Work Text:
René often stands proud – rigid and regal, frozen in time.
Gaston sits where he can, slouched and comfortable.
The sun begins to set, signaling the end of their daily games.
Their eyes aren’t what they used to be.
That is one of the reasons René’s arguments tend to escalate around this hour.
And so he can leave, indignant and angry, without risk of lingering.
Some muffled part of his brain, far out of reach, assures him this is for the best. Something terrible would surely happen if they spent any more time in each other’s’ company.
Viewing a sunset together was something reserved for Gaston and Jeanne-Marie. Or, on rare occasions, René and Jeanne-Marie.
It seems his reliable routine, his argumentative instinct, has failed him today.
Martinaise is dyed in orange and any cruelty has died on René’s tongue.
He is getting sentimental in his old age. Weak.
It's that sentiment which carries him to the two-person bench Gaston occupies all by himself in three long, quick strides, almost leaving enough space between them for a potential third.
(She will always be there, in her own way.)
Gaston’s eyes have been on René this whole time, following him with poorly disguised curiosity.
By the quirk of his lips, the peculiar dip of his moustache, Gaston seems to think he is hiding a smile.
René would be able to see it even if he were blind.
He places his hands by his sides, straddling the rough wood of the weather-damaged bench, should his balance betray him.
It is Gaston that betrays him first, as René always knew he would.
A cold hand covers his own.
His own hand turns until their palms touch.
They bask in Revachol's sun, as Revachol's sun basks in them.