Satine was visiting him again. She'd stopped by once, when the dry winter air had given him a cough that made it difficult to stand- paused in the doorway and looked at him with her come-hither smile. He'd barely had time to take in the glow of her cheeks and the slinkiness of her dress before she departed.
For a few weeks after that, his friends had coaxed him into sleeping more and eating better (that is, sleeping and eating, full stop.) "For the book's sake, if not your own," they told him. And, for a few weeks, that worked.
But now the book was done, and there was nothing to keep him from his melancholy. Christian hadn't left his room in days. He sat on his only chair and stared out the window, waiting for the snow to melt.
"Christian?' Satine was standing in the doorway. She wore a simple white slip, and her hair tumbled in long, rippling waves over her shoulders. "They say time is meaningless, but I've been waiting for a lot longer than I wanted to. What kept you so?'
He was struck speechless with happiness as she tossed her hair and walked towards him. She caught sight of the manuscript on his desk before kneeling to wrap her arms around him. "Ah, you were writing- that explains it. My wonderful writer, with his head so full of the most marvelous fantasies.'
'But I've finished it,' Christian explained, beaming as she hugged him. 'It's our story- a story of love and revolution and inspiring ideals. It's very dramatic- perhaps it would make a good play.'
"I'm afraid you'll have to leave the work of adaptation to someone else," Satine, stroking his hair, murmured, her voice suddenly full of sorrow.
In the space of a moment, the dull ache that had pervaded Christian's body suddenly vanished. Breathing was no longer painful. For the first time in months, he felt all right. No, better than all right. He felt happy. He felt good.
Satine stood up. "Where I now live, there are gondolas and electric stage-lights and pink meringues, and I promised my friends you'd write the script for tonight's performance- I'm starring in it, of course.' She grinned. 'Will you come away with me, my love?'
"Of course!' Christian replied. He rose from his chair and took her hand. Together, they walked into sunrise's glow.
"Christian?' Toulouse lisped. Laden down by parcels and bags of food, he clomped up the stairs to Christian's apartment. 'Christian, I brought you some- oh no.' The parcels fell.
Christian was slumped in his chair, his blue eyes open and unseeing. Blood flecked his chin and congealed on the corners of his mouth; for some reason, he was smiling. Hands shaking, on the verge of tears, Toulouse slowly reached up and closed the boy's eyes.