Chapter Text
France, 1957
Pierre lays on his side in bed, staring at the shell that takes pride of place amongst the other clutter there. It’s been a year; three hundred and sixty five days since his heart had been torn from his chest by a billow of smoke and a train whistle. He’d felt it leave him too, wrapped neatly in an envelope wedged deep in the pages of the book he’d never quite gotten to finish reading.
At least - he hadn’t finished it with Lando. He’d read it on his own previously and knew the ending. Despite all the hardship, Martine gets her happy ending. Pierre doesn’t feel like he can say the same.
He’d hoped, of course he had, that it would only be a few weeks and then Lando might return. Or maybe even write. Then, when he didn’t, Pierre started to wonder if he had misheard what Lando had shouted as the train pulled away. If Lando had meant what he said, surely he would have found Pierre’s heart tucked away in his luggage and come back to him.
As summer had given way to autumn, and the leaves formed a golden gown across the country lanes Pierre drove along, he couldn't help but wonder if he had done the right thing by forcing Lando’s hand and sending him back to London. He knew Lando was to be married in the autumn, but he’d never given any indication of when.
By the time Christmas had come around, Pierre spent the day alone, holed up in his apartment with only his records for company. Lando hadn’t come back, and Pierre only has himself to blame.
When the New Year rolled in - heralded by a bottle of wine, and Pierre carefully arranging Lando’s polaroids into an album - he vowed that he wouldn’t continue to mope about what he couldn’t change. There was nothing he could do about it. If there had been a chance of Lando returning he would have done it before now. Pierre admires him really, for going through with something that he couldn’t bring himself to.
So Pierre had stopped feeling sorry for himself. The album of photos had slotted neatly on his personal bookshelf, next to the record that he and Lando danced to the first night they’d had dinner together at Pierre’s apartment. The ring Lando left him - worn almost religiously on his forefinger for four months - now weighs heavy on a chain around his neck. He can’t bring himself to put it away completely - can’t bear the thought of it shut in a jewellery box or sitting next to the other books from Lando’s villa. He catches himself playing with it often enough that it makes sense to keep wearing it.
Plus, if Lando were ever to return, then maybe he would see that Pierre still thinks about him, like they’d promised they would on their final morning.
But now, on the anniversary of Lando leaving him, Pierre finds all the memories flooding back. The weight of his grief and his loss sits like a rock in his chest. It hurts the same now as it had a year ago, with the now-familiar sting of tears in his eyes threatening to drown him in his own misery.
Sunlight filters through the gap in his curtains, a beam landing directly over the shell on his nightstand. The blue is iridescent; reflecting and refracting as the light hits it. It reminds Pierre of the ocean, and of a summer long over, and he has to close his eyes to stop the overwhelming feelings of longing and despair.
Since Lando had left, Pierre has thrown himself into his store, hardly leaving it closed for more than a day at a time. As long as he keeps himself busy with inventory, and talking to the out of town customers that filter through his doorway, then he doesn’t have to be reminded of the way Lando’s eyes would light up every time he made himself comfortable in the seating area by the window. The way he would watch Pierre with an intense focus, occasionally taking a picture when he thought Pierre wasn’t looking.
Lando would have gotten away with it, were it not for the sheer amount of pictures that Pierre now has of himself in his own shop, taped carefully into place in the album he’s not touched since New Year.
Pierre makes the decision that he’s not going to open the shop today before he even gets out of bed. He’s allowing himself the same kind of break he had last year, though under much different circumstances. Last year it had been with Lando - to stroll along the beach or to drive through the mountains, or to spend hours lounging in the relative privacy of the Norris villa.
This year, it’s because he wants to feel close to Lando again. He rolls out of bed, padding the few steps to the bookshelf and retrieves the photo album. He pauses with his hand on the cover for a moment, the faux-warmth of the leather drawing him in, before he returns to his bed, propping himself up against the headboard and allowing the book to fold open on his lap.
Out of all of the pictures Lando had left behind, Pierre does have some favourites, and he turns the pages slowly, savouring the memories until he comes across the ones he most wants to see.
They’re from their picnic in the meadow, where Pierre had asked to be able to use the camera. On one page, it’s two shots of Lando, basking in the sunlight, the first with a closed-off expression, but the second is when he’d been looking at the camera.
Not at the lens, but rather through it, as though he’s watching Pierre with a fond expression on his face. He’s squinting a little, obviously trying to look into the sun while he’d posed, but Pierre can feel the life in the shot - Lando’s crinkled eyes and dimpled smile beaming up at him through the polaroid as though he’d never left.
Every time he sees it, Pierre’s heart catches in his throat. It’s how he remembers Lando; full of joy, and radiance, and laughter that had echoed around his apartment until every shadow Pierre had ever felt in there had been chased out.
He wishes he could have been more selfish - that he hadn’t pushed Lando into leaving on the train back to England and his family. There’s nothing Pierre wants more than to fill up the last pages in the photo album with more memories of the two of them.
Opposite the solo shots of Lando, are the two that he had taken of the pair of them. They’re out of focus - Pierre remembers them laughing together as he kissed Lando to the sound of the shutter. He knows that as long as he has breath in his body, he’ll never forget how that moment had felt. He traces the edge of the polaroid, the film threatening to crumple under his fingertips as he stares at the frozen moment of their shared joy.
Pierre remembers Lando asking if the meadow had been where he took all the boys. He huffs at the thought now, just as he had a year ago. As if there could have been anyone other than Lando who could have been able to capture and heal his heart so long after the last time. Pierre has always found comfort in sitting somewhere quiet - taking in the pace in a way that he’d had to learn after leaving his home.
After losing -
He cuts the thought off before it can take hold of him fully. He can only take on one heartbreak at a time, and today, he feels like he owes it to Lando.
*
France, 1958
Charlo,
You will have to forgive the time it has taken me to reply to your last letter. Things have been getting busier in the shop, and I haven’t had time to myself to just sit and think. I mentioned before that I was struggling with everything that happened two summers ago.
Even now, months since we last spoke, it is still the case. Summer should be the time of laughter and fun, and spending time outside, yet every time I leave my door in August I can’t help but see him everywhere I turn. It reminds me how I behaved before, when we lost Anthoine. It is not the same, not even a little, but it has been useless to tell that to my heart. It has lost so much in such a small amount of time that I don’t know how I can always keep pretending to be fine.
I can’t put onto paper everything I want to, just in case these letters go missing. I’m sure you understand that. Perhaps soon we can find a time to see each other again? It’s difficult to want to leave the shop while it is so busy here, but perhaps you can bring Angeline and the girls for a holiday? The guest houses are opening again, and there are more people visiting this year than there have been since I moved down here to chase and honour Anthoine’s dream.
It would be so lovely to see you all again, and I eagerly await your reply.
Pierre.
Pierrot,
How my heart soared to see your handwriting on the envelope of your last letter. It has been far too long since we have spoken, and I have so much to catch you up on.
Firstly, I’m sorry that you are having to go through everything alone. At least with Anthoine we were together, and we could lean on each other through our shared grief and loss. With my papa also, you were there for me in a way that no words can ever be enough for. From what you’ve said - and what you haven’t - I can’t even begin to imagine what happened that summer. I wish so desperately that I could hear directly from you what happened, so that I can help you heal, no matter what it is. That is why we are friends, Pierrot. Because we are there for each other, no matter what.
That leads me to my second thing, however. Angeline is again with child. I have always talked about wanting a large family, three children just like my parents had us three boys, and I cannot believe that it is coming true for me. In a few weeks, she will not be able to travel, and I will be unable to leave her, so unfortunately, we will have to wait a little longer until we see each other again. That is, if you can’t sneak away from your shop over the winter.
The other news I have to share is this - we are looking for our own place to live closer to you, if you can believe it. Through work, I have been given the opportunity to find a place in Monaco. It’s not much closer than here, though at least it will be warmer for us than when you come up north. I know why you always want me to visit you, and I accept the reasoning, even if I don’t always understand it.
You parents and brothers are well, and I will send them your love, even if you do not mention them. I know they miss you deep down, despite everything. Your father gave you the car, after all. I think he thought you would use it to visit more, as if you were ever going to change your mind.
We will see each other soon, I’m sure of it.
Charles.
PS - Angeline says to tell you that the girls are learning to read well enough, and if you can think of any good children’s books to help them? - C
Charlo,
Congratulations to you both. Please make sure you are letting Angeline get all the rest she needs. Another child on the way will surely make your household more full of joy, even if you are sacrificing every night of sleep again for the next few years. Has it truly been so long since we have spent real time with each other that I soon will have not one but two of your children to meet and steal the hearts of?
I will bring some books, once things have settled down after the baby comes. The winters are mild enough here that there is not really a lull in the amount of visitors, but for you I will travel. It was something you said that reminded me of the sacrifices we must make.
It will have been fifteen years since we lost Anthoine, and it’s about time I went to visit him and his parents again. I hope you are able to join me for that. I feel like perhaps I owe it to them.
Also, congratulations on your work, and getting the opportunity to make it in Monaco. There is talk here that the city is only growing, so it is good that you can make your mark there early on. Believe me when I say that it is a lot closer for me to visit you there than back home, not only physically, but mentally also.
I will not impose on you and your young family, but also I will not see my parents when I visit. Perhaps you can recommend a hotel for me nearby, as surely they must have changed in the years since my last visit. I appreciate you passing on regards to my parents, but right now I still do not think I can face them. When I see you, you will understand why I cannot stomach their questions. It’s not worth it to me.
Give my love to Angeline and the girls, and I will see you before the year is out.
Pierre.
*
France, 1959
He doesn’t do it often. That’s what he tells himself anyway.
The place where Lando had stayed is not really on any route that Pierre could take daily. He lives above his shop, so he doesn’t have to travel to get to work, and Main Street is right on his doorstep for anything he might need.
The bandstand and the beach are regular haunts of his when he wants to turn his brain off for a while, staring out at the ocean and wondering if he were closer to his hometown, would he be able to spot England across the channel on a clear day.
So when he makes the effort to walk down the lane where most of the larger houses and villas are, Pierre always tries to justify it to himself. Sometimes, it’s because he’s checking that it still looks okay from the outside. Other times, it’s because he’s delivering something from his store to one of the other houses nearby, and he just can’t help the way his eyes wander over the facade, taking note of the closed blue shutters.
They’re never opened, not like they had been the summer that Lando had stayed, but more importantly, they’re not falling into disrepair. Someone in town is keeping up the maintenance on the place, with neatly trimmed flowerbeds and freshly painted trims around the windows. The paved driveway is kept mostly tidy - weeds pulled, and leaves swept up in the autumn. It always looks as though someone could come and visit any moment, and that alone keeps the spark of hope alive in Pierre’s heart each time he finds himself drawn to that end of town.
Except for the fact that this time, he can see that the shutters are open. Every window is flung wide open, ready to coax in the coastal breeze that rolls in from the ocean. He wants to hurry, to make sure that the villa has not been broken into, until he spots an unfamiliar car parked up in the driveway. There’s a couple of battered suitcases strapped to the back of it, and the driver's door has been left open, as though the occupants couldn’t wait to get to the villa.
Pierre’s stomach churns as he watches from a distance. There’s movement inside, a couple of shadowy figures embracing in the kitchen. He can’t distinguish much from where he’s standing, but he knows it’s not Lando.
Time may have faded his memories, but he’d spent enough time staring at Lando moving around his shop, and his apartment, and along the beach when they walked together to know that whoever the male silhouette is, isn’t who he so desperately wants to see.
He has no reason to be standing watching, no plausible excuse to go and find out who it is that’s getting to live the life Pierre’s desperately trying to cling to in his memories. If Lando’s parents have sold the place, like Lando had said they were planning on, then he doesn’t want to come across to the new owners as some kind of creep.
With a last longing look over his shoulder, Pierre turns to leave, hoping beyond all belief that whoever owns the place now can create as many memories within the walls as he got to do with Lando.
*
Pierre hears the bell chime before he sees whoever it is coming into the store. He’s behind some shelves, so he calls out -
“Bienvenue! Je serai juste un moment.”
There’s an awkward chuckle in a vaguely familiar accent, and for a moment Pierre’s heart stops. He peers around the corner of the shelves and catches a glimpse of the back of whoever has just come into his store.
He has a head of messy curls, broad shoulders that taper to a narrower waist, and a nervous habit of biting the skin around his thumbnails.
Blood pounds in Pierre’s ears, drowning out the sound of the bustling street beyond as he stares at the man’s back. He’s instantly transported back three summers to the first few times he’d seen Lando watching him curiously through the window.
With the same frame, and a similar haircut, this could very much be the Lando he knows, aged up just a little.
That is, until the man turns towards Pierre at the sound of his hitched breath. All of the hope that Pierre had been mustering now plummets like a stone towards his feet. The features are similar, but the strangers' eyes tell a different story.
“Oh, hello.”
He’s English. Pierre doesn’t think the universe likes him very much if it has sent such a close facsimile of Lando in place of the real thing.
“Welcome,” Pierre repeats when he manages to gather his thoughts, this time in a language the newcomer will probably understand. “Is there anything I can help you look for today?”
Most of his inventory is in French, much like the library in Lando’s villa. He wonders idly if this man is the person he saw there the other evening, or if he's simply another traveller passing through the guest house further up the street.
“I hope so,” he replies, staring at Pierre’s chest with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He seems to snap out of it after a moment, looking away in embarrassment. It’s long enough for Pierre to glance down, and see that the gold chain is hanging out from underneath his shirt. He tucks it away self-consciously, waiting for the man to continue. “My friend, he was here a few years ago. He doesn’t talk much about his visit here, but he got all wistful when he talked about this shop. Thought I’d check out what made him clam up the moment anyone mentions him visiting again.”
For the second time in less than five minutes, Pierre is made aware of how his heart beats. He forgets how to breathe, and has to force himself not to scare off this stranger, this potential friend of Lando, with the burning intensity of questions that leap to the tip of his tongue.
“Your friend?” Pierre settles on, hoping that he’s conveying a normal amount of curiosity, and not an insane desire to grab the man by his shoulders and squeeze him until he bursts with information.
“Yeah, his family has a place in town. Well, it’s his since the wedding, a gift from his parents or something, not that he’s been back to it since. Told me to bring my wife and get away from the city for a while, and I can see why.”
This man has to know Lando. Everything he’s saying lines up almost exactly with the timeline of events that Pierre and Lando have lived through since their meeting three years ago. Lando had mentioned his parents were thinking about selling the villa, so it would make sense that they might give it to their son for doing the right thing and coming home to marry the girl they’d chosen for him.
The man is still talking, but Pierre has stopped listening, lost in his spiralling thoughts. If he knows Lando, then maybe Pierre can find out how he is. If he’s building a life for himself. If he’s expanding the family businesses.
If he’s happy.
“- are you okay?”
Pierre’s wandering thoughts snap back to his brain at the question, and he drops his hand away from the ring around his neck. He hadn’t realised he’d started rotating it in his fingers again. The man is watching the movement with interest, as though he’s trying to place a piece in a jigsaw puzzle without knowing what the picture is.
“It is nice of your friend to let you stay in his home,” Pierre says. Even to his own ears his voice is strained, throat tight as though he’s back in his father’s garage, struggling to breath through the smog of exhaust fumes. “I hope he is well. Perhaps I crossed paths with him while he was here.”
The man is staring unashamedly at him now. It’s as if he has figured out something that Pierre can’t quite place, until he extends his hand out to introduce himself properly. “I’m Max.”
Max.
Pierre remembers Lando telling him about his friend. His closest confidant. The one person that knew everything about Lando, and still kept his mouth shut. Max is a safe person, because Lando had told Pierre he was, and if there’s one thing Pierre knows all too well, it’s that Lando is a man of his word.
“Pierre.”
When their hands clasp, it’s a warm feeling. Max smiles at him, and Pierre can only hope that’s a good thing.
*
France, 1960
However nice it is for Pierre to have his childhood best friend living so close by now, he can’t help but curse the name Charles Leclerc when he comes knocking on his door on the first of the month.
“Pierre, I know that you are in there,” Charles shouts as Pierre stumbles down the stairs from his apartment and through to the main door. “You cannot hide from me all summer!”
“Charles please,” Pierre says exasperatedly as he unlocks the door. “You don’t want to wake up the whole street, do you?”
Charles doesn’t answer, but rather pushes his way past Pierre into the shop. He makes a beeline for the comfortable chairs in the window, hidden by the blind that Pierre had pulled down the previous night once the shop was closed.
“This is an intervention,” he says, without any preamble. “It is the first of August, and I am not going to let you waste away your summer living in the shadow of a memory you refuse to talk properly to me about.”
He’s staring at Pierre, arms folded across his chest as if waiting for Pierre to fight him on this. Initially, Pierre wants to. He wants to bundle Charles out of his door and lock it behind him. They’d talked a little about Lando, back when Charles’ third child was born, but everything had been manic, and although Pierre likes Angeline, he doesn’t know if he can trust her.
Charles is still watching him, determination set on his features, and Pierre eventually sits as though he’s a puppet with his strings cut.
It’s been difficult not telling anyone what truly happened. It’s been four years and the only person Pierre has to blame for the silence is himself. He can’t expect Charles to know, or to understand, unless he actually tells him everything. Including the way he still obsessively walks past Lando’s villa - now that he knows it’s still owned by Lando, thanks to Max’s visit last year.
If it’s owned by Lando then it’s safe, and there’s a chance that they might see each other again, even if Lando were to bring his wife and probably children. All Pierre wants to know is that he’s okay. That he’s getting the life of love that Pierre wanted for him all along.
He doesn’t realise he’s idly playing with the ring around his neck until Charles clears his throat pointedly.
“Lando came on a day much like this,” Pierre begins, leaning back into the cushions of his armchair as he finally gives in, ready to tell Charles everything he hadn’t been brave enough to speak about fully before now. “Arrived on the late train, and caught my eye as he walked past, making his way towards the beach. I didn’t know anything about him then, other than the fact he carried himself in a way that looked almost too familiar.”
Charles doesn’t say anything, his face open and relaxed. As though Pierre were telling him about the weather, or something equally as trivial. He knows Charles must have burning questions but it’s a testament to their friendship that Charles knows Pierre needs to talk it out at his own pace first before he asks anything.
“I just assumed he was checking up on property here, like a lot of people had been at the time. The day he was sheltering in my doorway away from a summer storm, I took pity on him and invited him inside. The way he spoke that day, I wanted to know more about him, until he said something that almost made me regret everything.”
“And then?” Charles prompts, knowing there’s more than Pierre is saying. Pierre shrugs, looking down at his hands before he continues.
“I was wrong. We were both scared, knowing that a confession to the wrong person could have ended either one of us. But he was tentative and opened up, and made me realise just how much I missed having someone that I could be myself with. We spent as much time as we could together, and he was full of every hope I could ever wish for. He gave me a reason to love again, to feel something real for the first time since Anthoine.”
“The love he gave me wasn’t the same as Anthoine’s. Far from it, really. They’re so different it feels unauthentic to compare them, but I know that’s what it was. Where Anthoine was a hearth, something warm and familiar to come home to, Lando was a firework. A bright explosion of warmth and colour that I didn’t know I was missing until he faded away.”
“But he left?”
“He didn’t want to,” Pierre replies with a sigh. “He wanted to stay. He told me what was waiting for him in London - a life that I had run away from, but surrounded by a family that loved him. A family that didn’t know him the same way that I do, or the way mine know me. I couldn’t do that to him.”
Charles has moved from his place in the armchair, to now crouch in front of Pierre, his hands cradled in Charles’ own.
“I pushed him away, after the best summer we could have possibly had together. I couldn’t be any more selfish than I already had been. I wrote him a letter the night before he left, and I hid it in his things, hoping that he would find it and come back to me. He said that he was to be married that autumn, but I had hoped -”
“You were not fair to him, Pierre,” Charles says quietly. “I know this is not what you want to hear, but you must, before you torture yourself to death over it. You spend a whole summer with someone, building this life of happiness that neither of you thought you would ever get to have, and then you push him away. You told him to go back to his family, based on what happened to you, even though you know nothing about them. You send him away with a letter he has no knowledge about, that could have been found by someone other than him, and you hold onto the hope he might return?”
Pierre’s face crumples as the weight of Charles’ words sits heavy in his chest. “He said he loved me. Shouted it out of the train window as it pulled away.”
“But did he know you loved him? Even while you were pushing him away?”
“I never said it to him,” Pierre admits, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I wrote it, but how could that ever be enough for what he means to me?”
Pierre has cried a lot since that summer, but never more than now, with the wave of guilt that washes over him. He’s been clinging onto a dream, made more solid by what Max had told him the year before, but still untenable. Either Lando hadn’t found the letter, or he didn’t believe Pierre’s words to be true.
Pierre isn’t sure what’s worse.
*
France, 1961
Dear Pierre,
You may not remember me, and you may have moved on from your shop, but this letter is a shot in the dark. Two years ago we met when I came to your town, and the moment you said your name, I knew who you were.
I had a suspicion already, seeing your shop tucked away just like our mutual friend had described, but until you introduced yourself, I could not have said for sure.
The reason I’m sending you this letter is because I’m worried about him. It has been five years since I have seen him at his most vulnerable. When he returned, he looked haunted, and yet somehow at peace for the first little while. As though he had found something on his visit worth staying for.
I have known Lando for many years. I grew up with him, and I have seen him in every possible state. I’ve rescued him countless times from others. He loves fiercely. Loudly. Chaotically.
He does not love his current life.
I don’t know what happened that summer, but I do know that if what you had wasn’t worth anything, then you would not be wearing his ring around your neck. He told his family that he had lost it while swimming, but you and I both know he would never willingly go into the ocean.
He is well enough in himself, do not misunderstand me, but I think that duty to his family is winning out over duty to himself. He has everything a man could possibly need at his feet, and he seems to want none of it.
It is awful of me to even mention this, but I don’t know who else to turn to. His parents think that all is well with him, with how he has thrown himself into the businesses to provide for his wife. So much so, that he hasn’t picked up his camera in months, if not years. His smiles seem performative, even to me. He will not mention it, but there is tension in his home life as well.
He has expectations placed upon him that I don’t think he can meet. At least not with how he looks as though he could break at any given opportunity.
I have a feeling that there is more to what went on than he will tell me. I’m sure you had your reasons for letting him go, and I thank you for giving him what I think were some of the most true moments of happiness in his life. I’m sure none of us wish that they were the last ones.
I’m not expecting a reply, but I’m sure I’m leaving you with much to consider. All I want is for him to get his spark back. I miss him, as I’m sure you also do.
Max Fewtrell.
Pierrot,
Stop ignoring my letters. Just because I have been away visiting our parents and Angeline’s family, does not give you the right to not reply. I know you are probably still upset with me for last summer, but I know you needed to hear it.
I do wish you wouldn’t isolate yourself when you’re feeling like this. That’s how you went five years being miserable, even though you say you’re not. I have seen you like this before, Pierrot. You deserve happiness. I don’t know why you will not let yourself have it. Truly there is nothing worse than the losses you have felt, but surrounding yourself with loneliness and grief is not the way to move past it.
Angeline worries for you as well. I have not told her about L, I would not betray your trust like that, but she can tell that I’m worried about you. She always asks for news from your letters, and I keep having to tell her that no letters have come. For all of our sakes, can you please at least let us know you are receiving my letters. They have not been returned by the postman, and I have no news from your family, so I am assuming you are well.
Please reply, just to put our minds at ease.
Charles.
Charlo,
I am as well as I can be, as is to be expected. I do wish you would let me mourn in peace, if not for a lost love, then a life I could have had, if I had been selfish for once in my life.
Being here is such a stark reminder of what could have been. Some days it feels as though it’s getting too much, and that the walls are closing in around me like some kind of prison cell. And then I look out across the ocean to the boundless horizon. To the uncharted depths out there that hold the answer to every ‘what if’.
I’m going to tell you something in confidence, and I do not want you to try and talk me out of it. I received a letter earlier this year. From London. It was not from L, but rather, someone who knows them well. Someone who I came to meet a few years ago, when they visited the town. He talks about the unhappiness that shrouds L, and their union, and how much he has changed since he stayed here.
I was not selfish that summer, but I feel I have to be now. I have to see it for myself. To see if there is anything I can do to help him. I’m not foolish enough to think that I can break into his marriage, but if he can see that I still -
It is a long shot, I know. It is a fool's errand, surely. And yet, I can’t not try. I don’t think I would ever forgive myself. I’m making plans for next year. A trip to London won’t be fully unmanageable, but there are still things I must put in place for the duration of my trip.
Do not try and talk me out of it, my mind has been made up. I can only hope I’m not too late.
Pierre.