Work Text:
Let’s be like the blind
and see each other in the dark spaces
of each other’s mind.
It’s a cool, quiet night in Paris. The rain pours in slow, steady beats.
The effect is remarkably soothing. Helps keep Cyrano’s mind away from the throbbing pain that comes from the gashing, open wound on his hand.
That ... was a predicament entirely of his own making.
Oh, well.
He’d gotten into a squabble in the town square with some young, loose-lipped, hot headed fools. Not that they’d fully merited the thorough beating they’d gotten, but it’s just what he does, these days.
To keep things interesting. Or rather, to keep his sanity intact, he supposes. Though sanity is hard to come by, these days.
He’s just finished bandaging his hand when his thoughts are broken by a lilting, all-too- familiar voice --
“Cyrano! Cyrano, darling! Where are you?”
That voice. He knows that voice -- hell, he’d know it anywhere.
Cyrano opens the door of his apartment, and there she is -- it’s none other than his darling Roxane, completely and utterly soaked by the rain.
The sight in front of him shouldn’t knock the air out of his chest. But it does .
For just one moment, all the world comes to a halt. He has no body, no mind, no shame .
He can’t think. Can’t breathe.
There’s just her. Only her.
She’s leaning against the frame of his doorstep, looking up at him from under a dark fringe of lashes. Beneath them, her pretty white gown is drenched to near-transparency, teasing hints at the naked skin beneath. He notes, absently, the tiny droplets of water on her hair, on her wrist -- glistening like fallen stars against the blue-black mantle of the night sky.
The night and the sky and her face and her voice all come together in front of him, like something from a dream.
No . A hallucination, perhaps. One that leaves him stupid and tongue-tied.
In his youth, the vision in front of him would have fueled his most desperate fantasies. Perhaps he would have sat down right there on his own doorstep, propriety be damned. Composed poetry as an homage to her beauty, her still-radiant grace.
But he’s a scoundrel and a liar. Someone who’s never deserved her, no matter how badly he dreamed of it or wrote of it or pretended of it. Fate had willed it to be otherwise.
So he stands there for one moment longer. Takes the sight of her in, before he brings himself back to reality with his next question --
“Roxane -- are you drunk ?”
Her face breaks into an impish grin.
“And mad , too.” she giggles. “As I’ve always been.”
There will be a time for explanations later, he supposes. For now, he must focus on the much more pressing concern of his --
“Come inside , please. It’s cold out, and I would hate for you to become ill.”
“Gladly, cousin dearest,” she coos, waggling her eyebrows for extra effect.
(And if she doesn’t fucking wink at him, well, it’s something close enough as it is.)
She stumbles slightly then, over the entryway. Closes the door behind her, but makes no moves to come in further.
Cyrano sighs. This is bad. To say least.
“Why have you been drinking, Roxane?” he starts, and it’s hard to keep the edge out of his tone. “You know what the doctor told you the last time you went...”
"Yes, yes," she dismisses, the playful lilt in her voice still lingering. “Can’t a girl enjoy some champagne?”
He meets her with what he can only hope is a suitably withering look.
“Smells more like whiskey, if you ask me.”
A pause. Cyrano puts two and two together. A pattern that’s been building for a while now, really.
A sharp note of pain twists in his chest.
“You’ve been thinking about him again, haven’t you?”
This time, Roxane sighs. Her facade drops, and she wearily runs a hand across her face.
“I’m always thinking of him.” she whispers, and Cyrano knows that's the truth.
It hurts, anyways.
Just a little bit. As it always has.
Roxane swallows thickly.
“I miss him.” she admits, and her voice comes out sounding incredibly small.
Like how it sounded once, when she was a young girl and he was a young boy.
When the two of them, together, had known nothing of the world.
Of tragedy. Of shallow graves. Of death .
Of the injustice of it all.
He doesn’t have the energy to list it out, anymore. So he opts for something a little more concise --
“I know you do.” he murmurs.
(Cyrano hopes that’s enough.)
Roxane sees his face -- a look of sympathy or pity or both, he imagines-- and simply shakes her head.
"Oh, don't take it so hard. I drove myself into this madness. And every woman needs a little madness in her life."
For a moment, she’s smiling, laughing almost. But then, her face falls again.
He can see her lower lip tremble. Can see now, in the dim light of the entryway, that not all the droplets on her face were raindrops, after all.
In that instant, Cyrano wants nothing more than to comfort her. To take her in his arms, to let her know: it’s okay. You never deserved the pain, the burdens you were given. From me, or from anyone else.
But she’s stronger than him. She always has been. So he watches as she puts on a brave face. Wipes the tears from her own cheek, before she continues --
“Would you like to hear the worst part of it all?”
Cyrano nods, against his better judgement.
He shouldn’t ask to hear more. But suddenly, he’s like a man possessed.
Roxane inhales sharply. Steadies herself, before her next words --
“I’ve had other men. Fucked other men,” she clarifies, not that Cyrano really needed the explanation.
“But I never had him. And that stings the most.”
She draws closer now, searching his face. He’s not sure what for.
“Do you know what it’s like, Cyrano? To want someone, so badly? And for fifteen years , no less?”
She lets out a hollow, derisive laugh. Doesn’t wait for an answer.
“I bet every man in Paris can smell it on me. That musky scent of... ache . Of... want .”
Roxane stares past his shoulder, into some unknown distance. A watery smile crosses her face.
“How pathetic it is. Maybe that’s why none of them ever stay.” she murmurs, and for once, Cyrano can hear the exhaustion in her voice, the toll of all these long years of grief and silence.
And he wants to tell her, wants to tell her that she’s wrong , but she keeps going.
“I... I never really knew him though, you know?”
She fiddles with her hair, then -- a nervous tic she’s developed over the years.
“I got a glimpse of the sun , and then it was gone. Now I’m doomed to live in perpetual darkness. Forced to pretend as if it were never there.”
Roxane draws closer still. Meets him with desperate, pleading eyes.
“But how can I, Cyrano, whilst knowing such wondrous light exists?”
There’s a moment of pause. She considers him, before she continues.
“You knew me, long before I ever met him. You were the one who made him write letters to me, every day. You were the one who protected him, to the very end.”
She sighs, eyes on the floor.
“I’ve paid you back rottenly for your grief. But I can’t deny it any longer --
I’m not her, anymore. The girl in those letters. And I haven’t been, for quite some time.”
When she turns back to look at him again, there are tears in her eyes.
“I want to remember, Cyrano.” she whimpers. “But I don’t know how.”
At last, he dares to move now. Takes his bandaged hand to gently tip her chin up, wipe a stray tear away.
She leans into his touch, slow and gentle. And for a moment, that's all that really matters.
So he finds it in him to finally say something. The truth .
“I remember you, Roxane.” he murmurs, something low and earnest, and the look that crosses her face is nothing less than shock.
“You do ?” she whispers, and the words come out pitched to a near-tremble, like she can’t quite make herself believe him, no matter how badly she wants to.
And he sees her, really sees her, in that instant -- the bright young girl, playing nurse in the family gardens. The grown woman she’d become, with a heart and a mind all her own. Her ruthless desire throughout, to love and be loved as fiercely as she deserved. And that’s when he knows --
“Always, Roxane. You have always been beautiful to me.”
As simple as that.
The whole world shrinks down to just the two of them, then.
A single tear makes its way down her cheek, but her eyes don’t leave his gaze.
Whatever she’d been searching for -- it seems as if she’s found it.
“Stop looking at me like that.” she rasps out, but there’s no anger, no real force behind the words.
“I can’t.” he whispers. “ I can’t stop looking.”
The words come out too fast, too rushed, too careless , but it’s too late to take them back.
There are no beautiful letters left for him to write. There’s just the truth, or some imitation of it.
Roxane steps back. For a moment, he fears he’s scared her off. But then she puts an end to his worries with her next words, words that stun him where he’s standing --
“I was wrong about you, wasn’t I?”
The words come out shaking.
“I thought Christian was my only love. But no.”
“No, I think the only person who’s ever loved me other than him was you, cousin.”
Suddenly, Cyrano can’t look at her anymore. He simply can’t .
His heart is beating out of his chest so quickly that he thinks he might be struck down where he stands. And even though he’s so close, so close to what he’s always dreamt of, he’s never felt so far away from it all.
This time, she’s the one to gently tip his face towards her. To meet his gaze with her own.
“Tell me the truth, Cyrano.” she murmurs. “You love me, don’t you?”
Out in the open, at last. The words leave his lips before he can even think otherwise --
“Of course, Roxane. You are my light.
You always have been.”
A small smile breaks across her face. And for a moment -- just a moment -- he sees a spark of real, unbridled joy in her eyes. The kind he’d always dreamed of seeing on her.
Then her face stumbles into something more somber. Like she’s had a revelation, of sorts.
She stares at the ground. Measures her words, before she speaks again.
“We’re both... quite alone, aren’t we?”
She’s already close, but manages to draw closer, now. Wraps both her arms around his neck, still cautious, still hesitant. “We don’t have to be.”
He takes the moment and looks at her, really looks at what’s in front of him. The way her eyes glitter now, with unshed tears. The way her voice trembles.
And then he knows her next words, before she even says them --
“ Help me, Cyrano. Help me remember . Just for one night.”
No . This isn’t what he wants. Cyrano knows that.
He pulls away from her reach.
“Not like this , Roxane. This... hurts too much.”
“ Why ?” She looks taken aback. “Why does it hurt, Cyrano?”
“Because I’m not him , Roxane. I’m not Christian . ” he rasps, even though it’s not the whole truth.
She doesn’t waver. Not in the slightest.
“I don’t care , Cyrano...” and then she’s leaning in again, close, so damn close , until he steps back again --
“Roxane, please ...”, and he’s all but begging her now, begging because he can’t take it anymore.
Because she has his heart in her hands.
Because she could shatter it like glass and he’d deserve it, a small price to pay for all his transgressions.
He would suffer that for her, too.
She brings a gentle hand to his face. Traces out the harsh edges and skin, until he dares look at her again.
“I won’t hurt you.” she promises. “Not after all you’ve done for me.”
He doesn’t believe it. He won’t let himself believe it.
“ Hey.” The words are soft, but firm. “ Look at me.”
He looks at her. Sees his whole world, in dark skin and bright eyes.
And before he can argue himself out of it, string together the right pearls of eloquence to protect his heart again, she leans in and kisses him.
Then there’s just her. Only her.
His eyes close on contact, and suddenly he’s inside the radius of her scent, yes, that scent , and kissing her back breathlessly, like it’s the last thing he might ever do.
It’s a flurry of movement -- of lips, of breath, of suddenly- tangled limbs, as she tugs at his hair, as he pulls at her waist.
He tastes everything -- the whiskey and champagne and rain in her mouth, on her lips.
His own blood , damn it, as she bites his lower lip, draws him in closer and closer still.
There is no poetry. Just want.
He presses her up against the wall. Wraps a hand around her throat.
It’s not even a thought , really. Just instinct.
She gasps in surprise at his touch, and he pulls himself out of the fog for a moment.
“We can stop...” he offers, worried he’s taken it too far, but she cuts him off.
“No!” Roxane shakes her head furiously, then. “ No. Keep me here.”
He searches her face for some hesitation, some doubt .
“Please , Cyrano.”
She’s got her hands on his lapels, tugging him back to her before she leans up and kisses him again.
Cyrano thinks, inexplicably, of Christian. Of the desperate way he too, had thrown himself up against him.
Is there a world in which two men can exist as one?
There isn't. Perhaps there never will be.
But he’s carried a bit of Christian with him, too, for all these years. And he'll be damned if he doesn't try.
So he kisses her again, then again, and then again.
The way Christian might have kissed her. The way Christian had once kissed him .
They both quickly work themselves into a feverish pace.
He revels in all of it. In pushing down the sleeves of her wet dress, stripping it back to reveal hot skin, burning against his hands, because she’s on fire and she’s set him aflame, too.
He desires her, worships her as he’s always dreamed of doing. Presses his mouth in a delicate trail up her neck, her beautiful neck, revels in the delighted sighs he pulls from her.
“Is this Cyrano? Or is it the man on the moon?” she murmurs, and he sees an airy smile on her face, the way she’s floating somewhere above the both of them, now.
“The latter.” he murmurs dryly. “At your service, mademoiselle.”
Roxane laughs. “Enough teasing , then, moon man.”
And with her own firebrand streak of rebellion, she pushes the both of them to the edge. Undoes the front of his trousers, while he rids her of the last barrier between them.
Cyrano picks up the last of her skirts, steals beneath it.
Then, in a single, fluid motion, he lifts her up, and presses into her painfully slowly.
She freezes up. Her nails cut into his back. Her breath stills.
The feeling of her around him sets him on fire. He can’t think, can’t speak, can’t breathe . It takes all of his willpower, all of his self-control, to not move , to wait for her to adjust.
So he rests his forehead on hers, and simply waits.
After what feels like an eternity, she lets out a shuddering sigh. He feels the tension leave her body.
But when he looks at her face, he sees something sad, something bittersweet there.
A stray tear rolls down her cheek. Cyrano kisses it away, tastes the salt on his lips.
“I’m sorry.” he whispers, and he means it. “It shouldn’t be like this.”
She leans forward and kisses him. Something short and quick, but tender all the same. Reassuring.
“Don’t be.” she whispers against his lips. “Just take me to the moon.”
Then he pushes against her and she pushes back, again and again and again.
And for a while, they fly together. Even if only for a few stolen, shining moments.
She doesn’t stay, the next morning. Cyrano knows she cannot.
A small part of him has known, all along.
But seeing the empty bedroom -- it stings, anyways.
I’m sorry , the note on his desk reads. Had to go. Tell the man on the moon I said thank you.
Roxane walks alone in the cold morning air.
Wraps her fingers around her throat, tracing the ghost of a hand around her neck.
Can’t help the tears that come to her eyes. The questions she has, now.
Can’t help but wonder if she’s really loved two men, or none at all.