Part Two
That was beautiful, the blonde man said, clapping around the thorny, blood-red rose he held in his left hand.
Mille didn't know whether to be frightened or pleased, but... He walked towards Gateau, looking coyly at the taller man.
I brought you this, Gateau said, handing him the rose, as a token of my affection.
It's lovely... my favorite colour. Mille smiled gently at the blonde, smelling the rose.
You're bleeding, Gateau commented calmly. Mille looked down at his pale, delicate hands in shock to see that, indeed, he had pricked one of his fingers on the flower's thorns. He watched as the strong man withdrew a red-embroidered handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, and pressed it to his injured hand.
He was suddenly aware how close Gateau's large frame was to his own slight form. He felt his knees weaken strangely, and he collapsed against the blonde. A blush spread across his cheeks as Gateau held him to his chest.
But... How did you get in here? He had locked all the doors... Hadn't he?
Through the door. They were all open.
Mille bit back a gasp that was half-sob. I must be going crazy... he murmured.
Do you think so? Gateau was stroking his hair, and Mille caught a waft of a strong rose scent, mingled with a sandalwood.
Who are you? he whispered into the rust-coloured cloth of Gateau's jacket.
You already know that, the enchanting man answered.
Why do I feel as though I know you? Mille felt as though he were paralyzed. He could neither move away from the man, nor pull him closer. He didn't know what he wanted anymore...
Oh, everyone knows me... It is near impossible to live and not know my name.
For some reason, Mille didn't question the man's cryptic answer. Instead, he tried to press himself closer to the soft fabric of Gateau's surcoat, tried to breath in as much of that heady scent as he could.
Suddenly, it dawned upon him what he was doing, where he was... He pulled back carefully, and stepped away from the blue-eyed man. I mustn't... You should not be here. The managers will be here any moment. This - this is improper.
Improper, indeed, Gateau said, cupping Mille's cheek with one of his large, calloused hands. Bringing his face closer to the dancer's, he continued, I heard you calling out to me last night... I know you are deciding what you will ask of me.
I'm not! Mille cried weakly, trying, in vain, to find the strength to raise his arm and push this man away.
The cobbler smiled, although it was more of a smirk, and closed even more of the distance between their faces. Don't deny it, my little muse... I will have you... all of you... and you are powerless to stop me.
The final space between their lips was lost, and Gateau kissed the lithe dancer once again, stealing away Mille's breath, and causing his eyes to slide shut.
When he recovered from their embrace, he found himself standing alone in the studio, the red light fading into pale gold sunshine.
Feeling sick, Mille hurried away from the practice room. He took out his keys, but, much to his horror, as he went from the studio to his dressing room, he found each and every door in his path unlocked, just as Gateau had said. By the time he reached his small dressing room, he was feeling more ill than before, and hastily changed into his civilian clothes. He went back through the Opera and made sure that each one of the doors was tightly locked.
Having secured all the locks with shaking hands, he left.
The violet-haired dancer hurried back to his apartment. When he arrived, he found Marron sitting at their dining table, drinking a cup of tea and scribbling in his journal.
Oh, you're back. I thought you'd gone in for the day, Marron said. He looked up, and the pleased smile was replaced by a look of concern. You look pale. Are you ill? The dark-haired man stood, and approached his lover.
Mille did not move towards Marron, but just stood in the doorway biting his bottom lip. Yes. I-I'm not feeling well.
Marron reached out one pale, long-fingered hand to feel the dancer's forehead. You've a fever... You're burning up. Come, he said gently, hooking his arm around Mille's waist, we shall put you to bed, and I'll send a message to the Opera telling them that you won't be in today.
Mille allowed himself to be guided into their bedroom and settled onto the canopied bed. Marron fussed over him, undressing him and tucking him in, before going to write the note for the managers of the Ballet.
Mille lay there in bed, staring at the cream cloth draped above him. He sighed.
Dear God, what am I doing?
Marron came back presently, to find his lover staring morbidly up at the canopy. As it turns out, I'll deliver the message myself. I've need to go out and get a few things, ink included. All right?
The dancer nodded, and allowed Marron to bed over and kiss him on the forehead. I'll make some tea first, Marron said. Does that sound nice?
Mmm, yes, Mille said into his pillow. He rolled over, so that his back was facing Marron. Marron stood by the bedside for a moment before walking silently into the kitchen. Mille lay under the blankets, trying to curl up as far onto himself as he could.
His lover returned again after a short while, and set the tea service on the table next to the bed. Mille didn't even acknowledge the action, just lay there, his eyes closed, trying to school his breathing. Eventually, Marron moved away from the bed.
I'll be back in a few hours, Marron said, sounding as though he were saying it for his own benefit, instead of Mille's.
Once Marron had been out of the house for a few painfully long minutes, Mille finally rolled onto his back. Again he stared upwards, his eyes unseeing, focused on some place within himself.
What am I doing...? What's going on? Is it my doing, or the world's around me...?
Before he knew what he was really doing, he found himself standing and redressing. He put on black pants and a black shirt, with black stockings and a pair of plain, worn black leather shoes. He threw his heavy, black, woolen cloak over himself, and left the flat with the air of a man fleeing from something.
Where am I going? he asked himself as he flew down the streets, trying to keep to the shadows of the early-morning city. He soon had his answer, as he found himself heading in the direction of South Street. Even as he walked, he found it impossible to stop his feet. He felt as though he was being pulled by some strong current.
The area he was flying through was far from high-class, and he found himself fixed with many suspicious glares from men in their suspenders and half-open shirts. The unease he felt only made him want to hurry along, despite his unfortunate destination.
He stormed through the stone-paved lanes until he reached South Street. The cobbler's shop was, as Gateau had promised, impossible to miss. The store had a marvelous display of all sorts of fine-quality shoes and slippers in its whorled glass front window. He stood there, out in front of the shop, staring at the display for a few long moment, until he caught a flicker of movement inside the store.
Mille pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside the dim store, pulling the door shut behind him. There was absolutely no one there, no shopkeeper, no apprentice, no... Gateau...
There was a long, glass counter against the right wall, and shelves and cabinets covered the wall behind it. The left wall was draped with long swathes of leather, silk, and ribbon. Posters advertising brands of cloth and types of soles were tacked up on the walls. There were tables with more exquisite examples of Gateau's craftsmanship, and a set of red, velvet-upholstered mahogany archairs, and a matching footstool, assumably so that customers could si and have their measurements taken. The back of the store was cloaked in shadow, since little light made it back from the front window, but Mille got the impression that there was at least one door on the far wall.
he called out, his voice bouncing weirdly off all the surfaces, sounding not like an echo, but like a vibration. he said again, more softly, his self-confidence waning.
There it was again, a slight movement in the shadows at the back of the dark shop, accompanied by a cool breath of air. He gasped quietly at the shock of the cold air against his burning skin. He realized that he was quite feverish.
You came. The low voice brought him back to the moment, and he lost his bearings once again.
He stared at Gateau, trying to remember to breath, trying to remember who he was, why he was there. What was Gateau that he had such a painful magnetism? Mille felt as though he could not control himself when he was around the blonde.
I... did, he said finally.
He didn't know how Gateau had appeared. He'd not heard a door open, or even the sound of footsteps. It was like Gateau had materialized from the shadows.
I'm glad. It seemed impossible, again, that the blonde had moved closer without Mille being aware of it. But he was so close now that Mille could scent him. Gateau smelled like both hot and cold at the same time, sensual. Mille couldn't find the strength to protest as Gateau brought his hand to his broad, firm lips and kissed Mille's hand.
What am I doing here? he asked. He was horrified. Even his voice sounded frail. He knew he was shaking. He noticed absently that Gateau, too, was wearing all black, as opposed to the shades of red and gold Mille had seen him in earlier that day... God... That feels like years ago...
Gateau smiled disarmingly, flashing Mille a view of his brilliant, white teeth. Making your choice, I would imagine. Do you know what it is you most want...? The blonde's voice was perfectly calculated, like some sort of equation.
I want... Mille couldn't believe he was doing this. He wouldn't let himself do it...
I want... What about Marron? The Ballet? They would be performing soon!
I want... But what about himself? Marron... Oh, God... I'm so sorry...
I want... eternity.
Gateau smiled wolfishly.
