Nadia and Sebastian had been lovers for five years. They lived in a small apartment in Montparnasse with a phonograph, a library, and no children. The couple lived symbiotically, on a routine that never grew boring, simply because of how idyllic and peaceful it was. Sebastian worked at home and made his living as a writer and freelance journalist, while Nadia left every morning at eleven to go to her rehearsal- she was a dancer. When Nadia worked, Sebastian would write and sometimes take an interlude to go to the grocer or perhaps go and get a haircut or some flowers for his lover. Nadia would arrive home in her tutu, never bothering to change from whatever costume she wore at the moment- to her lover's arms, holding her- his soft lips kissing her as they would whisper "I love you."
The two would eat a quiet dinner and converse about their day before reading the paper or poetry to each other in the evening. Sometimes, Nadia would play the baby grand that occupied most of their living room. Once, she and Sebastian had made love on top of it, her feet hitting the keys as she came in a dissonance that matched the chaos of her body.
Some nights, not every night, after the lovers went to bed, Sebastian would wrap his arms around Nadia and whisper in her ear before kissing down her back and caressing her between her legs. She would roll over to face him and give him a look reserved only for him. Upon taking this cue, they would make love bathed in the Parisian moonlight. Afterward, they would fall asleep in the each other's arms, often when he was still inside of her.
One day, when Nadia was at work, Sebastian decided make himself some tea, and upon realizing that they were out of milk, he begrudgingly slipped on his shoes and headed out to the corner store to buy some. The streets of Montparnasse were animated with light and color and the aura of love that Paris herself is so famous for. Sebastian caught his reflection in the mirror and smiled at himself, lost in the beauty of life. He was an attractive man, with a girlish face, black hair, and blue eyes. His body was slender and toned, his legs long and lean; his hands were delicate and soft.
As he wandered his way into the grocery store, another person bumped into him. Muttering his apologies, Sebastian continued down the aisle a ways before taking a clandestine look at the person who had brushed by him. Upon seeing the man, perhaps a tad older than Sebastian's thirty years, the writer's heart leaped into his throat. The man was beautiful, if a man could be such.
His green eyes shone with intelligence as he peered around him for whatever he sought, his face was enigmatic and handsome like the protagonists from film noir movies, his hair hung just above his shoulders, caressing them even- it was black like Sebastian's but lighter. He wore a black and white striped shirt and black denim jeans with a slender leg.
Catching his breath and deciding himself foolhardy, Sebastian returned to his shopping, temporarily forgetting about the strange man only to be reminded of him when he stepped in line behind the writer at the checkout.
"Sorry about running into you like that," he addressed Sebastian, startling him. A hint of crimson touched his olive skin.
"You don't need to apologize. I'm fine," he said, his heart beating in his chest. He begged the cashier in his mind to move faster.
"No really- let me at least treat you to tea."
Why did this man want to talk to him, Sebastian pondered, giving the man a decidedly dubious stare. The man shook his head sheepishly.
"Fine, fine," he surrendered, catching Sebastian off guard. "I'm new here, and I wanted to find a few friends and whatnot, and my running into you seemed the perfect opportunity to introduce myself. I'm Fabian Beaulieu." Fabian offered his hand to Sebastian, who shook it tepidly.
"Sebastian Levine," he answered. Fabian smiled at him. "How about that tea, then?"
Begrudgingly, Sebastian allowed himself to be treated, his sense of wariness toward the man diminishing by the second. He seemed a good-natured person, this Fabian. He enjoyed art and classical music (as did Sebastian) and had a certain passion for the theatre.
"How ironic, monsieur," Sebastian paused to finish off his tea- "that you enjoy the theatre. My lover is a dancer."
"Your lover?" Fabian seemed oddly interested in this, and the sense of wariness crept up on the writer once more. "Yes..." he murmured, before opening his wallet to show him a picture of himself and Nadia at Normandy. Nadia was smiling in the picture, her heart-shaped face alight with joy, her blonde hair up in chopsticks as it always was, her slender dancer's body leaned against Sebastian.
"She's lovely," remarked Fabian, his eyes portraying his sudden rise in intrigue. "How long have you two been together?"
"Five years."
