Hugo hated the boy from the moment he saw him. 

He was the heir to some obscene fortune, Hugo guessed. Monet’s Store, the supermarché that Hugo had worked in since he was fourteen, attracted that sort of person. The boy’s well-tailored clothing and smooth French vowels gave it away, but most importantly, so did how he held himself—like he grasped the whole world in his unblemished hands. 

Eventually, Hugo thought of the boy as he walked home in his too-small boots. He passed factories spewing smoke, a far cry from the picturesque Marseille shown on postcards, to get to his two-bedroom house on the other side of town.

He hadn’t wanted to meet him. He had assumed the fellow was just one of those customers who came into the store to bite an apple and then leave. It was a reasonable hypothesis: others surrounded the boy. They all had equally well-cut clothing and expensive wristwatches. It made Hugo want to spin around and sprint in the opposite direction.

When Hugo approached to fix the display of canned beans one of the other boys had untidied, his eyes fell on a man he unfortunately recognised—the boss of his boss: Joseph Monet. 

“Oh, hello, sir,” Hugo said, accidentally making eye contact with the boy and promptly looking away. Joseph smiled too wide, looking like a wolf about to jump on a piece of prey. 

“Ah, Hugo Drakos,” he boomed, “I wasn’t aware you were working today. You and Louis are the same age,” Joseph rested his hand on—fuck—that damned boy’s shoulder, “would it be a bother for you to show him around? He will inherit this someday but needs to experience it first-hand.” 

Fucking hell, of course, this boy was the heir to two of Marsellie’s biggest fortunes. Hugo despised him even more–if that was possible. 

Hugo gave a tight smile. Louis gave him one back. The boys surrounding Louis sneered at Hugo, tipping their chins upwards. 

“You’re both fifteen,” Joseph continued, oblivious to—or ignoring—the tension in the two boy’s glares, “so I think you’ll both get on splendidly.”

Louis frowned suddenly, glancing up at his father. “Sixteen.”

“Fifteen, sixteen, who cares,” Joseph answered, waving a hand. It was impossible to miss the way Louis’s face fell. “I’ll be back in two hours. Eugène, François, Jean, I’m sure you have better things to do than hang around my idiot son.” 

The trio snickered, elbowing each other. As the boys dispersed, leaving Louis standing statue-like at the entrance to the building, Joseph pulled his wallet out of his pocket. He handed Hugo a crisp 20 franc note. 

Oh, Hugo thought, stuttering a thank you, maybe this won’t be that bad. 

After a moment, he realised he’d been staring at Louis for too long, something that felt like loathing bubbling up in his chest. 

“Oh, um,” he began, “come on, Mister Monet, sir, let’s go.” It felt odd to address a boy a year older than him as sir, but he didn’t want to risk losing his job. 

The supermarché was a cosy place. It almost felt like home, with a side of snobby customers and an unpredictable manager. Hugo was mostly alone whenever he was inside, operating the counter and fetching whatever a purchaser wanted from the back. It was simple and brainless. If Hugo were rich, he’d go off to some expensive school—Sorbonne Université, Oxford University, or École Normale Supérieure de Lyon—and come home to inherit a million-franc business. He’d have a dog, and a horse, a roaring fire and well-fitting boots. Forget it. He could almost hear Louis say that boys who can barely read can’t go to university.

“Have you ever been told staring is rude?” A voice roused him out of his daydream, and Hugo blinked, realising he had been looking at Louis again. The other boy had the ghost of a bruise over his eye, the colouring of which reminded Hugo of the sea that lapped at Marseille’s shores. 

“Uh,” Hugo said, “yes. Of course. I didn’t realise I was, that’s all.” They gazed at each other. 

Something in Hugo’s chest tightened and then released as he turned away. “Canned foods. Canned fruits. Canned vegetables. Alcohol,” he pointed. Instead of listening, Louis stared at him with an expression he couldn’t decipher. It made Hugo nervous. 

“What?” He snapped, forgetting himself for a moment. 

Louis gestured to Hugo’s apron pocket, where a stolen packet of cigarettes sat, poking out ever so slightly. 

“Can I have a cigarette?” He asked, the question almost childlike. 

Hugo’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t ever smoked a cigarette before, even if they were tucked away where no one was supposed to see. It was meant to make him look cool. It was meant to attract attention; hopefully, a pretty girl’s as he walked home. His father had suggested it. So far, it hadn’t worked. No one had noticed, until now. 

“You don’t have to,” Louis said hurriedly, fixing his scarf. Beneath its silk, Hugo caught a glimpse of another bruise. “I know they’re expensive and all.” That was why I’d stolen them, Hugo wanted to answer, because bastards like you make the prices so high. 

Hugo’s nostrils flared. “Fine.” He slammed the packet down on the counter, making Louis jump. He smirked.

“You got a lighter, then?” Hugo questioned. Louis looked at him as though he was the dumbest person in the world. 

“Of course I have a lighter.” 

Of course, Hugo wanted to mimic, my bad. Instead, he held out a hand. Louis dropped the lighter in his open palm, and the two boys stared at each other once more. 

Louis tilted his chin upwards. Hugo knew a challenge when he saw it. Even if he’d never smoked, he couldn’t let Louis know that. It would be embarrassing.

Ten minutes later, the two teenagers were crammed in what felt like the smallest alleyway in Marseille. 

“We’ve still got ages,” Louis commented, glancing down at his pocket watch, because of fucking course he had one of those. Hugo gritted his teeth. Whatever had overcome him to make him say yes to this? Twenty francs, he reminded himself, and likely more where that came from. 

He lit Louis‘s cigarette and then did the same for his own. The pair hovered, trying to look as though they were enjoying themselves. “You walk with a limp,” Louis finally commented. Hugo followed his gaze to the end of the alley, where a horse-drawn carriage was driving past. Louis continued, “erm—uh—why do you do that? Walk with a limp?” 

Hugo put the cigarette to his mouth and drew in a breath. He tried not to cough, although the smoke seared his throat. 

“My boots.”

“Your.. boots? What about them?”

Hugo wrinkled his nose, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he lifted one of his shoes, the sole flapping in the air.

 “They aren’t very comfortable,” he said. 

Louis’s face coloured. “It’s 1911, for pity’s sake. You’d think my father would be able to provide his workers with good enough boots. Especially if you’re on your feet all day.” 

Hugo stared at him. A sigh escaped him. “If we complain,” he said carefully, “we’d likely find ourselves without a job.” Louis pursed his lips and looked away. 

——————

When Joseph Monet returned an hour later, the two boys were behind the counter. Hugo held a leather-bound book, carefully surveying whatever Louis was picking up. The storeroom was a vast place, at least to Hugo, and stunk of a sharp smell he couldn’t put his finger on, cluttered with shelves of mostly canned goods. 

“Ten canned strawberries, you said?” Hugo questioned, consulting the book before the door flew open. He winced slightly. Louis had dropped a can with a sharp clunk. “Father,” Louis said eagerly, brushing himself off as he rose to his feet. Joseph’s gaze swept over him, before landing on Hugo. Hugo immediately wished it hadn’t. 

“Well, it appears the store hasn’t burnt down,” the man said, scratching his bearded chin. He moved his head this way and that, almost like a pantomime. 

“Astute observation, sir,” Hugo replied, his helpful customer-service voice veiling his derision. 

Joseph looked at him, hawk-eyed. Louis quivered next to him. Hugo got the sudden urge to stand between the two, to shield Louis from Joseph’s eyes. Something was wrong. The air had changed, sucking any warmth that Hugo was used to away. 

Joseph grabbed Louis’s scruff, pulling his son towards him. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr Drakos,” he said coolly, “we won’t bother you again.” Hugo caught sight of himself in a mirror hanging nearby that Louis's form had hidden. Thick eyebrows, luckily smoothed out from years of dealing with the Monets and their underlings, big eyes, unruly short black hair. A straight nose. Barely any sign of his French blood—it made him so different from the two men standing across from him. 

“It wasn’t a bother, sir,” Hugo answered, realising he was telling the truth. Mostly. “Louis was… well, he was great. Probably more competent than I was when I first started.” Once again, mainly telling the truth. When Hugo had started, Joseph maintained an iron fist over the store. Everything had to be perfect. Hugo had returned home with the back of his head stinging over something as marginal as not pulling a can back the right way. 

Joseph sniffed. He turned on his heel, tugging Louis, who threw an indiscernible look Hugo’s way. Joseph’s lips turned downwards. Before the door slammed shut, Louis waved.

——————

Later that night, after Hugo had returned home and stripped off his work attire, a knock came at the door. His eyes flew open, and he hauled himself to his feet, hearing his mother yell.

“Hugo, it’s for you.” 

He raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time, unsure what he hoped for. Was he hoping for Louis? Why would he want to see him so badly? Why did he want to make sure he was okay?

Instead, what sat on the kitchen table was a box. 

“Oh,” Hugo remarked, disappointed, picking it up and moving into the sitting room. He opened it. Inside sat a pair of thick leather boots. Hugo let out a sharp intake of breath. 

Pulling back the tongue of one of them, he picked up a packet of cigarettes and a note. On the note, in clear copperplate, were the words Demain. Ruelle. Du Déjeuner.

Tomorrow. Alleyway. Lunchtime.

——————

In the damp alleyway next to Monet’s Store, two boys struck up a friendship. 

At first, Hugo suspected that Louis was only using him for time away from his father. He countered this thought with the fact that he was mainly using this time to smoke Louis’s expensive cigarettes. 

Upon their second meeting, Hugo had mentioned that he liked to draw. He’d lost his sketchbook to some asshole friends of his older brother, Gabriel. 

“Why don’t you just buy another one with your check from the store?” Louis had asked, wide-eyed. Hugo wanted to frame the expression on his face and sell it: perfectly innocent. Naïve. 

“My mother can’t work.” 

“So?”

“My paychecks are used for keeping our house.”

“Oh.”

By coincidence, a package arrived on his doorstep the next day. It had been on the kitchen counter when he came home, almost glowing by firelight. When Hugo opened it, he glowed, too.

“Merde,” his mother said, peering over his shoulder, “that’s one of those expensive books, you must give it back. Hugo, who did you rob?” A badly drawn portrait of Hugo with a cigarette in the corner answered that question. Hugo couldn’t force the uncharacteristic smile off of his face. 

That night, Hugo had drawn Louis. The boy had all the features typical of those in the south of France: tanned skin, perfectly curled dark hair, disarmingly brown eyes, and a jagged scar usually hidden by a scarf. The drawing was a thank-you gift, nothing else, although Hugo hadn’t been able to stop staring at it as he drifted off to sleep. He’d never drawn something that he was this proud of before.

The weather in Marseille grew warm. Hugo found himself in a better mood. He could look forwards to a swim in the sea if he was ever allowed a day off. Maybe a day trip with his father, listening to the old man’s stories of his childhood in Greece. 

As the middle of June dawned, so did Hugo and Louis’s sixth meeting. It was easy to tell when Joseph would be gone: a certain gleam in Louis’s eye. Hugo had become used to reading Louis’s expressions, the same way Hugo’s father would read the stars. 

He could look, but never touch. 

“Fils de pute,” Louis said as the pair stalked outside, throwing his hands to the heavens. Hugo stared at him, dumbfounded. Louis continued, “he wouldn’t shut up. Louis, you’re almost seventeen, you must start looking for a proper young lady to settle down with. They treat me like some.. some prized Thoroughbred!”

Hugo leaned against the cobblestone wall. He lit a cigarette. 

“And then, when I told him, Father, I want to go to Oxford and continue with my studies, he laughed in my face,” Louis seethed, taking a drag of the flaming stick. There was something ethereal in Louis’s anger, Hugo decided. It was like a picture of a geyser in America he had stuck to his locker. Even knowing it wouldn't end well, he wanted to be as close as possible. 

“Maybe you’ll meet a nice young lady at Oxford,” Hugo answered. 

“I don’t want to—..” 

Louis’s face suddenly took on an expression that he couldn’t read. It made Hugo uneasy. He held up his hands, as if calming a bolting horse. 

“I don’t want to,” Louis’s words were firm.

Louis stared at Hugo. While the other boy’s face was indecipherable, Hugo got the impression that Louis could see right into his soul whenever he looked at him. Louis’s gaze dropped to his waist, and then fixed on something.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what? Oh,” Hugo followed his eyes, his face growing hot. Poking out of his trouser pocket was Louis's crumpled-up drawing. He’d grown sick of looking at it, looking at the other boy’s stupid, rich, perfect face, and had brought it to work to throw it out once and for all. He’d seen Louis, the real Louis, and promptly forgotten about it.

“It’s—well, it’s, um, it’s—..“ he desperately tried to think of some excuse. His normally brilliant brain was empty, devoid of any excuse. “Taxes,” he settled on. 

“Taxes?” Louis eyed the paper with an equal sort of curious desperation. A mischievous grin spread across the boy’s tanned face. Hugo, momentarily disarmed, felt his hands fall to his sides. Darting forwards, Louis grabbed the paper. “Oh, thank goodness it’s not actually taxes, otherwise I’d look like a real salau—“ the boy’s voice stopped.

“Is this me?” Awe spread across Louis’s face. Hugo couldn’t bear it. He averted his eyes. “No one’s ever looked at me before,” Louis continued. His voice had suddenly taken on an odd inflection. 

​​Now they were both looking away. Hugo glanced at the older boy and was shocked into additional silence. Louis’s cheeks were glowing—but what caught Hugo’s further attention was the small streak of dried blood tucked under his cheekbone.

“Oh, Louis,” Hugo said, stepping towards him. He breathed in the smell of tobacco, salt and some exotic scent he couldn’t put his finger on. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Louis tipped his chin upwards. His eyes blazed, so different than they were a moment earlier. “I ran into a door.”

Hugo got the distinct feeling that they were both hiding something from each other. 

Louis’s eyes dropped to the paper he held in his hands. “I think you made me too perfect,” he said in a light voice, nudging Hugo’s shoulder with his own before sidestepping him. No, Hugo thought, not perfect enough. 

Hugo glanced around, worried someone could hear his thoughts. A smart boy would keep away from the Monets. A smart boy would know better than to be caught like a fish on a hook. 

Hugo was sick of being smart. 

“Demain?” He suggested. Tomorrow? 

“Can’t,” Louis replied, stubbing out his cigarette and brushing his tobacco-stained fingers against his trousers. “I’m going to a ball.”

Hugo, thinking he was joking, nodded. If you didn’t want to see me, you could just say so, he thought. 

“Father thinks I’ll meet some high-society lady there and sweep her off her feet,” Louis chuckled. Hugo immediately wanted to hear it again. He smiled. “You might,” he said.

Watching Louis disappear into the shop, Hugo realised he didn’t want him to. Louis would be too busy for him, and then what would Hugo become? 

Nothing.