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Stars gleam above the Elephant’s Head, far beyond the lights of Paris. If Christian were looking up, he might pluck a poem out of the sky (or it, out of him). If he were looking up, the night’s cool and glittering beauty might settle the heat in his blood.
Christian is not looking up.
He is looking, wine-warm and hazy-eyed, at a froth of lace tangled between his fingers. He doesn’t remember reaching for the sheer fabric, which had begun the evening settled around Satine’s shoulders in a tease of modesty that drew the gaze of both Christian and the Duke. Hours of lively conversation, countless bottles of wine, several lumps of sugar melted into absinthe, and a series of energetic turns around the dancefloor had left writer, courtesan, and duke feeling silly and loose.
Now they sit slumped around the small round table inside the Elephant’s Head. The men’s ties have been discarded, their collars tugged askance. Satine is barefoot and bare-shouldered, her lacy mantille having migrated off her shoulders to fall across the Duke’s shirtsleeve at such an angle that he now appears to be the one wearing it.
Christian has been working his way up to a nice jab at the Duke’s masculinity all night – something sharp enough to make Satine laugh and subtle enough to sail over the Duke’s head. The mantille is a low-hanging fruit that he’s just drunk enough to take, but he keeps getting distracted by the thing’s prettiness. It’s not as soft as it looks, and Christian is fascinated by its deceptive roughness, and the shushing sound it makes as he rubs it between his fingers, dragging across his skin to catch on each hair or callous or whorling fingerprint. He shivers at the sensation, and wishes, not for the first time tonight, that he and Satine were alone.
The Duke murmurs something in Satine’s ear, who giggles, and a flash of annoyance breaks Christian’s fascination.
It is a gauzy, finely-woven, breathtakingly feminine length of fabric, a sheer burnt umber color shot through with what look like strands of pure gold. Christian rubs his thumb over the fabric and, in a fit of inspiration, looks into the Duke’s eyes. “Duke,” he says, “I must say, your mantille is quite striking.”
The Duke, who is just as drunk as the rest of them, sputters a bit. “I – my what?”
Christian’s eyes flick briefly to Satine. Her eyes glitter with merriment, ever quick to catch on to a jest. She reaches to refill each of their wine glasses, and as she does she gives a little shimmy so that the mantille slips entirely free of her shoulder. She winks, and sips her wine, and Christian is so in love with her it’s stupid.
He catches the Duke’s eye and holds up the end of the delicate, golden fabric draped across the Duke’s arm. “Your shawl,” he repeats, allowing no betrayal of laughter in his voice. (He is an actor now, afterall, complete with insulting paycheck and everything.) “The color is a striking complement to your complexion.”
The complexion in question is rapidly turning red. The Duke’s expression middles between emotions in that uncertain, nervous way of his that speaks of a lifetime of confusion. Christian knows the Duke is trying – and failing – to determine whether Christian is having a go at his expense. Christian does not think of himself as a cruel man, but it is cruelty that moves his tongue to keep talking, along with a desire to free the laughter he knows Satine is holding back.
(If, beneath the fizzy champagne thrill of teasing the hapless Duke, there swims something softer, an ache too frightening to pin down, a hunger that Christian has pointedly chosen not to feed in the long, long time he’s carried it, well. That’s tomorrow’s problem.)
“It brings out the warmth in your eyes,” Christian says, and then, as if he’s trying to memorize something beautiful or sketching the bones of a poem: “Lichen. Moss. Sweet grass. Hay.”
The thing is, as Christian invents teasing praise out of thin air, it dawns on him that nothing he’s said is false. He looks at the Duke – really looks at him – and the wine does the rest.
“The color of the fabric is the same as your hair.” Christian drapes the mantille over the Duke’s head, arranging it in a facsimile of the way a woman might cover her hair for modesty, or style, or warmth, and surely they’re all drunker than he had thought, because the Duke allows it. Satine’s smile takes on a soft, curious quality.
The Duke’s wary face stares back at Christian from beneath the mantille, looking absurd and pink and more hunted by the second. (Satine watches this all unfold, bright-eyed.)
Christian, for his part, can’t look away from the Duke. The man looks mortified, disbelieving, eager, and Christian wonders, with a startling burst of pity, if anyone’s ever loved the poor bastard.
The silence must stretch on too long, because the Duke scrambles to fill it. “My hair is not yellow,” he deadpans, as if that’s the only questionable thing about the situation they’ve stumbled into.
“No,” Christian agrees. “It’s gold.” Except something gets mixed up between his mouth and his brain and what he actually says is, “You’re gold.”
Satine snorts. The Duke blinks several times, and Christian continues to finger the fabric as hs eyes rove the Duke’s face. The pale, blushing skin there is lined, but not ravaged; aged, but not actually ugly. Christian’s stomach does a rather concerning flip.
“You’re full of colors,” he says, feeling the truth of his words only once they’re already out. “And the golden thread in the lace calls them all to attention.”
He’s babbling. He knows when he’s babbling, because he’s quite prone to it, both as a writer and as a lush. This does not mean he’s figured out how to stop mid-babble. Quite the opposite.
“A learned man would call you muscle and bone, but in truth, you’re built of jewel and sunset and changing leaves. Imagine, the power in a flimsy piece of lace to return the red of your quiet coals to the fire of youth.”
Oh god. Christian isn’t just babbling. He’s composing, which is infinitely worse, and he’s doing it with the sort of fervor he chases and chases and rarely catches in his work, so of course he’s not going to stop.
“The gray at your temple…”
The Duke’s hand flies to his hairline, flinching at the perceived slight.
“No, no,” Christian soothes, and catches the man’s wrist. “Just listen – ’m a writer, I know what I’m talking about.”
Somewhere in the blur of everything that isn’t the Duke and his frantic, lovely, brittle confusion, Christian finally hears Satine laugh. She murmurs “I doubt that,” but he’s already off on a rush of wine and feelings, unable to tear his eyes away from the Duke.
“Though Time shall kiss each linéd brow in turn
And claim youth’s flame for winter’s silver ash,
Thy beauty holds ’neath honeyed moonlit glow,
Thy gold eludes the seasons’ claim and crown
To love like gentle summer, reddest sun…”
He trails off, seeking the next words, and notices Satine and the Duke are staring at him.
“What?”
“Um,” says the Duke.
“I quite agree with the Duke,” Satine says. “Was that a sonnet?”
“Well – not quite –”
“Did you write that just now?”
“I – was inspired?”
“Unbelievable,” Satine says, but she’s smiling. “Are you at all aware how predictable you are?”
“How – I’m sorry, predictable? I know the rhymes are off, but give me a little credit –”
“Is it from the show?” the Duke interrupts, a little breathlessly. “Because it certainly was… spectacular, spectacular.”
“No,” Satine says, sounding inappropriately delighted. She’s looking between Christian and the Duke as though she’s never seen a finer pair of idiots.
The Duke licks his lips, his brow furrowing. There’s a flush rising high in his cheeks. “Then – why?”
Christian is beginning to look baffled himself. “I don’t – I suppose I must be –”
“Thirsty?” Satine interjects, before Christian can say something none of them are prepared to hear.
As it turns out, his glass is empty again. He thanks Satine when she fills it, and she gives him a meaningful look that’s mostly eyebrows and manages (quite impressively) to convey a sense of both do you have any idea what you’re doing and of course you don’t, you beautiful disaster. She glances pointedly at Christian’s hand, and he realizes that he’s still stroking a lock of the Duke’s hair between his fingers. He tucks it gently behind the Duke’s ear and then takes a casual sip of wine, as if complimenting and caressing his secret lover’s fake fiancé is something he does all the time and that it doesn’t make him tremble inside, not even a little.
The Duke, on the other hand, is obviously not okay. His eyes dart between Satine, Christian, and the table, and he appears to be trying (and failing) to look at none of them. The mantille is still on his head.
Christian can’t help it. He laughs.
Satine’s control breaks, and then she too is giggling and gasping for breath.
Both men look at Satine, who is giddily drunk and radiantly beautiful and (as they both know, and are weak with the knowledge) capable of breathtaking cruelty. The Duke’s eyes narrow as he begins to suspect he’s being laughed at. Before he can open his mouth and ruin the evening, Christian climbs onto the table, upending the remains of the cheese platter, and reaches across in order to – to cup the Duke’s cheek, apparently, is what his hand ends up doing.
The Duke freezes, and Christian is struck by a sudden wave of endearment.
“Duke,” he says. “I –”
He doesn’t actually know, is the thing, except the Duke’s cheek is startlingly warm in the cool evening, and the bristling golden-red shadow on his cheek is sharp against Christian’s palm in a way that’s distracting and fascinating. The Duke’s lips part in surprise, and if Christian wanted to – does he want to? – it would take nothing to lean across the table and cover that open mouth with his own. Would it be even hotter than his skin? Christian wonders helplessly, before Satine kicks the table leg and causes him to release the Duke in order to keep from falling.
“I – I’m drunk,” Christian finishes.
“Do you think so?” Satine asks, rather more jovially than a lady should. She smiles at the Duke, searching him for signs of upset, but he’s still pink and starry-eyed.
The Duke leans in close to Satine, still squinting at Christian, and whispers loudly. “I say, my dear, can you believe this mad poet?”
“Why, yes, Duke,” she grins, fluttering her eyelashes. “Mad or not, I trust a poet to know beauty.”
The Duke blinks, and then – he giggles. It’s contagious, and by the time anyone can catch their breath, Christian has collapsed back into his chair, the cheese tray has been set to rights, and the mantille has slipped to settle fetchingly around the Duke’s shoulders.
“Oh, my dear Duke,” Satine breathes, smiling up at him. “Did you know, I never expected to have so much fun with you.”
Things go on much as usual after that. Satine, devoted to her acting nearly to a fault, insists the writer come along on every outing. The Duke pouts and sighs and very-wells, then follows at their heels like a puppy, sneaking glances at each of them when he thinks they’re not looking. Christian and Satine continue to steal kisses and make comments that go over the Duke’s head.
And yet.
There’s a new ease between the three of them. Satine and Christian’s teasing is – if not merciful, at least no longer merciless. When someone makes a joke, they all laugh (even when the Duke is the one making it).
The Duke comments on it one afternoon, when they’re all three lying in a meadow with their heads together, watching the breeze push the clouds across the sky. Christian and Satine are holding hands out of sight; the Duke’s hands lay at his sides, where he picks at the coarse grass and tugs petals off of wildflowers that he’s not brave enough to weave into anyone’s hair.
“Something’s different between us,” The Duke says, rather tetchily, because he’s still untrusting and thin-skinned, ready to be told his feelings are wrong at any moment.
“Yes,” Christian says, instead.
“You’re right,” Satine agrees.
“Then,” the Duke begins. “That is, I’m unsure – how to put it into words? How would you say we are, now?”
Satine makes a small, thoughtful sound. “Christian?”
“Ah, yes,” the Duke feels bold enough to quip, “there is a reason we keep a writer around.”
Christian chuckles. “I shall try to be useful.” He closes his eyes, considering.
As he sees it, their dynamic has lost the flavor of a triangle, and balanced out into a trio. It’s deeper than that, though. There’s been an overabundance of fondness and possessiveness between them from the beginning, flowing in all the wrong directions – that was the heart of their troubles. Where before fondness was hoarded and unequally yoked, it’s changed into something nearly mutual, that trickles to fill all the spaces between them. That’s not all (of course that’s not all), but it’s the nature of poetry to fail at capturing the divinity of emotion.
“I think,” Christian says, finally, “we didn’t know each other before.”
The Duke makes a face. “That’s it?”
“Why, my dear Duke,” Christian teases. “That’s everything.”
“I suppose I thought – well. After the mantille. I thought.”
“Yes, Duke.” Satine’s voice is warm. “You were quite right to think.”
The Duke closes his eyes and, stomach fluttering with nerves, he lets himself take Satine’s hand. She laces their fingers together immediately, her palms small and smooth and – kind, if a hand can be such a thing. He reaches for Christian but cannot bring himself to do more than brush his little finger against the other man’s, and that’s – enough, he thinks. It can be enough.
The rabbit-pulse of the Duke’s heart has just begun to calm when a warm, dry, pressure takes hold of his free hand. Christian squeezes, gentle and sure.
The Duke squeezes back.