If perhaps he'd made a habit of telling her the going ons in his life, he'd be talking about Gaelio now. He'd mention that in two weeks he's agreed to help him unpack boxes in his new apartment on Saint-Médard, very close to the Grande Mosquée where he went to pray with his mother. She started saying she was a Catholic when they first arrived in Paris, under the advice of their neighbor, an elderly woman who wore wrinkles on her forehead forged on her homeland of Côte D'Ivoire. Ein repeats it too, "My mother was a Catholic," when he needs to, but their prayers were offered in the quiet, sunny mosques of Alger, their footsteps echoing across the floor. And so they'd ventured into the city more than once to reach that place. If perhaps he'd made a habit of opening up, she'd know this too. Instead he lets her do the talking, watches her devour one of the bastilas he made last night using his mother's cookbook.

'So I'll be in Marseille until the middle of October—What's in this one? Don't taste like chicken.'
'Fish.'
'Huh, you're getting better. Gotta babysit some rich Ambassador's son too.'
Ein nods.

He liked watching the ships come into the bay from Marseille, as a child. Maybe Gaelio would call him dull but he never really gave the sea that saw him walk by back then any kind of sentimental feeling, and he doesn't feel much as if he misses it more or less than he does the entirety of his city. He never fully felt like he was part of that sea either. He tries not to think of it too hard but finds the attachment Europe has to the Mediterranean, the way they speak of it as if its waters only licked European shores, no beaches to the south, odd. They talk of it as if they belonged to it and it belonged to them.

'Should be a good thing for me, you know, Marseille. I lined up my vacation days for this, of course. These were good, you've really gotten better.'
Julieta wipes her mouth with one of the large cloth napkins and makes a sound as if she's remembering something she pretended to have forgotten. Probably the reason she showed up unannounced—a rarity in their years of knowing each other.
'I brought you your pay, from the other time,' she gets up from the old wooden table and wipes her hands on her striped pants.
'Oh,' Ein watches her move towards the bag she left on the small couch. The other time was a long time ago, the beginning of summer. Autumn is almost here, he thinks. That was so long ago, he feels. So much has changed.
'They refused to pay for that day, since I didn't show up, but they said they couldn't pay for your work, either, since you're not an employee. I had to fight them on it,' Julieta grabs an envelope from inside her bag. 'Finally, I asked Mr Rustal what could be done and he got his lawyers to help—well, budge them a notch.'
'Oh,' Ein repeats.
'I'm sorry it took so long.'
'I'd almost forgotten.'
She looks at him, severe as always.
'That's no good, Dalton. You shouldn't do free work for anyone.'
'I know,' Ein takes the envelope offered to him. 'It was a long time ago.'
'Hm.'
Ein watches the fine sugar dust cover her fingers and the corners of her mouth as she bites into one of the tchareks he laid on the table. There's a small Algerian boulangerie Ein delivers to—Mr Crank gave him the route for himself—and they make the best ones he's had so far in the city.
'I haven't talked to you since then.'
Julieta stops herself halfway through her bite, cheeks puffed, and watches Ein as if he's said something strange.

Maybe he has. It's not uncommon for them to let time go by without a word. Theirs is that kind of friendship, silent, from a distance.

'So I forgot,' he shrugs.
She continues with the tcharek, and another one after that.
Until he speaks again.
'At the beginning of summer, I met this person,' by the twitch of her eye and lip he knows she wants to pause, again, but isn't doing so because she knows he'll stop if she does too. 'Remember that private waiting gig at Saint-Honoré?'
She nods, wipes her mouth with her fingers, also dusted in sugar, makes it worse so she licks them distractedly. 'The Bauduin house.'
'That's his house. His parents', at least,' he hears the words coming out of his mouth. So much has changed, he thinks again. 'He's a kind person.' A pause. 'We went to La Pagode together. Have you been?'
She shakes her head.
'It's nice. I guess, we could go, sometime.'
'With him?'
Ein blinks twice.
'Yes. I suppose, you could come with me, and him.'
She nods again. 'What's his name?'
'Gaelio Bauduin.'
She nods her recognition. She must've heard the name before, after all it was Mr Elion who'd put her, and through her Ein, with the catering agency that Mme Bauduin used for her events.
'He's really tall,' she says, matter-of-factly.
Ein wears a small smile for all reply.
'And a complete fils à papa,' this too is matter-of-factly.
'You don't know him.'
'Do you like him?' Julieta finally caves in and takes the third tcharek.

Ein knots his eyebrows and stares at the patterns on the tablecloth. He knows what she means. And does he really? He's alright with the attention. That's enough, honestly. Beyond it there's an great expanse stretching out like the road to Constantine—one he'd rather not touch upon with anyone, not even himself. The picture isn't complete but he's used to that, by now. It's not like him to ask for more, to wish for more.

'Yeah,' he says softly.
'Hm, then let's see if La Pagode really is that interesting,' Julieta licks her fingers again.
'Yeah,' Ein says again. 'Yeah.'

'What do you think, Minouchette?'
The cat lies on her back on the spot of the parquet flooring that's been warmed by the patch of sun coming in from the balcony.
'It's got a nice view, at least,' Carta supplies in Minouchette's behalf.
'I didn't ask you.'
Carta slides her gloved fingers across the glass on the window door then inspects her index finger, pursing her lips.
'Are you all set for the move?'
'Mmhmm,' Gaelio hums. 'Ein's coming over next week to help me unpack.'
'Ugh, what's with that creepy smile?' Carta makes a face.
'I'm excited!'
'You're an infant,' she laughs—it's beautiful, Gaelio thinks, it bubbles up from the inside. It's rare but always sincere.
'You are!' Gaelio turns sharply to face her, tearing himself away from the view visible beyond the balcony. 'Ah, Carta. There's something—'
'No, I won't tell you,' she too turns sharply, away from him, crossing her arms. 'Ask someone else. McGillis probably knows.'
'You don't even know what I was going to say!'
'You have that expression on your face that says you're gonna ask something. You're so transparent.'
'I am?'
She turns to face him. 'Hopeless.'
Gaelio sulks.
'Alright, what is it?' she looks around for a place to sit on, but there's nothing in the apartment except for a couple of boxes Gaelio brought by himself. She leans against the wall.
'Remember that night you went to Le Memphis,' she nods at this, 'and Ein and I stayed behind?'
'If this is about something you did to my apart—'
'Just let me finish!'
'Fine!'
'I was wondering, because of what Ein said. Well, do people ever say things to you?'
'Things? Can you be more specific?'
'Ein said others tell him stuff like he's not human, I think. Because he's not from around here.'
Carta stops leaning against the wall, she uncrosses her arms.
'And,' Gaelio continues, 'that he doesn't belong here, that he should go back.'
'I see,' Carta lowers her head, nodding. 'My case is different, Gaelio. You know this. I'm sad to hear that happens to Ein, but you can't really say you're surprised.'
Gaelio nods. 'I suppose not. It's just—' different when it's someone you care about and not one of the faceless immigrants you've thought before should go back to their countries? Again, he's made it about himself. How disgusting. 'I've been like that, too, haven't I?'
Carta shakes her head. 'But he knows you care for him, I mean, you've told him. You're dating.'
Maybe it's the way he fiddles with his thumb, or the way he then takes it into his mouth to nibble softly at its side, but Carta gives him that look.
'You haven't told him.'
'Of course I have!' Gaelio thinks back on the words he's said throughout the summer, to Ein, about Ein. And then the ones he didn't, in Carta's balcony, that night. Those are the ones he shouldn't hide.
'You poor hopeless fool. He probably thinks you're some rich brat, some fils à papa stringing him along to distract himself for the summer, conducting a twisted sociological experiment on the miserable immigrant working class boy.'
'Ein wouldn't think that!'
'I would! And you would too! In his place.'
Maybe they wouldn't, he thinks, circling frantically around the room, but he knows what it's like to feel tricked, like he's being fed silver-tongued lies, like someone is weaving a tale that keeps him apart from the real fabric of truth and he's powerless to stop them. He finds it hard to focus his gaze—fortunately or not there aren't many things in the apartment.
'Ah, ah,' he picks Minouchette up off the floor and holds her close, too close. She escapes his grasp with a loud meow of disagreement. 'What should I do, Carta?'
'Tell him,' Carta's back to leaning on the wall, looking at Minouchette's form disappearing into the bedroom with disinterest.
'Tell—you mean now?'
'I don't care when.'

Gaelio checks the time on his watch. Now's a good a time as any, really. He grabs his jacket from atop one of the boxes and makes his way to the door, starts turning the key—he'd left it in the lock—when he remembers.

'Carta, you know you're—'
'Are you really going now?' Carta asks him once he's back again in the empty living room. She's wearing that expression of confusion that makes her look like an angry cat. 'You're leaving me here?'
'I don't want Minouchette to be alone.'
'You're insufferable!'
'Take her to your apartment.'
'Just go.'
Gaelio kisses her on the cheeks.
'You're pretty good at giving this kind of advice, considering... you know.'
'Considering what!' she asks loudly.
'I'm grateful for you, for your friendship,' he tells her for all answer, his hands on both her shoulders.
The soft expression of surprise, maybe shock, on her face mimics his own at the words. He chuckles at himself. Does he seem like that different of a man? How peculiar. She doesn't say anything so he walks away with a hurried step after squeezing her shoulders.
'Wish me luck, Carta!' he calls out to her when he's at the door. 'Take care of Minouchette!'

He closes the door and can't hear her from the other side but pictures her having followed Minouchette into the room and pouting, wishing Ein good luck instead of him.

Gaelio imagines a piano diminuendo following the speed and rhythm with which he walks downstairs and music blaring out from the orchestra when he feels himself pour onto the street, like his movements are liquid, fluid. The music in his head follows his light steps leading him somewhere, they score this momentous time in his life as he's imagined happening before. It all fits together in the same way things fall apart, he's always landed on his feet. He takes the métro at Censier – Daubenton, hums the melody in his head while he fixes his hair watching his reflection on the scratched, dusty windows of the train. It's not like he has a plan, but that's nothing new. He'll change to line 4 and get off at Barbès – Rochechouart and there he'll slide a coin inside the pay phone and dial Ein's number that he's committed to memory. And Ein will answer, and then he'll speak.

The phone rings twice before Mr Crank picks it up, he clears his throat loudly before answering, Ein can hear him from the living room, with the TV on at the lowest possible volume. Then he hears Mr Crank's steps coming closer towards him.
'S'for you. Bauduin, said he was.'

He makes no comments, though, on the name, though he probably can recognize it, and Ein is alone in the kitchen when he takes the call, holds the receiver in both of his hands. He wonders what's brought this one call on, staring at the spot on the tablecloth covering the kitchen table, the same spot he stared at when Julieta asked about him.

'Gaelio?'
'Ein! I'm so happy to find you home! I wasn't sure you'd be home but I thought I'd try and see anyway. I'm—how are you, Ein?'
'I'm fine. How are you?'
'I'm great! I'm great! I went to drop off some boxes at my apartment today, with Minouchette. Just a couple, the weather was nice.'
'You could've asked me for help.'
'Oh no, it was fine, I did it as an excuse to bring Minouchette over, you'll still help me unpack, right?'
'Of course.'
'Thank you, Ein! And your day? How was your day?'
'I had work in the morning, and a two hour shift at—a brasserie.'
'Are you tired? I need to talk to you, Ein. I need to—I don't want to say this on the phone.'
'Uh—'
'I'm at the pay phone at the station!'
'The station?'
'Barbès – Rochechouart! Can you come down? I need to tell you something.'
'Now?'
'Yes, Ein, I'm here now, on the phone here. Can you?'
'Sure,' Ein leaves no pause. 'Please wait. I'll be there soon.'
'Thank you, Ein!'

Gaelio drums his fingers against the top of the pay phone before hanging up. He half-heartedly rehearses the conversation in his head, the things he'll say, what he thinks or is sure Ein will say in return. The inflection of his voice at the right word, an art form all by itself. He looks around the place, watches people go inside Tati. He's never been inside but he knows it's one of the few department stores in the area—the thought of a person coming from Africa, the same as Ein, to open up his own business here, a department store with the lowest of prices, warms his heart in a strange way, like he'd want to pray for the keeping of that soul; he feels tenderness directed at the bravery. It takes him a couple minutes to realize maybe what he feels is just condescension. To think a Tunisian would be capable of such prowess, to come to Paris and set up a successful business, against all odds. What right does he have to think that way? He grits his teeth, changes focus. Maybe he and Ein can shop there, together, surely he'll find some cute outfits, at the lowest prices, something soft and warm for the coming winter, for both of them.

When he catches sight of Ein running down the street in his direction, his fists tightly closed, the piano notes follow him too, in crescendo, and Gaelio realizes he's the most nervous he's been in his life. That Ein's opinion of him meant more to him than the thoughts of anyone else had ever meant before.

Ein stops himself some ways away from where Gaelio stands, next to the phone, looking right at him. He takes it all in: the people going under the bridge, into the station, the passerbys looking at Gaelio—he does stand out, with his clothes, and his posture, and his stature—and the lack of a smile on Gaelio's face, like he's focused on something that'll change the pace they've kept for the summer.

Ein's prided himself in discarding the thoughts others place upon him, the labels, and names, and places where they say he should belong, the ones others have decided for him. He's prided himself in the confidence that he is Ein, and he is Ein even on the fringes, in the margins, outside, and nowhere, no matter what they want to believe about him. But he can see cracks on the sides of his confidence that fit Gaelio's hands. He can see that maybe it'd take just one word from someone Gaelio trusts—really trusts—for Ein not to be Ein to him anymore. For him to be just another face in a sea of blurry factions without any particular features. Unrecognizable amidst the countless others who share the ordinary fates of those unlike Gaelio. The only other time this kind of panic twisted the muscles around his stomach he was a child and the idea of war, which had been discussed after a meal by his mother and her friends and his father and his friends over the kitchen table, had become more than an idea, had become the architecture of the building trembling at night, glass shattering, the sound of people screaming muffled by shots of bombs and gunfire, families torn apart, and his mother had first spoken of leaving the place for good because the war would go on forever.

There's no hesitation in Ein's steps as he closes the distance between them, nor when he stands in front of Gaelio, says "Hello" with even breaths, head slightly tilted upwards.

'Thank you for coming so fast, Ein. I'm so glad you were home, I wasn't sure I'd find you—I didn't have your address so I thought calling from here was the best option. I'd never really—Thank you for coming.'
'It's alright, Gaelio. What did you need to tell me? Are you alright?'
'Yes! I'm great. I just—I needed to talk to you, Carta said I should do it now since I hadn't done it before, I didn't really realize I had to, but I think I've started noticing that I didn't really realize a lot of things that maybe I do now. That's why I came here, you know?'
Ein puts his hand on Gaelio's forearm.
'Gaelio?' All things come to an end, he thinks. Nothing lasts forever. When he goes to La Pagode with Julieta he'll enjoy it all the same.'Ein,' he says it softly, cupping Ein's cheek and stroking it with his thumb. 'Ein, if I haven't made it clear, that's what I wanted to say—I couldn't just hope it was clear to you when I never said it, but I hoped you'd know. That I'm—That this isn't just—That I'm all in.'
'All in?'
'It's serious. It's—not like anything else. You aren't.'
'Oh,' it might be unconscious but Ein leans into Gaelio's touch, he strengthens the hold on his forearm. Not what he expected at all. It was enough, whatever which came before, but this is better, he knows, he lets himself revel in the feeling, the hollow ache in his chest filling up with warmth. 'I understand.'

He doesn't say anything else, so Gaelio doesn't either. Anxiety, of course, sets in like a stone making ripples on the smooth surface of a lake: Gaelio's hand trembles, his hold hesitates, and the nonchalant control he has over his lower lips gives way to a quiver, barely noticeable to anyone but himself.

'Ein,' he says, hesitating between retreating his hand altogether from its contact with Ein's warm skin in the cool air, 'did I say something wrong? I'm sorry, I assumed—presumed, it was okay, or something you wanted—I shouldn't have—'

His hands tremble against Ein's face, he can feel them more than see them, so Ein puts his own hand on Gaelio's. He'd never expected Gaelio, of all people, to appear so vulnerable, and of course, to be the cause of it, but he suspects he's not the only one who finds certain things changed after their meeting. Words aren't his forte. He and Mr Crank can spend days or weeks without a word passing between them. Gaelio does a beautiful job of making words unnecessary for others, but sometimes he too must need to hear that he is—that he is like no one else that exists in this world. Even if he knows—he should at least—Ein has to speak, too.

'Gaelio, if not for you—I'm grateful, for you. Because of you my life—I'm lucky, to have you in my life.'
Gaelio's hold no longer hesitates.
'I am!' he says and Ein stands on his tip toes. Gaelio bends his knees so their heights can match more closely. This time the kiss is no different, but Gaelio pretends it is—there's music in the air. Maybe Ein can pretend it's different too, he clings to Gaelio's shirt with fervor, almost, and his breath is so warm against Gaelio's lips, tongue, teeth. With his fingers he feels the soft strands of hair on Ein's nape, and the way his neck dips into his back, and he moves his other hand to the small of Ein's back.

'Ein, just leave it...'
'Gaelio we should unpack all the boxes, it's better to get it all done in one go.'
'Ein just come lie on the sofa with me,' Gaelio whines. He reaches over to the turntable, on the floor next to the sofa where he lies, places the needle on the record. 'There, now Dutronc is playing... Maybe we can dance, after we rest.'

Ein busies himself unpacking Gaelio's belongings, placing them where he thinks they might go. Minouchette observes him with martial dilligence, maybe even like a prey, and he feels a little nervous at the fact, not that he minds. He just hasn't gotten along very well with cats, so far.

'I'll place your clothes on the commode in your room—'
'Just leave it,' Gaelio groans, makes no attempt to get off his position on the couch, watches Ein go into the bedroom, carrying Gaelio's neatly folded clothes. 'S'your room too,' he says, barely above a whisper. So he's startled when Ein's form emerges from the door to the bedroom in a flash.
'M-my...?'
Il est cinq heures, Paris s'éveille starts playing.
'This song makes me think of you.'
The change in topic helps Ein return to the task at hand, emptying boxes, making the apartment look like someone lives in it.
'I told you to just leave it,' he helps Minouchette settle on his chest, both of them lying horizontally on the large sofa. 'I was thinking, you know, Crank can pick you up here, for your route. Or we can get a car! You have your own routes too. Do you do this part of town? Maybe you can get new routes here? Oh! Could I go with you, one of these days? I can just skip class, that'd be fine. And we'd play this song, and I'd sing it for you while I help you unload the sacks, what do you say? I'd love that, maybe I can go more than once, it can be a weekly thing...'

Ein doesn't reply, from the way he keeps placing objects here and there, the untrained eye could say he's not paying attention, that Gaelio's one sided conversation washes over him without effect, but he doesn't miss a single word, and Gaelio knows, he can see that soft smile on Ein's face as he sets the picture frames in the way he likes it, as he places everything where he wants it to be. Gaelio knows Ein is listening. This is their home now.