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The thunder woke them.
It wasn’t a violent crash, not yet — just the low, rolling rumble that pressed against the windowpanes and the faint hiss of rain against the roof. Rimbaud stirred first, a restless twitch beneath the sheets, his breath uneven. His hair — dark and damp from sleep — stuck to his forehead, and his eyes, when they opened, reflected the dull grey light that seeped in through the curtains.
Verlaine was already awake, lying on his side, watching him. He’d known the storm was coming hours ago. There was something in the air, a pressure that made his joints ache and his heart slow. He hadn’t wanted to wake Rimbaud, who’d fallen asleep after another long night of writing and pacing, muttering fragments of verse like curses under his breath.
Now, the storm was upon them.
Rimbaud pushed himself up, groaning softly, pressing his fingertips against his temple. “It’s too loud,” he muttered, his voice gravelly with sleep and irritation.
Verlaine reached out, his hand finding Rimbaud’s wrist before it could drop away. “It’s not the storm that’s loud,” he said quietly. “It’s your head.”
Rimbaud made a faint, annoyed noise — a noncommittal sound between a sigh and a growl — but didn’t pull away. He sat there for a moment, hunched, elbows on his knees, the lightning flickering faintly across his bare shoulders. His hair caught the light like gold dust.
The migraine was coming. Verlaine had seen it before — the small warning signs that others would have missed. The way Rimbaud blinked too slowly, the way his right hand lingered over his forehead, his jaw tight with restrained frustration. The boy never handled pain gracefully; he endured it like a poet endures silence — bitterly, defiantly, as if offended by its existence.
Verlaine reached past him and pulled the curtain slightly open. The storm was gathering in earnest now: sheets of rain slanted across the streets below, the roofs slick with silver, the sky thick and trembling with light. He watched it for a while, listening to the heartbeat rhythm of thunder and rain, and then looked back at Rimbaud.
“Lie down,” he murmured.
Rimbaud shook his head. “No.”
“You’ll only make it worse if you sit like that.”
“Everything makes it worse.” He sounded irritated, but his voice had softened — not quite a surrender, but a weary truce.
Verlaine reached out again, this time guiding him down, and Rimbaud let him. His body was warm, feverish almost, and Verlaine felt the heat even through the light blanket. He smoothed Rimbaud’s hair away from his face with slow, deliberate movements, fingers lingering on his temple in a rhythm that matched the thunder outside.
“Close your eyes.”
“I can’t.”
“Try anyway.”
Rimbaud did. The muscles around his mouth twitched, betraying pain he wouldn’t name aloud. Verlaine’s fingers traced small circles against his temple, gentle but insistent, and then drifted lower to his cheek, his neck. His other hand rested over Rimbaud’s sternum, feeling the uneven rise and fall of his breath.
“I told you to drink more water yesterday,” Verlaine murmured.
Rimbaud managed a faint, humourless laugh. “You sound like a priest lecturing me.”
“Better that than a poet scolding you.”
“Don’t pretend you’re not one.”
Verlaine smiled faintly. “I’m a drunk, not a poet, and right now I’m your nurse. So hush.”
The storm grew louder. Rain drummed against the windows in heavy bursts, thunder rolling closer until it shook the floorboards. Each flash of lightning made Rimbaud flinch slightly, though he tried to hide it. Verlaine noticed, of course. He always noticed.
Without thinking, he leaned closer, his lips brushing the side of Rimbaud’s forehead. “Breathe with me,” he said softly. “In… and out. Like this.”
Rimbaud didn’t respond, but he obeyed — or maybe his body did on its own, syncing slowly with Verlaine’s calm, deliberate rhythm. The sound of the rain filled the silence between them.
Minutes passed like that. The storm raged, but in the dim light of their small room, there was only quiet — Verlaine’s steady hands, Rimbaud’s laboured breathing, the scent of damp air and ink.
Eventually, Rimbaud opened his eyes again, sluggishly. His pupils were uneven, dilated. “You’re good at this,” he murmured, voice barely audible.
“I’ve had practice.”
“From what?”
“From loving someone stubborn,” Verlaine said, smiling faintly.
Rimbaud made a noise that might’ve been laughter or pain — Verlaine wasn’t sure. His eyelids fluttered again, heavy, the sharp tension in his jaw softening at last. The migraine hadn’t vanished, but it had dulled, fading into something manageable.
The storm began to drift away, too. The thunder rolled farther, the lightning thinning to distant glimmers. Only the rain remained, falling in a gentle, constant rhythm that filled the silence.
Verlaine lay down beside him, his arm still around Rimbaud, the two of them half-tangled in the sheets, half-listening to the remnants of the storm. Rimbaud’s breathing evened out at last.
“Don’t go to sleep yet,” Verlaine murmured, though his own eyes were heavy.
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll dream of poems, and I’m too tired to hear them right now.”
Rimbaud smiled faintly, not opening his eyes. “Then maybe I’ll dream of nothing.”
“Good.” Verlaine pressed a kiss to his hair. “Dream of nothing for once.”
Outside, the world softened. The storm passed, leaving only the quiet aftermath — a sky the colour of smoke, streets gleaming like glass. Inside, Rimbaud’s headache lingered in the air like the scent of rain, but Verlaine’s touch remained, warm and patient, a steady pulse against the chaos.
And in that small, dim-lit room, for a few fragile hours, even the tempest learned how to rest.