Archive of Our Own ^beta

October 20th.

Paul Verlaine has been hard at-work this last week outside of his Port Mafia duties, ordering his subordinates to get miscellaneous items that no one seemed to understand. First it was flour. Then it was butter. Milk. Yeast. His subordinates were beginning to ask questions, but no one dared to ask him directly. Not when they saw that look in his eye. That very same murderous stare that they had encountered on the field a year ago when they faced him as an enemy. Instead, the blond Frenchman scrutinized every product brought to him over the course of that week up until the ever-fateful October 20th – the day he had been working up to.

That very morning, he had cleared his entire schedule. Mori be damned, the whole world be damned: today was his day to do with what he pleased. Verlaine sat at the edge of his simplistic bed in the Port Mafia’s ever-encroaching basement, stewing. He had been doing that much more often lately… but today, the thoughts refused to stop. 

“Today’s the day.” He muttered to himself before standing, heading toward the restroom with a change of clothes. The blond made sure to spend extra time in the shower today, going through his entire hair care routine. That was a rare luxury in itself that Verlaine treasured. “It has to be perfect.”

That had been the mantra for the last year.

It has to be perfect.

Without perfection, then what was the purpose? What was all of this for?

After leaving the shower and making himself decent, Verlaine finally checked the time. 6:00am on the dot. 

“So far, so good.”

His features harden as he focuses now, barking out clear orders to any Port Mafia member on-duty to join him… and when all three available charges rally to his call, they are shocked to see Port Mafia Executive Paul Verlaine with his hair properly pulled back and in the largest kitchen that the headquarters has access to: in the confines of the basement.

“Don’t stand around and gawk. Get your hands washed and put your hair into nets. We have some croissants to bake.” 

It was not difficult for the attending Port Mafia members to see just how much stress their Executive was under in the kitchen. His apron already had specks of flour sprinkled upon the front; evidence of his hard work already. His icy gaze trained on the mixer before him, a scowl ever-present on his features, as he began measuring out the ingredients to his croissant dish into a bowl as he beckons one of the Port Mafia members forward.

“You there. Mix these together.”

The tall man he had beckoned closer had just gotten his hair net sorted and he glances to his two fellow grunts, who shrink away as to not be called out next. With a decisive breath, the dark-haired man steps forward to the bowl as he is placed in front of the shiny mixer on the massive marbled island. The mafioso gulps softly before using his knowledge to turn the mixer on, acutely aware of Paul Verlaine’s cold, calculating stare into the back of his neck. 

Within fifteen seconds of the mixer running smoothly, the hum of the machine filling the space and bouncing off of the walls, Verlaine’s voice echos against the cabinets:

“Slowly add the wet ingredients in so that they distribute evenly.”

The atmosphere remains tense as the Mafioso gently steadies his hand before taking the measuring cup and adding the wet ingredients as-ordered… yet he freezes as Verlaine snaps:

“You’re far too fast. You have to let the dough absorb the solution before adding more. You’re making a mess.”

“I’m sorry, sir–” 

The Mafioso starts, but he is cut off just as quickly as he began by a furious Verlaine.

“I don’t wish to hear apologies. I want results.” The cold tone chills the room, and the other two subordinates avert their eyes under the intense pressure of Paul Verlaine’s sudden show of distaste. “It has to be perfect.” 

With the dough eventually worked into a ball and put into the nearby refrigerator while it stiffens ever-slightly, the blond Frenchman stares at all three of the Mafiosi before him. 

“I don’t want to hear a single word of complaint throughout this entire process. This is…” He trails off, an intensity entering his gaze, before he continues with purpose: “...an incredibly important endeavor.”

The ability to strike fear into the hearts of men had never escaped Verlaine, and he watched as each one of them took out an individual wad of dough before their battle-scarred hands and began to knead it as instructed. The Mafiosi with a stubble took the most care with the dough, gently sprinkling flour into it while working through it. Meanwhile the smaller and clean-shaven grunt rolled the dough over a batch of flour while he roughly thinned the mass.

With a sharp glare, Verlaine strides behind the man, towering above him, before hissing:

“It’s. Too. Thin.” 

With a purposeful huff, the blond man takes control of the dough, adding the paper-thin mass back into a ball and reworking it.

“S-Sorry, sir…” The Mafioso bowed apologetically at the waist, nearly planting his face into the steel table the merry band of makeshift bakers kneaded upon. “It won’t happen again!”

While the mistake is corrected with fervent haste, Verlaine takes to the other small batches of rolled-out dough. With the gentle tap of a ruler, he measures out the length of the flattened substance. The Mafiosi behind him stiffen with bated breath, a pregnant pause befalling the both of them as they watch the blond’s muscles ripple beneath his suit. 

Paul takes great care to measure, minding the carefully-rolled edges of the dough, and he hums before nodding, turning back to the two men behind him:

“Exact.”

Stress rolls off of the shoulders of the men he commands, though the scrutiny of their actions looms over the men like their sins of old.

The tall man paces about the kitchen, watching as they repeatedly measure the dough and form it into rectangles. With every perceived mistake, his gloved hand grips his elbow as he crosses his arms and sternly corrects it:

“It is three centimeters too wide. Re-roll it.”

Two of the men exchanged a glance as Verlaine’s back turned momentarily, focusing now on their third who is struggling even more than they are with measurements. Their brief look passed one singular message between the both of them: “What difference does three centimeters actually make?”

With no windows in the Port Mafia’s basement, the only indication of time passing is the timer that Paul repeatedly sets with every section of dough’s stint in the refrigerator to chill. 

By the end of the third waiting period, Paul’s icy-flint gaze rakes across each rectangle of worked dough. It is almost as if he is measuring each length and width with an invisible tape measurer inside of his head. The men stand back as they watch him from afar. 

“...I will take it from here.” Paul’s voice cuts through the thick silence like a hot knife. “You’re all dismissed.”

“Dismissed?” 

One of the men asked in shock, earning a nudge from one of his co-workers. 

The blond does not even turn around, wiping down the stations of each man with soap and a wet rag, focusing on any flour and dough left behind.

“You don’t need to be here any longer. All that’s left is to bake them in the oven.”

The men seem reluctant to leave, and their pause causes Verlaine’s hand to squeeze the cloth, watching as the disinfectant soaps between his gloves.

“I said I don’t need you anymore. Do as you’re told and leave my kitchen.”

The Mafiosi scramble away at his dark tone. Not a soul dared to ask the reason for the croissants, nor did they wish to taste the fruits of the spoils they helped cultivate. 

Paul Verlaine would be on his own once more.

After dismissing the three men, the need to perfect this conquest had heightened from within. While the dough rests in the cool refrigerator, Paul sighs and leans over the counter. The only sound that proved he was still alive and well was the barely-audible breaths he took. 

He very well could have asked his underlings to stick around, but he couldn’t stand the way they seemed to do everything incorrectly. From the way they washed their hands to the manner of which they measured the length and width of the dough, it was just wrong. 

‘My penance will be doing all of the dishes on my own while the croissants bake.’

That was the correct way to do things, so he had realized. Maximizing his time would be imperative, as this had taken up the majority of his morning.

In time, Paul scrubs down each workstation from top-to-bottom, disinfecting and wiping down all spaces. He cleans the mixers and washes each utensil that was used in the nearby sink, and as he puts up the final spoon to dry –

BEEP! BEEP!

The timer jolts him out of his dark cloud of thoughts. He quickly changes from his disposable cooking gloves to his casual black ones, pulling them up as he grabs a hot mat to sweep the croissants out of the oven.

The door opened to sweep the scent of butter and the gate of heat that washed past Paul as he grabbed the sheet of croissants and put them atop of the burners to cool. Any hope that he had of the croissants turning out the way he’d hoped, though, had gone out the window:

They were golden-brown rather than honey-brown. 

This was not how things were supposed to go.

This was not part of the plan.

“We made three separate batches just in case…” Paul hissed to no one but himself, staring hatefully at the (hopefully) flaky bread. Anger flashes through his icy eyes as he grits his teeth. He cannot hold back much longer, snapping at the tray: “It has to be PERFECT! WHY CAN’T IT BE PERFECT?”

The blond was ready to snap, barely holding himself back from allowing a fist to fly into the oven.

“Because whenever he made them… he…”

Paul goes rigid as he speaks aloud, the realization dawning on him why he was so pissed off about the specifics – why he couldn’t let it go, why he couldn’t allow his subordinates to see his mask inevitably slip, why today had been so goddamn hard:

October 20th was a day that I held with little regard, until he took me by the hand for the first time in Paris in our temporary apartment:

“Paul, your hands are shivering. Would you like to borrow my gloves?”

Arthur Rimbaud and I had been in the midst of an assignment, one steeped in an assassination of a political figure on vacation in our home region of France.

I never took him up on that offer to use his gloves, and he didn’t seem to mind that. He would always smile and guide my fingers to create the most delicious breakfast croissants, walking me through every step of the process.

“You see, Paul, this is how I learned to make them from my mother. I don’t have anyone to pass this down to, but I figured a dear friend would suffice.”

Arthur’s voice wafted upon the small roof of our makeshift apartment. It was always a different living situation every year on October 20th – the lives of French spies do not stop for mere birthdays . The fate of the country matters much more than a celebration of life.

Instead, Arthur was always adamant about spending time in the kitchen on his birthday. Arthur preferred not to have a traditional cake, instead opting to recreate late mother’s croissant recipe from scratch. From the early morning hours until the late afternoon, he would work tirelessly beside me and guide me through the process of crafting something precious. 

“You’ll learn how to be gentle with time – it is an acquired skill, especially in our line of work. You’ll get there, Paul. I believe in you.”

At the time, I had been indifferent. Perhaps even bitter or annoyed, given that I found no value in baked goods. I did not care for nor did I understand the significance of precision in the art of baking. Yet, Arthur was right there to correct me on the right course for both years we spent together on his birthday. 

Each year, I made the same mistakes:

I did not measure correctly and they often rose to different sizes in the oven.

I didn’t use enough butter before rolling the dough up and placing it into the oven.

I over-kneaded the dough, causing it to be too tough.

But to Arthur, my mistakes did not matter.

Instead, after the timer would ding, he would make that beautiful face when I took the sheet of baked goods out of the oven: the one with his dimples on full-display and his eyes wide with excitement. I likened it to that of childlike wonder when he would marvel at the buttery croissants as they cooled.

“I can hardly wait to try them!” Arthur would exclaim. “I already feel warm inside just thinking about it!”

I never understood the sentiment back then. The significance of his warmth did not dawn on me until after I missed his comforting presence – that he experienced a sensation of ‘fuzziness’ that he described when thinking about things he loved. I had always nodded along, simply listening. 

I had already resigned to the idea that I would never feel that way about anything or anyone. What use are emotions, anyhow? They simply get into the way and create messes where sense and logic should reside.

Yet, after the cooling period, those croissants would be all Arthur wanted to get his hands on. He would smile after savoring his first bite and say:

“‘It’s even better than last year.’”

Paul’s voice echoed with the memory’s, and his hands flew up to his face with the utmost despair. Suddenly, the emptiness of the vast kitchen he stood in felt as though it would swallow him whole.

Last year.

The last time he saw Arthur in person rather than in an amalgamation of his ever-present nightmares was last year. 

There will never be ‘another year’ to make-up for these catastrophic croissants. 

There is no more room left for tries.

Only ‘doing’ and failing.

Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.

It never stops. 

Time never stops.

Heat pricks at Verlaine’s features, and before he can even school his damned feelings, the corners of his icy eyes leak with feeling that he cannot halt.

“And he never stopped loving me…” Verlaine chokes out toward the fluorescent light above him. The off-white glow blurs into a kaleidoscope of memories that he had kept so hidden in the recesses of his brain. 

“Even when I refused to show him that I…” 

Paul’s mouth moves with the words he–to this day–still cannot even say aloud. As pitiful as it sounded, he wanted to believe that he was programmed this way: coded to reject that unnamed feeling from anyone in his life. Destined to shut down short-circuit at any sign of affection or care outside of duty to his country or the Port Mafia alike.

Here he was, Paul Verlaine, named by that man who haunted his every waking moment with the most sickening yet ever-so-sweet smile, gripping his hands into fists as his attention fixated on the croissants before him. The baked bread cools and the buttery scent wafts through the air, perforating Paul’s very existence.

Despite the memories the croissants represented, frustration pricks at the blond. The urge to send each and every piece of that godforsaken bread flying looms inside of him.

And now what could he hope to do – share these monstrosities with Kouyou? With his ‘brother’ Chuuya? No: they deserve better. Far better than these wasted, disgraceful heaps of risen yeast. Each and every single one of these croissants were a simple waste of ingredients. Nothing more. 

‘But Arthur would try them anyway.’

The thought was the cold water that poured down his shoulders – the wake-up call Paul desperately needed before he lost control as he often tended to do.

Even from the far-beyond, Arthur was still around to metaphorically set him straight.

Reluctantly, the blond wiped the corners of his eyes with the back of his glove, gently pulling a croissant off of the sheet. The heat permeates through to the pads of his fingers. Arthur would have told him that ‘they need more time to cool off’, no doubt about that.

Paul brings the bread to his mouth and takes a tentative bite. 

The flake is just right.

The dough is soft.

It tastes buttery but not overly-salty.

Objectively, all issues he had tried to avoid while baking the croissants had been averted. On paper, this was the correct finished product.

He could learn! It was possible all along, just as Arthur had been so adamant about!

Yet, no smile ever crossed Paul’s features as he gently chewed and swallowed the buttery croissant.

The guilt had crept in: why couldn’t he have just followed instructions for his dear friend back then so that he could have tasted the croissants the correct way before he died?

Was the reason why he had people under his command as a Port Mafia Executive roll the dough so that he could get the semblance of continuing their tradition with others?

It wasn’t the same, even if that were the case. 

There is no way to be content with grief when the process has yet to begin.

There, in the Port Mafia’s basement’s kitchen, in complete and utter solitude, was the very first time Paul Verlaine allowed himself the freedom to mourn.

“Happy birthday, Arthur. I’ll make them better next year. I swear it.”