Title: The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream

Author: mindy35

Rating: this part K+.

Pairing(s): Yves/Sofia, Yves/Other, Sofia/Other

Summary: Yves and Sofia return to their former lives but can't forget each other or their short-lived affair.

Disclaimer: Characters are the property of Mark and Michael Polish. Please see first chapter for the rest.

vi.

He comes back from lunch to find Clare in his studio. She's looking at the masses of pictures of Sofia. She can't really miss them. Or the way he's photographed her. For someone who knows him as Clare does, that speaks as plainly as the words Sofia scrawled in the chilly French sand. Only her loveletter was washed away by seawater just minutes later. His are far more permanent, far more present.

When his wife asks who the woman in his photographs is, Yves doesn't lie. The name sticks in his throat. He hasn't spoken it in what seems like a lifetime. But Clare catches the strangled sound, he sees the flash of recognition cross her face. When they first met, he told her as little as possible about his former lover. But even that much must have given him away. She could tell their affair was big. Destructive. Defining. She'd lived in its shadow for their entire relationship. And Clare was a perceptive woman, she gleaned enough over the years to put the rest of the pieces together. So she knew that name. And all it meant to him.

She asks when the photos were taken. They both know it wasn't eight years ago but she is testing him, testing how far his honesty will stretch. Again, Yves doesn't lie. He tells the simple truth. Clare doesn't look surprised. She suspected something happened on that last Paris trip. She suspected there was a reason he hadn't been back. Now she knew what. And she knew why. Yves watches her digest this information, watches her glance again at the photos of Sofia. She surprises him by asking straight out if he's still in love with her.

Yves looks down, rubbing his forehead with two fingers. He has no intention of lying. "Incredibly," he answers softly. "Yes."

Clare studies him a moment then says she needs to pick up Lola. She fumbles with her keys, tells him they'll talk later. Yves nods, watching her leave. Later that night, after Lola is asleep, she tells him she will be the one to end their marriage. She will be the one to give in, give up, say what needs to be said. She knows he will never leave his daughter. She knows why he will never leave his daughter. But Lola needs a happy father, she tells him, not the pretense of a happy marriage. So she will release him. She will release herself from a situation that isn't benefiting any of them.

Yves doesn't fight her. He's too stunned. Too stunned to feel relief. Too stunned to feel anything. He thought Clare would hold on forever. He thought her grip on him would never fail. He isn't sure what to say. He insists that she keep the apartment. And she insists it be with Lola. They agree to shared custody. And he agrees to her citing infidelity when she files for divorce. It's all surprisingly calm and civilized. If he ever imagined this scene, he always pictured her throwing things at him, hurling accusations. He pictured her with red cheeks and flashing eyes and bunched fists. It's then that he realizes how much Clare has changed. She has grown into a completely different woman while he wasn't paying attention. Her fire has dulled, her outlook turned bitter. A lot of that is his fault.

Yves apologizes. For that and everything else. The two words are insufficient. He knows that. They are meant to cover a multitude of sins reaching right back to his decision to marry her, bed her, shake her hand and change her life for the worse. Clare surprises him again by apologizing back. Then they stand, staring at each other across the living room they will no longer share. Two strangers who have lived together but shared little of their true selves. There's nothing left to say. Then Yves remembers that this is the easy part. The hard part will come the next day.

He spends the night on the couch, sleepless. He tries to plan what he will say to Lola before changing her life forever. But he can only hear Sofia muse...She's your heart, no? He wishes it were that simple. He wishes his little girl was enough. He doesn't know how to tell her she isn't. That his heart doesn't beat for her alone, that he needs more than her to be truly happy.

Morning comes too soon. He isn't prepared. But he never will be. They talk to Lola separately. First, Clare. Then it's his turn. Their daughter is teary and confused. All he can do is reassure her of his love until his voice breaks with it. He tells her he will see her often, be there always. He promises that they will see a movie that weekend. It seems so inadequate. Especially when he follows this promise by doing what he vowed never to. Yves picks up his bag, kisses her one last time and leaves.

~x~

He is used to living out of hotel rooms. It's not uncommon for him. In fact, it's comforting. He feels safe in their impermanence, their anonymity. He can't see himself investing in another place right away, not after leaving the only real home he's ever known as an adult. And he doesn't really know what to do now, what's meant to come next. This is a scenario he never planned for.

If he's truthful though – that is not entirely true. If it was, then he and Sofia would never have granted themselves an out. One chance, one recourse. One. They'd talked about it towards the end of their time together, only once and not in much detail. It was a hazy hypothetical, a tenuous proposal at best. They'd agreed. No phone numbers, no addresses. No contact. But—. If they couldn't do it. If they went their respective ways. If they tried – really tried – and failed. Then after one year. They'd meet. In Paris. Same place, same day, same time. Then, they could re-evaluate.

Yves never thought it would happen. He never thought they would take that second chance. He thought they'd only posited such an arrangement to ease the pain of parting. He'd thought of it as a beautiful fantasy they could dream of in moments of regret. Nothing more. Nothing real. Nothing actually possible. Now, he wonders whether in even contemplating such a thing they set themselves up for failure. Perhaps knowing they could have a second chance ensured that they'd want it, they'd take it. It practically guaranteed the failure of their alternate lives. Not that he knows anything about the current state of Sofia's life and marriage.

He knows nothing about anything. He knows he's a wreck without her. Again. Or still. He knows she permeates his existence even in her absence. He knows that he doesn't want to be sixty and lying on an anonymous hotel bed running his fingertips over words she wrote when they still had a chance. Yves flips through the thick, well-loved pages, squinting in the dim light filtering in from the street. There are poems about him in the book she gave him. Poems about them, about love and rage and sex and regret. There are poems dedicated to her deceased father. But his personal favorite is a poem Sofia wrote to her twelve-year-old self. It is filled with her humor and her heart. He's read it many times in the months since he saw her last. But reading it again now seems to bring a sudden clarity to her words, to his thoughts. It makes Yves think of his father. It makes him think of his daughter.

He tries to imagine what it would have been like as a child to see his father happy. He can't. The image he has of him is so fixed in his mind. He can't fathom how it might have altered his life to have a father who was content, a father who was present. Neither of which he has been for Lola. For the first time in his life, Yves wonders whether his father was ever in love. Whether he ever found love, found happiness after leaving. He might have grown into a very different man if he'd had a father who knew how to love. How to show love, how to celebrate love, how to be brave in love. No one ever taught Yves how to do that. Or how a man in love acted.

It's something he wants for Lola. He wants her to witness that, learn it so she can recognize it later. He wants her to see the joyous side of love, of life. He wants her to see that side of him. He wants her to see him happy and never wants her to think it's her fault if he's not. He wants his daughter growing up believing that real love exists. Extraordinary love. Love that gives. Love that wants and reaches and dares. Love that needs and knows. Love that's free. He wants her to know that when a man loves a woman there are no limits to what he will do for her. Because he prays that when she is older, someone will love her that way. With all their being, with every breath their soul owns. He prays she'll know what it's like to be loved that much. Without limit and without fear. He wants her to believe that she – that love – is worth risking everything for.

He's sure it's a sentiment Sofia's father would have understood. Yves only met him once. His handshake had been warm, firm. And his love for his youngest daughter fierce. Yves hadn't known how to act. He had little experience with fathers. But he wouldn't have wanted to tell the old man that his daughter wasn't worth risking everything for. When she undoubtedly was. And still is. He's never met a woman more worthy than Sofia. And she ought to be worth the risk. Any risk. Repeated risk. Because she's the love of his life. If he was too young and dumb to know it then, at least he knows it now.

Yves rises from the bed, downs the rest of his drink. He lays Sofia's journal on the nightstand and goes to the desk. Clicking on the light, he settles in front of the hotel stationery then picks up the monogrammed pen. He is not a writer. He possesses neither her gift nor her affinity with words. But he begins writing a letter to his daughter. A letter about love. A letter about choice. A letter to her twelve-year-old self. By the time he is done, he is certain. He will keep that appointment in Paris. However tenuous it might have been. He will be there. Same place. Same day. Same time.

He will be waiting for his beloved to come claim him.

TBC…