disclaimer: nopers.
dedication: algebra, to which i have given up on learning.
notes1: so i had my memorization test on the poem this is based off today.
notes2: i knew all of it. like a boss.
summary: "And me, I took my head in my hands and cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.
pairing: franceengland.
Chapter 8:
(he lit a cigarette)
I'm laying on his couch, in his living room, in his flat, feeling sorry for myself. I couldn't stop thinking of how much of an idiot I am.
"Dis." I jump at the sudden noise, and open my eyes to see his mum at the sliding door that leads out to the balcony. "Come out here with me."
I'm really confused, but I get up anyway. We sit in cheap lawn chair, shivering in the nighttime cold, and as she lights up a cigarette, she holds the pack out to me.
I sigh graciously as I take one, and I mumble with it in my mouth. "I really hate to take one, but…"
She shrugs as she hands me a lighter, blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Everyone needs a pick-me-up now and then."
As I light up the cigarette and inhale, I feel a wave of calm wash over me. I sigh out happily, smoke blowing out with it. We sit in silence for a few moments, savoring the lungs full of smoke.
"He talks about you a lot, you know," she says suddenly. She's not looking at me, though — she's still staring off at the London lights, at the bright, full moon in the sky.
"Does he?" I say offhandedly, more focused on the feeling of tobacco in my system.
"Ouais," she murmurs. "He tells me a lot, you know, despite the fact that you think he might not, what with my job and all. Nous sommes vraiment proches."
Oh God. She knows. She must know. Is she going to talk about it? Oh God, it'll be so awkward, this is so awkward — why is this happening? I'm so unbelievably nervous, but all I can do is exhale a breath of smoke and say,
"Oh."
"Mon garcon," she drawls, exhaling a bit of smoke, "il est trés sensible. He gets hurt very easy. He needs to be told he's loved, otherwise he'll think otherwise. He'll get doubts. He's like his father that way, tu sais."
My mind is going frantic, and all she does is suck on the fag and continue speaking.
"I had the same problem as you, though. It's why his father left. I couldn't tell him I love him — how could I, when I was still working the streets, when I was sleeping with other men to make a decent living? When I told him I was pregnant with Francis, he told me, 'Dites-moi tu m'aime,' he said. 'Tell me you'll quit your job, that you'll come with me. Je veux entendre ton amour.' I couldn't. He left. I still haven't told Francis that I know who son père is."
"Why tell me all of this?" I ask her, staring at the silhouette of her profile.
She turns to look at me, and a motherly look flashes across her face in the form of a sad smile, and she pats my cheek.
"You've got a chance with him," she whispers to me, as if it's a secret. "He loves you. A lot. And I can tell you do, too. Don't ruin your chances. Ne fais pas mon erreur, ouais?"
I'm blushing as I take an inhale of smoke. "I don't know why I can't tell him, thought I love him — I love him so much. I can never seem to tell it to his face."
"That's something you gotta figure out for yourself, lad." With that, she put out the butt in the ashtray, got up and went inside. She pauses for a moment, inside the flat but still outside. "Call me Élise from now on." She doesn't shut the door all the way.
I sat there for a while, burning cigarette in my hand, staring at the moon. I snuffed the small stub of the fag out in the ashtray and stand up to lean on the iron railing.
I try not to think about him as I stare into the scenery of London, and although this isn't the best place to see its allure, it still takes my breath away. It may be smoggy and rainy all the damn time, but at night I think it's simply beautiful. Sure, I can't really see the stars, but who needs stars when you have the brilliance of age-old buildings around you? The heart of Paris is nothing compared to this.
Well, there goes trying to not think about him.
Then again, when can't I think about him? He's everything to me. He's my life. He's my soft place to fall. He's the only thing I dream about, he's the only thing I can count on in my life.
"I'm such an idiot," I say to myself, my voice cracking. I can't cry, please me, don't cry. "Why can't I tell him? I love him so much — "
I hear a gasp and my heart stops for a split second. I can't breathe as I turn around. Yes, it's him — of course it is, and he's right outside the not-quite closed door. He drops his bag and rushes forward to pull me close.
The outside of his jacket is quite freezing and it gives my skin goosebumps, but I can't find it in me to care. I'm shaking, and I'm not sure if it's from the cold or the sudden relief.
He knows. He knows. I can't help but chant that in my head over and over.
Our embrace is tight, but as we pull back, I can't read the emotions on his face, despite that he's such an open book — there are too many for me to see, all switching with each other in an unorganized pattern. But, anyhow, I smile at him with everything I can muster, and he gives me one, single kiss that tells me everything is okay.
