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The city in the rain is a different world. Gaspard slings his bag over one shoulder, the still-warm baguettes bumping against his shirt as he collects the nondescript black umbrella from the umbrella rack by the door, the metal frame holding an assortment of dripping umbrellas sprouting in various shades. There's no blue though, Gaspard thinks to himself, absentminded. His thoughts are already on the next project, the next image to be crafted out of fabrics and stitching. An umbrella, he thinks, as the door swings open, a tiny bell tinkling overhead as the clerk calls a muffled goodbye through the tangle of voices.
Looking up to the clouds swirling white and soft gray in the sky, a few drops of rain manage to dot his face before the dark canopy of the umbrella opens up over his head. Gaspard lifts a hand to his cheek, needle-pricked fingertips catching over his cheek as the faintest droplets are brushed away, and that's when he sees it.
A flash of white in the crowd. White against the blue gray of the day.
His feet are moving, even before he feels to first splash of the puddle protesting, footfalls on cobbles and the mumbled apology as the edge of his umbrella collides with that of someone else; he's not looking, eyes scanning the crisscrossing of the crowd and—
white
—there it is again, the faintest glimpse before it's swallowed up by the bodies again. The bag bumps against his shoulder as he zigzags across the square, avoiding café tables pushed aside because of the rain, white, gray, white, he reaches the road, balancing on the curb and waiting for the light to change back to green as cars rush by, windshield wipers swishing back and forth as rivulets of rain sluice down the glass; he peers at the crowd across the road but everything is gray and a car driving too close to the curb threatens to inundate him with a tidal wave of muddy water as Gaspard springs back, umbrella slipping out of his grasps as he makes a wild grab—
there are fingers on the handle, light against the wood grain. Gaspard accepts the handle of the umbrella, glances up to see a face smiling at him, brown-gold hair in soft waves crested with tiny water droplets, the flashing white in the crowd embodied in a neat white suit, cream jacket pulled smooth around a trim waist with a double row of brass buttons, a tiny beauty spot tucked above the curve of a smiling mouth.
"Hello," the stranger says, and his voice mixes with the rain. Gaspard swallows. It's still raining, the drizzle settled into a soft downpour as the stranger steps beneath the canopy of the black umbrella. From this close, he can see that the man's eyes are blue.
"Hi," Gaspard manages to say between heart beats. The man is so tiny, somehow, the handle of a blue bag tucked in the crook of one elbow, and he's hardly wet at all, even though the rain drops are now falling fast and quick on the sidewalk, the lights of the cars haloing as they rush by.
"I love the city in the rain," the man says, and Gaspard finds himself nodding without thinking about it, because it's true. The man has a small smile on his face, the beauty spot above his lip fascinating, and Gaspard finds himself leaning closer though he's not even are of having moved, how would that taste? he wonders, to run my tongue over and taste?
The stranger laughs. Gaspard blinks his drooping eyelids wide open and jerks back, and apology already forming on his mouth because he isn't that person, he's never been—
"I have a hotel room," the man says, and there's a kind of twinkle in his eye now, that Gaspard can't read, even though his eyes can't move from the man's face, "if you wants to come?" There's a gently expectant silence, and Gaspard nods, anything to bridge the gap, extend the moment, as the man reaches an arm out and flags down a cab.
It's like magic, getting a cab in the city on a rainy day, but sometimes magic is real, as Gaspard sits on the leather seat, dripping umbrella on the ground by his feet and watches bemused as the stranger shows the driver a card. The driver nods and the taxi pulls away from the curb.
"You have baguette," the stranger says, turning to Gaspard, and he extends the bag without thinking, offering up the still-slightly-warm bread as the man breaks off a piece and slowly savours it. "Fresh baguette is perfect," he says, when he notices Gaspard's expression, that's not what I was looking at, Gaspard doesn't say. I was looking at you. He breaks off a section of bread himself, and they spend the cab ride in silence, watching the rain and the landscape of the city.
The lobby is hushed, arched ceiling and cream marble expanses of floor; nothing that Gaspard isn't used to and he's not looking at the expensive paintings or the politely discreet staff who only nod faintly as Gaspard follows the stranger into the elevator, soft music playing, Satie perhaps.
"Do you like wine?" the stranger asks, and Gaspard nods. The elevator doors open on a long hallway, thick plush carpeting that swallows up his footsteps, as everything seems remote and yet so immediately real as the stranger holds the door open behind him, letting his blue bag slip off his arm onto a blue upholstered chair, and gesturing Gaspard to do the same with his bag.
When he looks up, the stranger is holding out a glass of wine, merlot by the colour and smell as he lifts it slowly to his mouth.
What am I doing? Gaspard wonders, but he doesn't have any answers, as the cool liquid slips down his throat and he can see the wall through the glass. A large reproduction of Van Gogh's almond blossoms is spread across the wall, and beneath it the blue silk of a bedspread, white blossoms embroidered on the soft surface as the stranger pulls Gaspard in after him, guiding the glass to the sideboard as he sits on the edge of the bed and raises his face, fingers cupped around Gaspard's head as he's pulled down into a soft kiss, the taste of wine on soft lips, sinking down to hover over the stranger lying down on the bed, cream jacket a contrast to the blue silk.
"Please," the stranger says, when Gaspard hesitates, not even realizing the way he pauses, not going any further.
"But—" Gaspard begins; the stranger lifts himself up on elbows and swallows the rest of his words with his mouth, guiding Gaspard's hands down, fingers gently unbuttoning the brass buttons he only feels under his hands, spreading the cream fabric wide open and running his needlepricked fingertips over soft skin, smoother than any silk. The stranger shudders, arches up slightly against the sheets, and Gaspard stops hesitating.
"Thank you."
It's like a dream, the faintest of sounds, the softest brush of wind over his face and is that a kiss? before he gradually opens his eyes, morning sun playing across his face as the curtain drifts in the breeze. Gaspard sits up, silk sheets falling away.
The room is empty, only a scattering of white almost blossoms on the blue silk of the coverlet; a gust of spring breeze stirs them up as they dance in the air, sending messages that Gaspard can't decipher.
The stranger is gone.
He can't get the stranger out of his mind.
"You don't even know his name?" Louis, his friend and business partner asks, shaking his head in disbelief. "You?" Gaspard shrugs, scissors slicing through blue silk.
"It just—there was never a good time," he protests, and Louis frowns at the paper, pencil hovering over the white.
"Ce qui est fait est fait," he says finally, and stands up, resting a warm hand on Gaspard's shoulder before he heads over to the coffee pot.
Gaspard just sits, looking at the blue silk spread over the table, his hands, and thinks about almond blossoms.
"It's not over," he says quietly.
He still thinks of the stranger, when he sees that particular shade of blue, and there's a reproduction of almond blossoms on his wall, not in his bedroom because that would be too close, but on the cream coloured wall of his hallway, walking from the front door to the living room. Louis always shakes his head when he comes over to visit, but he doesn't say anything anymore.
Gaspard likes baguettes, for lunch, but he adds a strong cheese to go with the wine.
"Can you go to Seoul next week?" Louis asks, over the phone. He sounds harried, distant. His marriage is on the rocks, and things aren't going well. "I have an appointment with the counselor that I can't miss." Gaspard looks down at the sketch he's drawing on paper; what had been a short frock had somehow turned into a tree branch, blossoms spinning off into the sky, as he was talking.
"That's the meeting with the purchaser, right?" Gaspard asks, though he already knows the answer. He doesn't particularly want to go, and blue isn't in this season.
He books a plane ticket anyway.
It always happens. One thing leads to another and he nods when he should shake his head or someone gets an idea and he's not paying attention at the right time and Gaspard finds himself sitting in the first row, a line of mannequin-faces models parading down the runway.
It's been a while since he's been forced to sit in for a show, and he plasters a semi-interested expression on his face, just enough to express the adequate amount of appreciate he hopes, without sending the wrong message that he's enthralled and needs to be plied with wine and cocktails at the after party. Etiquette games were never his forté, and he finds his mind wandering, thoughts drifting back to a city in the rain, even though the day today is obnoxiously sunny.
Satie, he thinks. White on blue.
He's not sure what makes him look up, whether he caught something out of the corner of his eye, perhaps a phantom flash of white amidst the darks and tans and crimsons of the Fall/Winter season, but Gaspard raises his eyes and finds himself locking gazes with the stranger.
The man in the cream-coloured suit, spread on the blue silk of the bed, the taste of wine in his mouth.
Gaspard blinks. The man isn't wearing cream today, but rather an equally androgynous black and scarlet set, the scoop of his collarbones flashing above a wide leather belt, his face as blank and mannequin-like as the rest.
Of course he doesn't remember, he thinks, and it feels like waking up all over again, rising from a dream that can't ever be regained. The nostalgia that washes over him feels like pain.
There's a slight breeze, as the stranger passes by, white almond blossoms—
no it's a tiny white petal, folded up paper that lands in the palm of Gaspard's open hand as his fingers curl reflexively over it.
When the last model has walked past, the last flashbulb gone off, he opens his hand and unfolds the paper with slightly trembling fingers.
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Junmyeon
