(no subject)

[sitarplayer]

[Have a liquored up, unwashed writer, who abruptly pushes back from his typewriter with a sigh of annoyance. His gaze darts around the room, searching out an elusive presence before announcing, his words a slight slur,] I-I cannot write with you hovering like that, Mun!

[The sudden outburst over, the set of his shoulders seeming to suggest a second might not be too far off, Christian slumps back against his chair, looking with disinterest at the collection of bottles on the windowsill.]

And why, why would you have me as your Muse? [A pause. The absinthe glass on the table is empty, dried sugar crusted in its well. Wetting his lips, Christian takes a plain sheaf of paper from the stack on the narrow desk, beginning to feed it into the typewriter with deft fingers.]

Muses inspire us, they set upon us the desire to create, to concoct beautiful and wonderful things.

"Melpomene"? [Winding the paper with a final, quick turn of the wrist, he runs a hand back through his hair, brooding upon the page.]

Hn. You know your mythology. Maybe I am. But not by choice. [Dislodging a cork from a half-empty wine bottle with his teeth, he lifts it in a bitter salute to the stale air and his Mun, and takes a swig. It clanks when he sets it down again, tipping over others, but he's well past caring now.]

I have nothing to offer you, please...just go.

Comments

[sitarplayer]

[The whimper rises in his throat, choking him. His hands find purchase in the folds of Satine's dress, tears wetting her bodice. She's here. She's really here, a solid presence in his arms.]

H-How? [It's muffled, almost afraid to ask it.]

[lungissues]

How are any of us here, Christian? I'm here just the same.

[The wetting of her bodice doesn't matter. She can always change. Nothing matters except that Christian is with her now, with her and not wanting to leave her. Not wanting to pay his whore and run off, but to stay.]

Why are you crying?

[sitarplayer]

I'm happy. [Eyes shining, he looks up at her, his hesitant smile blossoming into a wide, brilliant grin. His hand finds hers, lifting it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist.]

[lungissues]

[Oh, happy tears. They didn't seem like happy tears at first. They seemed like the tears of a man who awoke from a terrible nightmare.]

I'm happy, too, Christian. I'm always happy with you.

[And she'll lean forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she shuts her eyes, pleased to just be near him.]

hnng they are so sweet ;_;

[sitarplayer]

[Was it all really just a terrible dream? He can feel himself relaxing under her touch, her weight a familiar, comforting presence in his lap. He must look a sight to her, unkempt as a Parisian beggar, steeped in the scent of alcohol and anise.

Satine seems to shine as she always has. God, he missed her so much.]