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You’d like him, Marcus. (You’d hate him, Marcus. He’s everything we try to corrupt.)
Bastille Day carousing started early and swelled in volume with every passing minute I spent curled in the hammock trying to concentrate on my latest detective novel. Even the flower beds shook, their petals vibrating with the steady thump of the bass from the bar. A live band had been organised, interspersed with cheers and jeers from a stage show in the square, designed to keep the children awake and fizzing until the firework display began. Seeing as this was small-town France, in all its chaotic charm and glory, I’d wager it would be approaching midnight before the first rocket was fired into the sky.
“You made it!”
Hovering on the edge of his usual crowd instead of in the thicket, it was almost as if Florian had been waiting for me. Almost as if he’d chosen that vantage point on purpose. I’d been elevated to proper friend status; tonight’s greeting was a double-sided kiss to my cheeks in lieu of a handshake, shooing away any lingering orange in an instant. An intoxicating whiff of beer and smoke and ocean filled my senses as, briefly, he pressed me close.
Jerome ambled over to shake my hand with Nico behind, both open and friendly yet intimidating nevertheless, with their confident coolness, their youth and unaffected style. Their sense of place and belonging. Nico exchanged an appraising glance with Florian.
“We’re glad you’ve finally turned up. He’s been bouncing around like an overexcited flea waiting for you.”
Florian scoffed, although a blush crossed his tanned cheeks. “Only because my usual admirer—the keuf over there”—he jerked his chin in the direction of the blond policeman—“has been hounding my every move. He thinks you’re with me, Charles. Obviously, you’re not, but we don’t need to disabuse him of that.” He seemed embarrassed. “You don’t mind, do you?”
I laughed. I guessed some men might be offended; it hadn’t occurred to me. “Being used as your fake love interest? Not at all.”
“Love interest is putting it a little strongly,” joked Jerome. “Flor tends to focus more on carnal interests with tourists, love doesn’t come into it.”
Why didn’t that surprise me? Florian was beautiful, anyone could see that—straight or gay. And he was young and carefree. The bigger surprise was his willingness to entertain someone like me. I smiled at him to show I didn’t mind, and his blue-green eyes crinkled back, while his silver halo glowed. A glorious, glorious man. I spared a moment’s pity for the lovelorn local copper; he didn’t stand a chance if he’d fallen under Florian’s spell.
Another hour went by before the crowds milling around the bar and the square thinned, as, bit by bit, everyone made their way down the winding streets to the fishing port. Florian’s gang drank up then joined the procession, with me tagging along, by now feeling somewhat tiddly. Small children swung lanterns and chatted ten to the dozen as we gathered around the port, excited to be allowed to stay up so late. The night air buzzed with anticipation.
My mother took me to a firework display once, when I was quite young, perhaps around four or five. Guy Fawkes night, a cold and wet November, so very different to tonight. There had been others since, but this one stuck. I had a hazy recollection of a little red woollen coat, with gold buttons fastened up tight, that had pleased me greatly. She’d bought a pack of sparklers and let me hold one in my knitted mitten. My breath had puffed out in the cool air, and I’d squealed with delight as I’d shown her how I could write a big C for Charles in an orangey flare.
“It’s orange but I’m green!” I’d shouted, wiggling with excitement. “I can’t hold it in! It’s everywhere! The green is running everywhere!”
“I’m yellow!” came her answering cry, not missing a beat as she wielded her sparkler like a magician’s wand. “Lovely to meet you, green! Run wild!”
An unexpected pain pierced my chest, lodging in the empty space where my mother used to live. Yellow pain, reminding me how her loss had rearranged my world. As I willed myself back to the present, a fountain of colour shattered the inky black, sending a confetti of sparks rocketing down to earth. My eyes filled with hot, stinging tears; I squeezed them shut, covering my ears too, as all around me young children gasped and squealed. Sharp bangs and crackles echoed around the bay, every crack and every explosion hammering the shard of yellow in further. A group of teenagers shouted and jostled, and like a shellshocked soldier, I twisted away from their upturned faces, my guts churning with the sickly scent of cordite and candy floss, revolting against the fug of cigarettes and warm beer. Of memories old and new.
I knew all about the loneliness of grief. And the soul-shredding fear no one had warned me accompanied it. About the solitary road we all travelled, about limping along, putting one foot in front of the other even when aching muscles cried out to stop. But the road held a few extra twists and turns for someone like me. With my mother gone, no one else alive could understand that special moment with the sparklers, all those years ago. She’d seen it through my eyes. Perhaps had known all along that I was different, too, waiting for me to be old enough to put it into words. No one left alive to understand my childish attempts at describing colours no one but I could feel, alongside the whizzes and bright lights, and what they meant. To interpret my frown as I’d tried to write my whole name with the glow from the sparkler, only to watch it fade away, and my intense green to fade a little with it.
“Hey, Charles. Are you okay? You disappeared.”
I’d not gone far, just far enough from the crowds to the edge of the port, where dark waters met a pebbly beach. Florian discovered me sagging against a low stone wall and as his warm body eased down beside me, his arm slipped around my side, pulling me closer. As his silver blanketed me in its warmth, I sank deeper into his kindly touch; past caring if he misinterpreted it as something else, almost wishing he would. Starved of the heat of human contact even as I acknowledged my mind’s instinct to run and hide from it.
The usual island breeze had died down hours ago and the night air had a rare stillness. So still, I could smell his skin—dark and rich, like the bitter salicorne we’d shared at dinner and the salt flats after summer rain. Like a much needed source of oxygen. Hungrily, I breathed him in.
“I’m a mess, Florian.”
Through blurry eyes, I stared up into the night sky, still dotted with streaks of colour. Our village display had drawn to a close, but fireworks were still launching from villages scattered along the bay, and on the distant mainland too. “I haven’t always been this way. You need to know that. My… my… mother’s death changed me.” Demolished me, razed me to the ground then stamped me into the rubble.
Florian stayed silent, just a gentle squeeze of his fingers at my waist told me he understood. “It’s okay to not be okay sometimes.”
“Apparently so.” I took another deep inhale. “But it is taking some getting used to. Though I no longer plot unusual ways to kill myself, so that’s progress, of sorts.”
My regular 3 a.m. rendezvous with swarming charcoal demons, I kept to myself.
“You know, if you ever want to talk about it, Charles, then I am here.”
He pronounced my name the French way, with a soft sh at the beginning. The syllable left his mouth in a breathy hush, like a mother’s cool fingers resting on a fevered brow. In the darkness, my heavy head found its way to his silver shoulder, and he tilted his own sideways too, coming to rest on top of mine. A steady wash of tears bathed my cheeks; I let them fall. Maybe I should offload. I could tell him everything then leave the island knowing I’d shared my burden with someone for whom it held no relevance but had been kind enough to listen.
“Thank you,” I whispered. And then choked. A painful sound I could hold back no longer. “For finding me.”
“Shh, mon chéri. You were missing. Of course I would find you.”
Time slowed or sped or even vanished for a while. When I next opened my eyes, thick plumes of smoke, some with a pinkish tinge, some green, hovered across the bay, bringing with them the scent of gun smoke, all that remained of the fireworks. I blinked, feeling a little hazy. Florian shifted next to me, no doubt the cold stone ledge was numbing his arse too.
“We should go. You should go,” I mumbled. “Back to your friends. Sorry for being like this.”
