Little intrusions of his past find their way into the cracks of time he isn't obsessively writing.
Satine finds herself a home in his bed of dreams, content with idle prattle and unlocking hidden moments he had stored away in his memory. Christian speaks nothing of La Perla, of his hasty desire for passion. Something tells him she knows. It's an impossible guilt, feeling as if he has sprung infidelity on a ghost.
The newest intrusion comes in the form of a letter addressed from London. Upon the envelope sits his name scrawled in handwriting he has tattooed on his heart. Christian Reid, so beautifully written it gives the words new meaning. A pang hits, and Christian realizes for the first time in a year, he misses his mother.
The letter sits untouched for hours. Equal parts determination to finish his passage about the secret song he wrote for Satine and fear leave it alone. When he finally is satisfied, finally gives himself rest, he stares.
His touch against the envelope is hesitant, gingerly opening it in fear a phantom of a different part of his life will take root in his already haunted abode. Nothing happens, just the sound of papers rustling against one another as they compete for space in their tiny holding area.
The first letter is from his mother, Edith. It is three pages long, hopeful for his health and full of gossip about the neighbors. It beckons him home, even for a holiday, in such desperation that his guilt finds a new place to seep into.
The second is from his father, Thomas. It is short, no doubt written under extreme pressure from his mother. It minces no words, spelling out the disappointment that still burns over Christian's chosen lifestyle. It seems the only nice thing Thomas Reid has to say is Christian has not begged for money to fund his galavanting with the underbelly of Paris.
It's a confusing swirl of emotions as he sets down the letters onto his already cluttered desk. He pinches the bridge of his nose between fingers, a long exhale coming forth as the words struggle to penetrate the barrier he's erected to protect himself from this part of his past.
There are things he misses about England, though he refuses to admit it aloud. The familiarity with custom and culture, his favorite meals, his old friends. But Paris has seeped into his bones; he is part of the fabric now, a stitch in the design of history.
Though Christian knows he should write back promptly, giving some sign of life on his side, he doesn't. Lets the letters sit in a pile as he drinks and drifts off to sleep under thread-worn blankets.
The letters remain forgotten about until La Perla appears one morning with her things. She still acts as though he had not made a bold declaration of interest in her. She speaks of other friends instead, chats excitedly about another painter from Málaga, that had recently settled in the city. The kiss seems forgotten, and any hope the Argentinian had given him melts into a crushing sense of defeat.
Christian brushes it aside as much as he can. The naive boy he was finds ways of seeping through his world-weary self, threatening to undo his lessons he's learned the past year. He reserves that naive optimism for his story. Contents himself with the friendship he's gained, the distraction from the heaviness that sits on his soul.
An hour into painting, La Perla decides on a break. Christian is grateful for it, his arm starting to fall asleep in the position he now regrets choosing for his portrait. It is nobody's fault but his own, as La Perla has warned against it.
He finds himself struck by hunger, with nothing but crumbs left in his bread box. Too swept up in writing, Christian's desire to eat falls to the background most days.
"The produce cart is out," he states, glancing through the window. "Are you hungry? I can buy a few things for us."
"I can give you some money," she insists. "I just sold a painting last week, I have some to spare."
Christian knows better than to say no. La Perla is insistent, irritatingly so sometimes, in her generosity. In any case it's no secret that his funds have dipped low due to the plethora of absinthe bottles.
He sighs softly, motioning for whatever coinage she has in mind to give him. Watches as she undoes the little clasp on her chatelaine bag, nearly taking out a few centimes. They sandwich between her hand and his own, pleasantly cool between their warmth.
Outside the building, the sun shines so bright it nearly hurts. Everything is too vibrant; Christian feels too grey for the world he walks through. Hunger still leads him to a bright cart, eyes taking in a rainbow of fruits and vegetables.
He realizes then that he has no clue what fruit La Perla enjoys. A slight panic falls on him.
" Monsieur, please, there are others who wish to buy," the man at the cart says curtly.
"S-Sorry," comes the meek apology. "Two peaches, please. And a small box of strawberries."
The man mumbles out the cost, and Christian dutifully drops a few coons in his hand. He gives a pleasant but awkward good-bye, and ventures back up to the garret.
As he debates whether he should've bought some for Toulouse (who could quite frankly use a good piece of fruit) he walks in upon La Perla studying papers at his desk.
He clears his throat and she snaps to attention.
"I didn't know what you'd like." The words stumble out, Christian too occupied by what she may have read. "I bought peaches and some strawberries, change is in my pocket."
"I like both," she says brightly.
Her attention turns back to the pile of papers for a second, and nerves find him once mkre. Olive fingers brush against the neat fold of the paper. He flinches a bit, realizing exactly what she's looking at.
"So you didn't sprout from the ground," she teases.
"What do you mean?" he asks. Tries to sound playfully inquisitive, but a rasp in his voice makes him sound almost desperate.
"Forgive me, but the letter." Her fingernail taps against it, a small smile on her face. "Your family back home in England. I suppose they miss you greatly."
"My mother, perhaps." Christian eyes the papers, then La Perla's sunny face. "My father misses having a legacy more than a son."
"A legacy?" Her eyebrow quirks upwards. "Don't tell me you're cut from the same cloth as Toulouse. Aristocratic family waiting in a chateau while you live a penniless existence."
"No, no," he deflects. "My-My father's in the textiles business."
She takes a peach and turns, plopping down upon his bed as she takes a bite. A fire seems to crackle in her eyes, the first bit of real information about his family she's managed to glean from him. He's caught in a trap set by careless letters.
"Textiles?" she repeats. "My uncle breeds merino sheep for wool. Exports some of it to Britain, if I remember correctly."
"My father shifted from wool to cotton years ago." He feels quite shy discussing the family business. "It's not anything special, just fabrics for shops and flour sacks."
She tuts, purses her lips as fingers tap against the fuzzy surface of the peach. "I suppose you're the oldest son, to have a legacy thrust on you."
"The only son." He files the letters away inside a messy pile of unsorted papers. "I've an older sister, and she has a husband who would gladly take over the business, but…"
"But your father cares about tradition," La Perla finishes.
Christian nods. Takes a seat on his bed next to her , looking down at the blithe position La Perla has stationed herself in. Envies how freely she moves in their world. Longs to brush away a frizzing curl just to brush skin upon skin.
He looks away, instead gazing at the red windmill that has become another anchor on an already worn heart. Takes a strawberry the same shade as the Moulin Rouge, and takes a deserving bite.
"He thinks I'm foolish," Christian says in a low voice. "For giving up the security I had for Paris. Says I write silly poems about naive things. Told me I had a ridiculous obsession with love, and it'd make me waste my days away. I suppose he was partially right."
The obsessive desire for love had led him to his can can dancer. His naivety had led both of them to ruin. No longer with confidence can he say it's been worth it.
"If you're to be a foolish man writing silly poems, I'm glad your foolishness brought you here."
Christian turns to look her in the eye. La Perla stares back, no pity nor mistruth written in her face.
La Perla leans in close, as she has done dozens of times since Christian had met her. This time is different; lips meet his own in an easy caress. Tastes peaches in her kiss; once, then twice more. There is passion and hunger inside their slow exchange, fire lighting in his belly that has not been found in months.
"Thee painting?" Christian breathes, voice lacing with a slight rasp.
"Let it sit a day longer," she whispers. Fingers brush through his hair, a forgotten touch he was unaware he desires. "You will be here tomorrow, and I will be here tomorrow. This lapse of judgement might not."
"Lapse of judgement—"
La Perla kisses him again, and the perceived slight he has floats away into the summer air.
"I thought you were upset with me," he admits. "When… when I kissed you before. I didn't mean to offend—"
"Not upset, just confused," Perla says, pressing a kiss to his neck. "I had to think on it. You writers are a troublesome bunch."
For as much of a wordsmith he is, the words escape him in the moment. Instead, Christian speaks in action, in gentle touch and eager kisses. Beneath layers of cotton and delicate embroidery, he finds in her a marrow of sweetness. In his bed so often inhabited by a ghost, he takes pleasure with a living woman.
In the afterglow, La Perla lays her head in his lap as she finishes her peach. She thumbs through the script of Spectacular Spectacular! he's found for her, a topic of discussion many nights that she's had no reference for. As she's engrossed, Christian works on his own writing, a letter.
Twilight begins to set into the sky, washing his yellowed walls with oranges and pinks. He scribbles a letter to his mother detailing his escapades, telling her of the loss he's endured with some details edited. Doesn't notice as La Perla sits up and drapes the crocheted blanket over herself, lighting a few candles. She floats so quietly in his space, tidying up her things into their satchel.
"Will you stay?" he asks absentmindedly. Doesn't realize the words have such intense meaning for a few seconds.
As it hits him, he feels his body flush while La Perla watches him. She seems to be analyzing his words, weighing the outcome of either answer she gives. To her credit, he would do the same. After all, Christian has lived in his solitary bubble the entirety of their friendship. Never once has a woman besides Satine been spoken of by him or those who know him well. To be the first holds immense weight, and Christian understands the quiet pressure he's put on her.
"You don't have to," Christian sputters out, setting down his writing. "It's just— It's getting late, and all your things are here, so you can paint tomorrow—"
"I'll stay," she interrupts. "I want to finish reading the script anyway."
He feels his body sink into relief. La Perla sets down her satchel, and takes a seat on the bed next to him. A kiss graces his cheek, and the quiet resumes for the moment. As they fall back into their activities, a realization comes to Christian.
For the first time in a year, he won't be alone in the night with only ghosts to keep him company.