“I’ve been thinking,” Blake said, his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat.
Andre glanced at him, his eyebrow raised. “About?”
“After Paris Masters. After you retire.” Blake paused, watching a pair of swans glide silently across the dark water. “I want us to take a trip somewhere. Just the two of us. No tournaments, no commissions, no schedule.”
“Where?” Andre asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t know. Somewhere warm. Somewhere no one knows us.”
“That is becoming increasingly difficult,” Andre said wryly. “The paparazzi found us at that restaurant in Notting Hill last week."
“I know. That’s why I want to go somewhere remote. An island, maybe. Greece. Or the Maldives.”
Andre stopped walking, turning to face Blake. The lamplight caught the sharp angles of his face, the dark curls falling across his forehead. He looked beautiful and serious.
“You want to celebrate my retirement,” Andre said.
“I want to celebrate us,” Blake corrected. He reached out, taking Andre’s hand, their fingers lacing together in the cold. “We’ve been running so hard for four years. Tournaments, training, the studio, the press. I just want a week where the only thing we have to do is be together.”
Andre squeezed his hand, stepping closer until their chests were nearly touching. “I would like that very much.”
They stood there for a moment, two figures in the dark, the vast expanse of the park stretching out around them. The city whispered in the distance —sirens, traffic, the low rumble of the Underground beneath their feet — but here, by the water, it was quiet.
Blake leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Andre’s. “I’m proud of you, you know. For making the decision. For choosing what you want instead of what everyone expects.”
“It was not a difficult choice,” Andre murmured, his breath warm against Blake’s lips. “Tennis gave me you. But painting gives me everything else. And I can have both now.”
Blake kissed him, a soft, lingering press of lips that tasted of cold air and the last traces of Earl Grey tea. Andre’s hand came up to rest against Blake’s jaw, his thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. When they pulled apart, Andre was smiling — a real, unguarded smile that reached his dark eyes.
“Come on,” Blake said, tugging Andre’s hand. “It’s freezing. Let’s go home.”
They walked back through the park, their pace unhurried, their hands still linked between them. The flat was warm when they returned, the smell of baked scones still lingering in the air, the kitchen clean and quiet.
Andre made tea while Blake changed into sweatpants and an old tournament t-shirt.
They sat on the sofa together, Andre’s feet in Blake’s lap, the television playing softly — some documentary about marine life that neither of them was really watching.
“Andre?”
“Mm?”
“I love our life.”
Andre looked at him over the rim of his mug, his expression soft and open. “I love our life too.”
Blake smiled, his hand resting warm and heavy on Andre’s ankle, and turned back to the television. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the bay windows, but inside the flat above the bakery, everything was still.
The next morning, Blake woke early.
The rain had stopped, leaving the London sky a pale, washed-out blue. He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Andre, and went to the kitchen to make coffee.
When he returned to the bedroom, carrying two mugs, Andre was awake, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.
“Morning,” Blake said softly, setting the mugs on the nightstand.
Andre turned his head, a slow, sleepy smile spreading across his face. “Morning.”
Blake climbed back into bed, propping himself up against the headboard. He handed Andre a mug, then settled back, his shoulder pressing against Andre’s. “You were tossing and turning last night,” Blake observed, taking a sip of his coffee.
