CHAPTER 19
LA DOULEUR EXQUISE
❝ The exquisite pain of wanting someone you can never have ❞
Teacups stood between them on the kitchen table, the earl grey tea left untouched as the tart, citric scent of bergamot clung to them like faded memories of old, long gone summers. Rose tried gathering the thoughts inside her head, but with Thomas so close, with him running the cigarette across his lips and staring at her like she was the first flower to bloom after the coldest winter, it was pointless.
Thomas Shelby didn't just claim racetracks, streets, or cities for himself, he claimed minds and hearts too. He claimed every thought and every heartbeat until the mind stopped thinking and the heart stopped beating.
Rose had fought against it, but she still fell victim to it. Only instead of stopping, her heart started beating again.
"I knew this would happen, sooner or later. That the Saurets would come back to knock on my door." She took the cup in her hands, staring at the dark orange hues of the tea as if she could see her past in it. Maybe if she stared hard enough, she could change it. Or erase it. "A gang neither forgives nor forgets. Especially if they're bound by blood. You know."
Thomas nodded. "I know. And Steaphan was the gang leader?"
"Yeah." She looked up from the cup to two silver moons with no dark side to them. Their gazes sank into each other the same way the sun sinks into the ocean at the end of every sunset, perpetually and inevitably and in such a way that brought night upon them. And stars. "I seem to be fond of those."
"And they seem to be fond of you." Under his tweed suit, light curves settled on his shoulders. His thumb raced after the shape of his lips. "You know I don't see Grace when I look at you. But I have no fookin' clue if you see him when you look at me."
Cannons thudded in her heart as treacherous thoughts pushed her to the front line of a battle she hadn't enlisted in. Her heart and mind would always wage a war with no armistice to end it.
"I could have. Like you, he was a very elegant man. Wore charm and danger equally well. He would walk into a room and people would stop what they were doing. He wouldn't say a word and they would still bow. He was one of those people that change the atmosphere of a place simply by being in it. The only other person I saw that ability in was you. But no, I don't see him when I look at you. You're too much of yourself to remind me of anyone else."
Rose paused, finger curling around the handle of the teacup. A veil of quietness dropped between them; silence always spoke for her in a way she never could.
"Elegant men... I don't trust them," she said finally. "They will hide blades in expensive ties, blood under white shirts, violence inside stuffed wallets. And all we see is how much the diamonds in their hands shine, not how deep they cut."
Thomas snatched the cigarette from his mouth. It looked emptier without it.
"I don't hide me blades in ties, love, I hide them in flat caps."
"I'm aware." Rose took the cup to her lips to hide a smile. The bitterness of the tea felt sweet in her mouth. "When did you meet Grace?"
His voice was concealed, like every time he talked about the parts of his heart he couldn't handle. "1919."
Her brow arched, like a ballerina's hand fading away from the scene. "I met Steaphan that year too."
***
1919, London Bridge Station
Weaving her way through the crowd, foreign words graced Rose's ears from every direction. The smog invaded her lungs in an unfamiliar way. London was harsh and cold; no wonder to survive in it people had to be the same way.
"Excuse me, do you know when the next train to Birmingham is?" A blonde woman with a burgundy cardigan was asking around, crystalline voice wrapped in an accent Rose had learned to associate with the Irish. "I have to be there today."
Everyone passed her by without a second look, worried they might lose the train. Rose shared the same concern, but she still looked over her shoulder and shouted.
"11 o'clock! Platform 5!" She hopped on the train, catching a 'thank you' from the woman before her voice waned in the background. Clutching to her luggage, Rose found her seat and slumped down, closing her eyes so she could forget about the nightmares in London and dream about the home she had left behind.
The abrupt opening of the carriage door broke the train's blissful silence like the initial thunder on a stormy night, waking her entirely. Rose blinked; she might as well still be dreaming, for a tall man was making his way through the corridor, his shoulders squared and his stare impenetrable and decisive, like a king among peasants. He looked British. Like the kind of British Rose always had trouble staying away from.
She glanced away. He would pass by her and she would never see him again. Life would continue, normal and stale and exactly how she wanted it. But he had other plans. He didn't pass by her. Instead he sat on the seat right across hers, snatched out a cigarette and a book, and started reading.
Driven by some force greater than herself, her mouth opened. "Macbeth. That's a good tragedy."
When he turned his head to her, the world seemed to turn with him. Waves of tumultuous dark hair fell to his eyes, as light and cerulean as the sea in the morning. His face was sculpted, by angels or demons, Rose couldn't tell.
"And that's quite the oxymoron." His voice was velvety and gruff, soaked in a subtle accent Rose couldn't identify. Everyone in England seemed to have an accent. And once they heard hers, they would look at her sideways, blaming her for a war she had tried so hard to ease. "You shouldn't say the play's name, it's said to be cursed."
"Is it?" Rose shrugged. "So am I."
The man smiled, the kind of smile that could stop time. "What's your name, love?"
"Are you sure you want to know?" She tilted her head. She had known this man for five seconds and he was already hanging the rarest of smiles on her lips. "You just said we shouldn't say curse's names."
"I'd love to say yours, if you'd let me." He put the book down and leaned forward. He smelled of good cologne, petrichor, and a little bit of licorice; he looked like all the things Rose wanted and couldn't have.
"Rose."
"Rose." It didn't sound like a curse in his mouth. It sounded like a miracle. Like something people went on pilgrimages for and made promises about. "I'm Steaphan."
"Steaphan." She gave him back his name in the same tone. Her gaze glided over his chiseled jawline, studying him the same way one explores something they have never come across before.
His voice, sharp and steady like waves against a cliff, pulled her back to the present. He lit the cigarette and the flame cast shadows over his eyes. "And why would ye trade the sun of France over this, Rose?"
He looked out of the window, to the foggy meadows that seemed colorless compared to the sundrenched, flowery fields of her country.
She quirked an eyebrow. "My accent is that strong?"
"It is. Don't let it fade away, aye? That'd be a shame."
"I won't." She leaned back on her seat, and their eyes met in the window. "Why did I leave France, you ask? Because the sun has been dark ever since August 1914. So my family and I came here in hopes we can see it again. I left because I couldn't stand to see the ruins of a country torn apart. I left because my family deserves more. So I'm going to give them more. I'm going to give them everything. And then I'm going to give them whatever there's after everything."
"That's admirable." His eyes darted to the Shakespeare play next to him. "But ye should be careful. Ye know what ambition did to Macbeth."
He took the cigarette from his lips and handed it to her. She grasped it and put it on her mouth, so shadows could be cast over her eyes too.
"Now we're both cursed," she said. "You said the name of the play too."
"Oh, love," he smiled, the edges of his lips cutting sharper than a knife. Rose felt the beginning of the cut, a cut that would never end. But like everyone else, she mistook it with love. "I was born cursed."
Their stares slid over the other, and the train stopped. Rose didn't believe in love at first sight. But there must be a name for what she was feeling at that moment. It was like touching the beginning of the universe. Like finding her atoms in another person's body.
"When this train stops, and we both go our separate ways, will you think of me?" She asked at last.
"I will," he said simply, like it was natural law. "I need to see you again."
"And why is that?"
"Because, like you, I want more. The world and beyond. I came to London because the Highlands weren't enough. Scotland wasn't enough. And you're the only thing ever since I stepped foot on here that seems more than enough. Almost too much. And I want that. If you'll give me."
Like the cigarette that burned between her lips, he was consuming her. And she couldn't let it stop until it got to the end. Even if it meant she would be the ashes to his fire.
"You want the world?" She took a drag, swiftly and forcefully, like a downpour he'd drink every drop from. "I'll give you the universe."
Lulled by the languid cadence of the train, Rose and Steaphan fell into a dream. But too often the best dreams will turn into the worst nightmares.
***
"What's your favorite word?" They were in the library where Audrey had started working. Steaphan had his books and intense thoughts, Rose her papers and feelings even more intense. She had been feeling too much lately, like Steaphan could grip every one of her emotions and stretch them infinitely until they could no longer be contained inside her body.
She didn't have to think much to answer.
"La douleur exquise."
Steaphan frowned. "That's three words."
She smiled. That's all she did now. The war seemed so far away. When she was with him, it was as if it had never existed. "Well, I rarely give people what they want."
"I see." He dropped the pen. His hand slithered across the table to brush against hers. "You give them what they need?"
"Yes. I give them what they need."
He cocked his head. "And what is it that I need?"
"You need someone to fill the gaps between your thoughts. Someone to be the smartest person in the room when you're not there."
One corner of his mouth tilted up. "So basically I need you?"
She chuckled, almost timidly. "Yeah. You need me."
His hand inched closer to hers. "What does it mean? La douleur exquise?"
"Oh, it's the..." She stopped. Everything. What I feel for you but can never tell you. Because there are no words. Because there are too many. "The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can never have, for they are too unattainable. Exquisite pain."
She couldn't be more direct. But if Steaphan heard the love in her voice, he didn't mention it. He just brushed his curls aside and looked at her with those eyes that leafed through her soul like nothing else ever had. "Ah, the French... the only ones who can turn suffering for love into something beautiful."
"If it doesn't have suffering, it's not love," she said. "What's yours? Your favorite word?"
He drummed on the table with long, slender fingers she longed to touch.
"Ya'aburnee. It's Arabic. It means the hope that you will die before your love because you cannot live without them. Because of how unbearable life would be without them."
Her hand grasped the edge of the table. She didn't know love could be like this. A river that rises in one person and flows into another. She was the spring. But her river never seemed to reach its mouth.
"Apparently, it's not just the French that make suffering for love beautiful."
"Literally, it means 'you bury me', you know?" His eyes stopped above hers. "That's what love is, isn't it? A death that feels like finally living."
"I guess so. I don't think I'd be able to recognize it if I felt it." She was lying, and he knew. She was feeling it now. They both were.
"La douleur exquise, you said?" He raised his head abruptly, eyes infiltrating hers like a web she had fallen to and couldn't escape from. Like Macbeth to the theater, like the nine of diamonds to Scotland, Steaphan was her curse. And like most curses, he came in the form of a blessing. "There's nothing that you want that you can't have, Rose."
"Yes, there is."
"No, there isn't." He grasped her wrist, thumb drawing the shape of love in it. Maybe he had a spring in him too. Maybe the river flowed both ways. Maybe if she leaned closer, they would meet at its mouth. "You have me, Rose. Whether you want me or not, you have me. Because if my life is a tragedy, you're the part that makes it good."
Later that day, la douleur exquise was inscribed on his body and ya'aburnee on hers. And later that night, they kissed and loved until their bodies were one, dragging them to the depths of each other's ocean.
***
A year passed. Rose and Steaphan didn't fall in love. They were swept away by a maelstrom of emotions, lullabied by all the tragic love stories in the world. A year of quick-witted repartee, fleeting touches and lingering glances, of horse rides through the woods and quiet nights under the stars. A year of dinners in all of London's fanciest places, of drawn-out promises and whispered dreams, of stolen kisses on the corner of every street.
It was a love that consumed them, a love neither of them would come back the same from, a love somewhere between heaven and hell. Everyone could see it; it was the kind of love people couldn't look away from.
"Jules was the best sniper in his regiment," Angeline said one late evening, between glasses of red wine and songs of love. "He wouldn't miss a target. He might not talk much but he sees a lot."
"Yeah?" Steaphan smiled, the kind of proud smile someone would give to his little brother. "I was the best in mine."
"I can tell," Angeline chuckled. "You shot right through the most difficult target."
"Which is?"
She gestured to Rose, talking with their mother by the violin stand.
"My sister's heart."
Steaphan turned to stare at her, and the world crumbled and vanished. The way he gazed at her from across any room, the way his head would snap up at the sound of her voice as soon as she walked in, it was love, and something more. Worship, perhaps. One bad day away from obsession.
"You're wrong, Angie. Her heart's the easiest I've ever loved."
And it'll be the easiest I'll ever break.
***
"Steaphan wouldn't stop staring at you," Audrey said one day after Rose's recital, the first she had given in England. "He looked like you were either breaking his heart or fixing it all together. Or both. Has he proposed yet?"
Rose grinned. Joy came easy for her now. Steaphan had kissed all her wounds goodbye, covered all her scars, and the ones he couldn't heal, he made them sting less. "No, and at this pace, I'll probably ask him myself."
Audrey scoffed. "Seriously, what is he waiting for? I've never seen anyone look at someone the way he looks at you. It's like you're the sun and he doesn't know if he wants to touch you or be burned by you."
"He wants to marry in Scotland. And I'd like to marry in France," Rose said. Her eyes darted to Renée when Audrey was called away. She was the only one whose heart Steaphan hadn't been able to pierce. Even Nicolas, cold and distant to him at first, had warmed up to him.
"Be careful, Rose," Renée told her. "I know you. I know the habits of your heart. I watched you grow and break your own heart so many times. In school, you always liked the bad ones, the ones that would get into fights just so you could patch them up afterwards. You only want love if it's wrapped in a ribbon of pain. And I think Steaphan is more the rule than the exception. I just... I don't want you to lose yourself in him. To make him the center of your universe. Because that's you, Rose. No one else."
Maybe she was right. Maybe Rose should listen. But then Steaphan called her name from across the room and everything else was swept to the most secluded corners of her mind. The world was reduced to her and him. Nothing else mattered.
***
Glossy bubbles and champagne, flickering candles and rose petals; that's how they spent the night away.
Rose was tracing down the S on his collarbone as his fingers read the black letters on her shoulder blade, their chests pressed together like magnets of opposite poles. She remembered the first time she had seen that S, how her heart had shattered against its cage.
It's nothing, he had said. A souvenir from war. A bunch of Germans caught me, found out my name was Steaphan, and decided it'd be funny to mark me.
I hope you killed them, she'd answered.
And he had smiled. All of them.
He was smiling now too, as he held her in his arms and whispered to her in Gaelic.
"What are you saying?" She let her fingers chase the smile in his mouth.
"Nothing. Just that... I used to think I was good at reading people until I met you. But you're the only book I've never been able to read."
She grinned against his chest. "Maybe you should learn French."
"Oui, maybe I should."
"You know, right?" She looked up at him. "That I smile when I'm with other people, but only feel happy when I'm with you?"
"I know," he mumbled against her neck. His lips left a string of kisses on her skin, like a meteor shower setting her soul on fire. "Is it bad?"
"What?"
"That I don't remember who I was before you?"
She leaned back, if only for a second until he pulled her closer again. His body was not his body without her on it. "How so?"
"It's just..." His touch on her back was silk, the softest thing she had ever felt. "You change people, Rose. For better or worse, you do. You can't not change them. That's your greatest talent. You never go unnoticed when you pass through someone's soul."
Rose smiled, fingertips following the droplets of water that slid down his arms. "I knew you read. I didn't know you were a poet."
He chuckled, and all the angels stopped to hear. His voice was made of cinnamon and honey. "Only with you."
But as she would soon find out, there were many things he was that she didn't know.
author's note.
writing soft scenes for Rose and Steaphan just made me want to write them even more for her and Tommy... I promise we will get there ;)
I hope you liked this chapter, I decided to write it in flashbacks instead of Rose telling Tommy her story because I feel like it's more immersive this way. Let me know your thoughts on it, I love all your comments <3
Steaphan is played by Tom Hughes... which might have been inspired by the (many) edits I've watched of him as Tom Riddle :')
also, a huge thanks to MissHiraeth98 for making this amazing manip for the story ♡
P.S. did you catch Grace's reference? ;)