♡ pairing: Paul Verlaine x Arthur Rimbaud
♡ synopsis: After a hard day, Verlaine finds solace in the arms of his partner.
♡ cw: Stormbringer spoilers(?), Rimlaine are extremely sad and gay
note: "i want to write a oneshot about some really beautiful but tragic gay men but i cant think of anything" i said to @small-chaos. they replied "Everybody talks about the moon and the sun but nobody admires the beauty in the relationship between the moon and the sea" and then this brainchild was born. thanks bestie <3 i would also like to shoutout @gettinshiggywithit for helping me complete this when i ran out of brain power, thank you lovely 😚😚 apologies for errors and I hope you enjoy x
The early winds of autumn were warm and gentle, relieving busy Parisians of the sticky summer humidity as the changing season set itself in motion. The sounds of evening began to die down, leaving only the rustling of brown and orange leaves in its wake. Yet, one man hadn't been privy to this particular noise, as all his windows had been closed as soon as he'd first entered the apartment the week prior. All he could hear was the crackling of fire and his own chattering teeth.
Rimbaud found himself growing colder by the minute. That night, he sat shivering on a sofa right before the fireplace, with a thick fluffy blanket wrapped around him. Despite the fact that he was also clad in several layers, a thick grey coat, a large scarf, mittens and earmuffs, he still felt like he might succumb to hypothermia any second.
He wanted nothing more than to leap into the fire itself, but he sat as still as he could and waited. Verlaine was supposed to be back soon, and when he knew that he was alright he would be able to go to their shared room and sleep (somewhat) soundly. That was what he'd planned, at least.
After hearing the sound of the door unlocking, Rimbaud bowed his head as Verlaine entered the apartment and closed the door behind him. He momentarily glanced at his partner, before doing a double take in shock.
Verlaine looked...dishevelled. He wasn't so dishevelled that a stranger may take notice and ask him about it, but for Verlaine, even a loose strand of hair was unusual. Rimbaud immediately knew something terrible must've happened.
"Paul, you...!" Rimbaud sat up, eyeing Verlaine who didn't seem to want to return his gaze. He silently walked, or rather stumbled, over towards the couch where his partner was sitting.
Rimbaud had never seen Verlaine act in such a way. Sure, he could come off as aloof from time to time, but today he didn't seem bothered to hide the fatigue he was feeling. Even his complexion seemed paler.
Verlaine then kneeled on the sofa, before his whole upper body flopped on top of Rimbaud, who let out a soft grunt at the impact. He tried to adjust his posture, but now that Verlaine was slumped on top of him he found it difficult to move.
"I'm..." Verlaine pushed his hat off his head, letting it fall to the ground by Rimbaud's shoes. "...I'm tired."
His umber eyes seemed unfocused, staring somewhere Rimbaud couldn't see.
"What happened to you, Paul?" The raven-haired couldn't help but feel concern bubbling inside him, and the question came off with more urgency than he'd intended it to. Not that it mattered- Verlaine never seemed to care about things like that.
Verlaine didn't answer for a moment, just letting out a breath that he seemed to have been holding in for a while. His face contorted into a slight grimace.
"...I don't want to talk about it now."
In spite of his worry, Rimbaud didn't press him further.
The room was bathed in a golden hue from the fire before the couch they were draped upon. It subconsciously gave a feeling of comfort to Rimbaud, who suddenly noticed how tranquil the atmosphere was despite the fact that he was trapped beneath Verlaine's roughed-up form. He realised that he wasn't shivering so violently now. He was still cold, of course, but Verlaine acted as a soothing source of warmth.
Rimbaud's gloomy eyes gazed down at Verlaine, whose eyes had closed by now. There was no blood on his person, of course, but his slightly dishevelled blonde hair and wrinkled clothing weren't any less cause for concern. For something or someone to have even a slight effect on a creature as powerful as Verlaine...
Rimbaud steadily moved his gloved hand and, after a moment of contemplation, placed it atop the back of Verlaine's head as gently as he could muster. Verlaine didn't react. Rimbaud let out a deep exhale, and cautiously ran a hand through his soft golden locks.
The small room the two were temporarily staying in, an apartment in an old Haussmann-style building located on the outskirts of Paris, was silent. They had become accustomed to moving around as frequently as their job required, and had never bothered to modify any of their living spaces to feel more homely. Rimbaud only cared about where Verlaine was, and Verlaine didn't see much merit in interior design. Yet, something about this place felt inherently intimate, or so Rimbaud thought.
"...Rimbaud?" Verlaine suddenly mumbled. Rimbaud cast him a glance, his face half obscured by blueish shadows while the other half glowed in the yellow light.
"...I heard something in passing a few days ago," he began, almost as if he were unsure of his own words. "It was about love."
"Love?" Rimbaud creased his eyebrows, perplexed. If one were to ask him anything that Verlaine may bring up in conversation, love wouldn't have been in his first thousand guesses.
"Yes, love...I heard someone compare the concept of soulmates to the sun and the moon," Verlaine continued with a faint voice. "I don't quite understand it."
"Well..." Rimbaud's tone was slightly shaky. "You know the phrase 'opposites attract', don't you?"
Verlaine let out a small noise but Rimbaud couldn't tell whether it was affirmative or negative. Regardless, he continued.
"It means that two people who are different from each other are likely to have a better relationship. The 'sun' person would usually be more outgoing and cheery, while the 'moon' person is more introspective and quiet..." He bit his thin lip and then added, "Not unlike you, Paul."
Verlaine shifted slightly, his hand perching itself on top of Rimbaud's chest.
"That's not to say that introspection and quietness are bad things," Rimbaud quickly spoke. "I just mean that...they're traits that suit you well. The 'moon' caricature as a whole suits you well, in fact."
"The moon..." Verlaine muttered to himself. "So far away from the rest of mankind...perhaps I am like the moon."
Rimbaud wanted to comfort Verlaine, to reassure him that he wasn't far away from anybody, especially not him, but the words wouldn't form on his tongue. He felt as if he should have been better at this by now; after all, it was far from the first time they'd had this type of conversation.
"If I am the moon then you're the sea." Verlaine suddenly announced, snapping Rimbaud out of his train of thought.
"The sea?" Rimbaud repeated, quietly. "...I don't understand."
"The sea is complex, full of mystery. You can never predict the force of the ocean's waves as they crash on the sand," Verlaine breathed, as if he were reading a poem. "You are deep and dark, Rimbaud. You're full of undiscovered secrets...and..."
He lifted his head up, lidded brown eyes staring straight into Rimbaud's. "We might be opposites, but I don't think you're a sun."
Rimbaud's breath hitched in surprise. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Verlaine's, whose tired gaze still burned right through him.
"Every day I survey you from afar and it feels almost like you glow when I look at you. How strange is that?"
The black-haired man couldn't tell whether or not Verlaine's question was rhetorical or not. Even if it wasn't, he probably wouldn't have been able to come up with a coherent answer. He was frozen in surprise, unable to break the tense silence between them.
Verlaine's hand moved from Rimbaud's chest to his cheek, gently cupping it while his thumb began to rub circles over his soft, pale skin. The blonde man seemed to be in some kind of fatigued haze.
"The saddest thing is how unattainable you are. But I know that if I were ever to fall..." Verlaine leaned forward, his breath tickling Rimbaud's face. "You would be there to catch me, wouldn't you?"
Then, without giving him the chance to answer, Verlaine brought his lips to Rimbaud's. His grip on Rimbaud's cheek tightened ever so slightly as he deepened the kiss, almost smiling when Rimbaud placed his hands on his back and squeezed.
"Paul-" Rimbaud tried to start when he pulled away, wanting to ask if they should be doing this or if it was really alright, but Verlaine just placed a finger to his lips.
"Shh..." the corner of Verlaine's lip turned up. Rimbaud's cheeks flushed red, and he quickly dove back into the kiss.
Aside from pulling apart for air every few seconds, the pair remained in their gentle embrace until Verlaine eventually pulled away, leaving Rimbaud breathless, and laid his head down on his chest.
"I'm tired, Arthur..." he said, before closing his eyes. Verlaine must've been exhausted- he never called Rimbaud by his first name. It made his heart skip a beat; something he hoped that Verlaine didn't notice.
With the state he was in, Verlaine probably wouldn't remember this in the morning. Rimbaud decided that unless he bought it up first, he wouldn't say a thing about it, no matter how much he wanted to.
And thus, the pair never spoke of that night again.
taglist~ ♡
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