#*gemma;

paris, in the years that she’s been gone, doesn’t seem to have changed much at all. the streetlights are just starting to flicker on when she arrives, bathing her in their electric bronze. she steps out onto rue de dunkerque and can’t help but think, oh, how strange this is.

but she is not here to stare blankly, or to sigh wistfully, or to think sadly. no, not at all; she is here to visit someone very important.

she hails a cab and gives to the man inside an address she hasn’t said aloud for a long time. her voice cracks toward the end and she’s ashamed at how it does, but she settles quietly into the car and occupies her mind with pondering how unusual it is to sit anywhere but the driver’s seat.

when the rumble cobblestone turns to the crunch of gravel, gemma knows they are close. she pays the driver and steps out; takes a breath and walks the path she has committed to memory, even so many years later.

fifty-eight steps; in between, take two rights, then one left. at the exact count, her feet come together to a stop. in front of her: a dusted gravestone of smooth, black granite, golden words etched across the centre.

          adelais sofia presigny.                  1992-2013.

from her paper bag, she pulls out a bouquet. all roses and chrysanthemums — for love, for grief. gemma kneels onto the gravel path and lays the flowers prettily inside an old mason jar from the last time she was here. the previous flowers seem to have cleared themselves; withered out and blown away. she feels guilty at knowing how long it must’ve been.

“tu es ma lumière, addy,” she whispers in greeting; a phrase she’s not said in years. she brushes her fingertips against the soft petals, hand tracing a line all the way to the name carved in gold. she follows each line with care, like she wants to remember the feel of every individual letter. “you are my light. my golden light, like sunshine.” she hasn’t spoken french in so long, she thinks her words sound clumsy. unnatural. her accent is jumbled with the american one she’s feigned for so long.

“and like sunshine, you could shake the fruit from trees.” her laughter comes out in a peal; a light ringing like the melody of bells, free of weight, if only for a moment. “you make my heart heavy, the same way as ripe fruit is heavy. and when it is ripe, it is ready to fall to the ground, because it has seen enough. it has been enough.”

she thinks of reato — of what they’ve done, of what they’ve accomplished. she thinks of the mistakes she made, in between. her breath hitches. “and sometimes, sometimes when i’m only hanging on by a thread, when i’m little but a fruit clinging to its branch, that’s what i think too; that i have seen enough. that i have been enough.”

her hand rests on the top of the headstone; fingers wrapped tight around the edge, knuckles white, smile strained. she knows they made a plan to return to las vegas in three months, to come back, to continue doing their ‘good work’. but for just a moment, gemma considers lying here. falling asleep for the night. never going back. her hand trembles on the stone, drawing in a slow, deep breath.

“and so that’s what you are, addy: the promise that i have been, that all this hasn’t been for nothing. that even if, sometimes, i might pray for the breeze to turn and sever me, we were. we were. we were. and that is enough for me.”

gemma glances at her watch. it’s late, now, but she still has some time before the last train. she sits on the ground, heedless to the leaves and soil clinging to the fabric of her clothes, and leans her head against the cold granite. her eyes sting hot when she finishes, voice gentle, “do you like the flowers? they came all the way from italy.”

in time, she will have to go back. in time, she will have to pick herself up again. first, back to rome; and then, back to vegas.

but for now, she can sit here. she can rest. she can remember.

You turn over to look at the ceiling, stretching your arms above your head like a lazy cat, opening a sleepy eye and running your hands through your hair. The space beside you is vacant but still warm, as though her sleep had stayed intertwined beside yours, leaving trembling shadows in her wake.

“Addy?” Your voice is quiet and hoarse, heavy with sleep. “Adelais, love?”

You take the rose from upon her pillow, noting the letter beneath. The words are written in her thin, loopy script:

          Called to the hospital. Will see you later!           Yours, Adelais.

You snort. It’s so very old-fashioned — and so very like her — to leave a handwritten note. You pick up your phone from the bedside table and send her a good morning text, wishing her the best at work. Soft-scented petals brushed against the tip of your nose, and despite it all, you can feel yourself smiling.

This, the life you’ve been blessed with: after severing ties with the Red Knights, a decision prompted by a particularly dangerous heist and encouraged by Adelais warm support, you move out of Paris to Lyon with her. Here, she becomes a nurse at the local hospital; here, you take on a simple delivery job. You’re the fastest courier on wheels, even if that’s not a fulfilling title. It’s boring, it’s bland, but it’s safe — and at this point, that is all you want.

Truth be told, you don’t think you deserve it, after everything. But Adelais, she tells you that happiness does not have to be about deserving. (She kisses you for no reason and when you ask what it was for, she laughs: affection doesn’t have to be earned, Gem. She makes you feel spectacular, like you’re something better than you are.)

After your shift for the day, you drop by the hospital to pick Adelais up. She sees you from the desk at the lobby and comes running, running, running into your arms; she leaps and you sweep her up easily.

The two of you drive home in your car; a vintage beauty you fixed up together. Adelais puts on a radio station with the cheesiest love songs you’ve ever heard, but she grins at you and sings along and all you can do is laugh. Love you! she giggles when you let her music be, and you roll your eyes at her despite your smile.

The sun shines bright as it sets and it feels like it’s laughing with you, warm rays calling out in echo: love you! Love you! Love you! Your hand grips Adelais’ as you lean over to kiss her temple, and she laughs as she brushes her cheek against yours. Orange and gold washes over the horizon; a soft, jazzy voice croons over the radio.

God, the sun is so bright, and melodies keep tumbling out of Adelais’ mouth and merging with her laughter. This is all you want, you think, but the sun, the sun, it feels unbearable all of a sudden — the music dips like you’re listening to it underwater, and Adelais’ voice rings out in concern. You hear her clear as anything, but you find that you can’t tell her what you want — and the thought sits in your throat in place of all the words you want to say, until it burns, until it flames, until oh god, until oh no, until love you! becomes I’m sorry and love you! becomes don’t leave me until, until, until you lose everything all over again.

You wake to the languid murmur of noon.

You lie on a mattress on a warehouse floor. The air is chilly and thick with dust. Your eyes sting with hurt but you hastily wipe away the sleep, along with anything else it brought with it. That’s right, you think, your smile mirthless and broken. You can dream all you want, but in the end, this is the path you chose.

You are not spectacular. You have no wings. You are glass, broken glass, but for all your pains, Adelais sang louder. She, your comet. She, your peace. She, your goldfinch with her clever fingers, covering all the pin-prick holes in your heart, enough for you to pretend you weren’t cracking apart. Know that for all the memories left in your head, so many of them are hers. She made you so happy, you could have torn her apart. And you would have, you really would have, if you hadn’t loved her so. She, brilliant, bright-eyed being. She, shooting star.

          She, yours.