16 - Abroad

[Lafayette's POV]

In which one of our characters embarks on a journey of their own

It's been a long time since I spent time with the gang. About two months or so. In everything that's been going on I've sorta lost count! Hamilton's continuous rise to the top… Well, there's no need for him to climb anymore, because he's in his prime. At the peak, so to speak. Of course I'm still friends with them all, barely any contentions. Perhaps it was my humble and introverted nature that pulls me through. Then again, drunk me flips the game on its head, as I become sociable and funny, no longer awkward and clumsy. I don't really talk about that side, to be honest. I hide it away, as if it's on hibernation or something, and no one tries to see through it.

I'm in my dorm room, setting everything up. I breathe a long and slow sigh. My mind is moving at a million miles an hour. I don't know where to begin. Should I say goodbye to my friends? Should I pack the room? Herc will be lonely… But I have to pack! I'm leaving first thing tomorrow, dammit! Not even that. I wish I had longer. I begin to strip the room clean. My posters get pulled down first, with tacky remnants that I can't remove being left behind. A reminder, of sorts, I guess. I fold up my bed, take my clothes out, fill my bags with useful but pointless stuff, along with the actual important things. Like… technology! It's so much better than being social! I happen to be a pro at it as it is. And… Those photos, lying bare on my desk. Everyone was huddled together, hands and shoulders linked, smiling with glee and pulling jokes. Even Hamilton was happy, and in all honesty, that's a rare sight these days. He's been taking pills to better suit his mood, but the pharmaceuticals more often than not make him a jittery, nervous wreck. He hangs around John for comfort, and I know why he does. And... poor James was there. At least I have the memory. The girls, too. So sweet and pure, but different in their own ways. I can't forget them. So, I put them in a special compartment in my backpack, the front pocket with its individual zipper and wiring. I would put them in an envelope, but I don't have one… or… do I? My eyes circle the dusty, unfortunately untidy space, checking every nook and cranny for a single piece of paper. Perhaps the post office will have them? Duh, of course they will! I nod my head in self assurance. The door flicks wide open, a disgruntled Hercules barging through. The steam is practically spurting off his head.

"God!" He kicks a lone pillow that I was planning to pick up, "Today is the worst!" He slams himself on top of it, "What about you?" His gaze is all over the place, but it eventually settles down, focusing on my sweaty face.

My brain is frozen. It was churning only moments before. I can't be held up! At least my English is much more extensive and comprehensible.

"I'm busy, Herc." Is all I say, shuffling around one last time for a pesky envelope. That's all I can think about. Encasing those precious experiences.

He uses a good deal of common sense, his own eyes scanning the surroundings. He spots the many lopsided bags, brows furrowed. The thought is alight, and it's impossible to burn out.

"You're leaving?!" He exclaims, leaping up with the greatest concern. "You can't leave!" He's now a hair's breadth away, breath rushed and unsteady. I make a beeline for the door, hand plastered to the doorknob, ready to unlatch. "Laf, stop right there!" I turn my head back to him.

"Herc. I have to go. My parents, they--"

"Who gives a crap about your parents?!"

"I mean, I do, but that's just because I'm their child… Besides, I have bigger opportunities! And…"

"And what?!" The dread is flowing through him like poison. Resignation sparks his thoughts. "This was inevitable…" His face displays. "But I don't know what I'll do without him..."

"It's my hometown. France. The love language. The historical significance. It's all a part of me! It's been too long without it, and now I have to say goodbye…" My hands are clenched and clammy, so I relax them a little. Just one slight change, and I'm already feeling better.

"But--" The tables have been turned.

"I'll still text and call. FaceTime even! Except…"

"You don't like FaceTime."

"Yes, but if you're desperate, I will."

"Sure." He says, head down towards the floor.

I slap his shoulder like we're comrades, which we are in some way, and his head stirs up, eyes naive and frazzled.

"I'll see you on the other side of the war!" My eyes light up like fireflies, and he's more confused than ever before.

"War? Wha--" He's just about to finish, but he's stunned by my absence, because by that time, I'm gone.

I'm as nimble as a hare, dashing through the corridors, leaping past classrooms and bounding down stairwells. I don't really care about my surroundings, except that I apologise to every person I barge into with a small, "Sorry." or, "I'm in a hurry, excuse me." The space is filled to the brim with muttering and secrets. I'm barely able to catch the light of them, but from what I can hear, it's all about me, even from strangers.

"Where is he going?"

"He has a class right about now… What an idiot!"

"Trying to skip school? Loser."

"What is he doing? Catching a train?"

Actually, I'll be catching a plane. But first, to the post office.

The post office isn't that far, only a few dark alleyways, winding roads and narrow streets. I'm now almost breathless after the journey, but also beset by a malodorous stench of filth and garbage. Thanks a lot, alleyways! I wave my hand around like crazy, and the smell ends up subsiding. No one is inside apart from the staff, so I smile cordially and approach a chipper looking male worker.

"Envelopes, s'il vous plaît." I say.

"Dammit!" I scream internally. It's a bad habit to have.

"You're French?" The clerk asks, scurrying through several drawers and cupboards.

"Yessui." I cover my mouth, face flushing with heat.

"Yessui?" He chuckles, "Oh…" He caught on too fast for my liking, "Yes and oui… Is that colloquial?"

"No. Envelope please." My hand jerks on its own accord. "I'm in a hurry."

He turns back around to face me, halting at the sound of my voice, "Is that the French movie? A Man In A Hurry? That's comedy gold! Where the business guy has a stroke and falls in love with the speech therapist..."

"That's the one." I let out an exasperated sigh. With that, he quickened his pace, sweat forming on his forehead. I tap my fingers on the countertop rythimcially, and it's definite that he's on edge.

"What size?" He continues, finally relieved of the topic of my heritage. It��s surprising, considering that I'll be there in about 24 hours' time.

"Big enough for some photos." I say, handing me the paper. I take it in my grasp, hand dissolving in with the sensation of the crisp edges.

"That'll be… 3 dollars 50, please." I scurry through my pockets with the exact amount, hand him the petty coins and race out. As much as he was a kind fellow, it seemed unnatural for that questioning to be taking place all the same. By a stranger. I smiled and nodded in appreciation and raced out like the clappers. Now out of sight from any of my friends, I ebb and flow through the streets, mind drifting off with every possible opportunity. Then I realise that the airport is an hour away. No point wasting all my energy. After a draining five minutes of bickering with taxi drivers and haggling like a hitchhiker, I found one. Someone's in it, but I'm not bothered. They're slumping at the back on the right side, and after dumping my luggage, I'm on the left.

"Where are you headed?" The driver asks, turning his head. He's old, equipped with a grouchy gruff voice and untidy facial hair. Blergh. I keep that to myself.

"The airport." I respond, and the person near me adjusts their position. I can see their face now. Stunning eyelashes, beautiful complexion, pink dress, but lethargic as hell. Wait a minute… Pink dress? I have to ask the question. "Angelica? Is that you?"

"Yup." She yawns, "I had a night out. A long night out. Anyway, I'm heading back, just after your trip…" She leans her head against the window, breathing slowing down as she does. Out like a light.

"You better wake her!" I whisper to the driver. He nods his head and chuckles. It feels like hours just watching the world go by, the many trees, buildings and people flashing by like photos. Memories, even. I'm thinking about them all.

"We're here!" He coughs, pointing to the green glowing taximeter. I pay the fee, unpack, and luckily, happen to arrive right on time, not two hours earlier like on protocol. Everything grows claustrophobic as I'm pushed into the tight space of the plane, awaiting the exhausting journey ahead.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here I am, approximately 12 hours later. I'm alive, weary and disgusted by jet lag. Extra points for the aeroplane food.

That's about it for now, because all I can think about is the very fact I'm here. The other side of the world. Then again, I wouldn't trust myself because I'm fatigued. In a tight hotel room, I barely have time to dress, for my lurching body prevents me. Did I mention I don't do well on planes? Ha. My bags are strewn on the floor and my stomach isn't holding up. I race to the toilet in a disoriented mess. That's another half hour gone. Once I'm finally composed, I dress for real and crash straight into the pre-made bed sheets. My eyelids grow heavy, but just before they close, I gaze at the blinding white light of the Eiffel Tower, bright like an angel. It was as if it was calling me here. Calling me to it. Calling me home. With that thought in mind, I drift off into an unstable, restless but nonetheless cherished doze.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning beckons me awake. Of course, I follow. I don't even know why I'm in Paris. It's all a blur. Maybe New York was too much for me? Did I want to take the simpler path of my hometown? Did I want a break from the peo-- My thoughts don't even utter it. That's not the reason. It takes a little bit of time, but when I seize it, it's second nature. Right... Parents. I scoff aloud to the room. They aren't even bothered to let me into the house, because I'm meant to have grown up, able to have my own capabilities. I believe so. I've set up shop here anyway, and my mind grows full with worry and doubt. Will they even notice me? They are my parents! They are… my role models... I pull my suitcase awry. Clothes, toiletries and almost all of the other provisions tumble outwards, forming a messy pile. It takes time to sort that out, and I continuously wish that I was given more of it. Time. It's different for every human being, but for me, it never slows down. It never lets me appreciate, savour, cherish, stop to reflect on anything. Nothing at all! It spins fast like tyres, or steadily like windmills. That's just the hand life dealt me. I use some of it to organise, for I can't deal with anything of such standards.

I'm all alone out here. That's the next thing I notice, until my phone buzzes like a chaotic bee. I dash to the small timber desk where I last left it and pick it up.

It says it's a random number. They texted me. The button glows fiercely at my tired eyes. My curiosity is alight, and I take it to my bed in a slow trance. I can't help but read it.

Breakfast, did you forget?! Champs Elysees for coffee and pastries. Anyway… The best in Paris, apparently. Come help me find out. I need it.

Um… Not what I expected. Should I stay? Should I go? Decisions don't come easy to me. I think they were meant to be texting their crush, but somehow, and I'll emphasise somehow, they dialled a wrong number.

"It's a prank." I echo to the room, letting the words bounce off every surface. "It's a prank."

Sure it is, but my body tingles with action. It's like a certain electricity building up inside.

"I don't want to go!" I scream to shake off the feeling. Zing. Still here. For some reason I start doing star jumps, because I once heard that exercise can deal with anything. Zing.

With every movement I make and every action I take it remains, growing more powerful until the pressure becomes too much. An hour later I'm dressed, ready but simultaneously sweaty. All that's left is to confirm.

Rkfljpihgjkdsl I type on the keyboard in a nervous panic, finger lunging at the delete button. I hear the sound. The dreaded sound. Well, whoops. Now I'm anxious for the reply on the other end, because I'm met with the bouncing ellipsis.

Unknown - What's wrong?

Laf - Nothing.

Unknown - Have you been drinking?

Laf -What?!

Unknown - Pills!

Laf - Uhm...

Unknown - Hold up. I'm coming.

Laf - You've been dialling the wrong number!

Ellipsis again. The suspense is killing me.

Unknown - Well… Sorry. I panicked. Wanna still head for coffee?

Laf - Sure.

I gulp down the bitter pill of regret. Ironic. It was spur of the moment, anyway. I can't spend my days cooped up here.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I turn around the corner to find the mysterious textee, snowflakes falling like gentle raindrops. I pull my jacket in closer as I approach her. I just seem to know who it is without her signalling or waving. I can tell not because of her looks, but her genuine bewilderment. She expected a drunk, a hipster, a bad boy, but she got me.

"So you were the guy on the other end? The one I thoug--?" She smiles as I approach her, losing train of thought.

"I was." Her light brown eyes can't drag themselves away from my face. Her strawberry blonde hair laps down to her shoulders like a neat waterfall, pink rimmed glasses accentuating the outlines of her eyes and face. She's carrying a book. Heaven knows what it's for? Her face is innocent. In fact, everything is. The sensation was flowing like a fast paced metronome. Zing! Zing! Zing! I hurriedly sit down at the nearest table before anything else can happen. She joins me and chuckles.

"Your name?"

I hesitate for a moment, but the words flood out naturally. It's strange. "I won't say it all. I'm French, it's a mouthful, so… Lafayette, but you can call me Laf. Yours?"

"I���m English, short name. Chloe, there's no real shortening…" Her voice is soft and a tad squeaky but it's bearable. Not like a violin.

"Chloe? What about Chlo Chlo?"

Her face lit up in surprise, "Eh, not bad…" Her words are more disappointing.

"Yes!" I exclaim, clapping my gloved hands. Chloe's face flushes pink, and I respond with a goofy smile.

"Two hot chocolates in takeaway cups." She turns her head around and whispers to a man nearby, who nods and darts off. "Are you a hot chocolate person? You seem like one."

"How'd you guess?"

"Sensitive to the cold, shivering tons, warm and sociable…"

I can feel my face tingling again, growing number and number with every word she lists. I can't think straight. My attention is with her but also not, mind clear but also clouded. My breath is drawing in and out with pace, body language tilted in her direction. I'm leaning in closer and closer until we are only a hair���s breadth away.

"What about me?" She ends up whispering, alarmed but intrigued. The wind blew ferociously and her mittened hands gripped onto mine. "Tell me before our time runs out!"

"You are sweet, delightful, innocent, intelligent, beautiful, observant… I could honestly go on for hou--" I can't talk anymore because her delicate, mellow, honey scented lips have pressed onto mine. She makes it seem like an art, a practice, a precision. I don't go back because I'm lost in the moment, and she only continues for a second or two. A taster of what's to come. Within those two seconds, the waitress returns, drinks in hand. He places them down with care and skirts off. Good on him for not disturbing the peace. We untangled ourselves, and I clasp onto my drink and swallowed some. She was right about me. It was delectable, but not as much as she was. Her eyes are darting this way and that, until they settle on her book, which is now open and being annotated on.

"Is it a boyfriend book?" I can't help but think, as I squirm in my seat uncomfortably. I scan the surroundings and stare at the snow capped mountains in the distance. Everything is so pristine here. New York is just a jumbled mess compared to this… I could stay here forever. Or not. Half a life here, half a life there. I can't help but drift off into that rapid future planning mode, where you share a spark, thinking about what could come. She might travel to the UK, seeing that she's English, and take me with her! We could go sightseeing, settle down someplace. Here, there or anywhere, as long as Chloe is in my sights. She opens her mouth, and my thoughts break within an instant. All eyes on her.

"Now, I'll make sure to take down your number!" She giggles, opening her contacts and typing nimble-fingered, taking sips of her drink as she does.

"And I'll take yours! I'll remember it, drinking, pills and all…" I mutter aloud, eyes to the table, and she reciprocates with sweetness. "I better go." I stand up, blood flowing fast.

"Not without this!" She pecks me on the cheek, giggling uncontrollably. "I can't help it!!" She holds a hand at her stomach, beverage in the other. "I can't. I can't. I can--" I wave a subtle goodbye and she composes herself, waving back with vigour.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that night I realised how lucky I am, and what that feeling was. An energetic compulsion known as desire, lust, yearining, love.

Chloe 💕

So how was the cafe? :)

I wait a minute, breathe in and out. I let the feeling flow.

The best I've ever been to!

Is how I respond. And with that, I sink into the bedsheets, clutch my pillow and let everything float in a subtle state of calm.