Autumn
Chapter ten
October in London was a season of sharp transitions. The air turned crisp, the leaves in Hyde Park burned with sudden, brilliant color, and the gray skies settled in for the winter.
Blake returned from the Asian swing in mid-October, having reached the finals in Shanghai and solidified his position at number three in the world. He was tired, but it was a good kind of tired — the satisfying exhaustion of a job well done.
Andre had not played a tournament since the US Open.
He was preparing for the Paris Masters in November, his final event, but his days were spent entirely in the studio on The Cut.
The Paris commission was demanding, requiring a level of focus and technical precision that left him drained by the time he walked back to South Kensington each evening.
But despite the exhaustion, their life had settled into a comfortable, domestic rhythm.
The foursome — Blake, Andre, Liam, and Talia — had become inseparable. They had dinner together at least twice a week, alternating between the flat in South Kensington and Liam and Talia’s smaller, more chaotic apartment in Waterloo.
On a rainy Sunday afternoon, they were all gathered in Blake and Andre’s flat.
Blake and Liam were sitting on the sofa, watching a Premier League match on the television. Liam was explaining the intricacies of the offside rule with the passionate, slightly unhinged intensity of a lifelong Arsenal supporter, while Blake listened with amused tolerance.
In the kitchen, Andre and Talia were baking.
“You are being too aggressive with the dough,” Talia scolded, slapping Andre’s hand away from the mixing bowl. “I told you, scones require a delicate touch. You’re treating it like bread. It’s not bread, Andre.”
“It is flour and butter and milk,” Andre argued, wiping a streak of flour from his cheek. “It is the same principle.”
“It is absolutely not the same principle. If you overwork it, they’ll come out like hockey pucks. My grandmother would be appalled.”
Andre laughed, stepping back and holding his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Show me the delicate touch.”
Talia took over, her hands moving quickly and lightly, bringing the dough together with minimal effort.
She was wearing one of Andre’s old t-shirts over her jeans, her dark hair tied back in a messy bun.
She looked entirely at home in their kitchen, moving around the space with the easy familiarity of family.
“See?” Talia said, patting the dough into a rough circle. “Barely mixed. Now we cut them.”
Andre watched her, feeling a deep, quiet affection for the woman standing next to him.
She had become one of his closest friends, a sounding board for his anxieties about the art world, a sharp, honest critic of his work, and a constant source of warmth and humor.
“You are very bossy,” Andre observed.
“I’m a director at heart,” Talia replied, pressing the cutter into the dough. “I just happen to act to pay the bills.”
They put the scones in the oven and joined Blake and Liam in the living room. Talia curled up on the armchair, pulling her knees to her chest, while Andre sat on the floor, leaning back against Blake’s legs.
Blake’s hand immediately dropped to Andre’s shoulder, his fingers resting warm against the nape of his neck. It was an unconscious gesture, a physical tether that grounded them both.
“How’s the Paris commission coming?” Liam asked, tearing his eyes away from the television during a commercial break.
“It is difficult,” Andre admitted. “The collector wants three pieces that tell a cohesive story, but he also wants them to stand alone. It is a challenge of balance.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Blake said quietly, his thumb pressing gently into the muscle of Andre’s shoulder. “You always do.”
“I have an audition tomorrow,” Talia announced, reaching for her tea. “For a new BBC drama. It’s a proper role, not just a supporting character. Six episodes.”
“That’s brilliant, Tals,” Liam said, his face lighting up with genuine pride. “You’ll smash it.”
“I’m terrified,” she admitted, her dark eyes serious. “If I get it, it means leaving the Old Vic for six months. It means actual money. It means… everything changes.”
“Change is good,” Andre said. “Scary, yes. But necessary.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon eating warm scones — which, Andre had to admit, were magnificent — and drinking tea, the rain beating a steady rhythm against the bay windows.
Liam, emboldened by the success of the scones, insisted on making a second batch with blueberries. The result was a disaster — the berries burst in the oven, turning the scones an alarming shade of purple and leaving a sticky, caramelized mess on the baking sheet. “
They look like they were involved in a crime,” Blake observed, poking one with a fork.
“They taste fine,” Liam insisted, biting into one and immediately grimacing. “Okay, they taste like a crime as well.”
Talia threw a dish towel at his head. “This is why I said plain. You never listen.”
“I’m a creative,” Liam said, wiping purple juice from his chin. “I take risks.”
“You’re a menace,” Talia corrected, but she was laughing, her whole face alight with affection.
Andre watched them, a warm, uncomplicated happiness settling in his chest. He thought about how different his life was now compared to four years ago — the lonely studio apartment in Montreuil, the endless hours on public courts, the constant, gnawing hunger for something more.
Now he had Blake, and this flat, and these friends who argued about scones on rainy Sundays.
It was a perfect Sunday. Andre leaned back against the sofa, watching Blake laugh at something Liam had said in the other room, and felt a deep, uncomplicated gratitude for the life they had built together.
Later that evening, after Liam and Talia had left — Liam insisting on taking the remaining purple scones “for research purposes” — Blake and Andre pulled on their coats and walked out into the night.
The rain had stopped, leaving the air clean and cold, the pavement glistening under the streetlamps. They walked without a destination, their shoulders bumping together, their breath forming small clouds in the October chill.
They ended up in Hyde Park, following the path that curved along the Serpentine. The water was black and still, reflecting the distant lights of the city. A few late joggers passed them, headphones in, faces set against the cold. Otherwise, they were alone.
“I’ve been thinking,” Blake said, his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat.
Andre glanced at him, his eyebrow raised. “About?”
“After Paris Masters. After you retire.” Blake paused, watching a pair of swans glide silently across the dark water. “I want us to take a trip somewhere. Just the two of us. No tournaments, no commissions, no schedule.”
“Where?” Andre asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t know. Somewhere warm. Somewhere no one knows us.”
“That is becoming increasingly difficult,” Andre said wryly. “The paparazzi found us at that restaurant in Notting Hill last week."
“I know. That’s why I want to go somewhere remote. An island, maybe. Greece. Or the Maldives.”
Andre stopped walking, turning to face Blake. The lamplight caught the sharp angles of his face, the dark curls falling across his forehead. He looked beautiful and serious.
“You want to celebrate my retirement,” Andre said.
“I want to celebrate us,” Blake corrected. He reached out, taking Andre’s hand, their fingers lacing together in the cold. “We’ve been running so hard for four years. Tournaments, training, the studio, the press. I just want a week where the only thing we have to do is be together.”
Andre squeezed his hand, stepping closer until their chests were nearly touching. “I would like that very much.”
They stood there for a moment, two figures in the dark, the vast expanse of the park stretching out around them. The city whispered in the distance — sirens, traffic, the low rumble of the Underground beneath their feet — but here, by the water, it was quiet.
Blake leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Andre’s. “I’m proud of you, you know. For making the decision. For choosing what you want instead of what everyone expects.”
“It was not a difficult choice,” Andre murmured, his breath warm against Blake’s lips. “Tennis gave me you. But painting gives me everything else. And I can have both now.”
Blake kissed him, a soft, lingering press of lips that tasted of cold air and the last traces of Earl Grey tea.
Andre’s hand came up to rest against Blake’s jaw, his thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone.
When they pulled apart, Andre was smiling — a real, unguarded smile that reached his dark eyes.
“Come on,” Blake said, tugging Andre’s hand. “It’s freezing. Let’s go home.”
They walked back through the park, their pace unhurried, their hands still linked between them. The flat was warm when they returned, the smell of baked scones still lingering in the air, the kitchen clean and quiet.
Andre made tea while Blake changed into sweatpants and an old tournament t-shirt.
They sat on the sofa together, Andre’s feet in Blake’s lap, the television playing softly — some documentary about marine life that neither of them was really watching.
“Andre?”
“Mm?”
“I love our life.”
Andre looked at him over the rim of his mug, his expression soft and open. “I love our life too.”
Blake smiled, his hand resting warm and heavy on Andre’s ankle, and turned back to the television. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the bay windows, but inside the flat above the bakery, everything was still.
The next morning, Blake woke early.
The rain had stopped, leaving the London sky a pale, washed-out blue. He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Andre, and went to the kitchen to make coffee.
When he returned to the bedroom, carrying two mugs, Andre was awake, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.
“Morning,” Blake said softly, setting the mugs on the nightstand.
Andre turned his head, a slow, sleepy smile spreading across his face. “Morning.”
Blake climbed back into bed, propping himself up against the headboard. He handed Andre a mug, then settled back, his shoulder pressing against Andre’s. “You were tossing and turning last night,” Blake observed, taking a sip of his coffee.
“Was I?”
“You kept kicking me. Are you worried about the Paris pieces?”
Andre hesitated. He looked down at his hands, tracing the faint, stubborn stains of oil paint that never seemed to wash away completely.
“A little. Three large canvases for a collector I have never met. And the retirement — it is becoming real now. In six weeks I will play my last match. After that, I am just… a painter.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is not a bad thing. It is just… a big thing.”
“You’ll be fine. You’re a genius, remember? Liam said so.”
Andre laughed softly, settling deeper into the curve of Blake’s arm. “Liam says many things.”
Blake set his mug down and shifted, turning to face Andre. He reached out, his fingers brushing a dark curl away from Andre’s forehead. The morning light caught the gold in Blake’s hair, the bright, clear blue of his eyes. “I love you,” Blake said, his voice quiet and serious.
“I love you too.”
Blake leaned in, kissing him. It was a slow, lazy morning kiss, tasting of coffee and sleep. Andre’s hand came up, resting against Blake’s chest, feeling the steady, reliable beat of his heart. Blake’s lips moved down to Andre’s jaw, pressing soft, lingering kisses against his skin.
His hand slid under the covers, resting warm and heavy on Andre’s hip. “We have time,” Blake murmured against his neck. “Doug doesn’t expect me at the club until ten.”
Andre closed his eyes, letting the warmth of Blake’s touch wash over him. This was his anchor. This was the man who had stood by him through the chaos of the past four years, who had flown across Europe just to stand in a gallery for two hours, who loved him with a fierce, unwavering loyalty.
They made love slowly, the morning light filling the room, the sounds of Pierre opening the bakery audible through the floor. It was tender and familiar, a physical reaffirmation of the bond between them.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, Blake’s arms wrapped securely around Andre, their breathing synchronized.
Andre pressed his lips to Blake’s collarbone. Safe. Loved. Exactly where he belonged. “Tu es tout pour moi,” he whispered against Blake’s skin. You are everything to me.
That evening, the four of them were back at the flat.
Blake and Liam had spent the afternoon at the shooting range in Surrey, returning smelling of gunpowder and cold air, both of them energized and loud. Talia had returned from her audition, cautiously optimistic but exhausted.
They ordered Indian takeaway and sat around the living room, eating out of the plastic containers, the television playing softly in the background.
It was a scene of perfect, comfortable intimacy.
Talia was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa between Liam’s legs.
Liam had one hand resting casually on her shoulder, his fingers playing absently with the ends of her hair.
Blake was sitting in the armchair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, laughing at a story Liam was telling about the gamekeeper at the shooting range.
Andre was sitting on the other end of the sofa, watching them.
He looked at Blake — at the relaxed line of his shoulders, the genuine smile on his face.
He looked at Liam and Talia, curled together on the floor, laughing easily. He looked at the flat around him — the warm light, the scattered takeaway containers, the paintings on the walls.
It was perfect. All of it.
Andre smiled, watching them. He thought about how strange and wonderful it was that these two people — actors from a world so different from his own — had become family.
He thought about how lucky he was to have Blake, and Liam, and Talia, and his parents downstairs, and the studio waiting for him in the morning.
He stood up, stretching. “Anyone want a beer?”
“God, yes,” Liam said, not looking away from the television.
Andre walked into the kitchen, grabbed two beers from the fridge, and poured himself a glass of water. When he came back, Blake caught his eye across the room and smiled — a warm, easy smile that made Andre’s chest ache with love.
He handed Liam the beer, sat back down on the sofa, and leaned his head against the cushion, listening to the rain against the windows and the comfortable murmur of his friends’ voices.
He was happy. Completely, unreservedly happy.
And he had no idea that happiness could be so fragile.