It’s raining.

It’s raining, and Hugo doesn’t know where to go. What to do. The weight of his sodden coat is heavy on his shoulders, and his cheeks are red with cold. He can’t light a cigarette—there’s nowhere dry enough to, and you would have to be crazy to hover in one of Marseille’s alleyways after dark. 

It’s raining, he thinks to himself. He’s going insane. Earlier in the day, after catching sight of Louis’s expression from across the street as he stepped into the enlistment office, the idea quickly turned into a running chorus. 

You’re insane. What are you doing?

They’re conscripting us all anyway. I have no choice.

He isn’t quite sure who he’s arguing with. Perhaps his reflection, as he stares at it in a window. He catches sight of himself—wild-eyed, water dripping off his dark hair and pink-dusted nose—and turns away. 

It’ll be an adventure. 

“But I’m scared.” The moment he signed his name on that piece of paper felt like an ending. Perhaps his new blue coat and red trousers would be the last thing he would wear. Something in his chest tightens. 

And he feels like he is going to die. This cobbled street will be his final resting place. Is here better than in a war? He asks desperately. He’s never held a gun before nor considered the implications of killing a man unless you counted Joseph Monet, and he’s never even been away from home for more than a week. 

Insane, he reminds himself. I’ve lost it. 

And then a voice makes him jump. 

“Hugo?” They sound concerned—close to terrified—and it takes Hugo a few moments to realise he’s ended up sitting on the sidewalk, back to an old marble building. The solidness of the wall is comforting. He presses himself against it. “Hugo? Can you hear me?… Are you drunk?” 

And then someone’s hands are on his cheeks— and the streetlight is too dim for him to make out their features—

But he would know Louis anywhere.

“I’m not drunk,” Hugo answers. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating somewhere? Oxford. That’s been your dream for years.” To escape, he doesn’t add. To leave me. Louis pulls his hands away from Hugo’s face. He immediately misses their warmth. 

“There’s a war on,” Louis replies. “I’m not going anywhere. But listen,” and then he speaks again, words that Hugo recognises vaguely, but they feel like sand slipping through his fingers. He can’t grasp them. A headache begins to thrum behind his eyes. 

“You’re not going anywhere?” Hugo echoes, settling on something easier to focus on.

“I’m not going to England. What kind of man would I be then?” Louis pauses. “My father would be rolling in his grave if I didn’t enlist.”

Hugo wants to grab Louis by the shoulders and shake him, but his throat has an odd lump and his eyes sting. It’s impossible to imagine Louis on a battlefield. Beautiful Louis, whose hands are shaped for writing and drawing, is unused to spending more than a few hours without anything to snack on. He knows Louis is used to being afraid, but Hugo isn’t sure any of France’s newest soldiers will ever finish preparing for the coming months. 

  A lamb to the slaughter. The thought makes Hugo’s stomach turn.

  “Hugo, you’ll catch your death out here in the cold. Come on,” Louis grabs his sleeve and pulls him to his feet with a surprising strength for one so wry. Or maybe Hugo is just too tired to resist.

[UNFINISHED]