The Mandarin #3
“Pierre,” Blake managed. “How did you—”
“I know the pastry chef here,” Pierre said simply, his deep voice carrying the warm, rolling cadence of his French accent.
“He owed me a favor. I told him I needed to deliver something to a guest. He gave me the floor number. He held up the paper bag. “Croissants. From this morning’s batch. Still warm.”
Blake stood there for a long moment, his hand gripping the edge of the door. He wanted to say he was fine, that he didn’t need visitors, that he wanted to be left alone.
But the sight of Pierre — solid, dependable Pierre, who had been a constant, quiet presence in Blake’s life since the day Pierre walked back into Andre's life undid something in Blake.
He stepped back, holding the door open.
Pierre walked into the suite, his eyes sweeping over the impersonal luxury of the room with a slight frown. He set the bag and thermos on the coffee table, then turned to look at Blake.
“Sit,” Pierre said. It wasn’t a request.
Blake sat.
Pierre lowered himself into the armchair opposite, the expensive furniture creaking slightly under his weight. He opened the paper bag, the smell of fresh butter and warm pastry filling the sterile hotel air, and pulled out two perfectly golden croissants. He set one on a napkin in front of Blake.
“Eat,” Pierre said.
Blake looked at the croissant. His stomach clenched. He hadn’t eaten properly in days, subsisting on room service he barely touched and protein bars he forced down before practice.
He picked it up. The pastry was still warm, the layers flaking apart at his touch, the butter glistening in the morning light. He took a bite, and the familiar, perfect taste — the taste of home, of the flat, of early mornings with Andre — hit him like a physical blow.
His eyes burned. He blinked rapidly, looking away.
Pierre poured coffee from the thermos into the cap, the dark liquid steaming in the cool air of the suite. He set it in front of Blake and then sat back, his large hands resting on his knees.
They sat in silence for a long time. Pierre didn’t rush. He didn’t push. He simply waited, his presence a calm, immovable anchor in the room.
Finally, Pierre spoke. “I know what my son did,” Pierre said, his voice low and steady. “He told us. He told Claire and me everything.”
Blake’s hand tightened around the croissant, the pastry crumbling between his fingers.
“I am not here to make excuses for him,” Pierre continued, his dark eyes — so like Andre’s — fixed on Blake’s face with an unwavering directness. “What he did was wrong. It was a betrayal of the worst kind, and he knows it. He is living with it every day.”
Blake said nothing. He couldn’t speak. The lump in his throat was too large, too solid.
Pierre leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his expression shifting from serious to something softer, something deeply personal.
“Blake,” Pierre said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “I know that your father has not been what a father should be. I know that he turned away from you when you needed him most.”
Blake flinched, the words landing like a blow to the chest.
“I want you to know something,” Pierre continued, his voice thick with emotion. “From the day I came to London, from the day I saw the way my son looked at you — you became my son, too. Both of my sons. You understand?”
Blake looked up, his vision blurring. Pierre’s face was open, earnest, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“I am not here for Andre,” Pierre said firmly. “I am here for you. Because you are alone in this hotel, and you are hurting, and no one should hurt alone. Not when they have family.”
The word — family — broke something open in Blake’s chest. The careful, controlled composure he had maintained for weeks cracked, and a single, hot tear escaped down his cheek.
Pierre stood up from the armchair. He crossed the small distance between them and sat down on the sofa beside Blake. He wrapped one massive arm around Blake’s shoulders and pulled him in, the way a father holds a son.
Blake didn’t resist. He leaned into Pierre’s solid warmth, his forehead resting against the warm cotton of the baker’s coat, and let the tears fall silently.
Pierre held him, his large hand patting Blake’s back in a slow, steady rhythm.
“He did not plan it, Blake,” Pierre said quietly, his chin resting on top of Blake’s head. “It was the drugs. It was a stupid, terrible thing that happened because three young people got very, very high. He has not stopped crying since you left. He does not eat. He does not sleep.”
Pierre paused, his hand stilling on Blake’s back.
“But I am not here to tell you to forgive him,” Pierre said, his voice firm.
“That is your choice, and yours alone. I am here because you need someone to sit with you. You need someone to bring you a croissant and tell you that you are loved, regardless of what happens between you and Andre.”
Blake pulled back, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He looked at Pierre — this enormous, gentle man who had welcomed him without question, who had fed him every morning and treated him like blood.
“Thank you, Pierre,” Blake said, his voice thick and broken. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.”
“You do not need to know yet,” Pierre said, squeezing Blake’s shoulder. “You just need to eat your croissant and drink your coffee and go hit your tennis balls. The rest will come when it comes.”
Blake let out a small, watery laugh. “You sound like Doug.”
“Doug is a smart man,” Pierre said, standing up and smoothing the front of his coat. He looked down at Blake, his expression warm but serious. “I will come again on Thursday. Same time. With pain au chocolat.” It wasn’t a question.
“Okay,” Blake said softly.
Pierre nodded, satisfied. He walked to the door, his heavy footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. He stopped with his hand on the knob and looked back.
“You are not alone, Blake,” Pierre said. “Whatever happens. You are not alone.”
He opened the door and walked out, leaving the smell of fresh bread and warm butter in the air behind him.
Blake sat on the sofa for a long time, the half-eaten croissant in his hand, the coffee growing cold on the table. The silence of the suite was still there, but it felt different now. Less oppressive. Less absolute.
He wasn’t alone.
He finished the croissant, drank the coffee, and went to get dressed for practice.