Chapter 314: Two ordinary people
CASSIAN
First was the cake. There was a tiny bakery at the corner of the piazza with a faded yellow awning and a display case full of pastries that smelled like vanilla and burnt sugar.
Julian had stopped there four times in the last week. He never went inside. He’d just stand there by the glass, his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets, looking at the small tarts with the glazed fruit on top.
It was a kind of look, like the way a stray dog looks at a warm butcher’s shop, keeping his distance because he’s already decided he isn’t allowed to want what’s inside.
I’d already talked to the woman behind the counter; she was going to have one ready for me on Tuesday morning.
Then there was the film. He was down to his last half-roll, spending hours checking the little counter on the back of the camera to see how many shots he had left.
I’d found a shop two towns over that kept three rolls of the heavy black-and-white film in a drawer behind the desk.
And the wine. He’d pointed out a dark green bottle with a handwritten label at the market twice, not asking for it, just saying the name out loud to the empty air while he was looking at something else.
That was how Julian asked for things... he whispered them to the world and waited to see if anyone loved him enough to listen.
There was one more thing I wanted to get him, but I didn’t know what it was yet. I figured I’d know it when I saw it sitting in one of the small shops down by the harbor.
Those days felt lighter than any time we’d ever had.
The weather stayed clear, and Julian was laughing more, the sound of it coming easy and frequent whenever the grey cat came back to the wall or when I tripped over the uneven stones of the path.
He carried the camera everywhere, the strap hooked over his shoulder, his fingers constantly touching the lens cap.
When we walked through the market, his hand would reach out and find mine, his fingers slipping between my knuckles right there in front of the old women buying fish, without that old, sharp jerk of his head to see who was watching.
He was starting to believe we were just two ordinary people in a town where no one knew our names.
But the truth was that...
Sometimes, in the deep hours when the moon was low and the sea sound was loud through the open shutters, I’d wake up because the bed felt too still.
I’d open my eyes and find him lying flat on his back beside me, his eyes wide and dark, staring straight up at the white plaster ceiling.
His jaw would be set so tight the bone looked sharp under his skin, his teeth grinding together in the dark.
He wasn’t crying; he was just holding himself perfectly rigid, fighting something inside his own head with every ounce of strength he had.
"Hey," I’d whisper, reaching out to touch his bare shoulder.
The second my finger hit his skin, his whole face would change. The lines would smooth out, his eyes would blink, and he’d turn his head toward me with a quick, forced smile that looked like it had been painted on with a brush. "Go back to sleep," he’d say.
"What is it?"
"Nothing," he’d tell me, his voice smooth and soft as oil. "I’m fine. Just the heat. Sleep, Cassian."
I’d watch him for a minute, the red light from the darkroom door catching the side of his throat, and then I’d close my eyes and go back to sleep.
I believed him because I needed to believe him. I needed to think that the light and the sea and the walks were enough to wash the city out of him.
He was laughing during the day, wasn’t he? He was holding my hand. Everything was fine. It was almost fine.
It was the stupidest mistake I’ve ever made in my life, but I didn’t know it yet.
It was finally his birthday, I got out of bed while the sky was still the color of wet slate.
Julian didn’t move when I pulled the blankets back; he was deep in that heavy, early-morning sleep, his face buried in the crook of his elbow.
The pale coastal light was just starting to come through the slats of the shutters, throwing thin white bars across the sheet and the curve of his hip. It was the exact light he loved to catch with his camera, soft and grey and clean.
I stood in the bedroom doorway for a full minute, my coat already on, just looking at him.
The blanket was pulled up to his ribs, exposing his shoulders. His breathing was slow and even, his mouth slightly open.
This was his real face, the one without the armor, the one that only came out when the world was completely dark and he didn’t have to worry about who was judging his expression. He looked completely safe.
I closed the front door behind me with a tiny click, making sure the latch didn’t snap loud against the frame, and walked down the hill.
The town was completely silent, the air cold enough to make my breath plume white in front of my face.
I was halfway to the bakery when I reached into my coat pocket to check the cash. My fingers hit nothing but lint and the seam of the lining.
My pocket was empty. I stopped right there on the stone steps, my hand deep in the wool, feeling that stupid, small thud in my chest when you realize you’ve left your wallet on the kitchen table.
It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t dramatic. I just turned around and started walking back up the path toward the house.
It was just a forgotten wallet, the kind of boring, regular thing that happens to normal people every single day.
I remember thinking about the cake while I walked, wondering if the bakery woman would have the chocolate letters ready in time.
