For All The Paris Gold

Cinq: It Was All Just A Dream...Not

Bijou knew he wasn't dead yet, but if anyone told him the dense, hot room he woke up in was heaven, he would believe it.

The room was dark, gentle kiss of sunlight reaching past cotton curtains by his arm. It stifled with scents of many, and he swore he could smell spicy pie. To his right, three lumpy mattresses were lined with neatly folded blankets atop of them. In the sodden corner, items were piled together like a desultory attempt at cleaning up.

Back aching, he sat up slowly, pushing the blanket on him with a shift. His things were left at arm's reach. His head hurt like hell.

With a creaking of the door, someone greeted his wake. "Oh, good. You're awake."

"Good morning," he muttered. Inocencio grinned and stepped in, placing something on the floor. Then he drew the curtains, and Bijou recoiled with squinted eyes. "Ah, God."

"Sorry."

Now that it was lit with nature's power, he could see the room better. Like the flaky walls and the bucket left in the middle. But what caught his eyes the most--of course--were the paintings hung on the wall.

They were all in similar hues. But the artist had such skills in shading and contrast that they could depict entire imageries with only that red color. Lakes, mountains, forests. And most of all, cities.

Paris, he recognized one.

"We don't have much." Inocencio sat cross-legged beside him, pushing a bread to his hands. "Only bread."

"This is more than enough." He nodded. He didn't usually have breakfast, but he couldn't turn away the kindness. "Thank you."

The bread was stale, and it was the most delicious bread he had ever tasted. Nothing else could linger with so much love and homeliness into it. He stole a glance at Inocencio, still not buttoning his upper buttons, and gazing out to the outdoors.

This man had been so nice towards him. He caught him in the middle of fainting and gave him shelter. He didn't know if he could ever repay it.

They ate in momentary silence before Bijou spoke up. "Who painted those?"

"Huh?" He blinked. Then he snorted. "Oh, those. Quite messy, huh?"

"It's beautiful."

"It's lacking color."

He broke out into a smile. "You painted it? It's brilliant! You're very talented."

"Ah..." Degrado puffed his fat cheeks, a light blush spreading over his face. Bijou found that surprising, and amusing. "It's nothing much. My hands just want to be busy."

Then they enjoyed their times by stories of the Degrado family. Inocencio told him about the siblings staying with him--and him forcing them to clean up with the stranger's unconscious arrival, his Ma cooking another pie. Him getting the day off from shoulder ache. "I think I've been hoisting too many heavy baskets."

The only ache Bijou ever felt was from slouching in a chair all night. He had never lifted something heavier than a stool in his life.

"Baskets?"

"Pa has a farm somewhere." He dismissed. "And we have a vineyard at the back..with some olives. Sometimes people come here during Harvest Season when those big, fancy ones uphill are full or too expensive. Ma always welcomes them, free of charge."

"That is very sweet of your mother."

"For them." He shrugged. "We barely make enough for a month."

Bijou pursed his lips, hand ran through his hair. He didn't know what it was like or what to say, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and all.

Maybe he should've been grateful for his privileged life.