The Orchard

            An apple has a sweet taste. But the apples from the Sinclair’s orchard always delivered tart and bitter apples. To General Fitzroy this was the basis of life. All around him, sweetly flavored kindness could be found; strangers offering those down on their luck money, gentlemanly characters holding the door outside during a storm, or even a small child simply clinging to a parent’s leg or neck. Life was sweet, gentle and loving. But Fitzroy’s lifetime has been filled with the signature taste of a Sinclair apple. A virulent taste.

              It has been nearly seven years since the true bitter taste has been on his tongue. Returning to the orchard proved difficult but not impossible. Navigating his way around the unfamiliar manor to the apple trees was the harder part. It wasn’t impossible however. Fitzroy got himself to the tree that was always a little out of the row… it had the tastiest apples.

  “Emile why is this tree not in line with the others?” Roy loudly commented as they readied the step ladder.

“Monsieur, how am I supposed to know? I’m sure it was just an accident.” Roy pouted his lip and handed Emile the burlap sack.

“Nah, I think it’s trying to cover something. Like buried treasure! No, maybe it’s a body! Come on Emile go get a shovel!”

“I don’t think that is a very good idea…”

              Fitzroy smiled at the silly memory as he reached out to the tree to find an apple. He barely needed the step ladder. He blindly reached out. His fingers bumped up against one and he twisted it off the vine. It landed with a quiet plop in the bag. He readjusted himself on the ladder so he was now seated on the top. He used to always try and keep his tight riding pants clean, but now he didn’t mind if the dark gray-blue military uniform became dusty, it was already stained with a much darker color.

  Tracy was the drunkest he had ever been. The big burly guy was also the most emotional drunk Roy had ever seen, not that he had seen a tremendous amount of drunk people. Tracy was crying into Emile’s shoulder, aggressively hanging onto it.

“…and then after they saw how my pants were unzipped they just kept laughing and I had never been so embarrassed in my life!” The entire group just traded sideward glances and tried not to laugh in attempt of saving their dear friend’s feelings. Roy was just much more interested in the increasingly wet garment of Emile’s. Tracy had to be nearly double, if not triple, Emile’s size and was putting all his weight down on the boy. Roy looked at Emile with his good eye and snickered at the childish scene displayed. Emile only turned red probably of both embarrassment and slight frustration. Roy had to admit it, Emile was pretty cute.

              Even after all the years, Fitzroy still felt his face flush at the loving memory of his partner. Emile. That was name he hadn’t heard in a while now. “Emile…” He said in his now tired voice. Saying it aloud meant something. A prayer? A wish? Perhaps instead it meant closure. Finally letting go.

            The burlap sack was now filled a quarter full of apples Fitzroy was unaware if were ripe or not… but this was apple season after all. He knew it all too well. The lawn mowers always were out and he was granted permission to go to the stables extra early with Emile.

  “Emile wake up! Wake up! It’s the first day of the ripe season!” Emile turned over, not being awake himself as it was barely even four in the morning. His tired eyes glared up at Roy. Roy, however, only smiled and tugged on Emile’s arm to try to get him up.

“Roy you treat this like its Christmas!”

“Non non, it’s even better.”

            Roy was barely even dressed, he only changed into riding pants and left his nightshirt on. Also added was a pair of riding boots, much easier to ride with than his slippery dress shoes. The sun had just began to peek around the hill once they got to the stables. Roy didn’t hesitate, he never did, to saddle his horse and run away to the secluded corner hill. He always felt obliged to tell Emile that he’d be back in a few hours… but Emile knew all too well.

            Roy rode around the hill on his horse Chocolat. On that particular day the sun was shining and not even a single cloud could be found floating in the deep upper blue. Roy felt his freedom only but centimeters away, he could nearly taste it. Towards the end of his ride he plopped down in the grass and stared up at the emotionless blue. “Freedom huh? I wonder what it’s really like.”

              “Bitter.” Fitzroy again smiled at the memory. This place, this orchard, carried so many of them. The entire time spent there, he had longed for freedom. Now that he had it, he realized it wasn’t what he wanted. It’s his very own life emitting off the bitter Sinclair taste, not the orchard. He did not need this so-called freedom, he only needed some caramel. Something sweet to balance the flavor.

He needed Emile.

            At least back then he did. He may still be younger than thirty, but Fitzroy was tired. He fought his battle, from befriending Emile to losing that friendship and joining the war… he was just done. Of course joining the great battle was not him running away, it was him, for the first time in his life, trying to fight that tart taste. Avenge the manor and his father, avenge the troops and fight for Emile.

              It was when the bag was half way full that Fitzroy heard a shuffle in the grass. A placid smile arose on his face and he adjusted his dark shades.

              The not very hefty Roy Sinclair was just about twenty-one years old when he signed up for battle. Because of the situation, he was given much training, just a uniform and a pat on the back. For the first half of his first year, he didn’t do much. He only received pitiful gazes from those who were older. It was obvious his height and blind eye made him look not only weak, but plain ignorant for joining the military. This was when he started the ‘Egg Training’. Raw eggs were for breakfast every morning at five. It was nasty, incomparable to the fine dishes served at the orchard.

            The next year Roy was promoted for saving a man with a bullet wound. Later he was promoted again simply for showing strong results.

            Roy was promoted a final time after he saved another man from a bomb explosion. The man lost an arm and his hearing, but his life was saved in the end.

“BEITEL STAY WITH ME ALRIGHT?” Roy was nearly panting instead of yelling as he dragged the man by the arms towards safety. An explosion went off only about ten yards away, causing some burning to occur, mostly to Roy.

“DAMN IT BEITTY COME ON!” He yelled, still dragging him through the mud. A final bomb erupted, this one only a meter away. Roy fell over and blacked out for a couple minutes. When he came back to his senses he patted Beitel on the arm “What’s with the blindfold? I’m not a horse.” Roy proclaimed, reminding himself of his past. A bloody cough came from his partner.

“Sir, you’re eyes are wide open.”

  “I’ve been sitting here for about an hour now. I wondered when you’d show.” General Fitzroy tossed the bag down below. He turned back to continue picking apples. He embarrassingly missed nearly all of his reaches, eventually finding a few apples. His blind-less tosses obviously weren’t very accurate as many apples tumbled to the ground. Not a single word was exchanged until the bag was filled with apples. Fitzroy climbed down from the ladder and brushed off his uniform.

“Don’t you pull any of that Monsieur stuff now alright? If anything you are to address me as General.” Fitzroy winked, forgetting it was nearly impossible for one to see it.

            He took a step towards him and placed his hand on his head.

“Ah. Look who’s taller now!” He said jokingly. It was obvious Fitzroy grew about seven inches and his voice roughened. He bent down to about where he assumed his ear was. “Wanna know my secret?” He said with a small smile, “Raw eggs. The damn things are near disgusting so I don’t recommend it.”

              A minute, maybe two went by in silence. He listened to the familiar noise of the leaves rustling and bugs buzzing. He couldn’t see his surroundings, but this was home. He could see it anyways.

              Fitzroy eventually began to walk back up to his car. When he heard soft footsteps behind him he said, “Let’s go and make some apple pie.” He said. He gave a small chuckle lifting his head back. He walked straight into a hanging metal sign. He clutched his swelling forehead and began to laugh.

             Perhaps it was just sheer shock and disbelief, but it didn't take Emile long to come to terms with Roy's absence. He'd already gone without him for a month, and they'd only been reunited for a few hours at the most, so being alone again wasn't something that was new to him. He only wished that, if Roy really did need to leave, that he would have for once allowed a proper goodbye.  He would've appreciated Roy telling him why he had to leave so abruptly, and where he was even headed - but as clumsy as he was, Emile knew that Roy could handle himself.

                Emile followed Roy's letter and spoke to Alexander. Until speaking with someone else from around the manor, Emile had failed to realize that other residents had blatantly noticed Roy and Emile's closeness. Most of Alexander's assurances were backed up by the fact that the rest of the Sinclairs were still there for him and that he was always welcome with them - they were family. He'd always thought of it that way, deep down. He'd called his mother and Clemence his family his entire life, and they were, but he was just as much a part of the Sinclair family.

                Since there was minimal damage to the apple trees themselves, the Sinclairs had decided upon rebuilding an estate on the same patch of land. This decision was described as being 'carrying on the Sinclair tradition', but Emile knew that this place was just to special for everyone to leave. Though he had no say in the matter, he had anticipated this decision - this was where he was raised, and he couldn't imagine it being forgotten just like that.

And it gave him hope, because it meant Roy still had the same place to come back to some day.

At first, things were hectic. Between cleaning up the aftermath of  the fire, getting over the initial shock of losing the estate, and the decision to rebuild, the charred plot of land was left to its own devices. The members of the Sinclair family and staff found their own temporary housing arrangements for the time being, and Emile obviously continued living with his mother for the time being.

                Emile kept in touch with some of the Sinclairs throughout this period, eventually learning that the construction of the new manor would take about a year or so once the building itself was planned and finalized. Emile agreed to help with the construction once it began. He figured it was the very least he could do for the Sinclairs after all they had done for him. But as if investing their time and money into construction wasn't enough, the Sinclairs were constantly offering extra food and supplies to Emile and his mother. Emile was just thankful for the effort, but his mother declined - obviously feeling that their sympathy was unnecessary. Their offers only made him want to offer more of his services.

                Construction began in the fall, and ran year round until the manor was completed at the close of the following summer. The memory of standing before the completed home for the first time would be one that would remain with him for a long time after. It was fulfilling and saddening to see this place completed in place of the house he knew for so long to be his home.

                Things slowly began to return to how they had been before. Rather than staying at the manor full-time, Emile continued to live and assist his mother while making a daily commute to and from the Sinclairs'. With Roy gone, some of his responsibilities were put to rest, though he still found himself spending time in the stables in the mornings like he used to. Roy no longer needed a horse prepared first thing, and the rest of the stablehands took care of most everything else, but it was a habit Emile couldn't seem to break.

                Months and eventually years began to pass. Seasons were counted in full fields of lavender and empty fields of snow. Emile  became content with how his adult life was beginning. As a child and young adult, he'd never considered how long he planned to stay with the Sinclairs. He was old enough now to leave them if he chose, and there was nothing in particular tying him down, what with Roy gone, but he didn't have anything better to do. Not that he didn't enjoy it - the thought just happened to occur to him that he could start something new for himself at this point in his life, but until he figured out what that was, he knew he would stay at the orchard. He'd never truly aspired to do anything other than stay with Roy, and suddenly anything was possible now that this aspiration seemed to be unattainable.

                Throughout his time back at the orchard, Emile found himself growing closer to Maggie out of all of the Sinclair children - something his sixteen-year-old self could have never dreamed of. He could never say that they were anything closer than acquaintances, but he found himself enjoying her company the most. She talked to him about Roy, and Clemence, and life at the lavender fields, and he was at ease with her. He later came to the realization that she reminded him of both Roy and Clemence - she had Roy's sense of humor, and similar features of Clemence. Her hair had always reminded him of his sister's. She could never replace her brother, not in an eternity, but Emile was thankful for her.

                After a few years, the sting in his chest upon being reminded of Roy had begun to dull. Certain little things reminded him of Roy - like being in the stables and looking out across the field that Roy had found so much solace in - and he would feel a weight on his chest pressing gripping down like a vice. At first it had been a painful, almost mournful hurt, but after so long that despair had turned into a fondness, more of a nostalgia than anything. He could smile now, upon thinking back to Roy hitting his head on that branch, or the time he got drunk, whereas a few years prior those memories would only steal the air from his lungs and bring threatening tears to his eyes.

                He was able to let go everything but the letter. He let all of those memories - the good and the bad - find somewhere in his mind, tucked away somewhere safe. He stopped dwelling on the things he missed and looked onward to things yet to come. But despite slowly healing himself. he could never let go of the letter Roy had left for him. He kept in by his beside, beneath the window looking out upon the lavender, and read it only on days when Roy's absence would bear down on him.  Though it was slightly devastating to read now that he was gone, it kept Emile going. There was closure in Roy's words, in knowing that what he always felt had finally been justified. More than anything, it was the assurance that his time at the orchard was worth leaving home; it was worth every minute.

                It was without a doubt, foolish. Roy knew well that he should be in a rush to go back to the orchard. The message he received was along the lines of a threat. Roy never really took a place in the war, but he did help the troops. He had to admit he enjoyed their company even though they weren’t his idea. Guest starring in Italy probably wasn’t the safest idea, and now the orchard (from what he gathered) was being targeted. What was foolish was he wasn’t galloping back on the horse. Instead he was walking somberly with the horse’s reins in his hand and Emile’s in his other. Maybe Roy was just tired, didn’t feel the hurry, or maybe he was doing all that he could to avoid going back home. He spent nineteen years trying to find a way out so returning just felt like a step backwards.

                  It was when they were nearly in view of the large manor that Roy could see it. Smoke, big black billows of it. So much smoke that seemed to cover the entire sky. It looked like it was from a painting. The red flames of fire touching the blackened sky. People rushing outside of the beautiful building to live from it new danger. The manor was on fire. Nearly all of Roy’s beautiful memories were being burned down to the ground before him. Loud cracks and wood pieces were being radiated from it.

“This was an attack.” This sentence and other words with the same meaning kept begin said throughout the crowd of survivors. Roy’s eyes scanned through the people. He wouldn’t be able to tell who was missing and who wasn’t. Some of the workers standing around gave him a small welcome back smile or a pat on the back as he shuffled through the crowd. He held onto Emile’s hand until he made it all the way to the front, about fifty feet away from the burning building.

“Roy!” His sister Margaret, Maggie, jumped on him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Brother! Why on Earth would you leave like that? We missed you. Papa said to leave it alone.” Roy had never, not once seen Maggie upset. Angry, sure. But her cheeks were wet and she clung to Roy’s wrists tightly.  He also had never seen her so loving. At least not around his self.

“Maggie. Are the others okay? Go find Alexander, he can help you.” Maggie only shook her head.

“Our siblings are okay. The only one who was missing was Grandfather. Papa ran back inside to save him.” Roy instantly looked back up the burning building. The old man was too slow for such survival. He prayed his father would learn such a thing and come back out.

                It was only a matter of minutes before the house caved in and the flames blew up. Anyone inside the house was dead. Maggie released a cry and buried herself into Roy. He rubbed her back and pulled Emile in closer to him.

                    “Emile. What on Earth are you doing?” Roy put away the saddle and brushed off the horses back. Roy had to go up on the very tip of his toes to reach its back. Emile chuckled.

“When will you grow an inch Roy?” “When I turn thirteen! Next week I’ll definitely be taller than you.” “Keep dreaming Monsieur.” Roy stuck out his tongue and finished brushing off the horse. Emile was finishing cleaning his side of the stable when a crack of thunder roared up ahead.

“I think it’s time to go inside Emile.” Emile nodded and picked up the lantern to help lead the inside. The old metal handle snapped and the lantern crashed onto the hay-covered ground. The small flame slowly began to grow and a small fire was created in the stable. The horse kicked up and reared, neighed, and jumped. Roy first pulled the horse down, then blinded it to let it calm down. Then he helped Emile put out the fire. Sadly enough the fire had grown up onto the wooden wall.

“Emile,” Roy began as he tried to smother the fire out with a cover blanket, “Promise me we will never create a fire again.” “Promise.”

                      Roy sent Emile on an errand once the fire had begun to die down. He took that opportunity to run. He left a note in the stables on the busted lantern.

  Cher Emile,

Je n'ai pas assez de temps pour écrire un long message pour vous. Assez tristement vous êtes rapide à aller chercher de l'eau et une fois vous vous rendez compte que je ne suis pas à la foule, vous saurez instantanément là où je suis. Permettez-moi de dire une chose avant de dire au revoir. Je vous ai rencontré quand j'avais douze ans. Jusque-là, je me cachais loin dans ce domaine ouvert. Ensuite, je vous ai rencontré. Emile, vous étiez la seule personne qui a pu belette leur chemin en moi. Je vous remercie pour cela. Vous êtes l'un seul être qui je chéris et aime plus que tout autre chose. Merci de me donner une vie, même si j'ai gagné le vôtre loin.

L'offre de mon père tient toujours. Même si le manoir est maintenant disparu, nous avons assez d'argent pour prendre soin de vous et votre mère. Voir Alexander. S'il vous plaît.

Je t'aime Emile. J'ai adoré dépenses d'un montant impies de temps dans les écuries avec vous. J'ai adoré se faufiler à la cuisine à minuit pour manger des sucreries. J'ai adoré vous avoir à mes côtés pour mordre Maggie et mes autres frères et sœurs dans le cul.

  Cher mon ami le plus proche et un amour vrai,

                Life had, without his immediate noticing, drawn itself into a monotonous, incessant routine for Emile. Wake up, eat a silent breakfast across from his mother, visit Clemence, find something to work on between the house or the lavender fields, eat another silent meal, think himself to sleep in an otherwise empty bed. He hadn't lived like this in a long time - if ever. He'd always been surrounded by people, whether it be Clemence and his mother, or Roy and the rest of the Sinclair family and staff. There wasn't anything particularly wrong with this newfound routine except for the fact that he'd been spoiled by never being so isolated, and now he found himself to be slipping - more like suffocated - by a loneliness he'd never had to endure before.

                Despite the fact that he missed him, the thought of Roy finally getting reunited with his mother made his absence seem like a fair trade. Knowing that Roy's leaving had such a meaningful purpose kept Emile as content as possible when it came down to not having Roy around.  He'd never really paid any attention to it before, but he was coming to realize just how long he and Roy had been together. He'd known it was a long time, but now that he was gone, the enormity of their relationship was bearing down on him. He knew it was a long time, but he had never truly noticed how long they were together until they were apart.

____________

  When Roy finally made his way back, Emile's mother was the first to know.

                Emile was in Clemence's room, sorting through her belongings as he'd been doing for the past few days. There wasn't much left to do out in the yard or the fields, and all of the housework was taken care of at the moment. He'd finally stopped visiting Clemence's grave in knowing that constantly surrounding himself with such a toxic reminder wasn't helping him come to terms with anything. He hadn't completely stopped occasionally paying his respects to her, but he no longer allowed himself to dwell on it longer than a few moments. Along with this journey of coming to terms with how things would be without her from now on, he and his mother had decided to begin clearing the furniture from her room. It didn't bother Emile much, especially when they had just kept the door closed, but his mother had felt otherwise. She wasn't superstitious, so it wasn't as if she thought Clemence was haunting the place, but the thought of her room being left as it always had been unnerved her.

                She'd left sorting through Clemence's closet and dresser to Emile - really, she'd offered to do it herself, but Emile obliged, seeing as he could tell it would make her uncomfortable. She was having a harder time adjusting than he was, and with good reason. He was to leave her clothes alone, as they would get rod of those along with the furniture, and only set aside the things worth keeping.

                Emile had always known where Clemence had kept her diary, having accidentally stumbled upon it while helping her make her bed once when they were younger, before he had been taken to the orchard. It was tucked snuggly between her mattress and bedframe, and he had later found her key to be hidden inside her pillowcase. Though he could have easily snuck in and opened it as a child, he never had. As interested as he should have been in its contents, seeing as he was her older brother, after all, he had always had enough self-control and responsibility to respect her privacy.

                The thought crossed his mind, now, as he pulled the leather-bound journal out from under her beds, to read it. A part of him figured there wasn't anything wrong with it , now that there wasn't really a possible consequence, but the better part of him knew that even when she was gone, it was an intrusive thing to do. Retrieving the key, Emile set aside the diary with the other items he'd salvaged on her dresser - some drawings she'd done, mostly of the lavender, some photographs, the diary, and her favorite yellow hair ribbon.

                He'd finally made his way through everything, but couldn't seem to make himself leave. He found himself on the window seat overlooking the lavender behind their house, knees drawn to his chest. Her view was different from the one from his room - while his overlooked the dirt road in front of their house and the lavender across from it, Clemence's looked over and unbroken horizon of even more lavender. A sea of it. He remembered sitting here with her sometimes, reading to her at night or looking out across the fields with her.

                The sound of his mother calling his name drew him out of his reverie, and he stood after realizing that she must want him to come downstairs. Upon reaching the door, Emile turned to survey her room once more, seeing as it might be the last time he saw it as Clemence had left it, where her furniture where it had always been and her bed made how she liked it to be. He glanced away upon hearing footsteps on the stairs, and he opened his mouth to question what his mother needed so badly. It didn't take him long to realize that these particular footsteps where far to hurried and urgent to be his mother's.

                Before it had completely dawned on him, Roy's arms were around him. He hadn't considered how this moment would pan out before now, when it was actually happening, but this was all he could have asked for now that Roy was back.

" Je suis très bien," he murmured in response to Roy's question, nothing less than flattered. Obviously Roy was just making sure nothing had happened in his absence, yet despite their closeness, Emile was elated by how concerned Roy sounded. "Tu m'as manqué aussi."

                It was an understatement, but Emile didn't want to go into detail. He was too distracted by how warm Roy was, and how much he'd missed hearing his voice, and the fact that he still smelled of apples. Emile wondered if he'd attain that particular fragrance forever -as if it were a part of him.

The mention of the orchard was like to first shock of an earthquake, dawning on him like something he'd forgotten and just remembered at the sight of something that brought it back up in his mind. Of course he could never forget it entirely - it was his childhood - but he'd tried not to dwell on the fact that perhaps he'd never go back there and he'd left that part of his life behind. But here they were, and the thought of revisiting that place and that time was presented to him like a quake shuddering beneath the ground.

                Roy was the one to pull away, seeing as he was the one speaking with urgency. Emile didn't resist, but it didn't stop him from finding the whole action undesirable. Emile just wanted to stay like that for a while longer to make up for all of the time they'd lost in Roy's absence. He hadn't failed to notice the absence of every ghosted and accidental touch that normally went unnoticed, without any outright recognition - taken for granted. But if he knew anything, he knew that the orchard was important to Roy, and if it meant Roy's reassurance, then he could deal with allowing space between them.

" Droit," Emile nodded, swallowing down his dejection, "Le verger."

Making his way around Roy, Emile made his way to his mother and bent to kiss her on the cheek.

" Nous devons y aller maintenant, Maman. Merci, cependant. Pour tout. Je vais revenir."

                “If you just put enough paint on it…” Roy’s mother had her hands drenched in purple paint and she was holding onto some sort of cheap cloth. An old wooden door laid beside her.

“Three…two…One!” She yelled and dropped the cloth onto the door.

“Mom!” Roy yelled. His pants were covered in paint as was the entire bottom of the floor. The door, however, was now covered in a pretty lilac color. It was a tall cylinder shape. She then had Roy do the same thing with a pale green. He had never done something so… improper. He dunked his hands into the green bowl and swished the cloth around. She told him where to toss it. He pulled it out, hearing the paint drip on to the floor. He closed his eyes and took a breath before dropping it. A loud cheer erupted from his mother.

“Evviva!” She cried. Roy slowly opened his eyes and caw that it did look pretty. She bent down to touch the purple cloth. It was dried onto the door.

“In a short moment the green will dry. And we will have a beautiful lavender flower. Don’t worry, I’ll go ahead and cut it out of the door.” She gave him a wink and began to wash her hands in a water bucker near her. She coughed in her shoulder; the paint fumes were a little excessive so Roy opened the window above the sink. It required a bit of strength since it was behind a few busted flower pots and sponges. Once the window was cracked at the bottom, Roy’s mother began to relax. Her coughing ceased and her tense shoulders calmed down.

Another week went by, and Roy was beginning to long for Emile’s presence. In truth, Roy had wanted it since he left, but now the empty bedside as starting to become bothersome. He would occasionally wake up throughout some nights, spending hours before finding himself asleep again. He still had about a week and a half before he would return back. Saying goodbye to his mother felt difficult, but he would cross that bridge once he got there.

It was a particularly sunny day in Sicily that day and Roy’s mother, Fina, said she wanted Roy to practice his Italian.

“Your accent is horrible. You sound as if you’re French!”

“My father is Fre—.”

“Don’t say it.” She winked at Roy and continued chopping up fruit.

            His mother was eccentric, he’ll give her that. Beads hung from the ceiling and carpets were usually used to sit on in place of chairs. Of course Roy took into consideration that his mother is the poorest woman he’d met. Emile had little money, but at the very least they had some farmland and weren’t scavenging for food constantly. His mother wouldn’t accept any money he offered, so Roy just participated anyways. She bought him Italian clothes and introduced him to Italian girls, denying the fact she doesn’t get to meet his partner since he’s stuck in France. She did ask about Emile however. She always smiled whenever Roy told about the silly endeavors they shared on the orchard. He spoke about the time he and Emile tried to sneak into the kitchen after hours and eat cake. Actually, that happened multiple times. Roy also broke a milk glass one day and he convinced Emile to blame it on the cat. Of course that didn’t go over well since the orchard didn’t have any indoor cats.

“Mama.”

“Hm?”

“I’ll come back and I’ll bring Emile too.” She smiled and nodded. Her smiles never showed teeth unless she was laughing, but they were genuine nonetheless.

            She continued to cut fruit. The only noise to be heard was from a fan and the occasional noise of the knife hitting against the wood. The calming pattern was disrupted by an urgent knock on the door. Roy’s mother dried her hands and opened the door to reveal a young male, perhaps younger than Roy.

            “Ho notizie dalla città! E 'urgente!”

“Si?”

“Le truppe avversarie si stanno dirigendo verso la zona francese del Maestro Roy. Suo padre lo sta chiedendo a casa.”

“Grazie.” His mother turned to Roy. “Did you catch that Fitzy? Sounds like your going home early.”

              Roy was astonished that his father had the courage to contact him at all.... and even go to the trouble to locate him. Considering that he did do this, Roy had to assume the man had genuine concern. Roy also was nervous for Emile since he didn’t have any means of defense besides the army that isn’t in that area.

            Roy kissed his mother on the cheek and followed the messenger out of the house. He’d be back…

              The trip back didn’t feel as long. Riding his horse wasn’t so much a bother, but this time it was a bit more threatening since he had no guard. But he eventually laid eyes on the familiar little house he learned to call home. Quickly tying up his horse, Roy found the front door and gave it a nudge. He always loved to see Emile, but this was the first time he had been so excited for it. That and he had become increasingly nervous that Emile wasn’t alright.

            It didn’t take long for Roy to find Emile. When he did, he threw his arms around the other’s neck and cooed, “Tu m'as manqué terriblement. Donc beaucoup.” Emile smelled nice and his presence was a long awaited one.

“Êtes-vous d'accord? Nous devons revenir ... au verger.” He was probably being a bit hasty, but Roy just wanted to protect Emile at all costs. He didn’t know what their relationship qualified as, but it more than friendship.

                Waking up, Emile expected the familiar warmth of Roy in the bed beside him, but was disappointed to find that the space beside him was empty, and everything was cold. It dawned on him, as he came to his senses, that he knew that Roy wasn't with him at all. Vaguely, but definitely nonetheless, he remembered being woken from a lucid sleep by Roy the previous night to be told that Roy was going to find his mother. Emile hadn't comprehended at first, and had started to drift back into sleep, but as he processed Roy's intentions, he remembered sitting up and watching Roy leave the room. He'd wanted to say something, to at least wish him luck, but Roy had already been too far for his voice to reach.

                It had taken Emile longer to fall back to sleep after that encounter -- he was far too consumed in the thought of Roy not coming back. He knew that this was by no means a 'dangerous' expedition on Roy's part, and he trusted that he would remain safe, but it was the thought of him not returning by choice.  Emile was become enveloped in the idea that Roy would find a greater happiness out there, once he was really free, after he'd left the places he'd always been confined to. He'd realize that there was more in the world than apples and lavender and Emile, and he'd move on, forget about it all, and move on as if none of it had happened at all.

                Toxic thoughts like these kept him wide awake, until a rising sun broke through the curtains, and he forced himself out of bed. As much as he wished to stay in bed the entire month or so that Roy would be gone, until he came back, Emile knew that he would eventually have to face the fact that this was only temporary, and he would have to do his best to act as though everything was how it had always been. His mother was already at the table by the time he descended the stairs, and he acknowledged her with only so much as a lingering glance. He poured himself a cup of tea, contemplating sitting with his mother at the table, before settling on drinking outside.

                He knew that his mother would ask too much of him -- questions that he wouldn't know how to answer -- and he still needed time to himself to adjust. He'd grown accustomed, recently, to constantly being near Roy's side just because of the fact that he was the only person left that he could enjoy being around. Clemence had been the only other person that could have the same affect on him, and since she was so recently gone, he'd been relying on Roy's presence more so than usual.

                Everything was crashing down too suddenly. He knew that Roy would eventually be back -- or, at least, that was what was supposed to happen -- but regardless, his departure had been so abrupt and previously unmentioned. Emile hadn't even known that Roy desired to meet his mother, so it was shocking to him to find that it was the sole reason behind Roy up and leaving so suddenly. Of course he felt absolutely and utterly selfish for being so scared of being left behind, but he would have at least appreciated warning ahead of time. This just felt as though Roy was restless, and it was the first excuse he could come up with to justify his leaving. Emile trusted him though, so that possibility was shoved into a far corner of his mind -- hidden, but still present nonetheless.

                Emile finished the last of his tea, leaving the empty china cup on the porch as he headed towards Clemence's grave. He'd been making it a point to come every day, once at the very least, most of the time to say something to her; sometimes to just sit near her, without a word. He was simply unable to let her go; to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn't get to casually speak with her anymore, to ask her how she was doing, to hear her laugh.

Sitting down, Emile's glance caught his letter fluttering in the breeze from beneath the stone that weighed it down. He could see the ink bleeding across the edges now, fading -- water and wind and dirt were beginning to age the paper, slowly thinning it out over time. He hoped that eventually it would just sink into the dirt, decompose and become soil, just so it would always be with Clemence, because he desperately needed for her to keep those words with her.

                He couldn't bring himself to speak to her, even though he was completely alone now -- he could only watch the letter flutter and lift in the wind, filing in the silence with a quiet, incessant fluttering. He wished that he could communicate how he felt to his mother, but he had the notion that she wouldn't exactly understand -- she knew that Roy and Emile were close, of course, but Emile didn't think she understood just how close they really were. He'd thought about it quite enough to know that they were no longer just master and servant, more than good childhood friends. Emile didn't know what they were, but he knew whatever it was had to be a mutual understanding. Sighing, Emile plucked another stem of lavender and replaced the dying flower on Clemence's grave with a fresh one.

"Goodnight, Clemence,"

It was only late morning, but it felt appropriate. Emile figured that he wouldn't be coming back to her today, seeing as it wasn't helping to distract his thoughts whatsoever. He went off to try and find something to keep him occupied as the month ticked by.

∘ ∘ ∘

                Three weeks began to roll by, slowly at first, until days began to pass quickly as Emile was growing accustomed to independence. He and his mother had been on speaking terms, of course, but in the shadow of her daughter's passing, Emile's mother was changed. Perhaps it was the realization that Emile was the only part of her family left alive, and even at that, it was still slightly uncomfortable after seven years of being apart -- and the most important and influential seven years of his life nonetheless. They had regular exchanges now, but none of their conversations were ever drawn out or thoughtful. Just the same old small talk every day.

                Upon the arrival of the last week of the month, Emile began  counting down the days to when Roy was estimated to arrive back. Of course, Emile knew that he needed to give Roy a little leeway when it came to making his way back, but at the same time he wanted to believe that Roy must've realized how anxious the passing days would make him.

                The paper blew against the breeze as it was only partly held down by the stone. The wind had slowly begun to pick up the past few days. It hadn’t rained yet, so luckily the letter was still in decent condition. Even if it was flapping roughly with the wind, it appeared peaceful. It was a reminder—no it was a memory. To others, but Roy, and he knew Emile as well, it felt monotonous, a burden even. Any other person would fear seeing its presence every day. Roy, however, deemed it as serene. It marked the end of an era shared between the two of them. It wasn’t an unhappy memory. In fact, the seven months they had spent at this little house were filled with unforgettable memories.         

            Two weeks went by without hesitation. They originally started slow, but as the dreary days continued on, they eventually began to lull together.

            Another week flew by, Roy and Emile had the audacity to take a walk. They got lost on their way back even though they’ve been down this path multiple times. Perhaps both of their minds were elsewhere. Emile’s mother was angered, but worried more so than anything. They didn’t get back until after dinner. Three hours late.

A few more days carried on regularly. Roy decided to write a letter himself. He was in the kitchen during the middle of the night with paper and ink. He didn’t who this was going to be addressed to so instead of the proper format he was taught, he would just improvise it.          

La mia vita è stata riempita con un sacco di odio . La maggior parte delle quali erano state irradiano da me . E come la mia vita continuò a frutteto , ho lentamente iniziato a capire sempre più cose che non si dovrebbe imparare fino a quando hai un'età compresa un bel po ' . Niente di tutto questo mai mi importava . Non considero la mia infanzia normale o ordinario minimamente . Ho incontrato Emile quando avevo dodici anni . L'ultima cosa che volevo vedere a quel tempo era un'altra persona bloccata nel ciclo senza fine della schiavitù formata presso il frutteto . Ho creduto che fosse qualcosa che si può mai lasciare . Sapevo che non potevo . Ma alla fine , penso di essere stato circa quindici anni , sapevo che ho amato un altro uomo . Non mi riguarda molto ... perché ho anche imparato il frutteto non teneva gli altri in cattività , ma la creazione di una famiglia stretta legato . Non è che la gente non poteva lasciare , era che volevano non . Era un gruppo così enorme lì , con tutti i meli . Lasciando significherebbe lasciare riparo, cibo , amici e familiari . Nessuno ha mai lasciato quella terra tranquilla , tranne per Emile e me . Per tutto il tempo ero stato così accecato dal mio desiderio spietato di " libertà" che non ho mai visto la grandezza in qualsiasi di esso , soprattutto mio padre ; Gli auguro ogni bene . Liberta . Quella parola usata per confinare me e mi sminuire . Ora quasi non significa nulla . Ora che ho ottenuto che sono venuto alla realizzazione che la mia vita non è mai stato marcio . Ogni minuto di esso è stato grande , grande anche .

Grazie Padre per avermi dato la possibilità di libertà .

  Grazie Emile per le consenta di avverarsi .

Mamma , Sono sulla mia strada ...

Fitzroy Severus Sinclair

  Roy looked once at his letter, barely skimming it over. It didn’t take much more than a couple of minutes for the ink to dry. The letter was folded up nicely and into his pocket. Leaning back in the chair, causing it to squeak, Roy thought to himself.

“When did I learn Italiano?”

  Inside his and Emile’s bedroom, Emile was sleeping soundly still in the small bed. Roy sighed, then quickly dug in the back of the closet searching for his original garments. His fingers hadn’t touched the nice fabric in such a long time. Emile’s mother had the courteous to wash them when he first arrived.

Roy changed into them, quietly, on the other side of the room. Once redressed, Roy sat down on the bed beside Emile. He linked his fingers with the other’s and bent down to nuzzle Emile on the neck.

“Monsieur?” Roy began quietly. “Je vais voir ma mère ... Nous serons de retour. Vous venez?”

    It was dead in the middle of the night and the two of them began to walk. Chocolat was at a far neighbor’s house. Apparently this was an older man with too much time on his hands. They walked silently, hand in hand, through the night’s heat. Eventually reaching the larger house, Roy quietly sneaked into the barn. Emile followed behind to start finding the horse. Roy found the original Sinclair saddle and readied the horse.

  He took a heavy breath before situating his self on the horse. It all came back to him, this undeniable love for horses and riding could never be truly diminished.

“Emile.” Roy spoke softly to Emile. “I won’t be gone longer than a month. I’ll return. I promise.”

  With that, Roy turned on the horse, started it with a kick and ran off towards the city.

              Roy rode his horse for six hours straight. The horse still didn’t seem as tired and worn as he himself did. In fact, once he finally got off at the station. He didn’t like the idea of handing his horse off to some stranger to watch over it for a month, but it couldn’t be helped. Roy came from a rich family but he didn’t carry very much money with him. In fact he would barely have enough to get back to Emile.

              He bought himself a ticket. This whole thing was very frantic. So many people all bundled together in a tiny area. He had never been to an area like this before and it made him feel poor and country himself. Roy shuffled his way onto the train and found a seat by the door. It was a one hour ride to Sicily. His stomach felt heavy at the thought that he was so far from home; by himself as well.

              City folk smell gross. They smell not like the calm cigar his father would smoke but a heavy crud cigarette stench. His fine fabrics were already crumpled from so many people bumping into him. Not to mention he was starving and all the food joints looked very unappealing. Besides, he wished for his next to meal to be from his very own mother.

            That thought churned his stomach. He’s had multiple artificial mothers, all being part of the elaborate façade his father tried to create for his orchard. This was his true mother. None of his siblings re related to her, only him. He carried the connection to this Italian lady no one else did. Not only that, but his father strongly loved her. He wanted to meet the woman.

  Roy watched as the midday sun lit up all the passing buildings. It stopped on the outer edge of Sicily. All the larger buildings had now died away and were replaced with a horrid looking town. Sparse buildings were found, all large and historical looking. Soldiers from the war also occupied the area.

            Roy got off the train and instantly headed to a secluded area. In his pocket were a few pieces of paper. One being a wrinkled paper from his father. On it was his mother’s address. Roy instantly began to ask people where he could find her. Slowly, step by step, he got closer and closer until he was standing in front of a tiny slummy house. He knocked on the door. His body stiff as stone. The door creaked open, revealing half of a young woman’s face. Her hair was short, far shorter than his, all spiked and red.

“Si?” She inquired.

Roy sighed, closed his eyes.

“E 'stato un po' la mamma.” With that the young but tired woman smiled.

“Roy is that you?” She only chuckled.

“I’m almost done with lunch… Come in.”

              His mother. She wasn’t very motherly at all. She was short with her auburn hair. Her smile was brighter than the sun. He loved her very much.

              She set down another helping of the food.

                The newly-found residence of Roy's arms around Emile was similar to the effect of a sedative, in the best way possible. It seemed to slow things down; to close his mind off from all of his suffocating thoughts, and rather let in a breath of fresh air. It was a distraction from all of the guilt and grief circulating through his mind, and it replaced all of that negativity with silent reassurance that none of this was his fault, he was not to blame, he would be okay. Emile let out a shaky, worn breath and rolled closer into Roy's chest, closing his tired, sore eyes and taking in the lingering scent of strawberries and lavender of Roy's shirt.

                Roy's sincerity within these past few moments was enough to make Emile nauseous -- it was difficult to believe the extremities Roy was showering on him, but he knew it was what he needed to hear given his current state. He hated putting Roy through this -- having to see him so emotionally distraught -- but he wasn't sure what he would've done if Roy hadn't been there for him. As unworthy for the words Roy was tossing around as he felt, Emile was grateful that Roy was trying -- and especially for the fact that Roy knew exactly what to say  to distract him and calm him down.

                Emile had always tried writing Clemence letters from his very first week at the orchard, and he'd never gotten any farther than her name at the top of the page. It was the only combination of letters he knew by heart, even more so than his own name, but it was all he could ever painstakingly scrawl down in flawed handwriting. He wasn't sure if he'd ever mentioned the letters to Roy, all of the crumpled up papers that ended up in the trash at the manor, but regardless, the suggestion itself was enough to bring a new wave of tears to Emile's eyes. He nodded into Roy's chest, unable to choke out any words at first, until a weak 'yes' found its way into Roy's chest.

                Emile was tired of crying -- at this point, he wasn't even sure what he was crying for. Everything was pressing down on him at once, but there was nothing in particular that kept him crying now. After this realization, Emile was reduced to occasional, quiet sniffling a few moments later, and he was able to speak without his words being broken and forced.

"Thank you, Roy," he murmured, shifting in Roy's arms and quickly thereafter falling into an undisturbed sleep

∘ ∘ ∘

It appeared to be light out, but at closer attention, the day was glazed over with a thin layer of grey clouds. It was warm, but an occasional cool breeze blew across the  fields, folding the lavender over and creating ripples like waves on the surface of the flowers.

                It was later than Emile normally began his days , and he normally would have been agitated at himself for waking so late, but he reasoned with himself that he deserved the rest under the current circumstance. He and Roy had made their way outside, along with a few sheets of old paper and an aged pencil from a drawer in the kitchen, and had settle for sitting on the ground beneath the tree in the front yard, facing the lavender field across the dirt road. Roy had been holding the pen and paper readily for the past few minutes, and Emile had been stalling just for the sake of the whole situation being uncomfortable and difficult.

"Okay," he breathed finally, keeping his eyes trained on the lavender, "Dear Clemence."

                Rather than thinking over the letter Roy was writing for him at first, Emile let the words come to him naturally, just as if he were speaking to her like any other day.

Dear Clemence,

                It's strange to think that we were apart for so long, and yet it feels as though we never spent a day apart. It's even more strange to think that out of all the countless letter I've attempted to write you, the letter that is actually going to reach you is the one being written after you're already gone. I am still coming to terms with the fact that I won't see you again. I walk by your room and expect to hear you humming, and at the table for breakfast this morning I waited for you to come down the stairs until I finally realized that you wouldn't be joining us for breakfast or lunch or dinner any longer.

                On another note, I'm looking across at your sea of lavender as this is being written. I can see, now more than ever, why you always compared these flowers to an ocean. Not necessarily in that they move in waves, like water does, but the vastness and greatness of looking across it all at once. The fact that I am just now beginning to realize why you loved it so will haunt me now -- I wish I had been able to share this awe and wonder with you while you were still here. But writing these things out for you now will have to be sufficient enough.

                I hope you are peaceful here, surrounded by the very lavender that you loved so much in life. I know, with everything in me, that it is what you would have wanted. And though I am grateful that you are able to have a peaceful resting place, a part of me still blames myself for what has become of you. And I know that you'll be scolding me for thinking such things when you read this, but it is the least I can do to take away the shock of everything. I want to apologize to you one thousand times over, as if it would bring you back, but I know that you wouldn't want that. So I will leave you with this:

                You are the reason I strived to come back here, back home, and it is the best decision I've made, because it has shown me just how much I love this place and how enchanting your lavender sea truly is.

I love you very much, sister. I promise I'll meet you again soon, and I'll bring flowers for you with me.

Love,

Your brother, Emile

  Emile had kept himself together as he recited the letter to Roy, and as Roy scrawled it all down as he went, and even as Emile took the completed letter from Roy and read through it.

"Thank you for doing this, Roy. It means everything to me."

Lavender was taller than Roy had known. The purple feathers always tickled the back of his knees when he waded through the flowers. Throughout the entire scene Roy wanted to hug Emile; to comfort him to the best of his abilities. That was impossible however. This was Emile’s issue. Roy continued to stand by his side, unwilling to move. But he didn’t feel much needed in the situation at all. Trying to weasel his way into the situation was a poor idea. Roy only watched. It pained him in what he imagined to be similar to Emile’s pain. Of course he missed Clemence; her presence still felt possible. Like she was in her room braiding her hair or humming silly nursery rhymes to the outside cat after supper. These things had felt so trivial; however now they come together to form a feeling that carried great depth. Roy no longer felt sad; the bottom of his stomach hurt instead. Like all the sadness was too heavy for his heart to carry so it dropped it downwards. It was a bit much for his stomach too, since waves of nausea would often come and go. When those came, Roy felt his head heavy and his eyes sting. Eventually however, this feeling would pass and his numb mind would revert back to the family quarreling. It felt so discordant inside this small wooden house, as if such despair was even too heavy for the floorboards, like they would give away just as his heart did.

  Emile’s mother made herself a sandwich. Emile was puffy-eyed and curled up at the end of the table. While leaning against the wall, Roy kept his posture stiff, almost unwelcome. He hands fumbled with a loose thread and he never glanced up at the now silent mother and son. Roy’s stomach would not welcome food nor would Emile’s. They watched as she buttered the bread and quietly munched on the pickles. After ten minutes, the plate was washed and the returned to its original place. She left the white washed door with a shawl to keep her warm from the evening’s chill. After that, it was just Emile and Roy. He couldn’t hear Emile, but his wounded aura could be sliced with the buttery knife left on the kitchen table.

  Emile’s voice awakened. It cut through the tension without using any form of utensil at all. Roy hadn’t realized how much he had beginning to crave for that voice. That soft, calming, smooth voice eradicated his trauma. Roy’s face softened and he listened to the words. Each one stung worse than his childhood vaccinations. And when his words concluded, Roy felt relieved but at the same time concerned. He could understand where Emile was coming from, but it still pained him to imagine him blaming his self for the accident.

  Once Emile’s head found its way against Roy’s chest, he released a strong breath of air he hadn’t realized he had been holding for so long. “Emile,” he began. Roy leaned down to kiss the top of his head. His auburn hair still smelling like the strawberry bushes from earlier. Calmly and carefully, Roy encased Emile within his arms and cradled him from side to side. He let Emile cry, vent out all of the frustration and pain he had attempted to contain around his mother. Roy shushed Emile to help calm him until the boy finally slowed his breaths, sounding sleepier than anything.

“Non. Emile.” Roy lulled into his ear. “It is not your fault.” Roy didn’t know how to convince him. “That is absurd. I promise.”

It  had taken Emile quite a bit of arguing, but he'd finally convinced his mother that they would bury Clemence in the lavender fields. She had insisted that burying his sister in the middle of a crop field was inappropriate, but upon the words, "c'est ce qu'elle aurait voulu," his mother grew quiet and, after a moment of thought, nodded gravely and retired to her room.

                Emile was worn from grief and from bickering with his mother over something that was so definite to him. He was grateful that she had finally accepted the thought, but he was disappointed that she hadn't understood the substantiality of his proposition in the first place. He figured she would have understood immediately, seeing as she was Clemence's mother -- and even he had been away from her for seven years and was still confident in knowing what Clemence would wish for herself. He'd never spoken about things like death with her before -- he'd always hated just the thought of her having to consider something so morbid (although inevitable), but he'd always known that whatever happened, she would have to remain with her sea of lavender.

                Emile sank into a chair at the kitchen table and buried his face in his  hands. He'd already gone through his share of mourning -- after a solid hour of shock and disbelief -- and he was surely through with talking about it tonight. Now that he was given time to think things over on his own, he took into consideration how Roy must have felt. Obviously he must have felt grief, like everyone else, but Emile assumed this must have been quite uncomfortable for him. Emile and his mother rarely fought -- perhaps once a year, over something petty at that -- and Roy had never been there to witness it before. On top of that, Emile's mother had still been in partial shock throughout their dispute, which made her all the more irritable and frantic. Emile breathed out into his hands, shifting in the seat, curling towards himself as if to see if he could just become so small that he'd disappear and not have to deal with any of this.

                He stayed like that for a while, listening to the sound of the night breeze against the house and Roy's calm breaths across the room. Roy hadn't said much, and Emile couldn't blame him. Emile was sure that Roy was probably just hesitant to upset Emile any more. Back at the orchard, Emile couldn't remember a single time when he'd displayed such raw and unconfined emotion in front of Roy, so this was a new atmosphere for the both of them, regardless of the circumstance at hand. Emile was eventually able to pull his hands from his face, feeling cold air rush to his face as he did, and glanced in Roy's direction. He cleared his throat, averted his gaze again, and took it upon himself to put an end to the dreadful silence that had been hanging over them.

"Sorry, Roy."

His voice seemed distant to him, muffled by the tears he hadn't shed yet. He wasn't sure why he was sorry -- of course he had apologized to Clemence already thousands of times within the time that he'd come to terms with the loss -- but he knew he had no veritable reason to be apologizing to Roy. He had to admit to himself that he felt guilty for Roy having to be here in the first place, but he knew there was no reason for him to have to apologize for how he'd been reacting these last few hours. All of the emotions he'd displayed were justified, but he hated that Roy had to be here to witness such a personal affair.

                Emile was becoming more and more accustomed to the fact that Clemence was gone, that his sister was dead, but with each passing moment without her he began to blame himself more and more for the loss. If only he'd been watching her, if only he'd stayed with her, if only he would've been the one at the bottom of that cliff instead of her. Emile stood abruptly, silently, and turned to face Roy. He was growing desperate, becoming consumed with the thought that it could have been him, not her, or perhaps neither of them, if he'd only been paying attention. She could have been here with them now, filling the house with laughter and high spirits rather than the grieving and tension that weighed down on them now.

"I should have been watching her. It should have been me."

Emile was aware that in a few weeks time, he would know that he didn't mean the words spewing from his mouth at the moment. But for now, he was too bitter and full of self-accusation to stop himself. He met Roy's eyes at this, feeling tears well up behind his eyes, taking notice of the hot train one left behind as it rolled down his check. It took him no time to end up directly in front of Roy, clutching his shirt in white-knuckled fists and pressing his face into his shoulder.

" C'est de ma faute."

 ------------------------

c'est ce qu'elle aurait voulu → it's what she would want.

Eventually the lavender grew back. Roy had never seen the purple flower before in his life. Behind the church dim imitations of the plant could be found by the tire swing. He remembered the kids purposefully stepping and smashing it, laughing at its indignity. This, the true form of lavender, was something not to scorn or belittle. Even Roy, being as brash and childish as he is, couldn’t help but to stand in awe of the wild purple waves of aroma. If he squinted his eyes he could just barely see the farm houses across the other side. The vast field was a gift, something not everyone got. Roy had turned twenty. This was his first time viewing the field, but it was far from the first time he saw the purple waves. He saw, every day Emile smiled. He couldn’t help but too see the boy’s sister and lavender in each and every one of his smiles.

Life was becoming simple. Roy had his silk clothing tucked away in Emile’s room that they shared. He wore hand sewn clothing and ate basic sandwiches while drinking fresh milk. That had certainly been a new experience; the milk was so thick, he even hear the slop of it falling into his glass. It was weird—really everything was a strange adjustment. Roy had lived on his own type of farm but never one like this. He took a liking to it, this other world he had never even known of. Each time he thought like this, a little sliver of respect was given toward this father. This was the view on life they shared: stuck between wealth and pure want.

  On a sunny Wednesday afternoon towards the beginning of summer, Clemence had the great idea to go strawberry picking. Roy happily obliged along with Emile. Grabbing a large basket they head out the door. Roy gave his horse a pat before heading down the dusty trail he was becoming familiar with.

    “Chocolat Sir, she’s gone.” Alfred Sinclair sat at the huge mahogany desk writing letters to other important businessmen. He gave a heavy sigh, removing the readers from his tall nose, “Benjamin what in the heavens are you talking—.”

“Chocolat, the dark brown horse, she’s missing from the stables.”

Alfred stood up. “Leave.”

“But Sir, don’t you want me too—.”

“No.” Alfred said calmly. Benjamin nodded and left the oversized study. As if he were still in the room, Alfred spoke, “The stables hm?” Pulling the curtain to the side, Alfred glanced down the snowy pasture to the wooden building. “Run Roy, don’t ever look back.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

        “Clemence!” Roy yelled, “Clemence SLOW DOWN!” Roy traveled behind her. She carried the big wooden basket as it swung beside her yellow dress. The bottom of it flowed like the strands from the old willow tree behind the same tire swing the purple flowers were found. Every action Roy observed, could be connected to back home. He loved it; he loved returning back to those memories of doodling silly thinks for the butler with Emile, and trying to stand up tall in church to check if Roy was taller than his father—he was far from it. No matter how lovely those memories were, Roy did not miss it. He could now forever strive off of the memories and live here, with Emile. No longer pulled down by name, family, and wealth, Roy was free. The one thing he wished for above all else.

      Roy caught up with Clemence whose hair was curled and pulled into two darling pigtails. If Emile wasn’t there, Clemence would be next best. Emile was a partner, eventual lover, but most certainly a friend. Roy loved him, but the entire Leroche family is what caught his attention. They all had the same soft yet tough features with gorgeous lemon kissed eyes. “Emile, when we get back I want a lemon.” Roy called behind him. Emile had a confused expression but gave a nod and kept trudging up this god forsaken hill.

“Roy, you are ever so slow!” Clemence cried beside him in her most innocent voice.

“I am not, you just are fast on those skinny little legs.”

“Me? Little?” Clemence laugh aloud and nudged Roy’s shoulder, “I’m way younger than you but taller.” Roy shook his head.

“Non Non. You are… petite. I’m the man who’s tall and muscular, I’d lift an entire ox if I saw one!” Clemence only shook her head and Emile came up to walk alongside the two of them.

“I hate to admit it Roy, but Emile is even taller than you.” She said confidently. Squinting his eyes at first the girl, Roy then glanced up at Emile. She was correct, Emile had at least three inches on him, if not four or five.

“Merde.”

        At the top of the hill the sun was a bit more than inviting. It was warm, sunny, and would easily burn Roy if he didn’t stand in the shade. Clemence could call him a baby as much as she pleased, Roy would be the one waking up still intact with his skin unlike her. Roy stood behind a big bush and watched as Clemence grabbed each individual strawberry from the low bushes. She had to bend down more than Roy would have pleased to see. He had to chuckle at himself, however, this was the ‘wee little girl’ Emile always mentioned. Last time he saw her that would’ve been true. But she carried a woman physique now. It didn’t bother Roy though, he could still view her as his own little sibling. Emile had been helping her identify which strawberries were ripe and which weren’t but eventually came to stand in his distinguished spot beside Roy.

  “Emile,” Roy began cheerfully as he watched the girl slowly migrate to the next bush. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Grazie. I suppose.” Roy didn’t care for any drama or love fest at the moment, he just wanted to say that. Hopefully, he would have to explain what he meant by that. This freedom was granted by Emile, and only him.

      Trying to conjure up his big words from his French lessons at the manor, Roy was hesitant to speak. Instead he just looked up at the soft color pallet of he identified as Emile and gave him a small kiss on the cheek.

“Tu sei bella come il tramonto. Amore mio, solo mio.” Roy whispered intp his ear.

  ‘Wait,’ he wondered, ‘was that in Italian?’

  There was no time for second guessing because before realizing, Roy has leaned into Emile’s hair. It still carried the scent of the soap from earlier. Roy tried not to push Emile into the bush, but came close many times.

  It was a loud shriek that pulled the two apart. Roy looked over to Clemence; she wasnt there. “Baise.”Roy spat. He didn’t know where she was or where she could have gone, but it did resemble her voice. He looked over to the bushes and rushed over. Nothing was near them except a few trees, a large dirt pathway and a cliff to the other side. Ah. Roy looked down the cliff to see Clememnce all the day down it. Small parts of her dress had crimson stains, but mostly her position looked inhuman. One knee was connected to her temple while the other was bent backwards. “Emile.” He said calmly. We need to go down the hill.” Emile, slowly and pale faced, headed towards the dropoff. Roy grabbed his wrist. “Emile,” he said sternly, “We are going to go home now.” Roy tried to speak smoothly, calmly, and hopefully confidently. With an iron grasp on the boy’s wrist, Roy tugged him in the opposite direction and headed down the path.

  Emile’s mother was making banana pudding when the two of them got back.

“Maman.” Roy spoke, slightly rushed and voice out of breath from fear. He was still holiding onto Emile’s wrist. “Clemence, she, she fell off the cliff.” Petrfied is the only word Roy was able to come up with. Even Emile stiffened at what he already knew. Wiping her hands on her yellow apron, made from the same material as Clemence’s dress, she scurried out the door. Almost running now, she went over to the ground and kneeled beside her daughter.

Emile would’ve never thought that the moments leading up to this one would have led him here, to this moment, in his mother’s arms. This wasn’t supposed to happen now – it hadn’t been planned this way – but he could feel his mother’s silent tears penetrate the fabric of his shirt as they seeped onto his shoulder, and he could feel his own tears dropping slowly. This was a dream, and he was waiting to wake up and head out to the stables, to lead another normal day at the orchard with Roy. He was waiting for his eyes to blink open, disturbed by the light of a new morning, but all that was happening was the warmth of his mother’s familiar embrace and the smell of home and  cinnamon in his mother’s auburn hair.

Pulling away, dazed, Emile felt his mother’s fingers ghost across his cheeks, taking his face into her hands and searching his eyes. Her fingers were more calloused than he’d remembered. Then again, it had been seven years. Emile figured seven years was enough to change someone – included themselves. Camille Laroche’s expression was something Emile felt but couldn’t put into words himself. It was relief and joy and pride, but mostly it was seven years parted without a single word. It was reunion.

They stayed like that for a few moments. Taking everything in. How much Emile had grown, the grey hairs peeking out at his mother’s widow’s peak. She still wore the same faded apron, still styled her hair in that same carefree ponytail over her left shoulder.

“Your hair has gotten longer,” his mother remarked, as if on cue, moving her hands to take tufts of his hair in her hands.

“It has.”

Clemence’s voice had matured, but it wasn’t any different than it had been all those years ago. Emile barely felt his mother’s fingers fall from his face as she smiled knowingly at him and stepped aside. Behind her was Clemence, donning a pale yellow dress he’d never seen her wearing before. He had to keep reminding himself that the reason he’d never seen this particular dress was because she would’ve inevitably grown over seven years. And she had – when she threw herself into his arms a breath later, her head was just below his chin now. Her hair – blonde, like no one else in the family – had once been just past her shoulders. It now fell with the slightest of waves to the small of her back.

“So has yours,” Emile breathed, a helpless laugh cracking into his words.

She still smelled like lavender, even in the winter when all that was left was dry soil buried beneath layers of snow. It was like she loved the lavender so much that she had become a part of it; there was lavender in her veins and her eyes and her heart, and it was what Emile had missed the most about her.

He didn’t want to let go.

            This was an infinite number of letters he’d carefully scrawled out at night, guided only by candle light. This was hundreds of attempts to spell out her name, to form the letters on smooth paper. This was wadded up letters, shred apart in frustration because he’d never been taught to read or write well. This was all of the things he’d wanted to say to her over seven years, and all he could do was smile into her crown of golden hair.

            Clemence eventually grew restless of being held in her brother’s arms, and was able to wriggle herself away just enough to move her eyes across his face. He took the time to finally look at her – really look – and saw just how much she had grown during his absence. She was no longer the little girl that he called his baby sister. This was a young woman standing before him. He opened his mouth to compliment her, to tell her how much of a beautiful young lady she’d grown into, but she was already rolling her eyes at him.

“Oh, save it, Emile,” she sighed, through a smile. And it made Emile happy, because he knew now that she hadn’t changed a bit. She was still Clemence, he was still Emile. They were all still a family.

Emile, finally beginning to come to terms with things, turned to face Roy again. He faced him seriously at first, fronting an air of gratitude and respect, before another helpless smile broke through. He wanted to thank him a million times over, but figured he ought to save it.

“Boys, come sit,” His mother piped in moments later, still unable to remove her awed gaze from her nearly-grown son, “I’ll get you some tea.”

They were ushered into the kitchen, taking seats at the small wooden table in the center of the room. It still smelled like it always had – like tea leaves and fresh bread. Emile remembered sitting here countless times, making faces at Clemence from across the table and giggling when she’s make them back. It was quiet; Emile’s mother momentarily brought out two cups of tea, setting one down in front of Emile and one in front of Roy. Emile graciously took it; he hadn’t realized how tired he’d been until he’d taken a seat. He didn’t know if he should step right back into his old life and act like he always had, like he’d never even left, or if he should treat this like a serious ordeal. It was hard to tell with everyone keeping so quiet, especially when everyone’s gazes seemed to expectantly float between him and Roy.

“I insist that you boys stay the rest of the night. It’s far too cold out for you to be out in the first place. Which reminds me – what brought you here in the first place, so suddenly?”

His mother’s gaze fell upon Emile as he downed another sip of tea, and he meet eyes with Roy beside him before he could stop himself from doing so.

“It’s not really my place to say, but I’m sure one night wouldn’t be a problem,” Emile suggested, again glancing from his mother to Roy, “We were just walking. Everyone gets a little restless in the winter.”

It was the best excuse he could turn to for the time being – he didn’t want to flat out say that an emotional episode had brought them here by chance.

Now that she’d brought it up, Emile didn’t know how long they were going to stay. He assumed that, if anything, it would only be tonight. But he knew that Roy was aware of how important this was to him, and had a sliver of hope that they could stay longer. Emile just had to hope that this wasn’t uncomfortable for Roy. He knew that his mother and Clemence already accepted Roy as family, but Emile didn’t know if Roy was okay with everything.

            A glance out the window reminded Emile that it was still late, and he knew by her quietness that Clemence had to be tired.

“Are there still blankets in my room?”

Emile’s mother looked at him, for once facing him with a serious expression.

“Of course.”

It was two words, but Emile knew what she meant. She had always been waiting, prepared, for this day. He nodded, standing, and smiled once more at his mother and sister.

“It’s good to be back.”

He kissed his mother on the forehead, and did the same to Clemence before heading to the narrow staircase. “Goodnight.”

He gestured for Roy to follow him, and he counted the stairs on the way up. Twenty-one. Same as always. The door to his room was closed; he had to wonder how long it had been since it had last been opened. Perhaps since the day he’d left. It was still the same inside as he’d left it: bed still pushed beneath the window at the other end of the room, faded blue paint neatly donning the walls.

It was strange to be back in this place. It was like a museum, like he was only observing. He felt as though he shouldn’t touch anything, as if it were all being preserved and the slightest disturbance would ruin things. He found himself sitting on the familiar mattress moments later, hearing it creak under his weight, and watched Roy’s eyes dance across the room. He was curious as to what Roy thought about all of this – about seeing where Emile had grown up all those years before they met.

            “This is your house isn’t it?” Roy didn’t need an answer. He knew this is was Emile’s house; his true home. Roy intertwined his fingers through Emile’s. He stepped forward until his forehead was pressed up against the other boy’s chest. Too much was flying around right now. Roy was dealing with major death of his friends. It was painful. Unbearable. Roy could only search for warmth in Emile because of the cold nipping at the tip of his nose and fingers. He hadn’t been outside since the snow had begun for more than ten minutes. This was reminding him why he hated this season so deeply. The bright and cheery sun was hidden behind a grey cloud. The dirt path leading up to the small house was shaded, dark, and eerie.

Roy looked over from the side of his partner’s chest to the house. It was cute. That was the word. Roy felt a warm feeling slowly build up within him. He had only been here as an infant, but looking at this home was like looking back in time. Even in the winter months it looked nice. Even under the darkened sky it looked peaceful. Even without the light purple surrounding it like waves of beauty, it was still beautiful. Roy gave a small smile, hesitating to show teeth. He reached up and kissed Emile politely on his cheek. Heat began to fill his flushed cheeks and ears.

“Let’s go and visit, Monsieur.”

            Roy began to take a few steps backwards toward the house. He pulled Emile by his wrist with both of his hands. He had to admit meeting Emile’s family nerved him. But Roy was aware how much more difficult his would be to Emile.

            The path wasn’t near as long as it looked. Roy’s brown shoes were beginning to hurt his feet. It seemed arrogant, rude, and frankly stupid. The shoes were too nice and fancy for this much walking. The idea humored Roy. He really was a fancy rich kid who didn’t deserve Emile. His heart ached a bit because of this. Roy looked over to Emile. He too looked nicer than when he moved in to the orchard. Surely his mother would recognize him.

            Emile’s face was looking pale and ungodly nervous. Roy could only offer him a shaky smile before he knocked on the door. Quickly letting go of Emile’s hand, Roy stuffed it back into his pocket. Even though it was evening time, the door swung open revealing a middle aged woman with her hair pulled into a side braid. She looked from Roy to Emile with a confused expression. Emile obviously couldn’t say anything. In fact, Emile looked corrupt, or emotionally pained.

“Fils?” His mother looked at Emile and eventually teared up. She grabbed up son and pulled him into a huge embrace. Emile stood frozen at first, but slowly warmed up to his mother’s touch. The woman looked pretty, but obviously tired and worn.

“Clemence. Darling. Emile is home.” Emile stiffened up again at the name of his sister’s name. Ro could only smile, feeling for once, very happy for Emile.

            His mother turned to Roy while still clinging to her son.

“Fitzy?” Roy blushed at the unknown nickname. It must have been a baby thing. Roy only nodded before he was brought into the hug as well.

Questo e cio che e familiar….

….Je suis heureux pour vous Emile

Fils is French for son

Questo e che e familiarroughly translats from Italian to mean this is what a family is

            The winter’s snow had begun to pile up, almost reaching to the bottom of the windows. It was cold outside; this being one of the coldest winters yet. The temperature was dropping lower and lower each day. Roy wished for his warm seasons on his horses, but he was able to settle down for the winter with Emile, letting his head heal for once. Even though days were peaceful, it was really just the two of them alone doing miscellaneous tasks throughout the day. Many employees were laid off for the winter; of course the more-so needed and loyal workers stayed. The manor was growing empty, even Roy’s elder siblings moved away to some fancy college.

            Even though Roy was enjoying his time with Emile, cuddling for warmth from the dramatic winter, he could only think about the future. He felt rather uneasy with the current situation, like it was a standstill. He felt like this time couldn’t be properly enjoyed since they were concentrating more on the future. Honestly, Roy and Emile never mentioned or talked about it with each other. It was a situation they ignored, wanting to try concentrate on the time they had now.

            One day, a particularly cloudy and colder day, the doorbell rang. The bell was almost never used, especially throughout the winter. Roy and Emile had been wiping down the kitchen one last time before they headed back up to their room for the night. It was around nine, and most residents were simply preforming their daily nighttime routines.

            Roy decided to go and answer the door, allowing Emile to finish up in the kitchen. The outside was cold, numbing and unpleasant. Blocking most of the wind was a tall soldier, German, with a black scraggly beard.

“Are you a resident of the Sinclair manor?” Roy hesitated at the question, but he had grown to trust a German soldier.

“Yes.”

“I am sorry to inform you that the Northern troops that camped on your estate did not make it through the last battle.” The troop looked tired, worn, and cold. Roy felt like he should offer the man something or at least respond… but he couldn’t. People he knew, even loved died. He realized he wasn’t used to loss. He had endured his own form of sadness, but hasn’t had to deal with death. He didn’t like it. It was unfair. Stupid. Mean. Erne… poor old Erne lied body bloodless and covered in the weather’s treacherous ice and snow. Roy just hoped he didn’t die alone. Of course he didn’t. He had his country’s pride with him, not to mention good old Tracy. But, no matter what, he kept thinking negatively. ‘Is this it? Is this the outside world? Will he die, stave, be poor, find war, and find unhappiness?’ Roy wasn’t prepared for that. But the newly found hole inside his chest made it impossible for him to feel better.

            He couldn’t do anything to stop it. He ran. He ran farther than he expected. He ran past the white wooden Sinclair sign he had always dreamed of walking past with Emile… but that wasn’t happening. He was alone, cold as he ran on the icy path into the woods. He had no clue where he was going. But he couldn’t stand the scent of apples any longer. He ran for what felt like hours but was only perhaps one. He ran and ran until his frozen limbs stood before a harvested lavender field.

            Emile had just finished slicing the last apple and was drying his hands after washing them when he felt Roy’s arm’s thread their way around his waist. He started to speak up at first, to ask what Roy wanted or what was wrong, but he stopped himself. It had taken him over seven years to do so, but he’d finally began to realize that there didn’t really need to be a reason behind everything, especially when it came to Roy and moments like these. And he didn’t mind. In fact, he was quite keen on the idea of Roy approaching him like this for no other reason than the fact that he simply wanted to.

            Emile’s hands stilled and stop fiddling with the dish towel, and he glanced down to watch Roy’s thumb move back and forth gently across the back of his hand. A moment passed before he heard Roy speak, but he couldn’t say he really minded the silence between them at the moment.

“Emile, I don’t know what’s going to happen from here on out; between us, where we’ll go, when. I don’t know, but for once, I don’t really care.”

Emile closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a breath as he processed Roy’s words. It felt a bit strange to hear Roy speak so seriously of something, especially considering it mostly about him and Roy. He didn’t know why Roy had decided to bring up such matters now – or at all, even – but decided that he didn’t want to question it.

“Neither do I,” he responded softly after a moment, setting down the dish towel so that he could place his other hand over Roy’s.

            Emile stood there without another word and without moving out of Roy’s arms. He really had meant that he didn’t care what happened to the two of them, so long as they stayed together – something he knew that he would to anything in his power to ensure, and knew the same applied to Roy. It was nice to know, at least, that Roy was actually thinking about the future; it saved Emile the trouble of having to worry about it all on his own.

“Let’s wait after winter.”

Emile was able to assume that Roy was bringing up the idea of leaving the orchard. Emile wasn’t exactly eager to leave this place, but he wasn’t content with the idea of staying on the same patch of land for the rest of his days. It really was Roy’s decision, and Emile was glad to see that he wasn’t rushing into it.

“Yeah. After winter.”

            Emile grasped Roy’s hand with the hand on top as he felt Roy’s lips press a kiss to his cheek, and for once he wasn’t embarrassed by the touch or the fact that Roy was displaying such raw affection; he was only grateful that something between them was finally being established. Emile didn’t exactly know what that something was, but he wasn’t sure he really cared, and he especially didn’t mind it.