Author's note-- thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews. *beams* You made my day, all of you. :-)
~Chapter Two~
Colour. It had been missing from my world for so long, and now this-a splash of pink on our cheeks, the green grass. It was like the harsh edge of a scream, abrupt and unsettling.
I hadn't realized I was shaking until the photo fluttered from my hands, falling onto the thirsty Oriental rug beneath my desk. The rug was woven of deep reds and blues, thick and rich. It was designed to make an impression, but it was the watercolour tones of the photo that seared my eyes now. The rest of the world might as well have been daubed in grey. Colour. Who had ever heard of colour photography?
I needed that whisky now, but instead I crouched beneath my desk like a child searching for imaginary friends. There it was, lost in the darkness. I tensed as I loomed over it, daring its truth to reveal itself. But if it was a figment of my imagination, it was a persistent one. The traces of colour were faint but undeniable; a slight rosy hue delicately stained Satine's red dress; the clouds were dipped in eggshell blue.
Blood pounded my heart and washed away my reason; I felt dizzy and sick and the pain of not knowing wrenched out a burning sob until I wanted to scream and scream for answers. What was this? Was I going crazy? Normal people didn't see things like this, they just didn't. Photos didn't change. They were just moments locked up, the key thrown away. Photos couldn't just … come to life.
I gave it voice. It was a desperate wish tossed out from the emptiness of despair, but I gave it voice. What nobody ever told me is that mourning stops being romantic after a while. It even stops being passionate. It becomes tedious, but it's got you by then, so you keep on making the same wishes and crying the same tears. The thought of grief brought to life, strange paranormal activities? Well, that was just too much to resist. I had to pander the thought, just a little. That's all it took.
"Christian? What's taking you so long? Supper's being served."
My father's voice was tense in the hallway, but it seemed distant and barely relevant. I leaned closer to the picture and the air grew thin, hardly enough to support me as my walls fell away. The dust motes in the air sparkled, like fairy dust and stars on deep, dark Parisian nights; things that I knew about from a world I'd visited once. Those faint colours suddenly exploded in firework blues and greens, swirling about me like troubled dreams. I tried to pull back, but it was much, much too late.
---
"The heat--- he must've fainted. Christian…"
A cool hand touched my forehead, and I shuddered. The voice fluttered about me like butterflies. It smelled like summer and as the words became clearer, the shiver stopped dead in its tracks. I squeezed my eyes shut before they had a chance to open.
I knew that voice. I knew it, and yet I didn't anymore. When I heard that voice now, it was in nightmares, gasping through blood and choking breath. I hadn't heard it like this in four years.
"Christian? Chris, are you all right?"
No, I thought, my eyes defiantly closed. Fear edged in, cold and slick like a tear running down my cheek. No, I am not all right. Not hearing that voice, not dreaming this dream. The nightmares hadn't visited me for years; once upon a time they'd left me clambering over waves of pain every night, but they'd been replaced lately by a dull ache. But Toulouse's death, that photo- they had brought it all back. That must be what it was; I was caught halfway between a dream and the hard wooden floor of my office.
My eyes flicked open, tentatively. A dash of blue filled them, and I squeezed them shut, my heart pounding in the darkness.
Another voice, a male this time.
"He'th awake, he opened his eyes. Cwisthian?"
I opened them again. The sky was a deep and endless blue, falling away forever to the edge of an early evening sky. Something scraped my vision every few seconds: the windmill wings of the Rouge.
A curse leapt from the back of my throat and died on my lips as panic galloped. I couldn't scramble backwards quickly enough, my hands scrabbling on the slick grass. What was going on? Colour where there should have been none, life where the windmill wings should've stopped turning. Toulouse. Satine…
It's a dream, a dream. I buried my face in my hands and repeated it like a mantra. Perhaps those were the magic words that would wake me up. As a boy dreaming my way through school, I'd believed that if the sky was blue or I saw three white horses on the way to class then I wouldn't be scolded for my dreaminess in class, there'd be chocolate cake for tea and Father would be in a good mood. I wanted to hand over all my white horses now for this to just go away.
I peeled my eyes open. Satine knelt next to me, concern flooding her face and curls tumbling down in the breeze. Her dress was the red of poppies in bloom but otherwise identical to the watercolour tinged photograph. She radiated soap and barely-there perfume, drowned in the damp warmth of a summer's evening, sweat and salt and warm cotton.
I whimpered, confused, felt myself falling and pulling away, wanting to resist and succumb at the same time. She seemed so real, and there was bliss in the idea of burying my face in her shoulder and letting her curls wipe my mind clean of the fear, the knowledge that this couldn't be real. Maybe I'd be giving into some sort of surreal temptation, but four years worth of longing and loneliness might leave for awhile, and maybe there'd be hell to pay tomorrow, but it might be worth it.
We could be heroes… just for one day
I leaned slightly closer, and her warmth was like firelight and red wine on winter's evenings. It made me remember forgotten dreams. Why couldn't it be real? Nothing in my life had been solid and warm in so long. The shape of her arm seemed like a miracle- the way it filled the space, pushing aside all that empty air defiantly. The grace and certainty of its movement! The line it traced against the sky was more concrete than anything that London held. My hand moved inch by inch across the dreamy sky, uncertainly coming to rest on the curve of her hip.
I caught myself just in time, dropping my hand sharply. This hallucination had teeth. it could send me spiralling back to the bottom of the hole I'd dragged myself from for four years. Whatever this was, it wasn't real, but the pain would be there when it eventually ended. I'd learned self-preservation the hard way, but I'd learned its lessons well.
My confusion didn't seem to faze her. Perhaps she took it for a headache, a fever, whatever it was that had caused me to faint.
"Christian!" Admonishment was mingled with relief but she tried to disguise it all under a laugh. Her voice fell like a waterfall, cool and clear.
"You scared me. Are you all right? Why didn't you tell me you were poorly-we didn't have to finish this today. Or you could've gone home and got some rest-- you look terribly tired. You should have told me!" The words rushed and fell, crowding the air, and I searched for a place to breathe amongst them all.
She reached a hand out to me, and I scrambled backwards, toes over heels, finding a voice from somewhere.
"No…don't…can't you see I can't just let myself believe…no matter how much I want to. It'll drive me mad…" A cry pierced my words and made them urgent. My eyes wouldn't leave the ground, drifting over leaves, a stone, a blade of grass. I kicked the stone, and the shock as my boot connected with it felt like electricity. It rattled and rolled away, obeying every natural law.
It's a dream
"Christian? Are you--I don't understand."
Our eyes almost met then, her standing uncertainly as though she barely dared to claim this spot for her own, me cowering in a frightening world.
"I… neither do I," I mumbled, backing away. "This isn't real. It just can't be."
The ground was hard beneath my heels as I fled.
---
I suppose it doesn't make a lot of sense that I headed straight for my old garret. After all, this was a dream, wasn't it? Or a product of my insanity. At any moment I could find myself running through London's East side, or darting amongst the sunbathers on Costa del Sol. Why should I suppose that my shabby old flat was where I thought it should be?
It was though, every stick of furniture exactly as I remembered it. The curtains were drawn, and the room was stale with sepia evening light. I collapsed onto the old armchair in the corner, wincing as the horsehair scratched my arms through the torn upholstery. There was a hole the size of a ten-pence coin in the grubby armrest; I used to know to avoid it. My head dropped to my hands, and I watched dispassionately as blood trickled down my arm.
I didn't understand what was happening, but it terrified me. I was conversing with a dead woman. Not only that, I was running scared from her, and although every rational thought told me it was just a dream, those very thoughts told me it wasn't. Rational thoughts held no space within a dream. What kind of nightmare gave you room to sit down and wonder how to escape?
If it wasn't a dream, then I was crazy. I didn't feel crazy, though. I ticked them off on my fingers, the shreds that proved my grip on reality. My full name. My address. Date of birth. The date I arrived in Paris, the date of Satine's death. I knew them all. It's just that I was here, talking to people I shouldn't have been talking to, thousands of miles away from where I should be. And I didn't know how I'd got here.
My eyes drifted about the room-- it was so peaceful here. Not like home. It was quiet at home, but never peaceful. You always felt like you were on the brink of something catastrophic there. But here--under different circumstances, I would've felt calm. Sheets of paper hung from the walls, typed-up scenes covered in pencil scribbles. A mirror above the fireplace; Satine used to check her makeup there every morning, giggling that it wouldn't do to show up for rehearsals with lipstick smudged. There were photographs on the mantelpiece-
Photos. Photos from the past, memories come to life. Photos. It all had to do with the photo, the one I'd put away but which had found me again. I'd been holding it, looking at its odd colours, and then the world had spun and I'd found myself here.
My mind started moving very quickly. H.G Wells. The Time Machine. I'd devoured all those fantastic tales and the dreamer in me had longed for a real-life parallel. Even as an adult, I'd wanted to believe it; I'd dreamt sometimes of Satine and wondered what I might do if there was a way back. What if---what if I'd found one?
I thought it nervously, and shoved the idea away. Don't even think it, my instincts screamed. Don't let yourself believe it might be possible. It was preposterous. Fiction was fiction, and time just doesn't get pulled apart and sewn back together again. My glance fell on the calendar above the mantelpiece.
August 2, 1900.
I pulled my diary from my jacket pocked, folded open at today's date.
December 12, 1905.
The evening was steady and quiet and dark. There was not a sound from the streets, not a flicker in the candlelight. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on steadily tick, tick, tick. Was this just another piece in my deluded charade? Even if it were true, how long would it last? Was I here forever? Was I meant to find a way to save her, and save me along with her?
I didn't have time to ponder it any further; the door creaked and opened. Satine stood there, worry all over her face. It lessened only slightly when she saw me there. She paused just a second, and then her words came in a torrent.
"Christian, thank God you're here, I didn't know where you'd gone. I've been looking everywhere. I went to the Rouge and you weren't there and then Harold-oh, never mind." She paused, taking a shaky breath.
She looked tired and defeated. Her arms were wrapped about her as though she were cold, despite the heat, and I felt hollow with longing. How had I not seen it? The dark circles under her eyes, the cough that never quite went away. I remembered a long ago night when she'd taken ill during the evening; I'd wrapped her in a blanket and held her, stroking her hair while she apologized for being so much trouble. She'd finally fallen asleep, curled up with her head in my lap, and so peaceful that I wanted to cry. I'd have given anything to be able to take that haunted look from her face now. Somewhere in the distance, a crack of thunder sounded a warning.
"What's wrong? You didn't even-- you just ran away, why would you do something like that? I was so worried. Are you feeling all right?"
She must've noticed how pale I was, even in the dim light, because her whole demeanour softened.
"You're sick, aren't you? Or something-- something's wrong."
The first patter of rain on the rooftop was warm and soft. The heat was breaking, and with it, so was I. There was so much concern etched in every line of her face. It had been so long since someone had worried over me. Really worried, not just seen me as fodder for gossip.
Striking a match, she ignited one of the lamps on the wall and the room sprung into soft light. She knelt before me, shadows painting her features and as she lifted my face to hers.
"Christian, tell me what's wrong."
I'd forgotten how gentle her voice could be, how tremulous, as though the depth of feeling beneath the words took her by surprise. All I could summon in response was a mute nod, too intoxicated by her hovering fingertips to find anything else.
"Christian, please tell me." She sounded close to tears, and I bit my lip.
I could feel my resistance sliding away. I hated myself for it, but I couldn't help it. The only time I'd ever seen her cry was that terrible night four years ago, but I could feel fear in her voice now. What was I meant to do? I couldn't hurt her. I just couldn't do it, whether this was real or not. And it felt real. It looked real. The sting from the scratch on my arm told me it was real. Even if it was an illusion, a product of my lonely mind, it wasn't letting me go. How long could I be expected to fight it?
My voice was unwilling, I couldn't think of a single thing to say that would explain the crashing insecurity and turmoil raging inside.
"I-- I just--this is--it can't be--"
"Christian, I know it's hard. I know, but we've managed so far, haven't we?"
I shook my head-what was she talking about? She knew?
"It's all for us, Christian, I promise you that. Once the show's over, the Duke will be gone, it'll all be gone, I promise. Things will be different… better. They will, you'll see. Chris, please, just talk to me, don't listen to whatever you hear from Nini and the rest."
She was working herself up to tears, imploring me to believe her. She thought--she thought I'd been about to leave her? The thought shocked me, and it unsettled me to see her pleading like this. How could she think that? The reaction was almost automatic.
"Oh, Satine, darling, no. I wouldn't listen to them, you know I wouldn't. I know what they're like, I know sweetheart." My arms reached for her without thinking, pulling her weight against me as a cry shuddered beneath my hand.
The silence was scattered with her sobs, my shirt collar growing wet with them. When she finally spoke, it was with her face pressed almost against my neck, so close that each word tickled my ears.
"I'm sorry, Christian. You mustn't think I'm sad, I just--"
"It's okay. I know, it's just the way things are." I spoke slowly, recalling all the complicated little pieces of this world.
Tangled hair fell down her back as she lifted her face to mine, leaning forward almost tentatively to kiss me. There was a second, a split second, where I could have pulled back but then her lips met mine and there was no way out. I couldn't have pushed her away then even if I'd wanted to, and I didn't, not anymore. I wanted nothing more than to cling with all my strength to this lost scrap of time. I pulled her into my lap, hands trembling as they tangled in her hair and her weight familiar in my arms. Warmth bled through her summer dress and her taste stained my lips, running over me like honey.
"Christian," she mumbled as she kissed lower, down my neck to the open collar of my shirt and along its outline. "Tell me it's going to be all right, please just tell me that and I'll believe you. I just need…" her voice faded out for a few seconds, slipping quietly into candlelight and more kisses.
"I just need--- reassurance. I'm so tired of pretending." Her voice sounded lost, I could detect the sad notes beneath it and held her tighter as she reached for my buttons, undoing them one by one, warm lips against my skin.
"It's going to be all right" I whispered, my hands searching for all that I'd lost, running lightly down her body as I pulled her closer, slipping underneath the skirt of her dress and stroking her leg as she kissed me more frantically. "It's going to be all right."
I couldn't help wondering whether it was her I was trying to convince, or me.
[Song credits: David Bowie, Heroes]