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Nature, Fogg had come to realise in the past year they spent adventuring, was neither as mystical nor gentle as some people made it out to be. To the contrary, more often than not it was a cruel mistress who raged in sandstorms in arid deserts and clawed at one’s skin with icy fingers through fields of snow. It would gladly claim a man for her own, consume and destroy him while whispering tales of blue skies and clear streams in his ear.
But it was beautiful, too—in a way no painting or novel could do justice to in canvases or book pages. A faint mist rose from the frigid Alpine lake, curling in wisps until it joined the cloud cover which sat, shroud-like, over the mountain peaks that surrounded them. The clouds themselves were a sight to behold, regal in their accents of white and grey, commanding the pre-dawn world like generals on a battlefield.
He was thus lost in thought, when approaching footsteps proved rude interruption. Fogg’s heart sank at the anticipated intrusion and he derided the stranger who, in a mere second, would shatter his fragile peace with too heavy breaths and too loud thoughts.
But when he turned to ascertain who the inconsiderate man might be, he only found Jean.
Jean’s eyes were still bleary with sleep and he carried a folded blanket which was draped over his arm. The early morning light danced on his dark skin in an ink blue glow, reminding Fogg of–
A morning.
He had stood next to his father and the fields beneath their feet held their breath as dawn, which had started as a faint whisper, made inroads into the sky in shadows of pale light, the anticipation building and building until finally the sun emerged over the horizon in a brilliant splash of light, in pinks and yellows and reds that would put the best JMW Turner painting to shame. Fogg was only a young boy and even then he had little faith to speak of but when his father turned to him and said ‘God was in that sunrise,’ he understood in a way that defied words or conscious thought.
He averted his eyes until they were once again fixed on the lake.
“Are you trying to catch your death?” Jean said, having reached his bench.
But his voice was hushed, perhaps in reverence to the newborn morning that surrounded them, and it carried little heat.
As for Fogg, he did not mind the cold; perhaps even appreciated it for the air that filled his lungs was crisp and fresh and the cold…kept him whole, he supposed, kept him from dispersing into the clouds alongside the fog that rose from the water, which seemed to be an ever present danger these days.
“I’m fine.”
“Hm.”
Jean draped one end of the blanket over Fogg’s shoulder wordlessly and Fogg pulled the rest of it over his other side. Warmth rushed over him in an instant, welcome and familiar, for the blanket had brought with it the heat of Jean’s body.
“Thank you,” he said past a small knot in his throat, while Jean let out a quiet sound between a scoff and a sigh, arms crossed at his chest.
“Does monsieur care to share or is he content to let his friends freeze?”
“Oh, of course!”
How thoughtless of him. As Jean sat down next to him on the bench, Fogg quickly let go of the left side of the blanket, shuffling the rest of the fabric over his back to make sure there was enough left to cover his friend as well.
“Merci,” Jean said, with only a hint of sarcasm, as he pulled the blanket over his own shoulder.
There was only one wrinkle to Jean’s plan: in order to stretch the blanket between the two of them, they had to sit flush against one another, leg pressed against leg.
Then again, perhaps Jean considered this to be a feature.
“You are freezing,” he murmured when no time had passed at all. Then slipping an arm around Fogg under the blanket, he gave his shoulder a small squeeze, before pulling him even closer.
He had been doing that with increased frequency, he and Abigail both, since– And Fogg’s body reacted predictably each time. As if the touch was at once the water that saved a man lost in the desert and the scorching sun that would see him dead.
They’d pulled a bag over his head. He heard the rifles cock, reeling with the knowledge that he was seconds away from death. Still the horror of his own demise was nothing in comparison to Abigail’s scream piercing through the darkness. That she—and Jean—should witness his death–
But they’d come bearing a pardon, and later, they’d held him in their arms on the bed through the awful night as violent shivers shook his body and he lay struggling to draw breath, half-convinced his heart would give in at any moment. Abigail had read to them—what Fogg could not say—but the bright clarity of her voice remained as she brought the words on the page to life with enthusiasm. So did the feeling of her fingers running over his arm, the press of her lips on his knuckles, Jean holding him like he was doing so now, only closer, the beating of his heart a North Star in the storm. He felt the mark of their touch even now, a brand on his skin.
See, he never–
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked Jean quietly.
“Slept more than you,” came the instant reply.
Jean is just as shaken as you are , Abigail had said one evening to console him when Fogg felt the shame pressing in on his chest that he should lose himself so completely when he was not harmed in the slightest and handled many a threat against his life before with grace. He almost lost three members of his family to a firing squad .
Family—was that what they were? He supposed it might be, after all they’d been through together, but if so, certainly he would be the older brother of sorts, a benevolent mentor to look after Jean and Abigail who clearly liked one another, instead of harbouring–
And yet there was the sense, a near certainty, building in his bones with each passing day that should he, in the middle of one sleepless night, knock on Jean’s or Abigail’s door– should he lean in now, angling his head just so–
Jean’s hand burned him where it rested against his upper arm.
And to think that had he died, if he were to die in some far flung corner of the world, what would become of Jean and Abigail– how little thought he’d put to the matter beforehand–
Well, he supposed, this was as good a time as any to mend the error in his judgement.
Drawing a steeling breath, he pulled away first from the unbearable oasis of Jean’s arm and then from the blanket itself. He’d never been the sort of man to engage in the exchange of presents to any great degree. He certainly never had with Jean—or for that matter, for the purpose this particular present was meant to serve—and to carry himself through it, he needed the aid of the cold.
Jean raised an eyebrow at him when he pulled away, though he did not make a comment.
Fogg cleared his throat and reached into his breast pocket.
“I have a…something for you.”
Even now, the brush of their fingers as Jean took the box rang across the mountain, few notes of a melody dying into nothing as soon as it started, leaving only goosebumps behind.
He watched as Jean took out the watch from the box.
Jean had beautiful, large hands, the gold of the watch even more striking against his dark skin.
“It looks expensive.”
“It should fetch at least two thousand pounds on resale,” Fogg agreed. Despite a slight, and misplaced, pang in his chest, when the watchmaker asked if he would like the watch monogrammed, he’d said no so as to maintain the watch’s market value.
“You ass,” Jean huffed immediately, managing to sound incensed and a bit fond at once. Rather a specialty of his.
He had a point too: two thousand pounds was not a major sum by any means but Fogg hoped it would still do in a pinch, and he’d hesitated to purchase an item of greater value for the difficulty finding a willing – and fair – buyer it may impose, especially in the event Jean had already been cheated out of the inheritance that was rightfully his on the account of the colour of his skin, not to mention the risk of theft.
He stared at the pale lake and shivered, now without the protection of the blanket. It was strange how much colder the same air can feel when one had, however briefly, known warmth.
“The certificates of ownership and authenticity are in my room—I will bring them to you later this morning.”
He heard rather than saw Jean shift restlessly next to him—and then scoff, this time with considerably more agitation.
“Do you always declare the price tags of ridiculous presents you give your friends or am I special?”
Fogg drew in a quick breath, horrified to realise how rude his presentation must seem without context. God, he’d spent so long thinking about it that he forgot the knowledge only existed within his own mind.
“Of course not,” he replied definitively. “Then again, I hardly give presents for the express purpose of being sold, should I–”
Jean cut him off.
“You want me to sell this?”
“Well, yes, in the event I die before you–”
“ That’s who you think I am?”
That spark that lived within Jean, which Fogg cherished on most days and profoundly derided on others for how impatient and difficult it could be, had caught again, and his body was ablaze, nostrils flaring as he stared daggers at Fogg.
How naive of me , Fogg bemused, to think this would be easy , as he tried again, calm and patient despite his own growing frustration–
“It’s insurance, Jean, in case–”
But Jean would have none of it.
“ Insurance .” He barked out a laugh. “After all this time, after everything we have been together, you think what–? That you need a bloody watch to keep me grovelling at your feet like a grateful sodding dog?”
What?
Fogg could not believe what he was hearing. One of the closest friends he’d had in this life, grovelling at his feet? Like a dog?
“I– how can you think that?” he asked, aghast, but Jean was already standing up.
“You are no different than Bellamy,” he spat out, shoving the watch at Fogg’s chest.
Bellamy.
Now there was a man Fogg had not thought of in some time. Bellamy because he cared for his friends and wanted them to be okay should the worst come to pass? Bellamy because he went to the trouble of engineering a trip to Switzerland under false pretences so as not to interact with the pompous, racist watchmakers of London who would be all too quick to declare that they’d sold the watch to Fogg and so Passepartout must have stolen it? Bellamy because he didn’t deserve so much as the chance to explain himself?
“Passepartout for God’s sake, come back here,” he called after him, unsure whether to be more appalled at Passepartout for the speed with which he jumped to conclusions or at himself for the abject failure he’d demonstrated in articulating his point, but Passepartout was already marching back to their hotel in a huff muttering in angry French under his breath, and he, not once in his life, had done as he was told.
****
Fogg was nearly halfway into a quiet breakfast with Abigail when Passepartout decided to grace their table with his presence. He seated himself next to Abigail with a cold glare at Fogg’s direction Fogg did not deign to return.
Bellamy. Passepartout thought he was no better than Bellamy, and after all the time they spent together, he was not granted even the benefit of the doubt, the chance to set the record straight.
He sighed. He had been awake since long before dawn and hearing Passepartout’s entirely too loud and disagreeable breathing from across the table, he felt the beginnings of a headache press into his temple, heralding a long and unpleasant day to come.
No matter.
He’d been through worse just fine.
“Oh, I see,” Abigail said brightly across from him, shrugging off the companionable silence she had resigned herself to after an initial attempt at cheering Fogg up had failed. Then, frowning, she added–
“When did you even find the time to fight?”
“Oh, monsieur excels at time management.”
Fogg raised his cup to Passepartout, not caring to look up from the omelette he was busy cutting.
“Too kind as always, Passepartout.”
Abigail rolled her eyes.
“Would either of you care to tell me what happened or should I exercise my renowned clairvoyance skills to glean the knowledge directly from your minds?”
Fogg had no real inclination to revisit their conversation, not even for the benefit of dear Abigail – a grateful sodding dog, for heaven’s sake – but of course, once again, he underestimated Passepartout, who said–
“Mr Fogg here thinks I would stab him while he sleeps so I can sell his riches to the highest bidder before his body is cold.”
Oh to hell with being reasonable. He jabbed his fork in Passepartout’s direction.
“You should be ashamed to twist a man’s words against him in such a despicable manner.”
Passepartout only hit back.
“You are the one who said you needed insurance.”
“Insurance?” Abigail asked, and Fogg could tell from the tone of her voice that she too was taken by Passepartout’s blatant corruption of the facts.
“Yes, for him ,” he tried, “not for me –” only for Passepartout to scoff.
“How very charitable of the monsieur .”
Fogg would have given him the answer he deserved, had Abigail not interrupted at that very moment.
“ Will either of you tell me what happened or do I have to shout?” she said, already shouting. She inhaled sharply, before bringing her voice down. “Just the facts, please, for heaven’s sake.”
Her outburst silenced – or perhaps simply stunned – Jean, who pursed his lips, giving Fogg an opening.
The facts—right.
Heaven knew, they both deserved to hear the facts, however willful Jean may have been about misunderstanding him.
“My most recent brush with death,” Fogg started, marvelling at how keen the pieces of a speech he practised extensively were to scatter to the four winds in his head now that he was attempting to give them voice. “It made me realise how little thought I’d put into what would become of the two of you, should I–” In the distance, he could almost hear the rifles cocking again, the press of a knife against his skin, desert heat burning him until he could no longer stand. “–Shrug off this mortal coil before you do.”
“Phileas,” Abigail said, her voice brimming with compassion, and reached across the table to squeeze his hand.
This touch, this warmth, one of these days it would be his undoing.
“Don’t Phileas him,” Passepartout grumbled, crossing his arms at his chest, “he does not deserve it.”
“I– when we were in London last, I amended my will such that my estate is to be split between the two of you.”
Abigail let out a small gasp, covering her mouth with her hand. Fogg studied her. Was it really so surprising? Their way of life came with its substantial share of risk, as they all found out first hand time and again, and were he to die, who else should his house and money go to? Who else did he have who cared for him? Who knew him, like the two of them did?
“But– I think,” he continued, looking at Passepartout whose fury had not abated one bit. “I fear , there will be a hundred men like Bellamy – arrogant, cruel, small men – who would sooner see England burn than see a Black Frenchman come to money. So I thought you should have a watch you could sell quickly if the worst came to pass.”
There was more here he could say, such as how he’d realised he was plausible deniability for Abigail to travel with Jean, to maintain just enough of her good name back home to get by. He feared that a terrible day loomed in the not-too-distant future where she may have to choose between Jean and England, or certainly the England she knew with all it entailed, including, perhaps, her father. He had a sense how she might choose, but it was rather a lot to give up and hearts changed and he wanted Jean to have enough on his own to make a fresh start for himself no matter what came to pass.
Not that he would voice any of these dark thoughts, even if Jean had not interjected with a furious– “I don’t want your money.”
The headache made its presence known again; it was growing stronger by every moment.
“Is it really so horrible to wish that my friends are looked after in the event of my death?” Fogg tried, despite it.
“I looked after myself just fine all my life. We don’t need your charity Fogg.”
Charity – what an odd word. Looking at Jean, he felt utterly cold and alone, as if he did not know this man sitting across from him, this man he’d gone to hell and back with and shared in the most wonderful delights the world had to offer. Or rather, as if, after all this time, after everything, he did not know Fogg. Not one bit.
“Very well,” he said stiffly, “you are free to refuse the inheritance if you wish.”
Drawing in a calming breath, he let his gaze wander outside the window, to the mountain peaks and the lake.
“Jean.” Abigail put a hand on Jean’s arm but she was looking at Fogg. “I think Phileas realises that we do not seek his company with the expectation of any material gain.”
“Yes, of course I do. How can you think otherwise?”
Why would he tell them any of what he just revealed otherwise, if he had the smallest bit of doubt regarding their intentions when they could push him off the edge of a mountain or let him get kidnapped by bandits on any day of the week? How could either of them believe Fogg would think so little of them?
Jean rolled his eyes, clenching his jaw, and Fogg felt a smile tugging at his lips despite himself – for Jean that was as good as any explicit concession that Abigail was right.
Next, however, Abigail turned to him.
“Phileas,” she said gently, “were you to fall into abject poverty, would you sell your flask then – the one item you have to remember Estella by?”
“No,” Fogg replied truthfully, understanding Abigail’s meaning, but the two were hardly the same, when–
Abigail smiled.
“Then why do you think we love you any less?”
Well, that was–
Love–?
They … him?
Fogg opened his mouth but it was as if a rascal had stabbed him in the chest, his deflated lungs struggling in vain to draw breath.
Oh.
“I–” He hastily wiped at his eyes. “Well, I would never want to presume–”
“No, you presume just fine,” Jean grumbled. “Presuming we would sell–”
He would say more, certainly, but he stopped with a sharp inhale and a jolt. He glared at Abigail, and Abigail, who appeared to have kicked him in the shin, smiled primly back. Looking at the two of them–
“Do you really?” Fogg asked before he could help himself.
“Yes!”
The response was united, unwavering, and if it came alongside a qualification from Jean (“even though you are an idiot”), Abigail had taken his hand in both of hers again and Jean’s addition did nothing to diminish the beauty of that singular, blessed word.
He couldn’t help but snicker. Smile. Perhaps– he thought with a sharp pull, basking in the warmth of Abigail’s touch.
“I–” he said, but the next word would not get past his throat no matter how much he meant it. He– both of them, God, of course. To an extent that frightened him at times.
He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. Then looking Jean in the eye, he said, so very seriously, “I have a gift for you – but first I will need to have it monogrammed.”
Jean smiled at him and his heart suddenly felt lighter than it had been in months.
“And what about me?”
Abigail.
They both turned to Abigail in an instant, like moths to a flame; the power she wielded over them was quite something. Yes, Fogg thought, pleased with himself, his mother’s pendant would make just the right gift – because who else should have it, if not Abigail?
One look at Jean told him he too was already scheming. Oh, this would be good.