Imaginings


Girald sat upon his bed with his back once again to the wall, smiling dreamily, and perhaps foolishly, though it was difficult for one of his beauty to look foolish, at the opposite wall. He was hugging his knees lightly, and his hair was unbound, streaming down, and almost girlishly long. He wore a shirt that was obviously too large, and it slid off his shoulders. The sleeves were pushed up so that his hands could find their way out, and he hadn't bothered to button the cuffs, as it would have served no purpose.

When Jehan entered, Girald gave no sign of having noticed, other than to avert his gaze to the window. But in a moment, he spoke, softly. His voice was rather rough from the disuse of even an hour, and he had to clear his throat and speak again, for the words had been strangled.

"Do we know any man named Michel?"

Jehan blinked, pausing. "I... yes, I believe so. Several of the workingmen who joined recently. Michel is a very common name, of course."

"With hair like mine, yet. Gold-coloured."

"I don't think so, no."

"Oh... Then I must truly have dreamed..."

He sighed, and concentrated upon the feel of the wall at his back. He kept his bed pressed into the corner for a reason: because he couldn't bear to be vulnerable on four sides. Against the wall, he was protected on two, and the others he could at least always watch. The head of the bed would be shielded, and nothing could ever come up behind him. It felt safe, and he needed that.

"Did you meet someone named Michel?"

"Rather. But I must've dreamed him. He looked like me."

"He couldn't've. No one could ever look like you. You're different from everyone." Jehan was looking at him fondly.

Girald laughed quietly, in a sort of innocent surprise. "He did, though. Truly, I swear it. --But then, he was a dream. So it's nothing anyway."

"I suppose. Have you eaten? It's midday."

"Not yet. I've been thinking."

Of Michel. Girald had slept on the floor that night, and when he awoke, the beautiful young man had been gone from his bed. He was thus almost certain that it was only a dream, yet the blankets had been warm, and the memory vivid. He'd felt a soft tugging in his chest, a half-ache, gentle enough to be ignored. But he hadn't. Michel had been so lovely, so real. The way his skin felt when Girald touched his forehead was real. The slight roughness of his lips was real.

"Then you must take lunch with me."

"All right..."

He stood, brushing off the shirt, and seeming to notice for the first time how long it was.

"I should change clothes."

Jehan blushed slightly. "I'll be outside."

"Mmm."

Girald took a handful of the material, and rubbed it against his cheek. Michel died the same way he did... though they weren't the same. He sighed again. There were so many people he must see once more before the revolution - the young girl who'd given him the lily; the old man with the book - Michel was just another of them.

He put on a new shirt and joined Jehan.


Chapter Eight.
Back to Chapter Six.