“So this is it then?” The young man seated on the edge of the bed said, as he shrugged and ran his hand through the three days’ worth of beard on his jaw. He addressed a fair-haired lady in a long yellow dress, who was removing a generous amount of make-up before a mirror above the dresser. She did not respond to the complaint.

“Why are you doing this?” He sighed in defeat, and for once he was glad she was paying more attention to herself than him, since his expression was tainted with heartbreak.

“Ross...” She lamented, as she put down the tools with which she deconstructed her image - one so out of place in that red laced room. Yet then again it had never really belonged to her, and he didn’t feel either of them belonged in it, but here they were. “Have I ever not been clear about our arrangement?”

He bit his lip so hard it turned pale, letting out a grunt in agreement. She continued to erase the artistic liberties she had taken with her face, having no qualms with leaving him to his silence.

“Would you be a doll and help a lady out with her corset?” She asked as if nothing had ever happened. Her long, gloved fingers lifted her hair with practised elegance as she stood up with her back turned to him.

“Celandine,-”

She tutted and cut his complaint short, waving a gloved index finger from left to right to scold him.

“Behave now, Mr. Forrest.”

With a gruff little noise he gave up, and walked over. Although his own hands were large and calloused from working the forge, he undid the laces of her corset with surprising dexterity. She took in a deep, relieved breath as her chest was freed from the fashionable constraints. He did not stop there, gently brushing away the pale yellow cloth around her shoulders. Instead of holding him back, she simply continued to take off her updo, removing the pins keeping her wig in place.

As his hands found her soft, pale skin, that spanned tight around her shoulder blades he sighed and left them there, his thumbs gently tracing her. He leant in and kissed her neck – but whispered his name.

“Cecil, you don’t have to… I can get you a job at the forge. It won’t be much, but you won’t have to live a lie anymore.” Ross could feel him tense under his touch as he spoke the name, but then rest into his grip again as he was too tired to get angry. Cecil removed the wig to reveal his slightly thinning, dark brown locks, fiddling with them in his still-gloved hands.

“To what end Mr. Forrest? I would rather live as a beautiful lie, than another tragedy.”

“To be with me.”

He laughed and shook his head at the request, undoing the rest of his dress.

“Who are you to accuse me of lies when you speak such wild dreams to me?” Cecil stepped out of the layers of cloth that had hidden his truth and hastily folded the dress, ducking out from under Ross’s grasp to put it all away in a large, opened travel case. Yet once there he stared at the contents of the case as if it owed him answers. “No chance in hell… you have a family, a proper life to live. Nobody cares about one more deprived orphan boywhore from the east end.”

Cecil spit the words at the world like he wanted to kill it – and for what it had done to him he ought it deserved every last bit of it.

Ross wrapped his arms around Cecil’s chest from behind, holding them tightly in an embrace with his far broader build, as he spoke the only words with which he could respond.

“I care.”

Cecil bit back his tears, unable to show weakness when he was near a man so much taller and stronger than him – no matter how kind they had proven to be.

“That’s why I have to leave you Mr. Forrest.” Ross shook his head in confusion, looking down and meeting Cecil’s gaze. Their brown eyes spoke sadness, and he couldn’t help but notice the presence of slight wrinkles in the corners of what would otherwise be a youthful appearance – he’d never known if those were because his past had been longer than he claimed, or if it simply weighed heavy.

“Sooner or later the wrong one finds out, I can’t do such a thing to you.”

Ross laid his head against Cecil’s neck, then nodded. He couldn’t resist taking a few deep breaths of his perfume. It wasn’t often he was met with scents that were neither soot nor grease.

“I always wished to see Paris.” Cecil spoke softly, not averse to his indulgence.

“You tell me such beautiful lies Lady Celandine.” In his voice there laid a near poetic sadness not expected of a man like him, as with a firm grasp he took the seam of the glove and stripped it all the way down. A red rash spread out along their palm, like a cursed mark that confirmed all his fears.

“I thought I’d have longer before I would fall ill…” Cecil whispered as he pulled his hand back and clutched it to his chest with the other, afraid to do worse to the man he loved than dying. “I’m so sorry, I wanted – I just…” His breaths heaved in his chest, as he had no excuse for making advances on someone never meant for him, and one he deserved even less.

Yet Ross was not one to give up, instead he kept his grip on their shoulders and gave them a gentle kiss on their cheek.

“It’s fine.” The words soothed enough for Cecil to catch his voice again.

“What if I gave it to you?” But Ross shook his head fervently.

“How would you? We haven't done anything worthy of such a punishment, only walked beside one another.”

“So says the man who is holding me while I’m nude.” Ross couldn’t help but chuckle and admit to that, and it caused Cecil to smile through his deep worries.

“I believe it was you who asked me what life is worth if we filled it with nothing good.” As he ran his thumbs over their shoulders, Cecil nodded and once more avoided his grasp – he let them go.

“You were my good.” He said softly as he went to put on his undergarb. “I enjoyed your company as much as Celandine enjoyed your attention, Mr. Forrest.”

Ross smiled at the mess of clothes in the case, and quietly closed it. From the corner of his eye he saw Cecil put on a somewhat worn, black suit and white gloves. It fitted him ill, even if the tailoring itself was fine.

“She has a talent for flattery.” Cecil smiled and made a small curtsey, while Ross took the travel case from the bed and set it down.

Yet that moment passed too, and neither knew what to say that could ease this parting – even if it was clear there truly was not going to be any other way. Ross sighed and stared down at the case, while Cecil finicked with the fingertips of his gloves.

“I will write you.” He said as if it would ease the pain.

“Will you tell me about Paris?”

“More than any blacksmith ever needs to know.” Cecil smiled, and so did Ross – for just a moment. “So then… this is our farewell, Mr. Forrest.”

Ross nodded.

“Take care.”

For a mere second Cecil hesitated, as if there was something more to say, but they couldn’t find it. With both hands he took the case and went to take it the short way over to the door.

Ross stood and watched, his mind racking over the many words he still wished to speak, but none would do. Yet he knew that once they had gone through that door there was nothing ever to say or do again, and he couldn’t bear that.

Within two steps he had made his way over and grabbed their wrist. In his impulse he pulled them in, perhaps with more strength than was warranted – or wise. Yet before the short window of their surprise could turn into fear, he had placed his hand on the back of their neck and kissed them. A kiss he had been denied, despite their many moments together, but one he couldn't do without. And neither could Cecil, as he felt them give in to it after just a moment of hesitation.

But like all others, those fleeting seconds of intimacy passed as well, no matter how much he wished they lasted.

He let out a soft sigh as he pulled back, both his hands drifting to their face as he wanted to see it one last time – to remember it the way it was without the façade. Cecil looked up at him and smiled, despite the worry that this had doomed him. Ross merely kissed again, not afraid of how bad it was, as his heart said it was right and he trusted that more than any book or gospel.

“Please Mr. Forrest… before I change my mind.” Cecil pleaded, and like any other time before, he let them go again.

“Go see Paris, before I change mine.”

A soft kiss met his forehead, while he still leant over. He smiled even if it hurt.

“Farewell, Ross.”

For those last steps he'd ever see of them, he couldn't look away, taking in every detail in the hopes that if he just tried hard enough it would slow this moment to an eternity. But it didn't.

As the door shut he felt tears roll down the sides of his cheeks, into his beard. Not for himself, but for them. He knew far too well a man like him wasn't supposed to cry, but he hadn't been supposed to do any of this.

With the palm of his hand he quickly wiped away the tears, and took a long, sobering look through the room. Without her,- him, there was nothing of value: it was just a brothel room.

To my dear Ross,

I am sorry that I have not written you in so many months, but I am afraid I did not have the heart to despite the many kind words you sent me. To hear you are in good health brightens my days here.

Paris is still beautiful, but I am sad to say I will not see it for much longer – it needs to be said since you despise my lies so much, and these may be my last words to you. I did not wish for them to bear such weight, and rather I'd speak to you about the many things we used to. Now winter has passed, the flowers and insects return to the hills, and there have been many days I wished for you to walk beside me through them.

It gives me solace to know that even something as barren as winter can find life again so quick. I hope that while the dark days of my winter set, you will still have many days of spring ahead of you.

It is a selfish request, I know that, but please do not mourn me for too long: there are many more flowers, and there is so much more for you to live and find, it pains me to think you would miss it because of me.

Yet here I am melancholic once more. So I wish to end with the words I should have said to you a long time ago, when I still had the chance.

I love you.

The pale moonlight reflected in the calm waves of the Seine as they washed over the riverbank. Occasionally they stirred the heavy, soaked skirts of a yellow evening dress. Although the water licked at their pale fingers - like a pup pleading them to wake up, they remained forever still.

“Ross? Ross! Come on you bloody twat.” The loud voice rung in his head, causing the room to spin every which way. “You finish the whole bottle?” With his cheek stuck to the bar, he saw Jack pick up the bottle he knew had held whisky – once upon a time.

“Ah fer chrissake, 's this about that Paris lass?” He heard Dan say from the other side, but when he tried to get up and turn his head he nearly toppled backwards.

“Hey! Get him out of here, it's done for tonight.”

“Sh-shut up…” Ross protested weakly against all the strange noises that bounced about his head.

“Come on, time to get you home.” George grabbed him under his armpits, and although he tried to swing wildly to stop them, all he really did was flail a little. Both his legs were taken hostage by his two 'friends’ before he could do anything about it.

He squirmed, but the motion made him sick. Realising it was no use, he just went limp and let it happen.

His back hit a wall outside, and his head smacked into it just after.

“Ah fucking… sorry mate.” He grumbled a few angry, incoherent swears at George.

“So what're we doing with him?”

“Well get him home of course. Look at the twat, he can't even stand proper.” Jack said, as his own gesture caused him to wobble on his feet.

“Ye proper daft, ye can't even do it yerself. How ye getting him home then?”

“ 's just a few, I manage.”

“Ye Englishmen can't handle shite.”

“Well what about him then eh, you're cousins.”

“Cause the lad had two bottles, not two pints - and he's a mutt anyway.”

“Won't you two stop bickering like old ladies already.” George complained, “We're not getting anywhere.”

“Ah fer… fine.” Dan groaned as he knelt down and shook his passed out cousin. “Ross! Rossy ye daft,-” He slapped them across the face. “Finnleigh!”

Ross grabbed the side of his face, as he heard his given name get shouted at him. Even though it was dark and everything spun, he knew exactly who it was - since the accent was rather unmistakable.

“Fock off Aodhan…” He tried to punch his cousin across the face, but only ended up swinging wide and hitting the filthy cobblestones with his body.

“The lad ain't walking there, that's fer sure.” Dan said as he gave his cousin a firm slap on the back in retaliation.

“Well then you get the other side.” George sighed, grabbing one arm and pulling Ross up. Reluctantly, trying not to get hit by a now angered Ross, Dan grabbed the other side.

“Now what do I do?” Jack complained from behind.

“Try and walk straight like a man.” George groaned, rather displeased with his current situation as he had to carry a hefty blacksmith a head taller than him back to the South Wharf.

“Good Evening Mrs. Forrest.” George said as he tried to heave Ross over the doorstep of his home. A woman held up a lantern light, her demeanour displeased, angry even, and despite her being shorter than any of the men and visibly getting along in her pregnancy, all of them were rather intimidated by her gaze.

“Evening auntie,” Dan said as he carried the legged half of her son into the house.

“Hi ma'am.” Jack lifted his hand, preferring to instead stand outside to try and pass as less drunk than he really was.

With a last effort, George and Dan managed to roll Ross onto a bed that appeared rather undersized.

“Well that's that.” George sighed, relieved to finally be done with it. Dan just shrugged, already on his way to leave.

They weren't even halfway through the small room, when the sound of heaving sobs filled it. Dan didn't respond, already done with his cousin for the night, but George turned around unsure.

“Is he crying?” He asked in the tone of someone not knowing whether to do something about it or not.

“Eh, probably figured out he's half English,” Dan said with a glance back at George, asking if he was coming since it wasn't all that big of a deal. When George didn't respond he simply shrugged and left of his own accord.

“You alright Ross?” George asked, stuck in the middle of the room in between following Dan out and helping his friend. Ross’s answer was louder sobs, which made him feel even more uncomfortable about it all. “Did something happen?”

“She's gone…”

The slurred words were all he caught, and he had to fill in the gaps between.

“The Paris girl?” He saw Ross nod, his sobs now full fledged and uncontrollable.

“Well… just sleep it off, it's just a girl?” George tried, not very well versed in the ways of consoling grief. He didn't get much of an answer, but without knowing what to do about this whole mess, standing there was worse. So he left and let Ross to it.