angel of small death

“I didn’t thank you,” Annette growls through gritted teeth, taking a step closer to the vanity of the leggy brunette. She can feel the flush on the back of her neck, the height of her cheeks, all from the flurry of scouring her dressing room from top to bottom for the note – but now starting to mingle with the fury of jealous that could easily be brought on whenever she recalls the vision of Flori standing half-dressed in Bhari’s flat.

“And a lit candle is about to be the very least of your worries–” she adds, tone boarding on a seethe as her eyes dart over the collection of items on the fellow courtesans bureau as if she’ll be able to find her prize simply laying out in the open. It’s far too tempting to start pulling out drawers…

She swallows once, slowly, hands balls in small fists at her sides. Licking her lips, she tries to imagine that Bhari were in the room with her, watching, as a way of keeping herself in check. 

With a deep breath, licking her lips, she tries to even her tone to something reasonable.

“Simply return what is mine and we won’t speak on it again.”

“You left.” The words slip from her teeth like venom from a viper, and she hopes they hurt Annette the way she had intended to. How many nights had Flori spent sitting in her room, clutching books, pictures, letters, anything to remind her of the man she loved, all while Annette took claim over everything she had once so easily left behind? Far too many to count. 

“What exactly do you plan on doing? Fighting me, like some little dog just let out of a rattled cage?” Her eyes narrow and she taps her fingernails against her wooden vanity. Given their similar upbringings (or lack thereof) one would think that the two of them would get along. How funny, the way things tend to work out. 

“You left, and you left all of this behind like it meant nothing to you while other girls would have killed to be in your shoes.” Flori was one of them. It had not been so hard before, but now that she had seen the way Annette got to live, the perks that come from being so close to the top, going back to the bottom rung of the ladder was stifling. 

Flori stands from her seat and looks down her nose at Annette.

“And other things,” Gabriel retorted. He would not be so calloused as to accuse her of stealing his wallet in public, but the critic wanted her to know that he knew. Under the carefully designed lighting of The Moulin, he was able to reacquaint himself with her loveliness and whatever dismissive thoughts Gabriel had were set aside. Extending a hand towards the courtesan, the critic asked her to dance just as the band started to play.

“Have you been well Flori?” he asked as they swung side to side in time with the music.

Flori had always been proud of her dancing, so any opportunity to dance with a patron was taken with excitement. As she sways in his hands she smiles up at him, fingers delicately toying with the collar of his shirt. “Well, I can’t complain about getting to see your handsome face once again,” she lets out a bit of a laugh. 

Grace couldn’t help but laugh at Flori’s question. What else would she be doing on this side of the river, what else besides coming to see her friend? But instead of responding so simply, she leaned in, whispering to her friend. “Perhaps I’ve come to poach your patrons.” She hadn’t, of course, but she knew there were quite likely men who came to a show here, and then to one of the other clubs, depending on wether they had an appetite for something devilish or heavenly. 

After a moment, she shook her head,  grinning a little. “To see you, silly. Why else do you think I would be here?” The Moulin was pretty, sure, but the girls were all stuck up, and the patrons always acted like they were somehow better for being here. Like somehow, there weren’t just as many men here with families at home, wives waiting for them. But Grace knew better, they were all the same, no matter where they were.

“Good luck poaching, it’s slim pickings at this hour,” Flori laughs, rolling her eyes as she reaches over the bartop for a bottle of cheap whiskey. It was true, though the club was usually bustling, the men that could afford to buy their time were often already with the headlining girls before any of the chorus dancers had a chance to even say bonjour. With a flick of her thumb she removes the cork from the neck of the bottle and puts it to her lips, despite the agitated look from the bartender. 

He’s sinking into the familiarity of red satin and purple velvet when at last he’s paid a visit. It’s strange to be here once again, Malachi finds, and he’d greeted the venue in the way he might greet a second cousin; it’s known to him, but so awkwardly distant that rekindling seems a far cry. Still, with such a cataclysmic sink hole raging in his rib cage, the Moulin nudges itself into his mind with the promise of a short term heal, and he hurries to it with a hunger he cannot forbid.

Now in his lap is an unparalleled beauty, and he is mortified at the prospect of having overlooked her. He couldn’t have, he thinks, as she purrs into his ear and he automatically winds a cold finger in the warmth of her ringlets. If this is not the first time their eyes have met, it certainly feels as though it is.

“Waiting for a woman to come. I’d started to think nobody wanted me.” Malachi answers honestly, with a tinge in his tone hinting humour that does not convey in his expression. He asks her something then, in the model of a tease, but it’s something he has already deemed affirmative: “Am I last pickings?”

Last pickings. Funny how many evenings she had spent asking herself the same question. Even funnier that she no longer had to ask herself, because she knew the answer well enough. Still she smiles, leaning into the touch of his fingers in her hair. Her eyes scan his face -- he is much more handsome than the men she is used to entertaining at this hour, solemn as he may seem.

“Darling, if nobody wanted you, then there must be very little hope for the remainder of the men in Paris.” Her hand grazes the side of his head before coming to rest on the back of his neck. This is what she is good at. “You are the most handsome man I have laid eyes on in quite some time, last pickings you  most certainly are not. I simply hadn’t seen you hiding out here all alone.”

With a flick of her neck she sends her hair over her shoulder and leans closer to him, “were you waiting for anyone in particular?” 

     What are you talking about?

There it was. For a man so eager to please others and be generally liked, to cause anyone to be upset was his biggest fear. As his eyes quickly scanned her expression in a desperate hope to find an answer for how to go about navigating this scenario, he felt like the boiling frog. 

The dress hits the floor, and he has to catch himself as he makes to pick it back up. In a room that suddenly felt too small and cramped, every little move he made felt like a game of chess he was losing. 

“Flori–” He’s incapable of bringing himself to say the words that hand from the tip of his tongue. I won’t be seeing you because Annette is back and I love her! There’s just no positive way to spin something like that, and yet he continued to search his mind. All those years of etiquette classes were a waste. They should have prepared him for turning down a courtesan rather than which fork to use when and where it was polite to touch a young woman. 

Nervous hands find her sides, fingers dipping into her soft waist, though merely as a way to hold her at a distance. He feared what would happen if she became even closer than she already was. 

Her giggled pull his own nervous laughter from his chest, which ached from avoiding hyperventilating. “Y-Yes, it’s all very funny, isn’t it,” he said, though his tone revealed that nothing was particularly humorous about any of it. “Flori, please. We can’t do this anymore.”

She’s a fool. She knows it. But better a fool than a lonesome courtesan. 

He touches her waist and she sighs, leaning against his chest the way she had done so many nights before. Whatever sense of calm had once settled over his apartment is gone now, blown away like early morning fog chased off by sunlight. For whatever reason, he had chosen her. He chose Annette. Of all the people who she would have expected this from, he was the last on her list. 

“Very funny indeed. You are quite le comédien,” she teases, bringing a hand to his cheek to gently scratch the scruff on his skin.

Being a last resort is nothing foreign to her, usually. But with him, in this apartment, it takes her completely by surprise. It stings, wrapping around her spine and constricting until she stands completely upright. If he is going to push her aside, like a toy to be discarded for something better, then he will have to say it. Explicitly.

“You have said that before, haven’t you?” She smiles softly, eyes dipping down to their feet. “I have, as well. I didn’t mean it though, and I don’t think you do either. Now won’t you read to me? You know I love to listen to you.” 

[closed starter @florisirene]

Her dressing room smells heavily of the rosewater emitting from the perfume bottle that she’d toppled to the floor as she scoured her vanity, hairpins and tubes of lipstick and little jars of various cosmetic accompanying it on the rug. She’s pulled out every drawer, every hidden compartment, and she still hasn’t managed to lay eyes on the note that she’d tucked into the frame of mirror with such care…

A, 

 I hope you think of me as I do you. The backs of my eyelids are the same color as your eyes. I can’t escape you. 

 Bhari

It’s a much loved piece of paper - the edges torn where the page the words were scribbled on had been pulled its binding in a book of poetry, crumpled from being pressed into her palm and held tightly in the pockets of her coat across the Atlantic and back, ink a little faded from her fingers running over the words.

It’s a much loved paper and it has gone missing. And Annette has only one suspect.

Her dressing room door is left open as she charges into the corridor with purpose, making her way five doors down the way to where the chorus girls prepare for shows – she wastes no time with pleasantries as she makes her way to the station of the dark haired woman that she’d made it a point to avoid since she’d caught sight of her in Bhari’s apartment.

“Have you been in my dressing room?”

Clearly the “A” to whom the letter had been addressed stood for “Adelita,” she decided. 

She had gone into Annette’s dressing room with innocent enough intentions, a candle on the vanity had been left lit and unattended, and heaven forbid the cabaret should burn to the ground. Lord knows it would be easy enough for the candle to spark one of the god-awful synthetic fabric costumes Annette had in her dressing room. When she caught sight of the letter, she knew it simply had to have been delivered to the wrong dancer. The lipstick she had swiped from the vanity and tucked into her lingerie was just for good measure. 

As she is dressing for the show, lining her big blue eyes with kohl, she is accosted by the tiny blonde thing storming through the halls. 

“What on earth has gotten into you?” Flori practically spits, grateful the remainder of the dressing hall is nearly empty. “You have been back to the Moulin for 15 minutes and think you are the star of the show.” Little did she know, Flori had soared in Annette’s place while she had been away. 

“You left a candle burning after you had gone upstairs for the night yesterday, I was doing you a favor.” She places the lid back on her eyeliner and tucks it into a drawer.

“You’re welcome.”

@florisirene

While Grace might pretend that she would never even think of setting foot in the Moulin Rouge, she found herself much more often than one might expect. The reason was one Flori Beaulieu, the only girl from the other side of the Seine that Grace had ever allowed herself to have anything like a friendship with. Probably because when she’d met Flori, it had been before all of it - The Moulin, Le Ciel, when she’d simply been a scared and angry girl who had only just arrived in the city, constantly looking over her shoulder to make sure her husband hadn’t come looking for her. Of course, she’d never told Flori any of this, but she was Grace’s oldest friend all the same, longer than Carmen, if not really as close.

As she walked in the club, she glanced around, hoping to spot her friend immediately, but of course, did not. It figured, she could guess that Flori was somewhere, flirting with a poor, hapless man. She didn’t know why she found herself even thinking less of patrons of the Moulin, they were likely the same ones that came into the twin clubs on the other side of the river. But she couldn’t help it, she supposed. As she did one more glance over the room, however, she spotted her friend at the bar and slid into a seat next to her. “Well, you look a bit lonely, Flori, darling. No men tonight?”

She prefers the company of the bartender to that of the patrons, though it is quite difficult to make a living this way. After a slew of dastardly clients earlier in the evening, Flori has found herself taking comfort in the bottom of a whiskey bottle with the francs she slipped from the wallet of some poor Englishman that had visited her bed. Tangled ringlets fall around her shoulders as she nurses the crystalline glass in her hands, examining the water spots that linger on the surface of the glass. Her temples are pounding, and just as she is prepared to close her eyes and make her exit for the evening, she is met with a familiar voice. 

“Not so lonely anymore, sweet pea,” she laughs, sliding her glass over to Grace to offer a sip. The city wasn’t a place to make friends, so they were lucky to have found each other and even luckier to have kept each other. “No more men. There were a couple during the dinner show, but you know how the early birds tend to be.” Easy come, easy go... 

“What are you doing on this side of the river?”

@florisirene

He found her dancing with a patron, and while he hardly remembered her name, it was the courtesan’s face that remained in his memories. Flori was beautiful in a way that her face portrayed a perfect look of melancholy that somehow twists into seduction, it was what he remembered the most. But admittedly, in the sea of dancers who were just as tall and graceful, Flori was lost. And had it not been for Annette who brought her one night, Gabriel would have overlooked her still. 

But Flori had made enough impact, especially with the way she managed to swipe his wallet; the Critic was amused but made certain not to hire her again– he wasn’t keen on losing money every time. Tonight though, he was bored, and after a discussion with the Green Fairy that left him questioning things, he could use some distraction.

Returning clients were something of a rarity in Flori’s career. She did not share the same warmth or charisma that the more successful girls seemed to flaunt, and she did not exactly try to fake it. For a girl who grew up as a whore and not a courtesan,  she lacked the poise that made women at the Moulin Rouge successful. Needless to say, she was surprised to see Gabriel’s face again as he interrupts her dancing with another patron. A smile pulls across her cheeks as she remembers the last evening they shared -- even if it had been in the company of that dreadful pixie -- and the weight of his wallet, which was still tucked in a drawer in her room upstairs. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” she teases, walking her fingers up his shoulder. The patron she had been dancing with sulks off, no doubt to find a replacement for her company. Flori doesn’t mind. She would prefer to spend her time with a tried and true former client. 

“Miss me already?”

“The chair would be fine,” he uttered, trying to keep an air of obliviousness to himself that he’d recently learned worked quite well on some. Please, Lord, let it work with her, he thought. 

The hand on his cheek feel like the ticking of a clock counting down the minutes until his destruction, moving faster as it travels around his neck. He leaned away, slowly, trying his best not to be too obvious about his discretion. 

“I’d be happy t-to– To go over the puzzles with you, Flori, but… About our arrangement.”  His gaze moved to the window, the door, his shoes… anywhere but the hypnotizing green of Flori’s eyes. That green, he knew then, was his first mistake. One of many. 

There are so many terrible, torturous scenarios he would rather be in than his present circumstance. He would rather sit and listen to Gabe recite his entire book, line by line, than have to break off his and Flori’s deal. No matter how hard he wished he could disappear and pop up in another place across the city, he knew it would never happen. 

“I don’t believe we can continue our arrangement.” 

He’s pulling away and she can feel it. If she were a better woman, a smarter woman, she would let him. Instead, she only moves closer. Her arms are around his shoulders now, her chest pressed to his. 

“The chair,” she laughs, raising an eyebrow at the suggestion. “Bhari, you are a man of interesting tastes indeed. The chair first, then perhaps we can move to the shower, wouldn’t you think?” She brushes her nose against his as she smiles, the smallest trace of a laugh punctuates her words. 

I don’t believe we can continue our arrangement. 

Something ugly grows in the pit of her stomach, twists up the column of her spine until it reaches her face and turns her cheeks red hot. She doesn’t know if she is angry, or embarrassed, or simply sad. What had she done? How could she have been such a fool? And what the fuck was the matter with her, thinking she could come back from her selfish jaunt in the city and come back to take Bhari away as if nothing had happened to begin with?

“What are you talking about?” Her thumb trails the length of his jaw, her gaze following rather than meeting his eyes. Her smile falters for a moment before she shakes her head. It’s only a joke. He wouldn’t hurt her like that -- it’s Bhari. He would never do something like that. She slips the straps of her dress off each shoulder and does a quick shimmy of her hips, letting the dress fall to the ground.

Surprise would not have been the correct word to rightfully explain how he felt upon seeing Flori’s face at his door, but it would do. His was occupied with far too much to properly be in touch with his emotions–most notably, avoiding the brunette by all means possible. 

What a complete fool he was to have pulled from the pool of gorgeous women at the Moulin to seek comfort in. What a damned, pathetic, sorry fool. How was he to know Annette would return, much less take up her old position at the Moulin? Hell, she was practically neighbors with Flori now. Closer! Thank heavens he knew Flori to be a proper lady. God forbid she be the salty sort, like some of the other courtesans he’d heard tales about, whose minds were rot with jealousy. Thank God Flori wasn’t like that. Who knows the types of things she would do to Annette…

“Flori!?” He was shocked to say the least, but Bhari hadn’t remembered inviting her over. It was nice to see here nonetheless. 

“Um– Yes. It’s… I wasn’t expecting company.” Bhari looked down the stairwell before closing the door behind her and following her into the room. A silly amount of distance was kept between him and her. “Is everything alright?” 

Great. How embarrassing. She makes a quick scan of the room, searching for any remnants of her that seemed to linger in the space. Flori is certain she’s been there, and makes the conscious decision to leave something behind for her to find next time she decides to come over. She can feel her ears growing hot at the thought of her, so she takes a deep breath to try and calm down.

“You weren’t expecting company? Oh, you silly thing,” she smiles, fingertips trailing over the tabletop as she saunters through the room. Flori drapes her jacket over the back of a chair and catches a glimpse of a watch that is resting on a nearby end table. She makes a mental note. It’ll be in her pocket when she leaves. 

“What happened to our Tuesday evening standing arrangement?” Her head tilts and she approaches him, placing a hand on his cheek. “I brought my copy of the Journal’s puzzles for last week, I’m ready to compare answers.” Her hand moves from his cheek to the back of his neck and her smile moves to a smirk.

“Though I suppose we can do that in bed, if you’d like.”

“Oh, darling,” she has zeroed in on a target for the evening, and just in the nick of time it appears. Half of the courtesans have already made their way upstairs for the night, and the half that are still downstairs seem to be having a difficult time securing customers. Flori can only imagine the arguments that will break out over who stole who’s customer, who got the short straw, who went to bed alone and penniless -- arguments she wants nothing to do with. Only weeks ago she had been above most of these girls, one of the first to be booked for an evening, but with the return of two shining stars she had been dropped back down to a position of scraping the bottom of the barrel to keep up with the lifestyle she had been accustomed to. 

Luckily for her, she seems to have found the only attractive man left in the ballroom of the Moulin, and she wastes no time slinking into his lap and strategically playing with his lapels. “Oh, darling,” she repeats, leaning in to whisper the words into his ear.

“What are you doing here all by yourself?” 

Their visits have been much less frequent lately, though it’s not for lack of interest on her part. Shouldn’t she have known better than to get her hopes up, anyway? But how, when his kiss tasted like magic, or his touch felt like religion, and his words sounded like poetry, could she have possibly avoided the warmth from the fire he started in her ribcage?

She places a knock at his door and leans against the frame, examining the split ends of a brunette curl while she waits. As the door opens, a smile comes to her face. 

“Good evening, stranger,” she teases, walking her fingers up his shoulder before stepping past him and shedding her jacket. “Have you been missing me like I’ve been missing you?” She asks, though she is almost afraid to hear the answer.