discussion. Sylvain nods without a word, safe for a grumble. Good enough, apparently, as the stranger turns around and quickens his pace, staring ahead, trusting he’ll follow.
The angry voices from the bar progressively fade away while the two hurriedly walk through the streets of Belleville. More questions fill Sylvain’s foggy mind but he lets them die on his lips for now. After a few minutes, he recognizes the banks of the Canal Saint-Martin, where the man seems to be taking him. Finally, as they pass under a bridge, the aloof stranger’s back, the only thing he could focus on during their little escapade, visibly relaxes and they both stop.
“No one comes over here this late, except for a few vagrants. We should be fine for now,” he says without a trace of his previous hostility. If anything, he now sports an easygoing smile, leaning against the wall of the canal bridge, inviting him along. At this point, Sylvain has no reason to refuse. He joins him against the cold stone. Despite the anxiety he can’t quite get rid of, his breathing feels less strained. He heaves a deep, deep, sigh, letting his nerves cool down for a bit. When he speaks again, to clear the strange fog between them, his voice comes out hoarse and uneasy, resonating awkwardly under the bridge.
“… I should thank you. I’m not sure why you did that but… I owe you one,” he has to concede, taking a careful look at the stranger’s profile, whose tranquility betrays no clear emotion. He doesn’t turn to face him but assesses him attentively from the corner of his vision.
“Don’t sweat it,” he says after a short pause. There’s a camaraderie in his tone, in the playful glint of his eyes, something to reassure the visibly shaken young man. “Guys like that have never tasted a real fight in their life anyway. There wasn’t much to fear.”
Sylvain chuckles weakly. He can’t deny that.
“Guess that applies to me too, huh?” he tries to carry on, rubbing his neck reflexively.
“You throw a decent enough punch, I’ll give you that. You just gotta learn when to throw one. Take my advice, Sylvain.” The younger startles at the mention of his name, unsure how to feel about it being remembered this easily. “Pick your fights wisely. Some aren’t worth it.” The warning underlied in his words, now lower and slower, is easy enough to pick on. Or so Valentin hopes. But looking at the surprise in Sylvain’s widening eyes, followed by his dismissive scowl, apparently not.
“And let these bourgeois bastards get away with all the shit they say and do?” the student spits out, all nervosity gone and replaced with the fire Valentin witnessed earlier. He would almost be impressed if the idiot wasn’t being a stubborn brat. “Like Hell I will.”
Oh, that’s just too much. Valentin can’t hold it and he has no desire to. He lets out a laugh as scathing as a blow, echoing loud and cruel in the desert river bank. In one impulsion, he pushes himself off the wall, turning on his heels to face Sylvain upfront. If that wasn’t enough to make the younger man feel cornered, he edges closer and leans in. The height difference, Sylvain’s only advantage, is completely meaningless, serving only to make Valentin’s chin tilt upwards, his gaze pushing him further against the wall with their unashamed condescendance.
“‘Cause you think well-off kids like you getting into drunken fights with well-off kids like them makes a difference in our lives? Lightens the working class’s burden by a milligram?” He scoffs, standing tall again with hands in his pockets, putting on the nonchalant airs he knows well. “If you believe your tantrums matter for anything other than boosting your ego, you’re as clueless as you look.”
Sylvain can only huff in disbelief. Indignation, the only weapon he truly has, frees him then from the stranger’s hold.
“Who do you take me for?” He throws, bumping his shoulder against Valentin’s to regain personal space and put some respectable distance between them. He should turn and face him too, throw blow for blow and defend his principles. Instead, his strides lead him towards the water. He remains still, all too aware of his long limbs, awkward where the other’s move with the calculated nimbleness of a cat. “You don’t know me. Don’t assume I’m this naive. And don’t assume I have the means to stand as their equal.”
The bitterness in that thought doesn’t escape Valentin. Is that so? He makes note of it, neatly folding it in a corner of his mind.
“You grew up here, didn’t you?” Sylvain continues, “You sound like it.” Valentin’s eyes narrow at that. Why should that matter? “I guess the real face of Paris was never a secret to you. Well. It was to me.”
Ah. Indeed, the country-bumpkin . So that’s what it was about. The student is now sitting on the edge of the bank, above the water. Reflections of streetlights dance on its surface, moving tranquilly across it, unbothered by his agitation. Valentin can sense it with ease and, without a sound, takes a few steps closer. Not too many, just enough to make his presence felt, but not overwhelming.
“I was sent to Paris to study,” Sylvain explains, “To make something of myself and join the ranks of the promising youth shaping the future of this country.” He makes a wide movement towards the river, embracing the view of the city, or perhaps accusing it. “But since my arrival, I’ve mostly met self-important spoiled pricks living in leisure, whose only rule is to take and never give. They’re the ones with the future in their hands, the face of ‘progress’ and of the next century. And I’m sick of it. So yeah. I lashed out tonight. Maybe it was pointless. Maybe it was stupid. But they had it coming and I won’t take any of it back.”
All of this was said in one convinced and genuine breath. His shoulders are squared and his fists clenched, yet somehow Sylvain feels lighter, close to dizzy. This is the first time he could voice these disillusions so clearly, lay down his realizations to someone who, he gathers, should understand. Behind him, the stranger seems deep in thought, pondering over god knows what. As if the control of the atmosphere was still is, he lets the silence prolong itself, contemplating the younger man.
A low laugh escapes him, teasing but not unkind. With the same casual step, he goes to sit by Sylvain’s side.
“You sure are a strange one,” he finally says, “If the bourgeois’ company is oh so horrendous to you, why make yourself miserable and share a table with them? Ditch them, there’s nothing complicated about that. And it’ll save you a couple of bruises.” Behind the jest, there’s a discernable consideration, one Valentin sees no need in faking.
“Ha. I’m not really one for socializing anyway,” Sylvain continues, without noticing the shy smile blooming on his face, “I occasionally interact with my peers at the Faculty, when I can’t avoid it, but that’s about it.”
“Sounds solitary.”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle. I don’t mind it,” he counters in an attempt at indifference, “And we would interact even less if my roommate didn’t insist on trying to ‘cure me of my antisocial ways’. He’s relentless, and the only reason I was out there tonight.”
“You mean the one who didn’t bother to step in and help you?” Valentin asks and sneers, head tilted towards him, “Talk of a friend.”
“He’s not my friend. We’re from the same town in Normandy and we got accepted into the Faculty at the same time. Our connection stops there. But naturally it meant everything for our parents and they insisted we room together.” His words might be laced with disdain, his downward gaze doesn’t help sell the tough act. Valentin could point it out, push against all too obvious insecurities and get a good laugh out of it. He opts not to.
“Well, good luck on improving your relationships with him or the others from tomorrow on. Be sure you’ll be on everyone’s lips for a while now,” he simply adds, grinning like he finds his poor prospects particularly entertaining. Sylvain could take offense at his university life problems being so openly belittled, but the derision strangely comforts him.
“Fuck,” he still says in a groan, “I don’t want to think about it.” He lies down on the pavement, feet dangling over the water and hands on his face. “I don’t want tomorrow to come.”
He doesn’t see it, but for a split second, something passes on Valentin’s face. A spark of interest continuing to grow. It doesn’t last long but the moment remains, fading into their silent companionship.
“You know,” a thought occurs to Valentin, “If you need a place to avoid that prissy roommate of yours and your equally prissy comrades, you can come to mine.”
Sylvain sits again, looking at him with a puzzled expression. He opens his mouth to speak but not a word comes out. The city lights illuminate him just enough to show the blush creeping in. Valentin has to bite the inside of his mouth not to laugh in that poor boy’s face.
“My place. Not my room. I live in a boarding house and a tenant recently left.”
Sylvain blinks. “Oh. Of course. That’s what I thought.”
“Of course,” Valentin plays along. Can he up the stakes, he wonders. “I’m not so cavalier as to make that kind of offer on the first night.” It doesn’t have to be true.
The other laughs faintly, looking away, but not enough to hide the blush now solidly fixed on his cheeks. How easy, Valentin catches himself thinking. Not that he expects much to come out of it, but when the game is fun, there’s no harm in enjoying it.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sylvain says without properly looking at him. “Although... I have to ask. Why are you doing all that? Defending me, some guy you don’t know, taking me here and listening to my ramblings, going as far as to offer me a roof… Why bother?”
He turns to him, earnestly waiting for a response. It’s endearing, really.
“Because you’re an interesting fellow, Sylvain.” A little praise, and the young man stares at him like this is the first time he hears such a notion. “You’re not the first well-intentioned student I meet with a ‘profound compassion’ for the proletariat. But their commitment rarely goes beyond fancy words and ideas. I’ve learned not to count on them,” he states matter-of-factly, throwing a random pebble in the river. “But I get the feeling there might be more to it with you. You caught my attention, as simple as that. Do I need another reason?” He finishes, shrugging as if there was nothing simpler or truer than that, and turns, forcing their eyes to meet as to dispel any doubt on his sincerity.
Sylvain’s insistent gaze remains on him for a while, uncertain what to hope for. Eventually, he huffs, “I guess not,” and smiles, almost too brightly. Valentin mirrors it with better subtlety, but just so. “Ah, sorry, I’ve been talking about myself the whole time. I don’t even know the first thing about you-”
“My name is Valentin,” the older man interrupts, “Aside from that, there’s nothing of note to share.”
“What? That can’t be-”
Valentin figured he wouldn’t buy it this easily. But some patterns can’t be broken just like that, that Sylvain will have to accept it. “Sure can. But if you feel like talking some more…” And Valentin’s already up on his feet, bursting their bubble as he brushes off his coat. “Pass by Corentin’s bar. He’s an old friend. If I’m not there, he might know where to find me. Oh, and don’t worry about the fight. He won’t hold it against you for giving that bourgeois what he deserves. Plus he’d never tell the cops a thing.”
Sylvain raises his hand, as if to catch him, but stops the motion, letting it stupidly hang in the air. In the guise of reassurance, Valentin crouches down to his eye level, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. “So. How does that sound?”
Slowly, Sylvain’s hesitance evaporates in the air. He feels something akin to resolve and relief build inside and lighten the weight on his chest. All of this under Valentin’s keen eyes, grinning like victory is already his. Looming over them, three shadows observe the scene with satisfaction.
“I’d love to, Valentin.”