The Worst Timing | [5/5]
we made it!!! part 5/5 + a mini epilogue (5.6k words) at long last đ„č (aka the installment in which i remember that h/c has a c in it in addition to the h, haha.) [part 1] is here!
this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!
Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anythingâmuch less the fluâruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)
â
The world comes back to him in piecesâfirst the wooden panels of the ceiling, the sloped wooden beams. The coldness of the room, the slight, monotonous whir of the air circulating through one of the vents overhead.
Heâs leaned up against the wall, seated on the floor in the hallway, and Vincent is kneeling beside him, his eyebrows furrowed.
It takes him a moment to realize where he is. He had been about to head back to the courtyard, hadnât he? He doesnât have much memory of anything that happened after, but judging by Vincentâs reaction, he thinks he can probably guess.
âHi,â Yves says, for lack of a better thing to say.Â
He watches a complicated set of expressions flicker through Vincentâs faceârelief, first, before it turns to something distinctly less neutral.
âYouâre awake,â Vincent says. He turns away, for a moment. Yves notes the clench of his jaw, the tightness of his gripâhis fingers white around Yvesâs sleeve.
âWas I out for long?â
âA couple minutes.â
Yves wants to say something. He should say something. Anything to lighten the tension, anything to get the point across that this is all just an unlucky miscalculation, on his part. It really isnât something Vincent should have to be worried about.Â
âIâm sorry for making you wait,â he starts. Really, what he means is, Iâm sorry for making you worry about me. âI promise Iâmb fine.â
The look on Vincentâs face, then, is something that Yves hasnât seen before.Â
âWhy do you have toââ he starts, frustration rising in his voice. He sighs, his jaw set. âI donât understand why youââ He drops his hand from Yvesâs sleeve, and itâs then when Yves notices the stiffness to his shoulders, the tension in his posture. He runs a hand through his hair, lets out another short, exasperated breath. âYouâre not fine.âÂ
Itâs strange, Yves thinks, to see him like thisâVincent, who usually never wears his emotions on his face, looks clearly displeased, now.Â
âHey,â Yves says, softly. He reaches out to take Vincentâs hand. Vincent goes very still with the contact, but he doesnât say anything. âIââ
Fuck. His body seems to always pick the worst time for unwanted interjections. He wrenches his hand away just in time to smother a sneeze into his sleeve, though itâs forceful enough to leave him slightly lightheaded.Â
âStay here,â Vincent says, getting to his feet. âLay down if you get dizzy again.â
Yves blinks. âWhere are you going?â
âTo tell the others that weâre leaving.â
Yves wants to protest. Dinner is already halfway over. Itâs not as if the festivities are particularly strenuous. Theyâll probably move inside after dinner, where itâs warmer.
But he thinks better of it. Judging by how exhausted he still feels, how much his head aches, it probably wouldnât be wise to push it.Â
âDonât tell them about this,â he says.
Vincentâs eyebrows furrow. âWhat?â
âAimee is going to worry if she finds out,â Yves says, dropping his head to his knees. He doesnât want to look at Vincent, doesnât want to know what expression is on his face. âJustâlet them have this night. Itâsâsupposed to be perfect.â I really wanted it to be perfect, he almost adds. Thereâs a strange tightness to his throat as he says it, a strange heaviness to his chest.
He knows what it means. If, after heâs tried so hard to do his part, their evening still ends up ruined on his own accord, heâs not sure if he could live with himself after.
For a moment, Vincent doesnât say anything at all.
âOkay,â he says, at last. âJust stay here.â
And then he heads down the hallway. The door at the end of the reception hall swings shut behind him. Yves thinks he should be relieved, but he finds that he doesnât feel much other than exhausted.
â
The ride home on the shuttle is silent. Vincent sits next to him, even though all of the other seats are empty. Yves thinks the proximity is probably inadvisable. He opens his mouth to say as much, and then shuts it.
Vincent sits and stares straight ahead, his posture stiff, and doesnât say anything for the entirety of the ride. Itâs strange. Yves is no stranger to silenceâVincent is, after all, a coworker, and Yves has endured more than a few quiet elevator rides and quiet team lunches at the office, but itâs strange because itâs Vincent.
Vincent, who usually takes care to make conversation with him, whenever itâs just the two of them. Vincent, who stayed up through the lull of antihistamines a couple months ago to talk to Yves, until Yves had given him explicit permission to go to sleep.
Yves tries not to think about it. Through the haze of his fever, everything feels unusually brightâthe interior of the shuttle, with its leather seats and metal handrails.
The shuttle stops just outside the main entrance to their hotel. Just before he gets to the doors, he stumbles. Vincentâs hand shoots out, instinctively, to steady him.
âSorry,â Yves says, a little sheepishly. Itâs not that heâs dizzy. The roads are just uneven, and itâs dark. âI can walk.â
But Vincent doesnât let goânot for the entirety of the walk through the cool, air-conditioned lobby, through the hallways to the hotel elevators. Not when the elevator stops at their floor, not when they pass by the grid of wooden doors leading up to their room.Â
Before Yves can manage to reach for his keycard, Vincent has already swiped them in, scarily efficient. He slides the card back into his pocket, pushes the door open.Â
âThadks for walking me back,â Yves says. âSorry you couldnât stay longer. You mbustâve been halfway through dinner.â
âI already finished eating,â Vincent says.
âEven dessert?â Yves says. âI think Aimee got everyone creme brulee from one of the local bakeries. I was excited to try it. Maybe Leon can save us some.â he muffles a yawn into his hand. Itâs too early to be sleeping, but his pull out bed looks very inviting right now.
âTake the bed,â Vincent says.
Yves blinks at him. âWhat?â
âThe bedâs warmer.â
Thereâs absolutely no way heâs going to let Vincent take the pull-out bed in his place, Yves thinks blearily. Heâs spent the past couple nights muffling sneezes into the coversâif thereâs anything heâs certain of, itâs that he really, really doesnât want Vincent to catch this.
âI dodât think we should switch,â he says, sniffling. âIâve been sleeping here ever sidce I started coming down with this. Iâmbâ hHeh-!â He veers away, raising an elbow to his face. âhhâHHEhâIIDZschHâ-iEEW! Ugh, Iâmb pretty sure I contaminated it.â
âWe can both take the bed, if youâd prefer,â Vincent says. As if itâs that simple.
Yves opens his mouth to protestâis Vincent really okay with sharing a bed with him?âbut then he thinks about Vincent finding him in the hallwayâthe stricken expression on his face, then, his eyes wide, his jaw clenchedâand thinks better of himself.Â
Instead, he lets Vincent lead him to the bedroom. The bed is neatly madeâthe covers drawn, the pillows propped up against the headboard.
âLay down,â Vincent says, pushing lightly down on his shoulders. Yves sits. He peels off his suit jacket, folds it, and sets it aside on the nightstand.
âHey, I kdow that was sudden,â he says, in reference to earlier. âIâmb sorry you had to witness it. I⊠probably shouldnât have pushed it.â
Vincent says nothing, to that.
Yves lays down, shuts his eyes. âYou didnât have to accompady me home, you know.â
Silence. He exhales, burrowing deeper into the covers. âItâs not as bad as it looks, seriously.â
He opens his mouth to say more. He has to say something, he thinks, to convince Vincent that itâs really not that big of a deal. Anything, to assuage that look on Vincentâs face.
But heâs so tired. He can feel the exhaustion now that heâs finally let himself lay down. The bed is traitorously comfortable, with its soft feather pillows and its fluffy layers of blankets, and Vincent was rightâit really is warmer.
He feels the press of a hand on his forehead, feels the cold, unyielding pressure. Feels gentle, calloused fingers brush the hair out of his face.
âSleep,â Vincent says, firmly.Â
And Yvesâ
Yves, already half gone, is powerless, when Vincent says it like that.
â
When he wakes, itâs just barely bright outside. He takes it inâthe first few rays of sunlight, streaking through the curtains. The bed, a little more well-cushioned than the pullout bed heâd spent the past few nights onâhigher up and decisively sturdier. He blinks.
Beside him, seated on a chair he recognizes as belonging to the desk at the opposite end of the room, is Vincent.
Vincent, awake. Yves isnât sure if heâs slept at all. He certainly doesnât look tired, at first glance, but closer inspection reveals a little more. Itâs evident in the way he holds his shoulders, stiff, and perhaps a little tired, as if thereâs been tension sitting in them all night.Â
Heâs reading a book. Whether he bought it at the convenience store downstairs, or on one of the other days when Yves was busy running errands for the wedding and Vincent was elsewhere, or whether itâd been sitting in his suitcase since the start of the vacation, Yves doesnât know.
âHowâs the book?â Yves says.
His throat is dry, he realizes, for the way it makes him cough, afterwards. Vincentâs eyes meet his, unerringly. He shuts the book, sets it down on the bedside table.
âItâs a little boring,â Vincent says. âHowâs the fever?â
Before Yves can answer, Vincent leans forward and presses the back of his hand to Yvesâs forehead. His touch is unerringly gentle, and Yves allows himself to look.Â
Vincentâs eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes narrowed slightly in concentration, and Yves wonders, suddenly, if heâs been this worried for awhile, now. If heâs been this worried ever since heâd walked them both back into the hotel room last night.
âIâm fine,â Yves says.Â
It has the opposite effect he intends it to.
Vincentâs expression shutters. âThe last time you said that, you passed out in front of me,â he says, withdrawing his hand with a frown. âSo forgive me if I donât entirely believe you.â
Yves sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. Itâs a fair point. âIâm usually more reliable whed it comes to these things.â
âWhat things?â
âKdowing my limits.â
Vincent says, âI think you knew your limits. I think you just didnât want to honor them, because you decided the wedding took precedence.â
Heâs⊠frustrated, Yves realizes. Still. Heâs sure he can guess why. Their fake relationship does not extend to Vincent having to look after him, to Vincent having to drop everything in the middle of a wedding, of all things, to take him home. To Vincent having to worry about all thisâthe fever Yves knows he has, now, and the bed heâs currently taking upâon top of everything else. As if being in a foreign country, surrounded by people he knows almost exclusively through Yves, who, for the most part, converse in a language he barely speaks, wasnât already enough work on its own.
And Yves gets it. He hadnât wanted this to happen, either. Heâd told himself that if thisâthis pretend relationship, this pretenseâis contingent upon both of them playing their part, the least he can do is be self-sufficient outside of it.
But nowâbecause Vincent is here with him, and because they share a hotel roomâall of this is now Vincentâs problem, too, by extension.
âDid you sleep at all last night?â he asks.
Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly, as if the answer is evident.Â
âYou gave up your bed just for me to steal it,â Yves says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. âItâs really comfortable, and all, but Iâmb pretty sure they make these kinds of beds for two.â
âIs that a proposition?â Vincent says.
âMaybe.â Yves thinks it through. âRealistically, probably ndot, until I have a chance to shower.â Heâs still dressed in his dress shirt and slacks from yesterday, a little embarrassinglyâhe should probably get changed. âSpeaking of which, I should do that soon, so you donât feel the need to stay up all night readingââ Yves leans forward, squints at the book cover on the nightstand. ââHemingway? Somehow, I didnât expect you to be the type.â
âIâm not,â Vincent says. âVictoire lent it to me.â
âOh,â Yves says, trying to think of when Vincent wouldâve had time to ask her for a recommendation. âYeah. Sheâsââ He twists aside, ducking into his elbow. âhHEHâIIDzschh-EEW! snf-! Sheâs quite the literary reader. Is it really that boring?â
âI can see why people think the transparency of his prose is appealing,â Vincent says. âBut Iâm fifty pages in, and nothing has happened.â
âIsdât that the sort of thing Hemingway can get away with, since heâs straightforward about it?â
âIn a short story, maybe,â Vincent says. Then: âYou are trying to make me feel better.â
Ah.
Yves laughs. âWhere in the world did you get that idea?â
Vincent just sighs. âI would be exceptionally unobservant not to notice when Iâve seen you do the same thing all this week.â
âWhat?â
âTelling people that youâre fine,â Vincent says. âAnd distracting them when they donât believe you.â
Yves doesnât think thatâs entirely accurate. Itâs not like he was trying to be dishonest. Itâs just that it was never the most important thing to address.
âDistracting is a bit disingenuous.â
âI donât get it,â Vincent says, with a frown. âYouâre so insistent on putting yourself last, even when you were obviouslyââ He sighs. There it isâthat expression again, the one that makes itself evident through the furrowed eyebrows, the tense set of his jawâfrustration, and maybe something else. âYouâre surrounded by people who care about you, so why not justââ
âThere are plenty of things more important than how Iâmb feeling,â Yves says.
âI donât think thatâs true.â
But of course it is, Yves thinks. A wedding is a once in a lifetime occurrence. An illness is nothing, in the face of that.
âI promised Iâd be there,â he says, because when it really comes down to it, itâs true. He had no intention of going back on his word. âI didnât want to be the one to let them down. Is that so hard to believe?â He reaches up with a hand to massage his temples. His head aches, even though heâs slept for long enough that he feels like it ought to feel a little better, by now. âItâs already bad enough that I had to drag you into this.âÂ
âYou didnât drag me into this,â Vincent says. âI came on my own volition.â
Yves tries a laugh, but itâs humorless. âI made you leave halfway through the wedding dinner.â
âIâd already finished eating.â
âNdot to mention, you practically had to carry me upstairs.â
âBecause youâre ill.â
âThatâs no excuse.â Yves wants to say more, but he finds himself beholden to a tickle in the back of his throatâirritatingly present, until he concedes to it by ducking into his elbow to cough, and cough.
When he looks up, blinking tears out of his vision, Vincent isnât looking at him.
âYou should get some rest,â he says, simply.
Yves can tellâjust by the way he says itâthat there is no argument to him, anymore. Just like that, Vincent is back to being closed offâpoised and perfectly, infuriatingly unreadable, just like he is at work, his face so carefully a mask of indifference, even in the most stressful presentations, the most frustrating disagreements. Yves wants none of it.
 âHey,â he says. A part of him itches to crack a joke, to change the subjectâanything to take away this air of seriousness. A part of him wants to reach out, againâto take Vincentâs hand, entwine their fingers; to reassure him, again, that heâs really fine.
âIâm sorry,â he says, instead. Maybe itâs the fever that loosens his tongue. Maybe itâs just a combination of everything.
He can feel Vincentâs eyes on him, still. Vincent has always held a sort of intensity to him, a quiet sort of perceptiveness. âIâm not sure I follow,â Vincent says.
âThis visit was supposed to be fun for you,â he says. âAnd now youâre here, stuck in the hotel room because of me, even though today was supposed to be for sightseeing.â
It doesnât feel like enough. What can he say to make it enough? Thereâs a strange ache in his chest, a strange, crushing pressure. Yves is horrified to find his eyes stinging. Heâs held it together for so long, he thinks. Why now? Why, when Vincent is right here?
But a part of him knows, too. Of course traveling to a different country would be more involved than going to a party, or spending an evening at a strangerâs house. But there was a time when he thought this could really just be a fun excursion for the both of themâhalf a week in his familyâs home country, with someone who he thoroughly enjoys spending time with.Â
And now, because of this untimely illnessâor because of his own short-sightedness in managing itâit isnât. He didnât get to stay through dinner, didnât get to wish Aimee and Genevieve a good rest of their night, like heâd planned to. He has no idea if things went smoothly in his absence. To make matters worse, Vincent is here, having endured a sleepless night, instead of anywhere else.
And really, when he thinks about it, who does have to blame for all of this, except himself?
âI didnât mean for it to turn out like this,â he says. âSo Iâm sorry.â He resists the urge to swipe a hand over his eyesâsurely, he thinks, that would give him away.
He turns away. Itâs convenient, he thinks, that the embarrassing sniffle that follows could be attributed to something else.Â
âYouâve been nothing but accommodating to me, this whole visit,â Vincent says. âIf anything, I shouldâve insisted that you take the bed earlier. You havenât been sleeping well, have you?â
He says it with such certainty. Yves opens his mouth to protest thisâor to apologize, for all the times he mustâve kept Vincent up, including but not limited to last nightâbut Vincent presses on.
âYou spent all of yesterday morning helping everyone get ready, and when I got back, you apologized for not being aroundâas if the reason why you werenât around wasnât that you were so busy making sure everything was fine for everyone else.â Vincent pauses, takes in a slow, measured breath. Yves is surprised to hear that he sounds⊠distinctly angry, in a way that Yves is not used to hearing.
âAnd then you showed up to the rehearsal and the wedding, even though you werenât feeling well. And you still think you have something to apologize for? Are you even hearing yourself?â Yves hears the creak of the chair as he stands, the sound of quiet footsteps. Feels the dip of the bed as Vincent takes a seat at the edge of it.Â
âYou know, after you left the dinner table, Genevieve was talking about how much she liked your speech? Do you know that yesterday morning, Solaine told me how grateful she was that you helped her with fixing her dress? Do you know that when I got lunch with Leon and Victoire, they told me how much time you spent preparing for everythingâthe speech, and the wedding, both?â
Oh. Yves hadnât known any of those things, and he knows Vincent isnât the kind of person who would lie about this sort of thing.
âI donât get it,â Vincent says, sounding distinctly pained to say it. âHow could you possibly think that you havenât done enough?â
Yves finds himself taken abackâby the frustration in his voice, by the fact that Vincent has noticed these things in the first place, by the fact that heâs deemed them important enough to take stock of. He makes it sound so simple.Â
âI donât know,â Yves says, at last. He shuts his eyes. âIf it was enough.â
âIâm telling you that it was,â Vincent says.
But Yves knows that he could have done more, if the circumstances were different. If he hadnât been so out of it during the wedding. If heâd taken the necessary precautions to avoid coming down with this in the first place. If heâd been able to stay through dinner, at least; if he hadnât needed Vincent to accompany him home.Â
âYou donât believe me,â Vincent says, with a sigh.
Yves doesnât say anything, to that.
âI canât speak for anyone else,â Vincent says. Thereâs the slight rustling of the covers as he shifts, rearranging one of the pillows at the headboard. âBut I had fun.â
Yvesâs heart twists.
Itâs sweet, unexpectedly. âYou donât have to say that just to make me feel better,â Yves says.
âWhen have I ever said anything just to make you feel better?â Vincent says, with a short laugh. When Yves chances a look at him, heâs smiling down at himself. âI mean it. Meeting your family has been a lot of fun. Itâs not often that I get the chance to be a part of something like this.â
Whether heâs referring to France, or the wedding and the festivities, or being surrounded by Yvesâs large extended family, Yves isnât sure. But if Vincent is trying to cheer him up, itâs working.
âI can see why you like France so much,â he says, turning his gaze out the window, though the view outside is filtered through the semi-translucent curtains. âItâs beautiful.â
âToday was supposed to be the last day for sightseeing,â Yves says, a little regretful. âBut youâre stuck here.â
âIn a sunny, luxurious hotel room, with a view of the pool and the garden?â Vincent says, with a scoff. âI could think of worse places to be.â
Staying up all night, just to check up on Yves, more accurately. Vincent must be tired, tooâyesterday was already tiring enough. And now itâs morning already, and he hasnât gotten any sleep.Â
âReading Hemingway,â Yves adds.
Vincent looks a little surprised. Then he laughs. âYes. I guess youâre right. Perhaps itâs an agonizing experience after all.â
The yawn he stifles into his hand, after that isnât half as subtle as he tries to make it.
Yves feels his eyebrows creep up. âAre you sure you donât want to get some sleep? Thereâs plenty of room.â He scoots a little closer to the edge of the bed, just to make a point.
Vincent peers down at the space beside him, a little hesitant. âAt 10am?â
âItâd be, what, 4am, back in Eastern time?â Yves says. âBy Ndew York standards, youâre supposed to already be asleep.â
âThatâs not how it works,â Vincent says, but he dutifully moves a little closer to Yves anyways. Heâs changed out of yesterdayâs wedding attire, more sensibly, but now heâs wearing a knitted cardigan which Yves thinks looks unfairly, terribly good on him. Yves finds himself marveling at the unfairness of it all. How can someone look so good wearing something so casual?
Vincent smells good, up close. When he lays down next to Yves, pulling the covers gingerly over himselfâleaving a careful amount of room between them, but still dangerously, intoxicatingly closeâYves feels his breath catch in his throat.
Vincent is right there, less than an armâs length away from him, closer than heâs ever been, and YvesâYves isâ
âSee,â Yves says, as evenly as he can manage to, in his current state, as if his heart isnât practically beating out of his chest. He swallows. His throat feels dry. âThis bed definitely fits two.â
âI suppose it does,â Vincent says. âNow you can tell me if Iâm a terrible person to share a bed with.â
âAfter everything Iâve put you through,â Yves says, âI think Iâd honestly feel reassured if you were.â
Vincent smiles, again, as if he finds this humorous. âAre you sure youâre going to be fine?â
âPositive,â Yves says. âYou should sleep. Iâll wake you if I ndeed anything.â
âOkay. If youâre sure.â Vincent shuts his eyes.
Itâs not long before his breathing evens out, not long before he goes perfectly still. He must really be tired, Yves thinks, with a pang.
Yves, for some reason, finds that he canât get to sleep. He stares up at the ceiling for what feels like minutes on end, shuts his eyes, all to no avail. Maybe itâs because heâs already slept far more than his usual share. Maybe itâs the jetlag. Maybe itâs merely Vincentâs unusual presenceâthe strangeness of having him so close, in an environment so intimate.
But when he allows himself to look, he seesâ
Vincent, his eyes shut, his eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks. From the window, the filtered light gleams unevenly across the crown of dark hair on his head. Thereâs almost no movement to him at all, aside from the even rise and fall of his shoulders.
And Yves knows what the feeling in his chest is. Heâs regrettably, intimately familiar with it.
He just isnât sure he likes what it means.
â
Vincentâdespite falling asleep so quicklyâis up before him. When Yves wakes, next, itâs to a hand to his forehead.
âHey,â Vincent is saying, softly. âYves. You have a visitor.â
Yves opens his eyes.
Heâs feelingâa little better, remarkably. Still feverish, still a little unsteady, but leagues better as compared to yesterday. When he looks over, he seesâ
He doesnât jolt upright, but itâs a close thing. âAimee!â
He barely has a chance to ask before sheâs crashing into him, encircling him in a tight hug. âYves!â she exclaims, pulling back from him. âHow are you feeling? Oh my gosh, when I heard you left early because you were unwell, I was so worriedâŠâ
Yves grimaces, turning away. âSorry, I had every idtention of staying until the endââ
âYou came all the way out with the flu!â she says. âI honestly canât believe you. The fact that you still took the trouble to attend with a feverââ
âItââ Yves starts, but he finds himself twisting away, lifting an arm to his face. âhhEH-! HEEhDâTTSCHH-iiiEEw! Snf-! Itâs fide, snf-! Iâmb practically recovered already.â
âI shouldâve told you not to push yourself when you told me you were coming down with something,â Aimee says, shaking her head. âAnd you stayed and gave such a lovely speech, even though you werenât feeling well? When I was talking to Victoire after, she mentioned that youâve been sick for days and Genevieveâyou shouldâve said something.â
âIâll say somethidg next time,â Yves says, a little sheepishly. âDid the wedding go okay?â
Aimee visibly brightens, at this. âIt was more than okay,â she says, her eyes gleaming. âIt blew every expectation that I had out of the water.â
Aimee fills him in on everything that happened after he left, last nightâdessert, the first dance, the cake-cutting; her favorites out of the photos theyâd taken after the ceremony (a shot of Genevieve braiding her hair during the cocktail hour; a shot of them leaning in close, for the dance, tired but smiling; a shot of the cake with its multiple tiers, the frosting strung like banners across it; another where both of them are holding onto the cutting knife together and Genevieve looks like she is trying not to laugh; a shot of the bouquet toss, the flowers suspended in mid-air). She tells him about the conversations she and Genevieve had with others about marriage and their futures and their plans for their honeymoon.
Then she lectures him on how he should worry about his health first, next time. She tells him, in no uncertain terms, that sheâs fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind the next time he tries to pull something like this. She insists that his health is more important than anything. Vincent stands off to the side the entire time, his arms crossed, passively listening in, but when Yves looks over helplessly, mid-lecture, he definitely looks a little smug.Â
All in all, she doesnât seem disappointed in him at all. And, more importantly, she seems happy. Yves finds himself relieved, at this.
Genevieve stops by, too, a little later, to thank him for the advice heâd given her the day before the wedding. She hugs him too, and she leaves him a bag of tea that she promises âis practically a cure to anythingâI hope it makes your flight home tomorrow a little more tolerable.â Victoire stops by, with Leon, and Yves resigns himself to more lecturing from the both of them. Itâs humbling, a little, to be lectured by his younger sister and his younger brother, though he concedes that perhaps this time, it might be at least partially warranted.
Then Leon opens their hotel fridge to show him the two creme brulees he and Vincent had missed out on, packaged nicely in small paper containers. (âVincent told me you were interested in these,â he says, and Yves finds himself slightly mortifiedâbut perhaps also a little endearedâthat whatever it was that heâd said last night, offhandedly, Vincent had deemed it important enough to text Leon about.)
Later, after Yves showers and gets changedâwhen he and Vincent eat the creme brulees at the table in the living room, and Vincent tells him that heâs finished the book, perhaps a little masochistically (âit doesnât get any better,â he says, sounding a little spiteful)âYves finds himself smiling.
Heâs happy, he realizes, despite everything thatâs happened. Even with the slight headache, and the lingering congestion, the fever that hasnât quite gone away entirely. The revelation comes as a surprise to him, at first. But when he thinks about the people heâs surrounded with, he thinks perhaps it isnât all that surprising.
â
EPILOGUE
âAre you sure youâre feeling alright?â Vincent asks.
âYes,â Yves says. Itâs not a lie.
This time, heâs seated right next to the window, and Vincent is in the middle seat. Yves had offered to take the middle seat instead, but Vincent had insisted(âIf you wanted to sleep, you could lean against the window,â heâd said, and Yves had accepted only because it would be better to fall asleep against the window than do something embarrassing, like fall asleep on Vincentâs shoulder).
âItâs just the annoyidg residual symptoms, now,â he says. âIââ
God. He always has the worst timing. He veers away, muffling a tightly contained sneeze into his shoulder.
âhHEH-âIIDDZschH-yyEW! Snf-! Iâmb â hHhEHhâDjjsSHH-iEW! Ugh, Iâm fine. I feel better thad I sound.â
âBless you,â Vincent says, leaning over to press his hand against Yvesâs forehead. âNo fever,â he says. âThatâs good. But you should take another day off when we get back.â
Yves doesnât think taking another day off is necessary. âI spedt the entirety of yesterday sleeping,â he says. âI think Iâve rested enough.â
Vincent just raises an eyebrow at him. âNeed I remind you that someone very wise told you to take it easy?â
âSince when has Aimee been your spokesperson?â
âShe made a lot of good points,â Vincent says, deceptively unassuming. âI think you should consider taking notes.â
Yves looks at him for a moment. âYouâre laughing at me.â
This time, Vincent smiles. âMaybe.â
Yves leans back in his seat, reaching up with one hand to massage his temples. The changing cabin pressure is not exactly comfortableâhis head still hurts a little, but heâs flown enough times to know that it wonât be as much of a problem once they finish their ascent.Â
âThadks again for coming,â he says, unwrapping one of the small, packaged pillows the airline has left on their seats.Â
âYou invited me,â Vincent says, blinking. âAll I did was show up.â
But that isnât true at all, Yves thinks. Vincent is the one who spent time learning basic French, who met Yvesâs family and who spoke with everyone with genuine interest, who bought Yves medicine and water, all while being careful to not be overbearing. Vincent is the one who left the wedding early to walk Yves back to the hotel, who stayed with him the entire day afterwards.
âThatâs such a huge understatement I donât even kdow where to get started,â Yves says. âThanks for meetidg my familyâthey love you, by the way. Theyâre going to be askidg about you every summer from now on, I just know it.â
He can already picture itâJune, this year, after busy season is over, if their fake relationship lasts that long. Another flight where theyâre next to each other. Another dozen conversations about how theyâd met, about what itâs like dating a coworker, about what their plans for the future are.
Perhaps itâs wishful thinking. This was never meant to be a long-term arrangement in the first place. But something about thisâabout being here with Vincentâjust feels so unthinkingly easy.
âItâs no problem,â Vincent says. âThe feeling is mutual. Iâm glad I got to meet them.â
ïżœïżœThanks for looking after me, too,â Yves says, with another apologetic smile. âIâmb sure being stuck in a hotel room all day wasnât how you were planning on spending your last day of vacation.â
âI donât mind,â Vincent says, sounding strangely like he means it. âI like spending time with you.â
Yves nearly drops the pillow heâs holding.Â
When he looks back at Vincent, Vincent looks faintly amused. âIs that so surprising? I think Iâd be a terrible fake boyfriend if I didnât.â
âYou make a really good one, as it stands,â Yves tells him, sincerely, and Vincent smiles.
Yves looks out the windowâwhere the city beneath them begins to resolve itself into miniature, where the sky stretches where he can see Vincent reflected faintly back at him, from the glassâand finds that he feels impossibly light.
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