Florian (Augarten Book 4)

  Florian

  Augarten Book Four

  Charlie Godwyne

  Copyright © 2020 by Charlie Godwyne

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Nat of Kanaxa Designs for Florian's spectacular cover. To Anel for manuscript printings on delivery, to Elise for French help and Angie for Klaus Berger. Thank you to Leslie for formatting and to my reviewers for your incredible encouragement. To Kirk, for two reads, wonderful feedback, and help blurbing. And last but not least, to Diana, for three reads and already a mountain of discussion on book five. This series has gathered together a small group of people who give of their time to help me bring these books into the world, and who write reviews to get this series noticed by the algorithm. I am very grateful to you all.

  To Bob.

  Contents

  Synopsis

  A Note to Readers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  Also by Charlie Godwyne

  Synopsis

  A precious life traded for a glorious love...

  In the aftermath of the Paris attacks of 2015, Florian's PTSD began rewriting his memories. Acting on the advice of his counselor who told him to write down what he wished to keep, Florian recorded both the happy memories of his marriage, and the terrible death of his husband Michel, a catastrophic event that spawned the advent of a profoundly pure and beautiful union.

  During the events of Hiraeth, as Vienna closes around them, Florian gives the dusty old notebook to his partners and asks them to read it. Gabriel and Solomon are thus taken back to the wonderful and content beginnings of a decade-long marriage.

  Florian is a 30,000-word MM novella and the fourth book in the Augarten series, best read in order. It contains magical realism, a nerdy archivist, a grumpy middle-aged Viennese man who complains about baguettes, an appearance by a very sweet grandmother, and as always with Florian, lots of espresso.

  The reader should be warned that this story contains violence and PTSD, but ultimately ends in hope.

  Character List

  Paris, 2004-16

  Florian: a Viennese barista at a university in Paris.

  Michel: Myrddin Emrys Jones, a university librarian and archivist.

  Klaus: a Viennese German language librarian and coworker of Michel's.

  Gethin & Rhys: Michel's uncles in North Wales.

  Robert Ian Jones: Michel's late partner who was a classics teacher at a boarding school in North Wales.

  Sarah & Anne: Florian's best friends from their school days.

  James: Florian's Parisian friend and coworker, christened Jean-Baptiste.

  Vienna, 2027

  Gabriel: A man with no memories who woke up in Augarten.

  Florian: Gabriel's boyfriend, owner of the Schöner Himmel coffee shop.

  Solomon: Gabriel's boyfriend, a former Catholic priest.

  Ollie: an editor for the Viennese Boutique Press and frequent customer at the Schöner Himmel.

  Anne & Sarah: tailors and old friends of Florian's.

  Milly & Grace: interns for Anne and Sarah.

  A Note to Readers

  Gabriel and Solomon read Florian's diary during Hiraeth, after Gabriel learns about Robert Ian and before Solomon reports to the hospital.

  Warning

  This is Florian and Michel's story. It contains violence and loss, PTSD and grieving in the aftermath of tragedy. But before that, they shared a beautiful love. This story is ultimately one of hope.

  Chapter One

  Vienna, February 2nd, 2027

  "Gabriel!"

  I'd just finished cleaning the kitchen after the last round of deliveries and prepping lunch when Florian, Solomon and Ollie came bounding into the shop.

  Florian clapped Solomon on the shoulder and addressed me. "Ollie and I are going to take our sandwiches with us and go help Millie and Grace sell masks." He cocked his chin at Ollie. "Meet you outside?"

  "Sure."

  Florian waited for Ollie to shut the shop door behind him. Sol touched questioning eyes with me, but I didn't know what was going on either.

  Then Flor's hazel eyes met mine. "Did you translate Robert's diary for Sol?"

  "I gave him the rundown last night."

  Sol's Welsh wasn't up to par yet, so I'd summarized the basics of Robert's diary entries and his raising of little Myrddin Emrys, who later went by Michel. Robert Ian, whom both Flor and I suspected became a guardian angel after his death, even if only for a short time. Sol had taken the news in stride, for which I was grateful. It meant he could be a support to Florian and me as we processed this truth, because it simply didn't mean the same thing to Sol as it did to us.

  Flor nodded. "Okay."

  He stepped behind the register and pulled out a notebook. "The hospital in Paris assigned me a grief counsellor after the attacks. I was having hallucinations in the aftermath, ones that were overriding my memories, and she had me write things down to keep them straight." After a brief moment of hesitation, he slid it across the counter. "I want you two to read it."

  "Written after Michel's death?" Solomon clarified.

  Flor swallowed. "Yes. I tabbed and numbered different entries, so read them in order. First I wrote what happened in the attacks to keep my hallucinations from getting any more gruesome than the reality already was. When I started having memory glitches with my insomnia, the counsellor suggested I record the good times too, so I didn't lose anything I wanted to keep of our time together."

  I had to go to him and wrap him in my arms. Florian curled against me, and Sol stepped close so we had him protected in our own little cocoon of safety.

  "We don't have to read it if you don't want us to," Solomon said softly, giving Florian an out.

  Flor shook his head, his fingers gripping my sweater. "I want you to. If I have another PTSD attack like last year, you'll have a better idea of where I am. I return to the attack and relive it."

  I kissed his hair, my chest aching with secondhand pain. "Okay, sweetie."

  "What about you?" Sol asked me.

  "Hm?"

  "Are you going to be okay reading about Michel?" Florian asked.

  After a moment of consideration, I nodded. All my work on the karmic staircase had not been for nothing. "I've had a year to reconcile that we came from the same soul…I'm proud of him for saving you, Florian. I'm not intimidated by Michel anymore."

  "And I'll be close by," Solomon reassured us softly.

  Florian nudged us and we broke the embrace. He scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. "Same rules apply as when Gabriel read Robert's diary—get through it, then be done with it. I don't want either of you getting lost in your head."

  "We promise," I replied.

  Florian kissed me, then Sol. "Be back after while."

  "Love you," I said.

  "Love you, Cuddle Bug," Flor tossed over his shoulder. "You too, Sol."

  "I love you, Florian," Solomon answered.

  Flor opened the door and I caught a glimpse of Ollie standing there like a lost puppy. Ollie caught sight of Flor's face and his expression filled with alarm.

  "Let's go sell some masks," said Flor, his ton
e light. "Milly and Grace could use our help—oof."

  Ollie jumped in my lover's arms and squeezed him tight. Flor scoffed and called him his bucket of sunshine. I grabbed the sandwiches they'd forgotten and got them on their way.

  Sol and I ate lunch at the kitchen table upstairs, the notebook sitting between us. Indeed, we needed to do this now so it didn't hang over us. It was written in German, so when Sol finished eating first, he found the numbered tabs and began reading aloud.

  August 15th, 2004

  "Six espresso shots on the counter."

  The small accounting department came from their offices in the upper floors of the university library to get shots before their meeting. The four elderly men and two just-as-elderly women waited for all six shots to pull, not taking them until I lined them up on the counter. Although these were the house cups, they would take them and return them later. The same thing, in and out, every morning five days a week.

  "Merci, Ciao."

  "Merci, see you tomorrow."

  The accountants left and I appraised the little shop. Everything was ready for the morning rush. First would come the faculty and staff, around seven thirty to eight thirty, then the waves of students. I'd worked out a system to keep the line from pouring straight out the door of the library. To the side of the register was a jar with a slot cut in the lid to fit two-euro coins, with a sign above it: One espresso shot is two euros. Honor it!

  The fancier drinks such as lattes and cappuccinos still had to wait in line, but the regulars tended to go easy on me in their sleepy state. I had no idea how things would shape up once the actual school year started, but so far, the brief summer term of intensive French language classes for foreign students had been merciful. I'd been told that part-time student help would increase in the mornings for the school year, but I would rather just handle it myself, since I could then work how I liked.

  The Libri Latte was situated on the ground floor of the library, out of the way of any bookshelves, though to be safe we didn't serve food. The counter faced floor-to-ceiling windows and was surrounded by study tables. The bottom floor curved around a circular courtyard with a fountain in the middle. The librarians liked to joke they took a stroll outside when in fact they just exited one side of the courtyard and reentered the other side.

  "There's my man."

  I jumped. "Klaus!"

  A pot-bellied Austrian, Klaus was the German-language librarian and the only customer to order a Viennese mélange. He'd immediately taken me underwing when I'd started a month ago, and loved to tease me about leaving the "land of good bread" for the "land of baguettes." Klaus had married a Parisian woman decades ago, but he clearly still missed Vienna. I would agree with him, if thoughts of home and my father's refusal to allow me to inherit my grandfather's shop did not bring so much bitterness.

  Klaus threw down four Euros for his mélange, then jerked his head behind him and spoke in German. "Florian, I have an archivist to introduce to you. He's been in the bowels of the Vatican basement stacks all summer, because he's apparently eager to sweat his balls off. This is Michel."

  Klaus stepped aside to reveal a man about my height clutching a mug in front of him as if it were a shield. He had disheveled jet-black hair and washed-out pale skin, green eyes blown wide by the thick soda-bottle black-rimmed glasses he wore. A thin grey V-neck sweater hung rumpled from his lanky frame while his khakis had seen better days. He had dark stubble on his jawline and pink lips slightly agape, as if Klaus had caught him mid-thought and frozen him solid.

  Against all decorum, I just stared at him. He was incredibly handsome in a bashful way. Awkward, but uncensored and beautiful.

  Klaus snapped his meaty fingers in front of those gorgeous eyes. "Earth to Michel. Look, I found another Austrian. This is Florian Schwarz. Now we outnumber you. Say goodbye to your vote of baguettes for lunch ever winning again."

  At Klaus' jarring use of French, I remembered how to breathe again. I shook myself loose and held my hands out to receive his mug. "Bonjour, Michel. What can I make for you?"

  The flush that had been creeping up his neck completely took over his face. Like a rickety marionette, he set the mug in my waiting hands and spoke softly. "Espresso, s'il vous plait."

  His French had something of an accent to it, which threw me. I took his mug and found it completely filled with ice. Glancing at him, I asked for clarification, "Espresso in here?"

  Klaus propped his fists on his hips and grimaced. "You heard him right—his tastes are madness. Polar bears wouldn't drink espresso like this. Worse than watered-down American coffee, if you ask me."

  I smiled at Michel. "You wouldn't believe the kind of insults Klaus is serving in German right now."

  Michel smiled, catching me by surprise. "Oh, I would believe it. I'm used to it."

  It took me a long moment to realize he'd spoken, that I needed to do something instead of simply stand there, taking him in. This lanky librarian had a cupid's bow to his pink lips, and by his demeanor he clearly did not know how handsome he was. I stood arrested as he smiled at me, knowing his deliverance of joy must be something rarely seen by others, coming from such a quiet and contained person.

  While Klaus sipped his mélange, I pulled an espresso shot. The steam from the sizzling ice cubes distracted me for a moment and allowed me to catch my breath.

  "Your name is Florian?" Michel's tone was hopeful.

  Klaus jumped in before I could answer, schooling him on the Austro-Bavarian pronunciation of my name instead of the Parisian one. Michel echoed it back with some effort.

  The shot melted most of the ice, swirling unevenly. I grabbed a spoon and mixed it, the clinking a pleasant sound. Michel's hands brushed mine as he took the mug. I met his eyes.

  He looked just as surprised as I felt. "Merci beaucoup."

  "Dankeschön," Klaus supplied jovially.

  "Bitte bitte," I echoed back. "See you later."

  The morning rush kept me busy. I was mopping a spill when someone stepped to the counter. It was him. This time, he was much more put-together, his hair tamed and sweater smoothed out.

  I set the mop aside and washed my hands. "Back for more arctic espresso?"

  Michi cocked a black eyebrow. "Is that what Klaus calls it?"

  I shrugged and took his mug again, wondering where he got all the ice. "What department are you in again?"

  "The archives," he answered with an open smile that set butterflies dancing in my stomach. "I take care of things like delicate manuscripts in special collections, really old and damaged books, and such."

  The description seemed to fit him perfectly. I couldn't imagine such a man spending forty hours a week anywhere but in the dingiest, darkest corners of forgotten library stacks. "I see."

  "Do you read?"

  "Sure," I answered, a bit insulted at the question. "A book a week, if I'm actually studying something. If it's just for pleasure, then maybe three or four per week."

  "What do you read for pleasure?"

  I smirked at the espresso shot falling onto the ice. Time to tease a man who could apparently take Klaus' ribbing on a daily basis. "Gay romance. It soothes a lonely heart."

  I gave him a moment to process that, then delivered his mug with my mask in place, deliberately setting it on the counter and sliding it over before chancing his reaction.

  Michel's expression of awe would have fit better had he just witnessed a cascade of shooting stars. "We…we are both on the same side, it seems."

  I couldn't believe my luck that this guy was gay. The handsome and probably extremely intelligent man in front of me whose rumpled look epitomized that of an intellectual could just as easily have a wife and kids at home, ring or no ring.

  Michel fumbled a wadded-up five euro note onto the counter, then a two-coin. How much was he accustomed to paying for espresso?

  "Just this is fine." I snagged the two-euro coin and slid it to the register.

  "No," he said distractedly. "I'm buying a question." />
  He scooped his hands deep in his pockets, then deposited fistfuls of coins into the tip jar with a righteous jangle loud enough to make it rain on judgment day. I about jumped out of my skin.

  He plucked the pen off the register and wrote something on a folded receipt while I gawked at him. Then he grabbed his coffee and beat a hasty retreat, as awkward as the day was long. I snagged the piece of paper and found scrawled in English:

  Can we keep talking? It's unfair to you because you're trapped at work and can't escape if I make you feel uncomfortable. Please circle one:

  —Keep talking to me, or

  —Please keep a professional distance.

  If the former, then is English okay?

  A customer showed up, so I crammed the note in my apron pocket and pondered a response while I fixed the soy cappuccino. Like Klaus, I could not resist the temptation to razz him.

  Once I had a free moment, I circled the first choice, then with a grin, circled it again about ten more times. Below it, I wrote:

  English is fine, and if all this is to ask whether I am single, the answer to that is yes.

  I tucked the note under the flowerpot that sat at the back of the counter by the syrups and resumed mopping. The hours of the late morning passed. I was beginning to think he wouldn't make it back to get his answer before the end of my shift, so I told Klaus to pass along to Michel where I'd stashed the message.

  Then a while later, out of the corner of my eye I spotted Michel pulling the note out while I dealt with a line at the register.