His place among the Bohemians has been restored, little by little.
The Argentinian returns after his pilgrimage back to his native land. It is rapid fire Spanish between him and La Perla as she cackles at jokes Christian can't hope to understand. The Argentinian takes him aside, gives his apologies for his absence and a crushing hug. A bit of life returns to him.
Audrey sometimes finds a seat at the table. Silently seething about a slight long past, but empathetic enough to never let it break the surface. Satie joins for long enough to share an idea about a new piece, only to flit off again.
Christian never speaks of his work. Only joins in merry song and philosophical arguments. His writing remains close to his heart. When he started his story, he had determined that it would remain that way until it was complete. The heartache would remain his own until the time came.
Toulouse sits upon his secret like a guard. Direct questions so easily away, hiding him beneath a veil. La Perla, when she joins, steals the attention like a thief so Christian may be forgotten a while longer. While they divert attention, he grows more confident.
After all, these are his people. They are his original inspiration. Tales of exploits not unlike theirs had reached his young ears, and once among them, Christian had felt he was limitless.
He begins to write again. Not his and Satine's story, which dwells in his private abode, but snippets of poems and short stories. Ideas that have long since settled in dust. It comes infrequently, but any time the writing begins, it surprises and delights him. Not all, it seems, has been lost.
There is one night where his notebook is perched in the crook of his elbow, pencil scrawling words, where the Argentinian sneaks a peek. The others have found entertainment elsewhere; only he and Christian remain at their table.
"Still such modern ideas," the Argentinian comments. "I'm glad to see it."
"It's nothing," Christian demures. "Scribblings, nothing more."
"Ah, but it is proof you haven't lost your desire to create beauty." A puff of his cigar, and the Argentinian smiles. "Time away can bring rejuvenation."
"Is that what your trip was for? Rejuvenation?" He cracks a smile, eyes darting to his friend's face and back to his notebook.
The Argentinian gives a hearty laugh, pats Christian roughly on the back.
"Returning to your roots provides clarity," the Argentinian says. "The perspective of what lies there for me and the life I have here… I know I've made the right choices despite the pain."
"Wish I could say the same," he replies wistfully.
"It will come." There's comfort and conviction in the Argentinian's words.
Christian isn't as sure. He takes a drink of his wine, sets down the notebook and pencil.
"Will you ever write another play?"
He turns his head to see the Argentinian's hopeful face. At first glance, one would say the man was entirely too serious in his demeanor, but beyond the knotted state of his sculpted brows, Christian sees playfulness.
"Your words sing to the soul, my friend," the Argentinian continues. "I'd like to act them out once more."
It's a high compliment that Christian does not know how to accept just yet. He had been heralded as the voice of the revolution, and yet the revolution ended so quietly his words were swallowed into a deep pit. All he wishes is to write his story, his quiet poetry, and live beneath the waves others make.
"I'm not sure," he finally admits. "But having you back… it helps inspiration. I know I have the right people around me to pull something as grand as Spectacular Spectacular! again."
The Argentinian sighs, and Christian can see the weight of life on his face. "It's a pity we only had one show. Perhaps one day we'll have the strength to do a revival."
"I'm sure Satine would like that," he murmurs under his breath, taking another drink. "One day."
It brings a smile to the Argentinian's face. He pats Christian on the back again, letting out a groan as he stretches.
"It's quiet here," the Argentinian announces. "Buenos Aires not so much. A different kind of revolution is happening there. It made me miss the brash, artistic kind. Perhaps you've got your own revolution happening in there, hm?"
He taps Christian's chest before taking another puff of his cigar.
"Perhaps." It's a quiet upheaval months in the making. "I've really only been… been writing. And sitting as still as possible for a portrait I didn't ask for."
"Ah, yes, the portrait," he booms in his gravelly voice. A sly smile graces his face, contorting his angular beard. "And the painter? The pretty little Spaniard."
"A friend." The words come out too quickly to inspire confidence behind them.
"A friend," the Argentinian repeats. "Not with those puppy eyes, compadre."
"Wh—"
"You get this look on your face like a dog begging for scraps."
"A dog begging for scraps?!" He is indignant, ruffled by the comparison that has shot directly into the heart of the matter.
The Argentinian laughs. "If you want her attention, take it. No one will think less of you."
"I've already done that, it failed spectacularly, thank you," Christian mutters, curling into his chair, drink clasped firmly in his hands. He can feel the heat of his face, undoubtedly the color of a ripe tomato.
"Failed?" comes the gruff voice. "You wooed a woman with a cage around her heart. There's no way the Spanish girl wouldn't play ball."
And yet it feels he has. Selfishly, he wishes her to reciprocate, to give him chase after he shied away. No words about the stolen kiss have been uttered in the weeks following, a moment now swept under the rug. La Perla acts no different towards him than before, and he tries his best to do the same.
"She is a friend," Christian repeats. "A friend, and a-a-a short-lived infatuation."
"Suit yourself, puppy dog eyes," the Argentinian shrugs. He says nothing more, turning to his drink and cigar.
Christian knows that in his silence that the Argentinian is correct, but about exactly which part he cannot place.