As usual, thank you for your kind reviews. All of them. I didn't think people would love that story, it came rather personal and I had trouble gathering that it would touch anyone else than me.
Koba: I think Tristan really had faith in what he was doing, and in the path God showed him. So it made more sense that he would think of it for a long time before taking the decision. I'm glad it didn't shock you. I was careful as well, because even though I don't like religious institutions, I highly respect people who have faith and act upon it. There are so many polemics at the moment around the church that I really didn't want to delve into those controversial matters.
Frances dropped the heavy card box in the living room with a huff, cursing – in her head – about the insane weight of knowledge. Books! Her arms ached from the strain, but luckily, they were now done. And if she was being honest, Tristan didn't have that many things in the first place. Occupational habit? She hoped he wouldn't freak out on her shoe collection… But to think he had moved his belongings, trip after trip, by hand from his former room to the youth hostel didn't sit well with her. "I welcomed the exertion," he said, "It helped me think."
— "So, next moving, we'll put half books, half clothes in those cardboxes, right?"
Her casual tone carried well over her small living room, but Tristan was frozen beside the table – her great-grandmother's. Frances frowned.
— "What is wrong?" she asked gently.
— "I was just wondering in what circumstances my next move will occur."
She missed it entirely; the anxiety and uncertainty of knowing if she would be by his side. Because, to her, it was so obvious that it needn't be voiced at all. Hence the shrug, followed by a wince. Her back muscles would be protesting for a few days.
— "Well. We'll probably have help from my family, so it won't matter. My little brother is a bulldozer."
Tristan's eyes flickered in the light, his gaze so intense that she actually shuddered. Standing tall in her little flat, she suddenly felt more self-conscious. Contrary to her visits to his place, he had never set a foot inside. A line they had never crossed, until today. It almost felt like a miracle to see him, in this setting, even if he didn't quite know what to do with himself. Seeing how insecure he was, Frances opted to familiarise him with the place. Her parents had been nice enough to get her a nice flat away from home. It wasn't luxuous, per se, but neat and decorated with taste. The counter wasn't a cheap Formica – like her table – but a granite stone that curved around the area. The shelves in the bedroom made of solid calcite. And the bathroom was positioned as en-suite, a curtain separating it from the bedroom with large windows all along the eastern side. But the best, especially in summer, was the nice terrasse. At least forty square metres, right beyond the huge French doors, which called for a moment of peace outside. Tristan would easily be able to perform his Tai-Chi routines out there. Already, she could see his gaze lingered outside.
— "Come, I'll show you around and we'll see how to get you settled properly."
The tall man nodded nervously and she reached for his hand, caressing his knuckles gently.
— "It will be all right, Tristan. You will adjust, and from there, you can regroup and consider what you want to do for the future. In the meantime, let me take care of you."
Her words seemed to strike a chord as he drew her in his arms, squeezing tight. For a moment, she just circled his back and rested her head upon his chest. She doubted heaven would feel as great as this. At last, he released her, giving her a look so awed that she wondered what he was seeing.
Then she brought him around; it was a small flat, but good enough for two. Wachine machine, restroom were first. Then the kitchen appliances, and the huge closet where she kept her grandma's freezer. She could tell by the way Tristan tensed that he didn't like the idea of passing through her bedroom to get to the bathroom, but it couldn't be helped. At least, the toilet was easily accessible. The counter was large enough for her to gather her stuff on one side, and leave the other one for him. And so, for the better part of the afternoon, Frances and Tristan worked, hand in hand, to unpack his things and find the appropriate place to store it. It was a little weird, to see his belongings settle beside hers. His shoes in the entrance, his toothbrush by hers, his shirts temporarily in the closet, his books upon the shelves.
At last, satisfied with their work, they dragged two chairs outside to enjoy the sunset. On a whim, Frances suggested a cocktail with a little rum, and was surprised when Tristan didn't decline. He was, after all, quite out of his element and in dire need of a relaxing drink. The alcohol took effect soon enough and she watched him as he retreated in his thoughts. His features were so earnestly lost that her heart ached for him.
— "Come, Tristan, we need to rest," she said.
The former priest nodded, and followed her inside his new home.
And this night, after they had pulled the sofa and made his bed, the former priest quite wondered where his path would lead him. His heart sung with joy to have Frances by his side; they got along so easily. Yet, his mind kept mulling over his choice, and his future. He didn't want to be a burden to her.
Tristan suddenly felt heaviness settle in his limbs. He sat upon the mattress, head falling into his hands. Reality was crashing onto him quite fiercely. The choice was made. A tremor ran up his spine, a disturbance that settled deep into his belly. Doubts were creeping again … the moment she disappeared from his sight…
As if on cue, Frances appeared, teeth brushed and ready for bed. He heard her light steps approach him, and the bed dipping slightly beside him as she sat, silent as a mouse. Tristan was too tired to pull his head up and meet her gaze, afraid that his hesitations would her hurt her. Perhaps she would think he didn't love her enough.
Tristan shouldn't have worried; she understood. Slowly, Frances leant into him, her head landing over his shoulder. A simple contact, nothing demanding, just the warmth of her presence and steadiness of her support. They remained like statues for a long while, she, content to breathe the same air as he was. He, relishing in the tingling it brought to his entire being. As if, by staying by his side, she could insufflate a new sense of purpose into him.
A long, shuddering sight escaped his lips before Tristan found the strength to lift his head up. Frances stood, then, and came to settle in front of him. Before he could fry his brain with questions such as – how inappropriate this was and is she even wearing a bra? – her long arms wound up around his shoulders in a mighty hug, crushing him into her chest. Tristan had never known such tenderness, such close contact since his childhood. It brought him strength, squeezing her waist back against him, his cheek resting comfortably against her breathing heart. Thud thud thud. Such a soothing rhythm, the symbol of her life. His chest inflated in full, the dull ache disappearing as God filled him anew. His link to the almighty was here, and not forgotten. But he realised that his bounds to the earth had been missing, even after all the Tai Chi. And Frances, with the smell of her skin, the strength of her arms and the intensity of her embrace, reminded him that all human beings must be anchored into matter. She truly was a blessing.
The young woman left with a gentle kiss, just a caress to his lips, wishing him goodnight before closing the blinds of the living room. The door to her bedroom closed, the light disappearing soon after. Then, it was just him and the darkness. It was rather quiet, here, even more so that in his old quarters. Her scent was everywhere; in the sheets – patterned with Chinese symbols, how fitting – in the air, upon his light blanket and the cushion she had given him. And to know her so close … it put a balm to his heart. Tristan fell asleep to the slight purring of her little fridge. Just like his own in the clerical room.
Friday was a working day for Frances. Fortunately, now that her schedule had changed, she started at nine rather than eight which compensated for the 8 years of missing beauty sleep. Contrary to her usual routine, it wasn't the low sound of the radio on her Hifi that woke her up. Starting in bed, the young woman chased the fog out of her dreams before realising that the faint noises coming from the kitchen didn't come from a burglar or an intruder, but from the man she had pined upon the past month. Tristan. The same man she had invited into her life.
This realisation sent warm fuzzies into her heart, settling her worried thoughts pleasantly. A look at her very old-fashioned watch told her it wasn't 8 already, yet she felt rested and content. Frances threw herself in the shower, completing the morning routine in a top record of ten minutes before her impatience took her to the living room. When at last she pushed the door, fresh from head to toe and minimal make-up upon her face, she found … no one. For Tristan was in the kitchen, hidden from sight as he cooked some eggs. Frances smiled as she took in the table; two mugs, two plates and cutlery at the ready. Fresh bread from the bakery downstairs, butter and jam ready to be spread. Damn!
Rounding the corner, she leant across the wall to gaze at this man she so loved. She wasn't too sure yet that he was hers, but every single part of her wished that he was. For even without the frock, he cut an impressive figure! Too tall in her diminutive kitchen, shoulder-wide, his head hunched over his work. His light chestnut hair was combed neatly, his high cheekbones standing out against the beard that covered his cheeks. So handsome … so intense. Concentrated on his work, so much that he didn't realise she was standing there. Until…
— "Good morning, Tristan. Did you sleep well?"
His lack of surprise told her he might have known she was here after all. His intense golden-flecked eyes greeted her just as much as his smooth voice.
— "Good morning, Frances. Yes. I had a restful night, the best from the past month."
His earnestness touched her and she realised, just as well, that her dreams had not plagued her either. On a whim, Frances stood on her tip toes and kissed his scruffy cheek. Tristan's body tensed, so she backed away to give him some space. He returned to the saucepan, seemingly satisfied with the mixture.
— "Breakfast is ready," he stated.
Frances fished a bottle of orange juice from the fridge, her eyes lingering wistfully on the smoking teapot.
— "You didn't have to…", she started.
Tristan passed behind her, so close that she could feel his warmth seeping through her thin t-shirt.
— "I didn't, but it is my pleasure nonetheless."
— "Thank you fa…"
Frances froze as a flash of pain passed in his eyes. Her knuckles tightened on the chair, her mind reeling from the lapsus. This would take a little getting used to. At last, she seated herself beside him and "manned up".
— "Thank you, Tristan. This is a feast."
The former priest regarded her thoroughly before opting to deflect the elephant in the room.
— "You didn't use to skip breakfast, did you?"
His concern caused the young woman to smile, warmth settling once more inside her chest. The man was so used to take care of the others that she would have to put her foot down. But not today, for his concern felt so good that she didn't want to brush it away. Adjustment would certainly take time, and she had no doubt they would be able to find the right equilibrium.
— "No, but it certainly wasn't nearly as complete nor as enjoyable as this one."
— "Good. I'm glad"
Light conversation was shared during the meal, but Frances mostly concentrated on how good it was to settle with fresh bread and tea, and a plate of scrambled eggs in the morning. Tristan was an early riser, and she would have a hard time returning the favour as long as he slept in the living room. She hoped, somehow, that it wouldn't last for she longed to sleep beside him. When 8.40 came, she piled up the plates and got ready to leave. Tristan brushed her attempt at cleaning the dishes away and started right away, wondering what he was going to do with his day.
So when she approached him again, her bag hanging off her shoulder, he spared her a glance that told her how lost he was.
— "So, erm… These are your keys. This one to the front door, this one to the terrasse and the badge to unlock either of the building doors."
She left the little metal devices in his hand, taking in the stunned look upon his face.
— "But …?"
Frances gave him a genuine smile, the expression brightening her features so beautifully that he had to refrain from kissing her soundly.
— "There are two sets, and since you live here, you are entitled to having yours. It wouldn't do to have you locked out, right?"
— "Right"
Frances squeezed his hand before she left; she had sensed his need for distance. Yet, her feet took her lightly through the front door. He spied her from the terrace when she exited the building, bouncing like a fairy. Like a child, even; the age difference, alone put a damper to his mood. But when she sent him a wave, he couldn't help but catch the very serious gaze upon her face. Happy, yet worried for him. No, she was no child. Younger than himself, for sure, but a wise woman nonetheless. And she knew he would be there all along, taking one last peek at her before she disappeared from the courtyard.
Never had the classes seemed so long. Damn, it just didn't want to end, even the cartography sessions, that she usually enjoyed, dragged on and on. Even the flirtatious smile of her teacher couldn't sway her thoughts from Tristan. What was he doing, in her flat, today? The sun shone, and she hoped he enjoyed the terrasse to perform a little Tai Chi routine. That he would feel good enough to rummage through the appliances and cupboards to find what he needed. A towel, perhaps, to have a shower. The fridge, to cook for his lunch.
The memory of his delicious breakfast called a smile to her lips. Even if it didn't become a daily occurrence, it felt like a fairytale. Stopping to consider if she deserved it wasn't an option, especially when the teacher decided to let them go. She that usually lingered to perfect her work dashed to the door and jumped in her car before any of her friends could possibly stop her. This week end, Frances intended to be dead to the world.
But God was a mischievous creature, for the door was locked when she eventually made it home. Uh?
A surge of panic caused her heart to flutter in a wrong way, and she fumbled with the keys to rush inside. Phew. Tristan's things were still in the room. Deflating, Frances sunk into the sofa for a good ten minutes, her gaze distant, as she considered the very unsavoury idea of Tristan wanting to have a life of his own. But he had left the church for the love of her, hadn't he? So he couldn't … run away like this? Still, her touches had made him uncomfortable this morning. So she wondered…
When the man appeared on her doorsteps with two heavy bags of groceries, Frances couldn't help but give him a watery smile. As she stood, her legs wobbled a little. Tristan frowned and shed his shoes in the entrance. Leaving the bags behind, he came to stand in front of Frances. Three feet away, as had been their custom when his frock still reigned his life.
— "Is there anything wrong, Frances? You look shaken."
The young woman exhaled very slowly, just like he had taught her. As Tristan's hand lifted, then stilled away from her face. Unsecure. So she cupped his fingers with hers and lay her cheek in his palm, closing her eyes in delight. He was here, his skin inviting, his blood pulsating upon his wrist. Tristan stood still, waiting patiently, his breath even, his eyes never leaving her tense features. Eventually, Frances' eyes opened, darkness swirling within the warm chocolate. Fear and sadness mingling.
— "I was afraid you were gone. That you had changed your mind," she whispered.
Her words hit him like a ton of bricks, causing his heart to skip a beat.
— "Oh"
And his arms tugged at her without his mind registering, pulling the young woman in his embrace. Her head fit so nicely against his chest, their height difference allowing him to stack her under his chin. Her heavy sigh betrayed her tension, and he caressed her hair gently, all the while pretty stunned by the wave of belonging that crashed through his body. She fit so well in his arms that he never wanted to let go.
— "Do not fear," he murmured into her ear. "My decision is made, I will be with you as long as you want me."
— "Promise?" came her little voice, muffled against his chest.
His heart broke a little at that. If, during the course of this past month, he had doubted her love for him, the tone of her voice was a strong deterrent. She had suffered from the separation; she suffered still.
— "This is a promise."
At some point, Frances wiggled slightly, bending backwards to catch his eyes without stirring from his embrace.
— "This is stupid. I should be ecstatic to have you, and I am already afraid to lose you. I don't want to be ungrateful, really but…"
Tristan cupped her cheek, his fingers sliding, ever slowly, to her nape in hope of bringing comfort.
— "If this past month had been as difficult for you as it has been for me, it will probably take a little time to mend."
Frances bit her lip, gazing into his eyes. He knew she could read his own pain easily, and for once, he could let it show without fear if being judged. Without having to be strong.
— "I was barely alive," she whispered. "For once, I just couldn't see the future. It couldn't exist without you in it."
— "I felt the same. The path within the church was severed."
And he kicked himself for taking so long to understand it, but there they were. Frances' little fingers grazed his cheek, sliding into his beard. Exploring. And suddenly, Tristan didn't want to wallow into their past misery. Now was the time to swipe it away, and start over. A clean slate.
— "Do you want me to shave?"
Frances froze, her fingers stilling upon his cheek.
— "I … don't know. Do you want to shave?" she asked.
Tristan nodded, confused. How many women had he heard complaining their husbands, about beards and showers and trivial matters. But Frances only wanted to know what HE wanted.
— "I am considering it."
She kissed his bearded cheek then, and his decision was made. He wanted to feel her lips upon his skin.
— "I am grateful for your consideration, Tristan. But your choices are your own, especially when it comes to your appearance. Do as you see fit"
The former priest nodded; he had a new purpose. For fifteen years, he had grown this beard in honour of Jesus Christ. Today, things were about to change. Frances offered to stow away the groceries while he took a shower and shaved. And while she shuffled into the kitchen, Tristan watched, fascinated, the skin of his cheeks appear under the electric device. Trimmed, sure. But entirely shaved? Never. Not once since he bought the razor. His pointed chin stood out a little, his cheekbones even more; the beard was an excellent way to hide the heavy structure. What would Frances think? Tristan shrugged. If she didn't like it, he could always grow the beard again.
He shouldn't have worried, for her look of absolute delight when he emerged from the bathroom told him exactly what she thought. Her hand landed on his freshly shaven cheek; his skin tingled, so much that he closed his eyes to savour the gentle hum his body returned at her touch.
— "You are very handsome, Tristan. I am glad I am allowed to say so, now."
A smile tugged at his lips; he had yet to tell her how beautiful he found her. For now, though, he was rather glad to be up to her standards.
— "So you like it?"
Her eyes were wide, so full of love that his whole body responded cheerfully, blood rushing through his veins.
— "Yes. Seeing your face, in earnest, is a present. Can I …?"
She didn't finish her sentence; there was no need for words and he dipped forward, capturing her lips into a slow kiss. Her hands circled his back, pulling him against her. Tristan's senses went a little haywire, overwhelmed; her scent surrounded him, her arms called him to melt into her, her lips … heavens! They were plump, and warm, and smelt of hot chocolate. She was a delight, a present for him to taste. Her little tongue gently swiped at his upper lip before she released him, causing a shiver to run up his spine. Just a caress; one that promised more tenderness.
Tristan straightened; he didn't know how quite to handle that yet. So she smiled, and turned to her wardrobe.
— "So, while you tackled facial hair, I've sorted out some stuff to make more space for your clothes."
The entire higher level had been cleared out. A token of his place in her life, or perhaps just because of his greater height. But he knew how Frances clung to symbols so … it was probably the former.
— "I don't want to kick you out of your closet, Frances."
The young woman grabbed his hand and slid her fingers between his. Had she not levelled him with a very serious look, he might have lost his train of thoughts altogether. Her touch was so distracting!
— "Tristan. You have no idea how I have wept those past weeks, thinking I would have to go on without you in my life. You have no idea how grateful I am to have you now, there. I would throw away my stuff if it meant I could keep you beside me. So let me make some space for you, and our clothes can share the closet as you share my life."
His mouth opened, then closed. A few times. He couldn't find the words. So, instead, he went to fetch his shirts and pants in the pantry closet and placed them here, beside hers. And within a few minutes, as he contemplated their mutual belonging sitting beside each other, he had to admit that she was right. It felt as if … he belonged by her side.
— "Thank you," he murmured.
— "No. I thank you for that difficult choice. I would have respected it either way, but having you by my side is the present of my life."
A week passed, a neat routine settling. Tristan would, after his morning Tai Chi, prepare breakfast for his sleeping beauty. During the day, he shopped, cooked, and walked. Monday and Wednesday night he taught Tai Chi at the youth house. The rest of the time, he worked on his CV, and applied for random jobs in the city. He was troubled enough that Frances refused he paid the rent; he was damned if he wasn't going to contribute to their life.
Physical contact was scarce, at first. It became more casual, less jarring as time spend. It was sometimes just a hand on his shoulder, of a kiss on his cheek that made his smile. He enjoyed every minute of her touch, every single moment her lips graced his skin. And all his conditioning – physically was a sin – started to ebb away, for he knew that her touch was another aspect of her love. She connected with him on different levels. And God did he enjoy it! There wasn't a day he got bored with their conversation, not a confrontation that could be appeased by goodwill and reassurances. She was just so easy to live with, so thoughtful. Never pushing, never prodding, always willing to give him emotional stability.
Kisses became more casual; he initiated most of them since Frances didn't want to push him. Until he told him she could come to him. This rather unleashed her caressing presence. And this evening, as they lay intertwined upon his bed, watching a movie, he realised that Frances had fallen asleep upon his chest. Her even breaths fanned on his collarbone, her hand circling his waist. At ease, like a little hamster sleeping amongst its peers, her head tucked between chest and shoulder. Tristan was too afraid to move; she had just asked for a cuddle before bed. There they were, together, stuck above the covers.
So, gently, slowly, Tristan reached for the plaid that literally lived on the sofa. The night was warm; she shouldn't be too cold. And, using the only arm he had left, he spread it upon them before switching the TV off. The former priest fell asleep nary ten minutes later, relishing in the warm and comfort the lady brought him.
And when the next morning she stirred, apologising profusely, he kissed her lips gently to silence her. He didn't open the sofa the next evening, choosing, instead, to sit upon her own bed. Frances' eyebrows rose in surprise, then a fond smile quirked her lips up. Opening the covers for him, she let him settle upon the mattress – much softer than the living room's sofa – before she cuddled against him again.
— "Good?" she asked, her voice laced with hope.
— "Good," he replied.
From that day, Tristan never slept in the living room again.
