Il vous aime, c'est secret 1/4
Title: Il vous aime, c'est secret
Authors: dadomz and i_l0ve_my_az
Rating: R
Pairing: Brian Joubert/Stéphane Lambiel
Summary: Futurefic. Two strangers (who aren't really unfamiliar to one another) meet at a café and improbably fall in love.
Warnings: Neither of us speak French and we've never been to France, so please forgive us any errors.
Word Count: 18,400
A/N: We called this the Paris Café Futurefic while we were writing it. No, seriously. Heavily inspired by the narrators from 500 Days of Summer, Amélie and Pushing Daisies, which would explain the trippy 'voice-overs' at the start and end. Just want to add that dadomz convinced me to stop my relentless shipping of Joubert and Buttle by showing me YouTube vids of the Euros 2010 gala practise where Joubert was basically ♥__♥ and followed Lambiel around like a little puppy while Lambiel flirted with everyone but Joubert. Title taken from Quequ'un M'a Dit by Carla Bruni.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
This story, as with many other stories, begins with a boy. Well, if we want to be precise about such matters, we would have to say that this story begins with a man who, as with many other men, retains more than a few boyish qualities.
It is half past six in the morning and the boy - man - is sitting in an alcove drinking a coffee and ignoring a croissant at the only café open at this early hour. To be awake at this particular time of day is not a rare occurrence for this man, whose name is Brian, for he has been a sportsman for most of his life and is very much used to waking up at ungodly hours in order to condition himself.
He has now left his competitive years behind him, though, and taken up the only avenue that had been made available to him after his retirement: acting. Well, not exactly acting per se, for Brian will be the first to admit to a lack of skill in that art form, so we will use that unpalatable term movie star.
After all, Brian is a very handsome young man who has just, half a year ago, turned thirty. So it is not a surprise that his first forays into French cinema have propelled him into instant superstar status, acting ability notwithstanding.
Brian possesses the brooding charisma of a 1950s Hollywood actor and that indelible quality that separates the merely attractive from that which is worthy of awe. This makes him an ideal hero for our story.
This story opens one fine spring morning, not because it is symbolic, which it could be, but because Brian’s work schedule has decided it be so.
Brian is breakfasting alone, something he prefers - both breakfast and the state of being alone - and watching the empty streets outside the café’s window.
The sun is already peering out of the clouds but it has yet to reach its peak this early in the morning. The air is still cool and clean and the world is relatively quiet. It is as if nature has conspired to make a cocoon of privacy for our little story.
Not that there are no other players in our tale. Because while Brian may be the focus of our story, of course the world cannot revolve around Brian alone. There is Elsabeth, the café’s lone waitress (though we cannot know for sure if she is the only waitperson employed by the café or if she is the only one made to work at this time) and Clément, the pastry maker. But they merely play bit parts in our story so we can be forgiven for not introducing them right away.
Brian has only been frequenting the café for three days but this has been enough for him to come to the conclusion that the coffee here is fine and rich and that no one will bother him while he is here. Brian only stays for half an hour and then he will rush back to his hotel where a car will be waiting to take him to the set of his new movie.
It is a very exciting prospect, this new movie of Brian’s. It has made his manager and agent very happy with him. This movie has the potential to propel him to the world stage. Brian remains impassive for this is not his greatest goal. The time for that has come and passed. He is still alive, though, and healthy and he is human, so he will struggle on.
In stories, the hero will often chance upon a person whom, upon first sight, he will realise will become his greatest enemy, his greatest ally or his greatest love. In this case, none of that is true, for when Brian hears the cheerful “Bonjour!” called out to Elsabeth this particular morning, it is not a voice that is unfamiliar to him.
Brian looks up and sees him and is struck dumb.
And of course this would be a love story. This tale is set in the city of love, after all, and we would not have settled for anything less.
The young man at the counter does not see Brian as Brian has chosen a table in a secluded spot - well, as private an area as one can imagine in a well-lit Parisian café - but even if he had seen Brian, it is doubtful that he would wear the same expression seen on Brian’s face at this moment.
And before you come to the conclusion that this story is yet another story about the one who got away, it should be clarified that one cannot lose something that never was in the first place.
So, yes, this could be a story of want and longing if it were set four, maybe even three, years earlier. But it is set in the present, so it is more a tale of growing older and letting go of dreams.
Brian watches the man, in his sweater and scarf, his uncombed hair looking soft and beautiful with the dewy-eyed look of one who has experienced a wonderful night, and has only a vague wish of goodwill for him. That he is happy and content.
Brian waits until the man has left before abandoning his table and saying goodbye to Elsabeth and Clément. He spares a thought to the strange vagaries of fate before dismissing such an odd coincidence to the caprices of chance.
He walks back to his hotel and mentally prepares himself for another long day of work.
*
It is best to mention that this is a cautionary tale.
As is with most cautionary tales, this one strives to be nothing other than what it is. It is resolute in not solely focusing on just one protagonist; rather, it introduces another who is of equal import. For propriety’s sake, we shall call said character Stéphane, a name of Gallic origins referring to crowns and garlands and all things majestic; a perfect albeit ironic namesake for a magical young man who grew up in a prosaic suburban neighbourhood in Martigny, Switzerland.
Now, it is important to note that this is not the first time Stéphane has come to fore within the narrative. He is in fact, the oblivious subject who the initial protagonist, Brian, had observed in the obscure Parisian café. Coincidentally, he is also the very same individual who has crossed paths with Brian, not just once but several times in the past. This gives them a common history of crucial instances.
Today, their paths will cross again.
In this particular moment, it is Stéphane who is sitting in Brian’s usual spot by the café window. He skimming through a dog-eared copy of Jean-Paul Sartre’s Huis Clos while absentmindedly picking out the sliced olives from his pizza and filing them neatly aside on a paper napkin.
Stéphane’s personal assistant, Margaux, believes that such a strange habit is the onset of a psychological disorder. He does not argue. She is not the first to bring this matter up after all; Christophe had made the exact same claim some two decades ago when Stéphane had started to segregate circular shaped ingredients from his dishes at every mealtime without fail.
What is the logic behind it, Carolina had asked politely years ago when he had taken her out to dinner for the fourth time and had been caught unconsciously separating his peas from a mound of buttered vegetables on his plate. Stéphane is unable to explain; Carolina concluded that this habit was to be inexplicable to her as it is a by-product of their cultural differences.
In all actuality however, Stéphane cannot find the words to explain. It is a given that the habit is ridiculous and, at the same time, unfathomable. It is nothing, it does not matter, because he can go on and on and on about circles being a symbol of eternity and the act of leaving them behind being a testament to his existence; absconding essences of himself for the world to have and whatnot. But, underneath all the layers of philosophies and verbose descriptions, one principle is certain: he does it simply because he can.
Stéphane knows he’s a little bit eccentric and a little bit touched in the head but he gets by somehow. It is what makes him special and sought after in the industry; loved and praised, and that is what matters ultimately.
“It seems to me that you have not turned a page over the past hour or so.” Stéphane is jolted back to reality by the light teasing lilt of Margaux’s voice.
He does not look up.
It is pointless to disagree anyway. It is true, he is unable to concentrate and the words appear collectively as a hodgepodge of incomprehensible Latin alphabet. It isn’t to say that the book is boring-Sartre is ridiculously profound and relevant and will thereby never be boring.
It’s probably just one of those days where things barely register because one is so cooped up in their own thoughts. He’s been pretty busy lately and his mind’s abuzz. This is not entirely his fault.
Margaux takes the dainty cup from the saucer laid out in front of him and douses the entire thing with honey and milk. Just as she always does and just the way he likes it, she thinks. Stéphane does not care much for the blend; if he had it his way, he would rather ask Elsabeth for another cup. He does not though; he drinks it with nary a murmur or complaint.
He says nothing.
He says nothing about Margaux’s lack of precision and bland sense of taste.
He does this because Margaux is nice and loyal and doting and people like her don’t come by too often. No, not in the harrowing industry he’s in. So Stéphane lets Margaux do whatever it is Margaux wants to do; he lets her talk to him as if he is listening, as if he understands. He indulges her because it is simpler that way.
“Drink up,” Margaux prompts as she readies an array of rainbow-coloured vitamins on his plate. Stéphane resists the urge to make a face. “The streets are starting to fill with people. We’ll have to leave soon.”
Stéphane tilts his head to the side and sees a busy camera crew setting up in the middle of the street. It is an unusual sight; Montmartre does not get that much high production visits after all. Not in such a tiny alley, at least.
“They are filming the next Bond sequel,” Margaux supplies helpfully. “That is Daniel Craig there, do you see?”
Stéphane pulls himself upright hastily to catch a glimpse of the actor. Yes, he is an insufferable spoiled child, France has established that already but times like this remind him that he is just like everybody else: excitable, curious, and nosey. To an extent, it makes him feel important, that unexplainable sense of pride knowing that he is in the midst of something monumental.
Also, it makes for great material. Tomorrow, he is going to recount the story to the audience of his morning show.
“I do not see him,” Stéphane sighs, climbing atop his wooden chair for better vantage.
He surveys the scene. There is a sleek, black Aston Martin on the shoulder of the road with a pretty Hollywood starlet perched on top of it. Unfortunately, Stéphane is unable to recall her name.
Stéphane, however, recognizes the man in the driver’s seat almost instantly but not quite. He knows that face, has seen it multiple times before. It obviously does not belong to Daniel Craig as it is far too dashing and handsome. So very handsome.
And then everything clicks and he figures it out.
The impact of the realization, coupled with Margaux tugging at his coat, nearly sends him toppling over. Thankfully, Margaux has half the mind to hold on to his waist securely as if she had already anticipated his literal misstep.
Margaux helps him down. “Ricardo texted; Sophie Marceau is already in hair and makeup. We have to go.”
“Now?”
Margaux rolls her eyes. “Yes, Stéphane, now.”
It is a given that Stéphane lives in a pretty cloistered environment where every single element is subject to his control; things that are out of the ordinary are mostly unexpected.
Today, however, their paths have indeed crossed and for the first time, Stéphane is knocked off his pedestal.
To stabilize himself, he holds on to the nearest thing-the wooden rack by the door filled to the brim with an assortment of magazines stacked on top of each other. Something catches Stéphane’s eye: the wayward edge of a worn-out back issue of a Condé Nast Traveller that is sticking out slightly.
Stéphane removes it from the heap and inspects it. He is almost surprised to find his own face staring back at him. It is an old July 2012 issue-the cover photo shot by the Skip Bolen while he frolicked in a bucolic English cornfield projecting some 1920s Parisian flower child.
Beautiful.
Stéphane has a copy of it framed in his room. He thinks it would do well for the whole world to see it so he situates the magazine at the topmost.
He smiles. At least some things are still in place.
*
To most people, a day can be classified into a good one, a bad one or a plain one immediately after they wake in the morning. It’s a phenomenon that can probably be explained through science or psychology or whatnot but these things are of no interest in this story. What is meant to be presented are the emotions of its protagonists, sometimes with the complimentary reasoning behind such emotions but, more often than not, just showing them plainly. Human emotions are tricky things; usually there isn’t just one explanation for a certain elicited feeling.
But we digress.
What is meant to be implied by the abovementioned is that Brian has never been one of those people who, upon waking, can immediately determine the overarching tone of their day. See, when Brian was growing up, he would wake as early as possible, eat a light well-balanced meal, then be driven (and, when he was older, drive himself) to the rink where the course of his day was determined by the strange premonition he felt upon first stepping onto the ice.
It is a strange thing but there are far stranger things in life. See, while Brian may not be a superstitious person by nature, his love of figure skating has inculcated certain beliefs in him, the origins of which remain unclear. He wears a few charms on a golden chain around his neck for luck and protection (though he does not remember what compelled him to do this or when he even started doing this), he used to kiss the ice after every good performance (though what that accomplishes or intends he is not certain) and he keeps the tokens given to him by fans close because he believes that their goodwill will spill over into his life and sport (though he does not know why he believes that).
These caprices, which may even be called vanities, have spilled into his life even after his skating years are behind him. Brian prefers to call them habits, though.
So, even when he is supposed to leave for Rouen for a four-day shoot, he asks his driver to stop by the café before they leave so he may purchase a cup of coffee to go.
It is understandable since Brian has lost what was once a constant barometer in his life that he should like to find something else to replace it with.
And it is on that fateful morning that our two heroes meet for the first time when Brian turns to leave and bumps into Stéphane, spilling coffee over both of them. Very theatrical and contrived as in a Hollywood romance but sometimes accidents do happen and they sometimes look practised and rehearsed when, really, it is only misfortune at work.
That is not to say that this meeting is an unhappy one. Neither is it cause for joy. It is what it is.
But wait, you say, were we not told that Brian had known Stéphane from his past? How can this be called their first encounter?
Well, never was it said that this was their first encounter with one another but that it is the first time they have met. A fickle play on words, true, and an apology must be extended.
Brian and Stéphane have of course competed against one another, spoken civilly to one another and have worked with each other in the past. They’d been barely out of adolescence when their names had been made familiar to one another but never have they once been introduced. Not in this particular manner, at least--one that is set with limitless possibilities.
It had been taken as fact that they would know each other instead of just merely knowing of one another. Their first encounter had been at the European Championships before their first Olympics where they’d been thrust together and questioned about being two of the youngest Olympians in competition. They’d spoken to the press and, at the end of that interview, had merely nodded acknowledgment at one another.
Their succeeding encounters would follow the same pattern.
This story is really about the meeting of two people and the subsequent relationship that blooms between them. If you have been led to think otherwise, then please accept another apology.
Brian will come to remember the day he met Stéphane as a good day if only because it eliminates the possibilities of more awkward first meetings like, say, if Stéphane had noticed Brian’s awareness of his presence and then they would have had to pretend a prior camaraderie that is absent in their relationship.
Now that would have been a disaster.
Brian is a very truthful person. He is also quite cripplingly shy, though he hides it well. These attributes are not at all conducive to meeting new people or making friends.
Brian and Stéphane are too busy apologising and being aghast, respectively, to immediately notice each other at first but when they do, what occurs is not the electric locking of eyes, the instantaneous feeling of things clicking in place nor is it a moment where an epiphany is conceived.
None of that. Just the spark of recognition in both their eyes and a sudden debilitating feeling of not knowing how to react.
In this span of mere nanoseconds, it should be noted that Brian has managed to burn into his memory the image of Stéphane as he is in this instant: thin but healthy, wearing sweatpants, a button-down shirt and a scarf, hair looking either windswept or like a lover’s hands had run through it, eyes dark but soft and skin glowing with what could only be satisfaction.
Stéphane recovers first.
“Hello,” he says, tone a tad curious but over-all not very shocked at all.
Brian, not imaginative in the least, replies with the same. “Hello.”
Of course while time seems to have stopped and stretched for Brian and Stéphane (as these things do on occasion), the rest of the world has kept pace with itself so it is only expected that Elsabeth has rushed to their side with a rag for the spilled coffee and a clean towel for Stéphane.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Brian apologises yet again, spurred at the sight of Stéphane trying and failing to salvage his shirt.
Stéphane shrugs, smiling. “It is nothing; don’t worry about it.”
“I’m still sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“Nothing that soap and water cannot handle.”
Brian can find nothing to say to this and looks down at where Elsabeth is busy mopping up the spilled coffee. “Do you need help, Elsabeth?”
“No,” she answers, smiling up at him. “Just a bit of spilled coffee. It happens much too often to be the cause of any worry.” She returns to her task and Brian, finding no other cause for distraction, turns his gaze back to Stéphane.
Stéphane is wearing that look that Brian is all too familiar with. It is a look that is equal parts amusement, curiosity and disinterest which Stéphane has perfected through the years so that the overall product is one of regal detachment.
Brian is yet again at a loss for words - a not at all atypical occurrence for he is not an overly verbose man - so he is thankful for the interruption of this awkward encounter. His driver, Gerard, is rapping on the café’s glass storefront, gesturing at his watch and making faces which one supposes means that they are pressed for time.
And while we may find this interruption vexing to the flow of our story, Brian is quite relieved that he will have to delay his interaction with Stéphane for a bit longer. Brian hopes that he may avoid it altogether but we know that this wish is impossible. This is a love story after all.
Brian offers up another round of apologies which are waved away as he walks toward his waiting car.
His last view as he is driven away is of Stéphane, towel in one hand, head tilted to the side with that same unreadable expression on face.
*
Brian does not return to the café until one afternoon five days after he has left. In that lengthy period filled with memorising lines, performing most of his own stunts and the endless waiting which is a constant on all movie sets, he takes his meals with his colleague Clémence.
Oh! Please don’t be worried. This isn’t going to devolve into a sordid love triangle or a ménage a trios. A man and a woman can just be friends without any sort of romantic or sexual entanglements, no matter what American films may lead you to believe.
Physically, Clémence personifies every French woman cliché. She is tall, thin, with that perfectly imperfect beauty and perpetually dishevelled hair when it is not being subjected to the ministrations of the hair technicians on set. She is an odd duck, though, and possesses a tricky sort of humour that appeals to Brian.
Their camaraderie stemmed from the realisation that they were both from small French towns and has since built from there. Clémence is more educated but Brian is better-travelled. She teases him about his lack of proficiency at English (he is the bane of the on-set language coaches) while he makes fun of her startling lack of accent (which she has had to fake for this production and claims to have fashioned after his own).
Noon on their third day in Rouen finds them drinking coffee in the shade of Clémence’s trailer, waiting for the production crew to finish setting up their next scene. Brian is paging idly through his script, mouthing out the difficult words when Clémence makes a noise of disgust.
He looks up in time to see her make a face as she removes the lid of her cup and smells its contents. “All of France and still they manage to provide us with swill from Starbucks,” she shudders, tossing her head in a manner that, to Brian, is all too familiar.
“If you don’t like it, then you don’t have to drink it,” Brian shrugs, writing a note on the margin of a particular page.
Clémence idly kicks his foot. “The gentlemanly thing to do would be to offer to purchase coffee for me.”
Brian raises both brows. “You expect me to go into town, dressed like this, and find a café that sells coffee that suits your palate?”
“No,” she replies, imperiously tilting her chin up. “But an offer would have been nice.”
He laughs, shaking his head at her antics. If he had not been privy to her humour, he might have been offended. He downs the rest of his coffee, which is much too sweet and weak for his taste but beggars can’t be choosers after all.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she says, drawing out a cheap airport paperback from her purse, “that café Gerard says you visit every morning. Is the coffee there any good?”
Brian shrugs. “It’s decent enough. I like the quiet.”
She hums thoughtfully. “I guess I won’t be joining you then.”
It is a rare thing to meet someone who respects boundaries and conventions. Too often will people want to impose their own customs on each other. Brian and Clémence have managed to get along because they believe in letting people be.
And if her non-invasiveness works towards preserving Brian’s little bubble of privacy then all the better.
*
Statistically, two out of three people believe in the importance of romantic involvement.
Stéphane is not one of the two.
It is not to say that he is pessimistic because Stéphane believes in romance, believes in it so hard and dreams of it all the time. He breathes it, lives it, and loves it- a connection so deep that he feels it is something that is imbedded deep within his soul.
Stéphane believes in romance but not the involvement. Romance is bliss but relationships are too time-consuming and complicated.
Stéphane’s fallen in love thrice: firstly, to another Swiss man he’s known since he was young; next, to an Italian woman during his late teens (a highly publicized stint that has led him to dismiss relationships in general), and finally, to an American man whom he had met briefly at a classy Manhattan club.
Stéphane has also mistaken love for quite a number of other things (like falling in love with the idea of being in love).
It is not something plans, falling in love. It is something that sort of just happens. Love is plenty strange, a lot of people can attest to that, and Stéphane is the type to not question the way of the world. He takes things in strides and deals - that is how he is.
When pressed however, Stéphane will admit to still loving all three. It is hard not to, especially when they’ve all become crucial components of his life. He finds that when you love someone, you don’t just stop loving them. It is something that cannot be diminished, something that never disappears. Over time, one learns to let go and live but love will remain, even when the heart expands to accommodate other people.
And because of this, it is painful for Stéphane to wholly ignore this man’s not-so-blatant declaration of love.
Among other things, it is perfect and beautiful; Stéphane could weep. Duck foie gras at a quaint French bistro and a half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir. Sitting right across the person he’s loved the longest, the deepest, and Stéphane feels that he can die right there and then, happy, maybe.
Yet somehow, something is missing. So he does not respond. He pretends that the Édith Piaf song in the background is glorious enough to drown out the man’s soft ode.
Well, almost.
There is an unarguable sense of finality in the statement that Stéphane cannot disregard. He is at a loss for words; he does not know if it is his place to whisper reassurances. He has always been bad at comforting people. So he sits there awkwardly and aloofly, looking at Roger’s thumb tracing invisible, indiscernible patters on his left palm.
Stéphane knows he is a little bit too emotionally transparent-it’s been his waterloo for quite some time. But no one can fault him, there are far too many unsaid words; things that Stéphane does not want to hear. I’ve divorced Mirka. I’ve divorced my wife. It was a marriage founded by lies. Every time I looked at her, I thought of you and what could have been. I am taking a chance now. I want to be with you. I want us to be together. Let’s go home. Let’s leave this place.
The illusory sound is deafening.
Stéphane does not trust himself to say anything but somehow his trembling hands speak for him. He shies away from Roger and looks at an old couple in the far corner; lucky them, he thinks.
It is a big decision, one that Stéphane is not inclined to make.
And Stéphane almost cries because he’s confused and weary and he no longer understands himself. Roger is nothing special yet he makes Stéphane feel all sorts of things. Roger, Roger, Roger-Roger with his disproportionate nose, his awkward chin, his large forehead, and his unruly eyebrows. Nothing special at all save for Roger’s stupid, adorable grin, and maybe, well, his stupid, adorable self.
Stéphane cares not for the numerous Grand Slam titles he holds, Roger’s bank account or the Rolex watch he is wearing. Sometimes, Stéphane thinks, Roger has no redeeming qualities but that does not stop him from attending each and every one of Roger’s games until the man’s retirement. It also does not stop Stéphane from falling into bed with him.
It should be perfect but it isn’t. He is unable to say “yes.”
Stéphane has a hard time breathing so he pushes his chair back, wincing at the sound of wood scraping against the marbled floor. He tells Roger impassively, “Sorry I need to use the lavatory” or “Sorry, I need to get some fresh air”-he is unsure as to which exactly.
In the end, he finds himself standing right in front of Luc, the restaurant’s saucier. The man shoots him a look of pure pity. “Another date gone awry, my prince?”
Prince - this is the moniker half of France has gifted him with. It does not sound comforting today though, just hollow and mocking.
Stéphane does not have the courage to answer. It is pretty much a giveaway; Stéphane would never resort to using the backdoor if he had not wanted to escape.
Luc’s face softens somewhat. Stéphane’s heart sinks a little-it must be a whole new type of low if other people are starting to notice how miserable you truly are. The funny thing is that it has been the same tone and the same expression Luc has been giving him over the three years they’ve known each other.
This is the first time Stéphane understands.
He allows Luc to usher him out to the back alley. In his haste, he forgets to thank him. He realizes this only when he’s boarded the cab he’s hailed from two blocks away. He thinks, tomorrow, he is going to send Luc a box of sweets and maybe a written promise of avoiding a repeat performance in the future.
The phone in his coat pocket vibrates.
You forgot your scarf, Cinderella.
It takes a while for Stéphane to understand. When he does, he laughs. He laughs until he is blinking back tears. There is not a doubt that Roger’s already forgiven him, forgiven him like he always does because Stéphane makes for an incongruous non-relationship. Roger has forgiven him but Stéphane’s not sure if he will ever be able to forgive himself.
A few moments later, Stéphane is holding a cup of black coffee. It is night time and all the seats are occupied. He considers asking Elsabeth if he can sit next to her behind the counter, just so he can recover in peace and maybe mope a bit but thankfully there is an empty seat by his favourite corner, across a man whose countenance is obscured by the national broadsheet he is reading.
Perhaps the man won’t object too much if Stéphane sits with him?
The man on the table puts his newspaper down and blinks at him. It is then revealed that, lo and behold, the man is none other than Brian. In hindsight, Stéphane thinks, Brian’s always had wonderful timing. Much like the time he poured coffee all over Stéphane’s shirt.
It is a small matter; Stéphane is not one to hold grudges.
Brian continues to look on intensely. It makes Stéphane feel a little bit awkward. He cannot blame Brian though; they’ve never really conversed in all the twenty years they’ve known one another. Not properly at least. Yes, there were a few shared words and thoughts between them during ice shows, galas, and post-competition runabouts but it was mostly forced camaraderie.
Forced because Stéphane’s never cared much for Brian’s company. Back then, he had never thought that Brian was someone he wanted to be friends with. Brian was, after all, the bane of European figure skating: hot headed, ill-tempered, insensitive, and brusque. Yet so very handsome and that made things worse.
But that was back then, in the past. Presently, Stéphane does not care. In fact, he’s long stopped caring. He’s learned to let go. Let bygones be bygones, everything is different now. It is a whole new playing field. They are older, wiser, and probably more mature. If Stéphane is able to put behind Brian’s obtuse comments from a few years ago then maybe Brian will be nice enough to let him share his table.
Stéphane yields and offers a hesitant: “Would it be permissible for me to sit with you?”
It takes Brian a while to agree. Not out of hostility, he presumes, but curiosity. The tension escalates when Stéphane finds an incriminating snapshot of him picking Roger up from the airport in the sports section of the newspaper Brian is currently reading.
Stéphane is thankful that Brian does not ask questions. An innocent romp with your fellow countryman who is also conveniently a retired athlete should not at all merit suspicion.
The silence is a little bit too offsetting so he asks Brian what it is that he’s doing now. It is not that Stéphane does not know; it is also not that Stéphane wants to know, he already does. It just seems like the polite thing for him to do.
Brian does not point this out. With a renewed sense of tactfulness, he answers with a modest, “I do little things here and there.”
Which is a lie, Stéphane knows, and because Stéphane is unable to stop himself, he says: “You are too humble, my friend. Certainly, a Hollywood blockbuster is anything but little.”
For a moment, Stéphane thinks he’s overstepped his boundaries. Stéphane is not usually the impulsive type (which is a complete lie because every fibre of his being lusts to answer his own impulse’s beck and call). It is a comment friends make. He and Brian are not friends.
Not yet, at least.
Brian seems unperturbed.
He says the least likely thing Stéphane would have ever imagined him saying. “This, from a man hosts a nationally-syndicated morning talk show.”
It is at this moment that Stéphane realizes that yes, they’ve both heard of each other, and yes, the world is a little bit funny. Stéphane knows he should not think much of it; they work in a relatively similar industry anyway. He is also a little bit embarrassed. It is not a very good conversation starter, explaining why you decided to call your show Bonjour, Coccinelle.
So he tries to be casual. “Oh, so you have seen one of my shows?”
“Just sometimes, when I am awake,” Brian smiles. “Your ladybug impersonation is quite fetching.”
Stéphane laughs. It is comfortable and nice. Maybe there’s something to look forward to after all.
*
Part Two
Authors: dadomz and i_l0ve_my_az
Rating: R
Pairing: Brian Joubert/Stéphane Lambiel
Summary: Futurefic. Two strangers (who aren't really unfamiliar to one another) meet at a café and improbably fall in love.
Warnings: Neither of us speak French and we've never been to France, so please forgive us any errors.
Word Count: 18,400
A/N: We called this the Paris Café Futurefic while we were writing it. No, seriously. Heavily inspired by the narrators from 500 Days of Summer, Amélie and Pushing Daisies, which would explain the trippy 'voice-overs' at the start and end. Just want to add that dadomz convinced me to stop my relentless shipping of Joubert and Buttle by showing me YouTube vids of the Euros 2010 gala practise where Joubert was basically ♥__♥ and followed Lambiel around like a little puppy while Lambiel flirted with everyone but Joubert. Title taken from Quequ'un M'a Dit by Carla Bruni.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
This story, as with many other stories, begins with a boy. Well, if we want to be precise about such matters, we would have to say that this story begins with a man who, as with many other men, retains more than a few boyish qualities.
It is half past six in the morning and the boy - man - is sitting in an alcove drinking a coffee and ignoring a croissant at the only café open at this early hour. To be awake at this particular time of day is not a rare occurrence for this man, whose name is Brian, for he has been a sportsman for most of his life and is very much used to waking up at ungodly hours in order to condition himself.
He has now left his competitive years behind him, though, and taken up the only avenue that had been made available to him after his retirement: acting. Well, not exactly acting per se, for Brian will be the first to admit to a lack of skill in that art form, so we will use that unpalatable term movie star.
After all, Brian is a very handsome young man who has just, half a year ago, turned thirty. So it is not a surprise that his first forays into French cinema have propelled him into instant superstar status, acting ability notwithstanding.
Brian possesses the brooding charisma of a 1950s Hollywood actor and that indelible quality that separates the merely attractive from that which is worthy of awe. This makes him an ideal hero for our story.
This story opens one fine spring morning, not because it is symbolic, which it could be, but because Brian’s work schedule has decided it be so.
Brian is breakfasting alone, something he prefers - both breakfast and the state of being alone - and watching the empty streets outside the café’s window.
The sun is already peering out of the clouds but it has yet to reach its peak this early in the morning. The air is still cool and clean and the world is relatively quiet. It is as if nature has conspired to make a cocoon of privacy for our little story.
Not that there are no other players in our tale. Because while Brian may be the focus of our story, of course the world cannot revolve around Brian alone. There is Elsabeth, the café’s lone waitress (though we cannot know for sure if she is the only waitperson employed by the café or if she is the only one made to work at this time) and Clément, the pastry maker. But they merely play bit parts in our story so we can be forgiven for not introducing them right away.
Brian has only been frequenting the café for three days but this has been enough for him to come to the conclusion that the coffee here is fine and rich and that no one will bother him while he is here. Brian only stays for half an hour and then he will rush back to his hotel where a car will be waiting to take him to the set of his new movie.
It is a very exciting prospect, this new movie of Brian’s. It has made his manager and agent very happy with him. This movie has the potential to propel him to the world stage. Brian remains impassive for this is not his greatest goal. The time for that has come and passed. He is still alive, though, and healthy and he is human, so he will struggle on.
In stories, the hero will often chance upon a person whom, upon first sight, he will realise will become his greatest enemy, his greatest ally or his greatest love. In this case, none of that is true, for when Brian hears the cheerful “Bonjour!” called out to Elsabeth this particular morning, it is not a voice that is unfamiliar to him.
Brian looks up and sees him and is struck dumb.
And of course this would be a love story. This tale is set in the city of love, after all, and we would not have settled for anything less.
The young man at the counter does not see Brian as Brian has chosen a table in a secluded spot - well, as private an area as one can imagine in a well-lit Parisian café - but even if he had seen Brian, it is doubtful that he would wear the same expression seen on Brian’s face at this moment.
And before you come to the conclusion that this story is yet another story about the one who got away, it should be clarified that one cannot lose something that never was in the first place.
So, yes, this could be a story of want and longing if it were set four, maybe even three, years earlier. But it is set in the present, so it is more a tale of growing older and letting go of dreams.
Brian watches the man, in his sweater and scarf, his uncombed hair looking soft and beautiful with the dewy-eyed look of one who has experienced a wonderful night, and has only a vague wish of goodwill for him. That he is happy and content.
Brian waits until the man has left before abandoning his table and saying goodbye to Elsabeth and Clément. He spares a thought to the strange vagaries of fate before dismissing such an odd coincidence to the caprices of chance.
He walks back to his hotel and mentally prepares himself for another long day of work.
*
It is best to mention that this is a cautionary tale.
As is with most cautionary tales, this one strives to be nothing other than what it is. It is resolute in not solely focusing on just one protagonist; rather, it introduces another who is of equal import. For propriety’s sake, we shall call said character Stéphane, a name of Gallic origins referring to crowns and garlands and all things majestic; a perfect albeit ironic namesake for a magical young man who grew up in a prosaic suburban neighbourhood in Martigny, Switzerland.
Now, it is important to note that this is not the first time Stéphane has come to fore within the narrative. He is in fact, the oblivious subject who the initial protagonist, Brian, had observed in the obscure Parisian café. Coincidentally, he is also the very same individual who has crossed paths with Brian, not just once but several times in the past. This gives them a common history of crucial instances.
Today, their paths will cross again.
In this particular moment, it is Stéphane who is sitting in Brian’s usual spot by the café window. He skimming through a dog-eared copy of Jean-Paul Sartre’s Huis Clos while absentmindedly picking out the sliced olives from his pizza and filing them neatly aside on a paper napkin.
Stéphane’s personal assistant, Margaux, believes that such a strange habit is the onset of a psychological disorder. He does not argue. She is not the first to bring this matter up after all; Christophe had made the exact same claim some two decades ago when Stéphane had started to segregate circular shaped ingredients from his dishes at every mealtime without fail.
What is the logic behind it, Carolina had asked politely years ago when he had taken her out to dinner for the fourth time and had been caught unconsciously separating his peas from a mound of buttered vegetables on his plate. Stéphane is unable to explain; Carolina concluded that this habit was to be inexplicable to her as it is a by-product of their cultural differences.
In all actuality however, Stéphane cannot find the words to explain. It is a given that the habit is ridiculous and, at the same time, unfathomable. It is nothing, it does not matter, because he can go on and on and on about circles being a symbol of eternity and the act of leaving them behind being a testament to his existence; absconding essences of himself for the world to have and whatnot. But, underneath all the layers of philosophies and verbose descriptions, one principle is certain: he does it simply because he can.
Stéphane knows he’s a little bit eccentric and a little bit touched in the head but he gets by somehow. It is what makes him special and sought after in the industry; loved and praised, and that is what matters ultimately.
“It seems to me that you have not turned a page over the past hour or so.” Stéphane is jolted back to reality by the light teasing lilt of Margaux’s voice.
He does not look up.
It is pointless to disagree anyway. It is true, he is unable to concentrate and the words appear collectively as a hodgepodge of incomprehensible Latin alphabet. It isn’t to say that the book is boring-Sartre is ridiculously profound and relevant and will thereby never be boring.
It’s probably just one of those days where things barely register because one is so cooped up in their own thoughts. He’s been pretty busy lately and his mind’s abuzz. This is not entirely his fault.
Margaux takes the dainty cup from the saucer laid out in front of him and douses the entire thing with honey and milk. Just as she always does and just the way he likes it, she thinks. Stéphane does not care much for the blend; if he had it his way, he would rather ask Elsabeth for another cup. He does not though; he drinks it with nary a murmur or complaint.
He says nothing.
He says nothing about Margaux’s lack of precision and bland sense of taste.
He does this because Margaux is nice and loyal and doting and people like her don’t come by too often. No, not in the harrowing industry he’s in. So Stéphane lets Margaux do whatever it is Margaux wants to do; he lets her talk to him as if he is listening, as if he understands. He indulges her because it is simpler that way.
“Drink up,” Margaux prompts as she readies an array of rainbow-coloured vitamins on his plate. Stéphane resists the urge to make a face. “The streets are starting to fill with people. We’ll have to leave soon.”
Stéphane tilts his head to the side and sees a busy camera crew setting up in the middle of the street. It is an unusual sight; Montmartre does not get that much high production visits after all. Not in such a tiny alley, at least.
“They are filming the next Bond sequel,” Margaux supplies helpfully. “That is Daniel Craig there, do you see?”
Stéphane pulls himself upright hastily to catch a glimpse of the actor. Yes, he is an insufferable spoiled child, France has established that already but times like this remind him that he is just like everybody else: excitable, curious, and nosey. To an extent, it makes him feel important, that unexplainable sense of pride knowing that he is in the midst of something monumental.
Also, it makes for great material. Tomorrow, he is going to recount the story to the audience of his morning show.
“I do not see him,” Stéphane sighs, climbing atop his wooden chair for better vantage.
He surveys the scene. There is a sleek, black Aston Martin on the shoulder of the road with a pretty Hollywood starlet perched on top of it. Unfortunately, Stéphane is unable to recall her name.
Stéphane, however, recognizes the man in the driver’s seat almost instantly but not quite. He knows that face, has seen it multiple times before. It obviously does not belong to Daniel Craig as it is far too dashing and handsome. So very handsome.
And then everything clicks and he figures it out.
The impact of the realization, coupled with Margaux tugging at his coat, nearly sends him toppling over. Thankfully, Margaux has half the mind to hold on to his waist securely as if she had already anticipated his literal misstep.
Margaux helps him down. “Ricardo texted; Sophie Marceau is already in hair and makeup. We have to go.”
“Now?”
Margaux rolls her eyes. “Yes, Stéphane, now.”
It is a given that Stéphane lives in a pretty cloistered environment where every single element is subject to his control; things that are out of the ordinary are mostly unexpected.
Today, however, their paths have indeed crossed and for the first time, Stéphane is knocked off his pedestal.
To stabilize himself, he holds on to the nearest thing-the wooden rack by the door filled to the brim with an assortment of magazines stacked on top of each other. Something catches Stéphane’s eye: the wayward edge of a worn-out back issue of a Condé Nast Traveller that is sticking out slightly.
Stéphane removes it from the heap and inspects it. He is almost surprised to find his own face staring back at him. It is an old July 2012 issue-the cover photo shot by the Skip Bolen while he frolicked in a bucolic English cornfield projecting some 1920s Parisian flower child.
Beautiful.
Stéphane has a copy of it framed in his room. He thinks it would do well for the whole world to see it so he situates the magazine at the topmost.
He smiles. At least some things are still in place.
*
To most people, a day can be classified into a good one, a bad one or a plain one immediately after they wake in the morning. It’s a phenomenon that can probably be explained through science or psychology or whatnot but these things are of no interest in this story. What is meant to be presented are the emotions of its protagonists, sometimes with the complimentary reasoning behind such emotions but, more often than not, just showing them plainly. Human emotions are tricky things; usually there isn’t just one explanation for a certain elicited feeling.
But we digress.
What is meant to be implied by the abovementioned is that Brian has never been one of those people who, upon waking, can immediately determine the overarching tone of their day. See, when Brian was growing up, he would wake as early as possible, eat a light well-balanced meal, then be driven (and, when he was older, drive himself) to the rink where the course of his day was determined by the strange premonition he felt upon first stepping onto the ice.
It is a strange thing but there are far stranger things in life. See, while Brian may not be a superstitious person by nature, his love of figure skating has inculcated certain beliefs in him, the origins of which remain unclear. He wears a few charms on a golden chain around his neck for luck and protection (though he does not remember what compelled him to do this or when he even started doing this), he used to kiss the ice after every good performance (though what that accomplishes or intends he is not certain) and he keeps the tokens given to him by fans close because he believes that their goodwill will spill over into his life and sport (though he does not know why he believes that).
These caprices, which may even be called vanities, have spilled into his life even after his skating years are behind him. Brian prefers to call them habits, though.
So, even when he is supposed to leave for Rouen for a four-day shoot, he asks his driver to stop by the café before they leave so he may purchase a cup of coffee to go.
It is understandable since Brian has lost what was once a constant barometer in his life that he should like to find something else to replace it with.
And it is on that fateful morning that our two heroes meet for the first time when Brian turns to leave and bumps into Stéphane, spilling coffee over both of them. Very theatrical and contrived as in a Hollywood romance but sometimes accidents do happen and they sometimes look practised and rehearsed when, really, it is only misfortune at work.
That is not to say that this meeting is an unhappy one. Neither is it cause for joy. It is what it is.
But wait, you say, were we not told that Brian had known Stéphane from his past? How can this be called their first encounter?
Well, never was it said that this was their first encounter with one another but that it is the first time they have met. A fickle play on words, true, and an apology must be extended.
Brian and Stéphane have of course competed against one another, spoken civilly to one another and have worked with each other in the past. They’d been barely out of adolescence when their names had been made familiar to one another but never have they once been introduced. Not in this particular manner, at least--one that is set with limitless possibilities.
It had been taken as fact that they would know each other instead of just merely knowing of one another. Their first encounter had been at the European Championships before their first Olympics where they’d been thrust together and questioned about being two of the youngest Olympians in competition. They’d spoken to the press and, at the end of that interview, had merely nodded acknowledgment at one another.
Their succeeding encounters would follow the same pattern.
This story is really about the meeting of two people and the subsequent relationship that blooms between them. If you have been led to think otherwise, then please accept another apology.
Brian will come to remember the day he met Stéphane as a good day if only because it eliminates the possibilities of more awkward first meetings like, say, if Stéphane had noticed Brian’s awareness of his presence and then they would have had to pretend a prior camaraderie that is absent in their relationship.
Now that would have been a disaster.
Brian is a very truthful person. He is also quite cripplingly shy, though he hides it well. These attributes are not at all conducive to meeting new people or making friends.
Brian and Stéphane are too busy apologising and being aghast, respectively, to immediately notice each other at first but when they do, what occurs is not the electric locking of eyes, the instantaneous feeling of things clicking in place nor is it a moment where an epiphany is conceived.
None of that. Just the spark of recognition in both their eyes and a sudden debilitating feeling of not knowing how to react.
In this span of mere nanoseconds, it should be noted that Brian has managed to burn into his memory the image of Stéphane as he is in this instant: thin but healthy, wearing sweatpants, a button-down shirt and a scarf, hair looking either windswept or like a lover’s hands had run through it, eyes dark but soft and skin glowing with what could only be satisfaction.
Stéphane recovers first.
“Hello,” he says, tone a tad curious but over-all not very shocked at all.
Brian, not imaginative in the least, replies with the same. “Hello.”
Of course while time seems to have stopped and stretched for Brian and Stéphane (as these things do on occasion), the rest of the world has kept pace with itself so it is only expected that Elsabeth has rushed to their side with a rag for the spilled coffee and a clean towel for Stéphane.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Brian apologises yet again, spurred at the sight of Stéphane trying and failing to salvage his shirt.
Stéphane shrugs, smiling. “It is nothing; don’t worry about it.”
“I’m still sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“Nothing that soap and water cannot handle.”
Brian can find nothing to say to this and looks down at where Elsabeth is busy mopping up the spilled coffee. “Do you need help, Elsabeth?”
“No,” she answers, smiling up at him. “Just a bit of spilled coffee. It happens much too often to be the cause of any worry.” She returns to her task and Brian, finding no other cause for distraction, turns his gaze back to Stéphane.
Stéphane is wearing that look that Brian is all too familiar with. It is a look that is equal parts amusement, curiosity and disinterest which Stéphane has perfected through the years so that the overall product is one of regal detachment.
Brian is yet again at a loss for words - a not at all atypical occurrence for he is not an overly verbose man - so he is thankful for the interruption of this awkward encounter. His driver, Gerard, is rapping on the café’s glass storefront, gesturing at his watch and making faces which one supposes means that they are pressed for time.
And while we may find this interruption vexing to the flow of our story, Brian is quite relieved that he will have to delay his interaction with Stéphane for a bit longer. Brian hopes that he may avoid it altogether but we know that this wish is impossible. This is a love story after all.
Brian offers up another round of apologies which are waved away as he walks toward his waiting car.
His last view as he is driven away is of Stéphane, towel in one hand, head tilted to the side with that same unreadable expression on face.
*
Brian does not return to the café until one afternoon five days after he has left. In that lengthy period filled with memorising lines, performing most of his own stunts and the endless waiting which is a constant on all movie sets, he takes his meals with his colleague Clémence.
Oh! Please don’t be worried. This isn’t going to devolve into a sordid love triangle or a ménage a trios. A man and a woman can just be friends without any sort of romantic or sexual entanglements, no matter what American films may lead you to believe.
Physically, Clémence personifies every French woman cliché. She is tall, thin, with that perfectly imperfect beauty and perpetually dishevelled hair when it is not being subjected to the ministrations of the hair technicians on set. She is an odd duck, though, and possesses a tricky sort of humour that appeals to Brian.
Their camaraderie stemmed from the realisation that they were both from small French towns and has since built from there. Clémence is more educated but Brian is better-travelled. She teases him about his lack of proficiency at English (he is the bane of the on-set language coaches) while he makes fun of her startling lack of accent (which she has had to fake for this production and claims to have fashioned after his own).
Noon on their third day in Rouen finds them drinking coffee in the shade of Clémence’s trailer, waiting for the production crew to finish setting up their next scene. Brian is paging idly through his script, mouthing out the difficult words when Clémence makes a noise of disgust.
He looks up in time to see her make a face as she removes the lid of her cup and smells its contents. “All of France and still they manage to provide us with swill from Starbucks,” she shudders, tossing her head in a manner that, to Brian, is all too familiar.
“If you don’t like it, then you don’t have to drink it,” Brian shrugs, writing a note on the margin of a particular page.
Clémence idly kicks his foot. “The gentlemanly thing to do would be to offer to purchase coffee for me.”
Brian raises both brows. “You expect me to go into town, dressed like this, and find a café that sells coffee that suits your palate?”
“No,” she replies, imperiously tilting her chin up. “But an offer would have been nice.”
He laughs, shaking his head at her antics. If he had not been privy to her humour, he might have been offended. He downs the rest of his coffee, which is much too sweet and weak for his taste but beggars can’t be choosers after all.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she says, drawing out a cheap airport paperback from her purse, “that café Gerard says you visit every morning. Is the coffee there any good?”
Brian shrugs. “It’s decent enough. I like the quiet.”
She hums thoughtfully. “I guess I won’t be joining you then.”
It is a rare thing to meet someone who respects boundaries and conventions. Too often will people want to impose their own customs on each other. Brian and Clémence have managed to get along because they believe in letting people be.
And if her non-invasiveness works towards preserving Brian’s little bubble of privacy then all the better.
*
Statistically, two out of three people believe in the importance of romantic involvement.
Stéphane is not one of the two.
It is not to say that he is pessimistic because Stéphane believes in romance, believes in it so hard and dreams of it all the time. He breathes it, lives it, and loves it- a connection so deep that he feels it is something that is imbedded deep within his soul.
Stéphane believes in romance but not the involvement. Romance is bliss but relationships are too time-consuming and complicated.
Stéphane’s fallen in love thrice: firstly, to another Swiss man he’s known since he was young; next, to an Italian woman during his late teens (a highly publicized stint that has led him to dismiss relationships in general), and finally, to an American man whom he had met briefly at a classy Manhattan club.
Stéphane has also mistaken love for quite a number of other things (like falling in love with the idea of being in love).
It is not something plans, falling in love. It is something that sort of just happens. Love is plenty strange, a lot of people can attest to that, and Stéphane is the type to not question the way of the world. He takes things in strides and deals - that is how he is.
When pressed however, Stéphane will admit to still loving all three. It is hard not to, especially when they’ve all become crucial components of his life. He finds that when you love someone, you don’t just stop loving them. It is something that cannot be diminished, something that never disappears. Over time, one learns to let go and live but love will remain, even when the heart expands to accommodate other people.
And because of this, it is painful for Stéphane to wholly ignore this man’s not-so-blatant declaration of love.
Among other things, it is perfect and beautiful; Stéphane could weep. Duck foie gras at a quaint French bistro and a half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir. Sitting right across the person he’s loved the longest, the deepest, and Stéphane feels that he can die right there and then, happy, maybe.
Yet somehow, something is missing. So he does not respond. He pretends that the Édith Piaf song in the background is glorious enough to drown out the man’s soft ode.
Well, almost.
There is an unarguable sense of finality in the statement that Stéphane cannot disregard. He is at a loss for words; he does not know if it is his place to whisper reassurances. He has always been bad at comforting people. So he sits there awkwardly and aloofly, looking at Roger’s thumb tracing invisible, indiscernible patters on his left palm.
Stéphane knows he is a little bit too emotionally transparent-it’s been his waterloo for quite some time. But no one can fault him, there are far too many unsaid words; things that Stéphane does not want to hear. I’ve divorced Mirka. I’ve divorced my wife. It was a marriage founded by lies. Every time I looked at her, I thought of you and what could have been. I am taking a chance now. I want to be with you. I want us to be together. Let’s go home. Let’s leave this place.
The illusory sound is deafening.
Stéphane does not trust himself to say anything but somehow his trembling hands speak for him. He shies away from Roger and looks at an old couple in the far corner; lucky them, he thinks.
It is a big decision, one that Stéphane is not inclined to make.
And Stéphane almost cries because he’s confused and weary and he no longer understands himself. Roger is nothing special yet he makes Stéphane feel all sorts of things. Roger, Roger, Roger-Roger with his disproportionate nose, his awkward chin, his large forehead, and his unruly eyebrows. Nothing special at all save for Roger’s stupid, adorable grin, and maybe, well, his stupid, adorable self.
Stéphane cares not for the numerous Grand Slam titles he holds, Roger’s bank account or the Rolex watch he is wearing. Sometimes, Stéphane thinks, Roger has no redeeming qualities but that does not stop him from attending each and every one of Roger’s games until the man’s retirement. It also does not stop Stéphane from falling into bed with him.
It should be perfect but it isn’t. He is unable to say “yes.”
Stéphane has a hard time breathing so he pushes his chair back, wincing at the sound of wood scraping against the marbled floor. He tells Roger impassively, “Sorry I need to use the lavatory” or “Sorry, I need to get some fresh air”-he is unsure as to which exactly.
In the end, he finds himself standing right in front of Luc, the restaurant’s saucier. The man shoots him a look of pure pity. “Another date gone awry, my prince?”
Prince - this is the moniker half of France has gifted him with. It does not sound comforting today though, just hollow and mocking.
Stéphane does not have the courage to answer. It is pretty much a giveaway; Stéphane would never resort to using the backdoor if he had not wanted to escape.
Luc’s face softens somewhat. Stéphane’s heart sinks a little-it must be a whole new type of low if other people are starting to notice how miserable you truly are. The funny thing is that it has been the same tone and the same expression Luc has been giving him over the three years they’ve known each other.
This is the first time Stéphane understands.
He allows Luc to usher him out to the back alley. In his haste, he forgets to thank him. He realizes this only when he’s boarded the cab he’s hailed from two blocks away. He thinks, tomorrow, he is going to send Luc a box of sweets and maybe a written promise of avoiding a repeat performance in the future.
The phone in his coat pocket vibrates.
You forgot your scarf, Cinderella.
It takes a while for Stéphane to understand. When he does, he laughs. He laughs until he is blinking back tears. There is not a doubt that Roger’s already forgiven him, forgiven him like he always does because Stéphane makes for an incongruous non-relationship. Roger has forgiven him but Stéphane’s not sure if he will ever be able to forgive himself.
A few moments later, Stéphane is holding a cup of black coffee. It is night time and all the seats are occupied. He considers asking Elsabeth if he can sit next to her behind the counter, just so he can recover in peace and maybe mope a bit but thankfully there is an empty seat by his favourite corner, across a man whose countenance is obscured by the national broadsheet he is reading.
Perhaps the man won’t object too much if Stéphane sits with him?
The man on the table puts his newspaper down and blinks at him. It is then revealed that, lo and behold, the man is none other than Brian. In hindsight, Stéphane thinks, Brian’s always had wonderful timing. Much like the time he poured coffee all over Stéphane’s shirt.
It is a small matter; Stéphane is not one to hold grudges.
Brian continues to look on intensely. It makes Stéphane feel a little bit awkward. He cannot blame Brian though; they’ve never really conversed in all the twenty years they’ve known one another. Not properly at least. Yes, there were a few shared words and thoughts between them during ice shows, galas, and post-competition runabouts but it was mostly forced camaraderie.
Forced because Stéphane’s never cared much for Brian’s company. Back then, he had never thought that Brian was someone he wanted to be friends with. Brian was, after all, the bane of European figure skating: hot headed, ill-tempered, insensitive, and brusque. Yet so very handsome and that made things worse.
But that was back then, in the past. Presently, Stéphane does not care. In fact, he’s long stopped caring. He’s learned to let go. Let bygones be bygones, everything is different now. It is a whole new playing field. They are older, wiser, and probably more mature. If Stéphane is able to put behind Brian’s obtuse comments from a few years ago then maybe Brian will be nice enough to let him share his table.
Stéphane yields and offers a hesitant: “Would it be permissible for me to sit with you?”
It takes Brian a while to agree. Not out of hostility, he presumes, but curiosity. The tension escalates when Stéphane finds an incriminating snapshot of him picking Roger up from the airport in the sports section of the newspaper Brian is currently reading.
Stéphane is thankful that Brian does not ask questions. An innocent romp with your fellow countryman who is also conveniently a retired athlete should not at all merit suspicion.
The silence is a little bit too offsetting so he asks Brian what it is that he’s doing now. It is not that Stéphane does not know; it is also not that Stéphane wants to know, he already does. It just seems like the polite thing for him to do.
Brian does not point this out. With a renewed sense of tactfulness, he answers with a modest, “I do little things here and there.”
Which is a lie, Stéphane knows, and because Stéphane is unable to stop himself, he says: “You are too humble, my friend. Certainly, a Hollywood blockbuster is anything but little.”
For a moment, Stéphane thinks he’s overstepped his boundaries. Stéphane is not usually the impulsive type (which is a complete lie because every fibre of his being lusts to answer his own impulse’s beck and call). It is a comment friends make. He and Brian are not friends.
Not yet, at least.
Brian seems unperturbed.
He says the least likely thing Stéphane would have ever imagined him saying. “This, from a man hosts a nationally-syndicated morning talk show.”
It is at this moment that Stéphane realizes that yes, they’ve both heard of each other, and yes, the world is a little bit funny. Stéphane knows he should not think much of it; they work in a relatively similar industry anyway. He is also a little bit embarrassed. It is not a very good conversation starter, explaining why you decided to call your show Bonjour, Coccinelle.
So he tries to be casual. “Oh, so you have seen one of my shows?”
“Just sometimes, when I am awake,” Brian smiles. “Your ladybug impersonation is quite fetching.”
Stéphane laughs. It is comfortable and nice. Maybe there’s something to look forward to after all.
*
Part Two