It was past midnight when they finally returned to their hotel room.
The room was quiet, the heavy curtains drawn against the lights of the city. Andre dropped his bag by the door and walked to the window, pulling the fabric back slightly to look out at the Parisian skyline.
Blake came up behind him, pressing his chest against Andre’s back, his hands settling on Andre’s hips. He pressed a kiss to the side of Andre’s neck, breathing in the scent of him — the faint trace of the restaurant’s woodsmoke, the expensive hotel soap, the underlying, familiar warmth of his skin. “How does it feel?” Blake asked softly.
Andre leaned back into the embrace, his hands coming up to rest over Blake’s arms. He let out a long, slow breath, the tension of the day, of the year, of a lifetime of expectations, finally draining out of his body. “I am free,” Andre whispered.
Blake turned him around, framing Andre’s face with his hands. He looked into the dark, beautiful eyes of the man who had changed his life, the man who had taught him how to love, how to live, how to be human. “Yes,” Blake said. “You are.”
He kissed him. It was a slow, tender kiss, a celebration of endings and beginnings, of the past they had survived and the future they were building.
They made love in the quiet of the hotel room, the city sleeping around them. There was no urgency, no need to prove anything. It was a slow, comforting exploration, a physical reaffirmation of the bond between them. Andre moved over Blake with a gentle, deliberate grace, his hands mapping the familiar lines of Blake’s body, his mouth tracing the curve of his jaw, the pulse at his throat.
They lay tangled together in the dark afterward, the heavy hotel duvet pulled up over their shoulders.
Andre rested his head on Blake’s chest, listening to the steady, reliable rhythm of his heart. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of Blake’s arms around him, the solid, unyielding reality of his presence.
He was retired. He was a painter. He was loved.
He had everything he had ever wanted.
The next few weeks were a blur of adjustment. Andre threw himself into the Paris commission, spending twelve hours a day in the studio on The Cut. The transition from the rigid, physical demands of professional tennis to the solitary, mental endurance of painting was jarring. He missed the endorphins. He missed the clear, undeniable metric of winning and losing. A painting was never truly finished; it was only abandoned.
Blake, meanwhile, was preparing for the new season. He was training harder than ever, his focus absolute. He was the world number two, and the Australian Open was looming. They fell into a new rhythm — Blake leaving for the National Tennis Centre before dawn, Andre walking to the studio after breakfast. They met in the evenings, exhausted but content, sharing dinner and the quiet intimacy of their shared life.
It was a good life. It was a safe life.
And he had no idea that in a few short weeks, he was going to destroy it all.
Chapter thirteen
Vanilla Iced Scones
The flat in Waterloo was small, cluttered, and vibrantly alive. It smelled faintly of incense, old books, and the lingering aroma of whatever spices Liam had used for dinner the night before.
It was a stark contrast to the minimalist elegance of the South Kensington apartment Andre shared with Blake. Here, scripts were piled precariously on every available surface, mismatched mugs sat abandoned on the coffee table, and the walls were covered in a chaotic mosaic of theater posters, photographs, and postcards.
It was a Tuesday evening in late January. Blake was in Melbourne, preparing for his quarterfinal match at the Australian Open. Andre had stayed behind in London, citing the pressure of the Paris commission, though the truth was he simply hadn't wanted to face the long flight and the inevitable questions from the press about his absence from the draw.
He was sitting on the floor of Liam and Talia's living room, his back against the worn velvet sofa, a glass of cheap red wine in his hand.
"So, the director looks at me," Liam was saying, pacing the small space between the coffee table and the television, "and he says, 'Liam, darling, I need more pathos. I need you to feel the weight of transformation, the terror of losing one's humanity.' And I'm standing there in a warehouse in Bermondsey, wearing a giant papier-mâché donkey head, sweating through my costume, barely able to see through the eyeholes."
Talia laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the small room. She was sitting cross-legged on the rug, wearing an oversized sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder.
"What did you do?"
"I gave him pathos," Liam said, striking a dramatic pose, his green eyes flashing with amusement. "I gave him the most heartbroken, existentially tortured Bottom in the history of immersive Shakespeare. He wept. The audience wept. I couldn't see any of it because of the donkey head, but I could hear them weeping."
Andre smiled, taking a sip of his wine. He loved these evenings. He loved the easy, unpretentious warmth of their friendship, the way they welcomed him into their chaotic, creative world without asking anything in return. With Blake away, the flat in South Kensington felt too large, too quiet. Here, surrounded by the noise and the laughter, the silence was kept at bay.
"Right," Liam said, dropping the pose and clapping his hands together. "I have a surprise."
He walked over to the small bookshelf by the window, rummaged behind a stack of dog-eared paperbacks, and produced a small, clear plastic bag. He held it up triumphantly.
"What is that?" Talia asked, squinting at the bag.
"A gift," Liam said, returning to the center of the room. "From Theo, the guy playing Puck. He said it's a particularly excellent strain of cannabis. Grown in a greenhouse in Surrey, apparently."
