As incredible as it seemed, the rest of the day unfolded not much differently from how Francis had imagined it would, even if Julien had not extended that particular invitation to him.

Surrounded at all times by Julien’s relatives, Francis arrived at the church just in time to meet Solène, Théo, and the rest of the people who were family or acquaintances at the door. This, therefore, made the crowd even larger. And, amidst the necessary introductions, the New Year’s greetings, and the entire social procedure by which one had to swear on their grave that they would accept each and every invitation to have a drink or visit their hosts’ homes, Francis suddenly found himself separated from Julien.

Or well—at least during Mass.

With Théo’s friends on one side and Julien’s relatives on the other, the two groups managed to seat him with them in a pew not too far from the main altar. They also kept him busy with incessant chatter until, at last, the service began.

None of this bothered Francis: the people, though far too euphoric for his taste due to the holidays and the alcohol, were pleasant. And although he would have been happier alone or with a small group of individuals, he was practiced at handling this sort of situation.

As one of the more senior writers at Le Gaulois, on certain important dates he was required to attend various events organized by the newspaper. These events were usually gala gatherings, where he was forced to mingle with unknown individuals of high social standing whom—according to his bosses—he absolutely had to impress.

For that reason, Francis was used to hiding his discomfort in situations like these. He had even developed a certain natural ease when addressing people. Always polite but distant, he made sure to answer everything with courtesy, without inviting unnecessary detours in the conversation.

Francis had everything under control, having mentally prepared himself for days to deal with the holiday chaos. And he was pleased with how well he was managing it.

Julien, on the other hand… What was wrong with him?

During Mass, just before the priest began preaching, Francis had turned slightly in his seat to look for Julien among the gathered congregation. And indeed, he found him a few rows away.

Sitting between a pair of elderly aunts, Julien looked restless, as if he were eagerly waiting for the priest to finish the blessing so he could dash out without even looking back.

This, in itself, was unheard of. Wasn’t he the one who always boasted of having an excellent relationship with his family? Well, perhaps boasted wasn’t the word: Julien wasn’t conceited, but neither did he hide how well he got along with them whenever the subject came up. So then, what was happening? Was there another reason behind his growing nervousness?

The only new factor Francis could think of was this Christmas gathering he had been invited to. But even that didn’t make sense, did it? Julien had spent most of the week in his company and, during all that time, hadn’t shown the slightest hint of discomfort. On the contrary! He seemed more accustomed to gatherings with workplace nemeses than Francis himself.

Unless something had happened in those few hours since they had last seen each other, there had to be something Francis was missing.

And perhaps because of his desire to figure it out, he ended up watching Julien a few seconds longer than he should have. As a result, their eyes eventually met.

Julien smiled at him, and even seemed about to make a gesture to greet him… before one of the women beside him gave him a light jab in the ribs to make him redirect his attention to the pulpit.

Faced with the surprising aggressiveness with which these people handled stray sheep—and with Julien’s offended expression after being assaulted so unceremoniously for a moment of distraction—Francis found himself smiling.

No, he wasn’t enjoying himself, and the situation wasn’t funny. They were in a church, after all. How could he, or anyone else, let themselves be carried away by… whatever it was that made him react like that?

He was not going to behave erratically, like Julien. He would not let himself be affected by any provocation! And for that reason, though not without some effort, he regained his serious expression, fixed his gaze back on the altar, and ignored any impulse to look back again.

After Mass, Francis was once again escorted to the Bousquet home, now with the addition of a small troupe made up of both Julien’s neighbors and his own friends. During the walk, he had the opportunity to exchange at least a couple of minutes of conversation with each of them—including one of Julien’s grandmothers, who swore up and down that she had heard his name before.

“Perhaps you’ve read one of my articles in Le Gaulois,” Francis had offered. Most people didn’t pay attention to the author’s name, but he supposed there was always someone who was the exception.

“I’m not interested in politics,” the woman replied, though with a certain kindness.

“Perhaps I was mentioned in another column. It’s not common, but whenever there’s some extraordinary event, or if I’m required to make a comment outside of my usual section…”

“And I don’t buy that newspaper regularly, either.”

After such a blunt statement, Francis decided the only sensible thing was to give up and stop making suggestions—assuming he still had any left. But before he could confirm as much and move on to another matter, she concluded:

“I’ll remember it eventually.”

It was clear she wasn’t going to let it drop and, to be frank, Francis didn’t care. For all the combativeness he showed in his letters to Julien, the reality was he cared very little about others’ opinions of him. If he went after certain people, it was because… well, professional pride, or something along those lines.

Francis wasn’t in the habit of letting outside comments affect him—unless they came from people who were experts in his field and whom he admired for that reason.

Well, this wasn’t exactly an admission that he cared about whatever Julien might be saying about him out there. In Julien’s case, it was simply an exceptional circumstance.

And if Francis humored him, it wasn’t so much because he held him in particularly high regard and intended to follow his advice, but because he recognized that Julien was a good journalist, with his own opinions —opinions with which Francis absolutely did not agree, but still.

Again, this wasn’t appreciation toward him in particular. Perhaps Francis had indeed been forced to read Julien’s poems almost compulsively in order to understand all the references in his barbs, and perhaps this hadn’t been the worst of his experiences. But still…!

Francis no longer knew what he was trying to convince himself of. He had fallen into an endless loop of unsolicited feelings from which he couldn’t find a way out.

Because of this —because he was so absorbed in his own thoughts while navigating the commotion in the Bousquet household— he didn’t realize Julien was there until he nearly bumped into him.

“Finally I find you!” Julien exclaimed who, if he had heard Francis’s quiet apology for literally crashing into his shoulder, decided not to pay it any mind whatsoever. “I was starting to think they had you kidnapped and I was going to have to ask for a ransom.”

“Oh? But would you have paid such a thing?” Francis asked mockingly, though surprisingly relieved; it was much easier to slip back into their old dynamic than to continue down that path of introspection. “And here I thought you were eager to rid yourself of me. One less rival for your journalistic ambitions, after all.”

“As if you would give up that easily! I know your stamina well, and that’s why I know that a few more minutes in the hands of vile kidnappers wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

“Wait until I tell your mother you’ve just called her and her entire family vile kidnappers.”

“See? That’s your survival instinct talking —you ally with the enemy just to outlive me! I’d say it’s wonderful, if not for the fact that it endangers my integrity.” Immediately after, in a lower voice, Julien added, “Please don’t tell my mother, or anyone, that I called them enemies. I was embellishing my prose a bit to get my point across, you know how it is.”

Francis couldn’t stop his lips from curving into a faint smile. And the worst part was that he didn’t even pause to consider whether he should hide it.