I hope you don't mind that I put down in words...

Bhari Sinclair. The Writer. ❝ That's the thing about art, see— if it's done right, it will make you question everything you are. ❞

[bharisinclair]

danidelione‌:

Some days, Dani needed it - the ring, the familiar noise and heat and ache of the sport he’d grown up with. Even the smell, that old-penny tang of blood, sweat, sawdust; this was as close as he got to that old gym in Brooklyn, to the punching bag he’d strung up under the water tower, where the neighbor kids would watch the boy next door warm up for a fight night.

Home. It was as close as he got to home.

Still so very, very far away. But it had to do. Tonight’s contender, some rangy Brit - Lyle “Left Hook” McLennan, a solid bruiser - had been a few years younger, had some height on Dani. Age, being tied to experience and all, was a tough one to call as factors went. As for height, the difference of a couple inches could be a big one. Only if you knew how to use it, though. Dani did. Gave the schmuck a few extra rounds out of sportsmanship, mostly. So long as it was a good show. As soon as Lyle there started to plainly lose his step, Dani did the decent thing and brought it to an end. One solid left hook.

As the bookies churned out the winnings and the ring cleared out, Dani stepped between the ropes, toweling off. Heading for the makeshift bar, stacked crates draped with crisp tablecloths. The Arène’s night matches - the less than legal ones - offered certain amenities. The better to bring in the high rollers. These included a charming cigar girl and, of course, a respectable quantity of liquor. On the way, Dani helped himself to a bottle of champagne, crackling loose from one of the gleaming, sweating ice buckets, and… two flutes, from behind the counter. Glancing down the bar, he threw a bloodied, punch-drunk smile to the closest patron as he worked on the cork, hands still wrapped for a brawl. “Help me finish this? If you placed your bets right,” on him, “it’s celebrating. If you didn’t, hell, it’s some small consolation, at least. And a toast. For better luck, next time.” Or better judgment. You could get by on one or the other.  

When it came to Mr. Delione and the Arène, Bhari was certainly no stranger. Was anyone? The man was, after all, Paris’ star athlete that deserved every bit of praise he received. Though not a particularly violent man, himself, The Writer was a fan of the pugilist’s, and often found himself in the stands with the rest of the city staring in schadenfreude-esque awe as blood was shed between the ropes. His reason for being there that evening, however, was not just fandom.

Bhari felt a certain type of obligation whenever a fighter from Britain rolled through town. Supporting the motherland, he supposed. Unfortunately, when pitted against Daniel, it seemed what goold ol’ Britannia had to offer was no match for the Italian. 

With a notebook and pen in tow, Bhari took notes on the match just in case the scale tipped out of Delione’s favor. Now that would have made for an eye-grabbing article, but unfortunately “Delione Rings Bell Once Again” wasn’t exactly breaking news. 

“Oh, I’m not a betting man, Mr. Delione,” Bhari said to the other, a bit surprised that the other had singled him out. “Though if I was, my coin would be beneath your name.” 

The notebook was closed, along with the final few notes he’d jotted down as McLennan was carted off. He felt a bit hesitant to take the champagne, but he wasn’t about to argue with a man he’d just watch throw another into unconsciousness with one fist.

“I’d need a drink, too, after something like that. Congratulations are in order.”

[bharisinclair]

nettyfawn‌:

Her fingers gently brush against the curls near his neck as he begins to stir, a soft exhale escaping her as he adjusts his position with the aches and groans that follow a night spent with the bottle.

“I think my reasoning was that I was waiting for you.” 

Annette’s eyes immediately go sad, a downwards pull at the corner of her lips as her stomach twists with guilt. He had waited out there all night for her in the hopes that she’d be home soon, asleep and vulnerable to anything that could have been lurking on the dark streets or any passerby with malicious intentions. And where had she been? Tipping champagne back to her lips in one of Paris’ most fine townhouses, entertaining and charming a room of men while sitting on the lap of the police captain (one of the more tame acts that they’d engaged in throughout the evening).

“I’m sorry, I tried to find you…”

Her voice is a hush, because anything louder feels disrespectful to the morning and the newly awakened birds chirping in the tree nearby – she envies them deeply, how little cares or worries birds must have. Dark-circled eyes land on the carnation in his pocket – a perfect match to the one she’d arranged on his desk the morning before. She’d had several of the same flowers woven into the floral crown she’d worn at the party – she reaches up to touch it, even though she knows it was long discarded in the festivities, instead feeling hair mussed from a man’s hands in it and uneasy sleep.

“You didn’t see me there, did you?” she asks, unable to keep the slight lilt of hope in her voice that perhaps he hadn’t bore witness to the company she’d kept at the request of Lord Cunningham.

“No,” he sighed and leaned back in his chair. 

It was not as if he had gone to the event with the expectation of seeing her, or having a moment of her time. He was a fool, yes, but he wasn’t dumb. Word of Cunningham’s festivities of indulgence (and the rumor that every courtesan in the city had been booked for the night) had reached Le Figaro's office, and there was no doubt in Bhari’s mind that the Green Fairy would find herself caught up in such a thing. 

Still... It would have been nice. 

“It’s alright,” he said, though it would have been hard to convince others of a statement he did not believe, himself. “You were working. I know.” 

He moved without grace as he stood up from the chair with popping knees from sitting in the same position all night. What he needed was a glass of water, but there was no telling when he would get be able to get one with how much of the night’s events came rushing back to his head. 

Bhari stood there and simply looked at her for a moment. Though she was clearly worse for wear after a night doing who knows what, with God knows who, with all that aside this was still a beautiful, magical, woman caught in the thin veils of the morning sun, and he hated the way the sight of her made him want to cry.  

“I know,” he repeated, but the words took new meaning. The admission arrived before he could think of how to deliver it, but he knew there was no gentle way to go about it. 

“Gabriel told me.”

[bharisinclair]

nettyfawn‌:

Annette lets out an appreciative coo as his lips mark the line between her jaw and her neck, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment and she allows herself into melt into the feeling. Her fingertips stroke over his abdomen beneath the water, and she dips her head to kiss slowly over his collarbone. Bare chest against his own, she lays her cheek against his shoulder, briefly nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

For a moment, she is transfixed by the surface of the bathwater and how the glitter that had once adorned her body now shimmers in it.  

“Have you ever seen a wind up doll?” she muses, her breath against his skin as she speaks softly.

“A patron gave me one once, by far one of the more strange gifts I’ve ever gotten, but he liked to call me his pale little doll. When you would wind her up she would speak a phrase or sing a song and then when it was over the doll would just feel dead…I could feel how hollow it was inside in my hands, there was nothing in the painted eyes. That’s what pretend feels like – and sometimes I swear I can feel someone turning the key at the base of my spine to wind me. That’s what the pretend feels like.”

In a moment that was otherwise beautiful just as it was, Bhari wondered how much longer the two of them would go on being tossed about like playthings by a harsh reality. God forbid she could feel his heart inside of the chest she rested her head upon, she would feel it being pressed to its limit by her sad story. Bhari could not come close to knowing how it felt to be a courtesan, but he knew damn well what it was like to be hollow. 

And then it hit him: the words she’d given him mere moments prior were a key that could open a door he’d been locked out of for quite some time. Behind that door was an answer to the question that had been on his mind from the moment he met her. 

“Would you ever leave that life?” he asked. His fingertips gently combed through her wet hair. 

[bharisinclair]

@frankfelton ❈ closed. location: Grand Townhouse of Etienne de Beaumont, too late in the evening.

Those days he spent the majority of his free time in rare form. What else was a man of little trust and fewer friends to do, other than turn to bottles and crowded spaces he could hide in? The loneliness of his apartment made for too intimate an environment between him and his mind. One of the few blessings of editing for Le Figaro was the invitations that were sent his way, No longer did he have to piggyback on the invites of colleagues—or de Silva, for that matter. 

No, Monsieur Beaumont now asked for him by name! Well... by position title. That was still something, right?

Hidden away in the library of the grand townhouse, he watched with curiosity as people moved about, making up connections for them in his head as he sat there alone. That was, until he saw someone he had not come across in quite some time.

“Mr. Felton!” he shouted louder than someone who was only scarcely acquainted with Frank should have. He hoped to gain the attention of the tall gentlemen trying to make his way through the room, not caring too much if he had somewhere to go. 

As the other came closer, he rambled on. “Cousin of the little one—Murdock. Friend of the diamond. I do not have to say her name, do I?” He laughed to himself and tapped his glass on the wooden arm of the chair he occupied.

“If you sit for a moment, I will reward you with a cautionary tale.” 

[bharisinclair]

nettyfawn‌:

[starter for @bharisinclair – post event; morning after]

She’s sure she’s a sight to see in the light of the rising sun; walking down the street with the greatest temptation to take her shoes off, hair undone and one sleeve of her wispy fairy dress hanging from her shoulder. In a strange bed at the Lord’s estate, she’d hardly slept at all – if only a little due to the amount of alcohol she’d ingested throughout the festivities making her drowsy. 

She’d collected her payment from the nightstand and left in a tip-toed hush, leaving the townhouse before many of the inhabitants who had stayed there the night before had awoken. It was too early to call a taxi – not that she would have wasted her hard-earned money on it, but her feet ached so much that it would have been a consideration. 

The red windmill of the Moulin is in her sights and she can almost hear bed calling, rubbing at the corner her eye when she looks in the direction of Bhari’s building across the boulevard…

His form is unmistakable, slumped over one of the cafe tables that line the sidewalk outside. Heart jolting and stomach sinking, Annette’s steps speed to the table with immediate alarm before she notices he’s breathing…Sleeping, judging by the slowness of it. 

The wave of affection and guilt intermingled threaten to make her sick. 

Her fingers reach out gently as she kneels next to the table, stroking softly over the back of his neck to beckon him to wake as her voice stays hushed. 

“Have you been out here all night?”

The feeling of fingers at his neck caused him to jump out of his dozing. For a moment he looked around, wincing in that golden morning light he loved dearly at every other moment except for then, when the drinks from last night still held him in their vice grip. Bhari exhaled through a pained expression; truly feeling as if he’d been hit by a train and dragged through the streets.

That familiar blonde hair worsened the morning glow. 

“Yes—“ He croaked, then cleared his throat. “I think my reasoning was that I was waiting for you.” 

He leaned back in the rough metal seat, shielding his eyes from the sun to get a good look at her. His Peaseblossom. Lord, how he wished he could have seen her when she was freshly done up. He assumed he didn’t look so good, himself, in his tweed suit, patchy with dirt from falling in the grass one too many times. The wilting carnation in his pocket was the cherry on top.

“You’re just getting back?” 

[bharisinclair]

nettyfawn‌:

“Bhari,” her whine at his teasing is muffled against his lips, a laugh following into the kiss as she moves her hands beneath the surface of the water to tickle at his sides for punishment. 

She feels warm all the way to her toes when she’s kissing him, and she knows it has nothing to do with the bathwater or the gin. She can’t place a moment in her life that feels as perfect at this one (even without the muddle in her brain from the bottle,  she’s sure it doesn’t exist), or one where she has felt this kind of happiness – as if there isn’t anything on the earth that can steal it from the two of them as long as they keep a firm grasp on it. 

When she has a headache in the morning, she prays that she’ll remember this feeling. 

She tilts her chin upwards as directed by the path of his finger, the pose the only thing keeping her from kissing him once more as she makes herself comfortable between his legs. 

“I’m only magic with you,” she informs him, droplets of water clinging to her lashes and bubbles settled on her hair. 

“Anytime else just feels like pretend.”

The best (and worse, depending on the context) thing about her sentiment was that he knew exactly how she felt. He never felt better than when he was with her, and every moment spent out of her light was borderline miserable. It came as no surprise when, after she left for New York, waking every morning felt like just another death. 

Thankfully, he spent more time in her glow those days than out of it. 

Bhari hummed as his lips grazed her jaw. The dip of her back became a hold for his fingers beneath the water. It took so long for him to know for certain her affections were not just pretend; it was like heaven not to worry about that now. 

He patted his shoulder for her to rest her head upon. “And what does pretend feel like?” he asked.

[bharisinclair]

charlotte-leigh‌:

She hadn’t meant to upset him, and she certainly hadn’t meant to incriminate Annette, but she supposed her intentions may as well have been thrown to the wind. It is rationalized in her mind as she watches him, the gears in his head certainly turning at a hundred miles an hour, explained away because she determines that if she were him, she would want to know. 

Though her loyalty will always belong to Annette, the illicit affairs that took place behind closed doors at the Moulin Rouge were hardly a secret, and it was better for Bhari to find out from Charlotte than from a coworker or acquaintance spilling dirty gossip over gin rickeys. At least, that’s what she told herself to make it seem as though she hadn’t just accidentally ruined something so wonderful. 

“I should not have told you all of that. I fear it’s the alcohol going to my he-” she begins, attempting to explain it away, hoping that Bhari may let it go as the ramblings of a dizzy drunk blonde. When he raises his voice, she leans back, shying away from the potential complication.

“The one who writes the reviews. I’m not sure of his name… de Silver, maybe? Something like that.” Her eyes widen and she takes a deep breath. As miserable as he is, she cannot help but project her own relationships onto his. Would this be how Frank or Arturo would feel, knowing exactly what she did when she was working? There was a certain blessing that came from the anonymity of the pretty niceties the courtesans used to hide what was really taking place.

“Gabriel. That’s his name. I’m sorry, Bhari.” She sets a hand over his. “I shouldn’t have told you, but I want to be honest.”

Gabriel. 

Bhari’s knees wanted to give from beneath him the moment every suspicion he’d held over the last month or so were confirmed with one word. 

He swallowed hard and released his tight grip on the bar to hold a passive hand up to Charlotte. Quite suddenly, his entire face felt hot, and the urge to release a ridiculous, heavy breath became something he could no longer fight. 

Thank God he’d stopped drinking when he had, because he certainly could not stomach anything now.

There was a crack in his heart, growing more severe with each second he existed in this new reality. He could not look Charlotte--nor anyone in the bar-- in the eyes, since he now felt that every pair in the room were on him. If Charlotte knew about this, who else did? 

“Charlotte...” 

It was all he could say. His hands found the front of his vest, both to wipe off the imagined mess his anxiety now made him feel, as well as to check if he was still there. To check if this was real. 

[bharisinclair]

nettyfawn‌:

The wake that follows her admission seems like an eternity in her substanced mind and she can barely stop herself from begging him to say something (!) before she watches the astonished smile pass over his lips and his eyes avert from hers.  She had suspected, of course, that he wouldn’t mind – but she somehow still needs to let out a sigh of relief.

“What are you doing?” she grins in confusion, brows furrowed as she looks up to him standing and discarding clothing. As soon as his first foot enters the water and she realizes his intention, she lets out a wild laugh that fills the room, her hands splashing down into the bubbles and sending them into a flurry with her unbridled joy.

Once he was settled into the water opposite of her, the water in the tub rising from the added body and lapping threateningly at the brim of the bath,  she adjusts her own position. Shifting her legs beneath her, a dribble of water overflowing and landing on the tiles below, she slinks between his legs like a selkie. 

Wet curls clinging to her cheeks and neck, chest against his and eyelids still painted with glitter, she grins at him.

“I love you,” she repeats with an amazed laugh, stealing a kiss from him. “Now you say it again.” Another kiss. 

“Please? Say it again.”

Her laugh was utterly infectious, and it became quite difficult not to feel as if he was glowing in her presence. The undershirt was shed and fell to the floor in a sopping heap. Little waterfalls spilled from the lip of the tup and onto the tile with every one of their movements, but neither cared a bit. Bhari was far too busy watching his lover play in the water, far more like a mermaid than a fairy now.

How marvelous her shape and the way she shifted it was. 

“It again,” he repeated. With the gentle curve of her jaw in his hold, he brought his lips to hers. 

More water rose over the edge of the tub as his knees disappeared below the water, making room for the little mermaid to meet him. In such nearness, it was impossible not to notice the way the warmth of the bath had shifted her makeup, making her appear more like a watercolor painting than anything of his mundane world. With the glitter around her eyes reflecting the water, and the water reflecting the glitter, he was bewitched. 

A finger traced beneath her jaw ended just below the tip of her chin. “I love you, you magical girl.” 

[relatablepoetryandquotes]

“I felt her absence. It was like waking up one day with no teeth in your mouth. You wouldn’t need to run to the mirror to know they were gone.” - James Dashner, The Maze Runner

[wilsonpatricks-deactivated20191]

[bharisinclair]

The Writer’s choice in outfit for the Midsummer gala was surely an act of self-awareness and self-deprecation. If not, we can think of no better example of irony than the image of Bhari Sinclair taking on the persona of Bottom. He is, after all, Paris’ own take on the classic story of a man made an ass by thinking nothing of a Fairy’s affection towards him. 

Aside from our teasing, we must say Monsieur Sinclair was looking smart as always in a suit of brown tweed (one we’ve seen many times before) with a carnation tucked in his lapel. Shiny brown boots paired with socks of bright red that peeked out beneath cuffed trousers completed the look. Unexpected, however, was the lack of grooming that evening. The Writer chose to forgo his typical pomade and clean shave for something a bit more natural; sporting scruff and curls. It was an altogether handsome look, but one that suggests the writer may be too tired to keep up with the fashions of his peers...

[bharisinclair]

maeflowcrs‌:

It was the perfect day. The sun was shining, but it wasn’t too hot. May and June were the best months of the year, in Maelie’s opinion. There was always a light breeze to keep the heat from being too much, yet it wasn’t so cold to bother with a sweater or jacket. It was perfect for a stroll around the park. It was her day off, sort of - she still had things to brainstorm, but that didn’t need to be done at the shop, and that was what was important. 

After an hour or two of thinking, and scribbling down some ideas in a notebook, Maelie stood from the bench and brushed herself off, before heading towards an exit. She paused just when someone passed her, not because they spoke, but because she’d caught a spot of green on their head. 

“Excuse me!” She called after them, quickly taking a few steps to catch up with them. “It seems you have a caterpillar on your head. May I?”

The day had been spent running about town, feet moving faster than his brain as he crossed a number of items off of his errand list. A tight deadline had been the cause of the headache that began at the bridge of his nose and moved around his head like a pair of invisible spectacles. Nobody at Le Figaro seemed to be on the same page, literally and figuratively, and once again, much that had to be done before the weekend weighed heavily on his shoulders. 

This was how he found himself swiftly moving through his favorite shortcut through the park, not paying a single mind to how gorgeous the day was. The sunshine had become just another factor of his headache. 

Just as he was thinking about word counts and proper typefaces for a new column, his attention was taken. “Miss Brindamour!” he exclaimed upon recognizing her face after he’d turned on his heel. “Maelie Brindamour— Miss Mae.” He was quick to correct himself, as once upon a time she had asked him not to be so formal. 

The mention of the caterpillar made his shoulders tense and his hands quickly turned to fists. He hated bugs, and the thought of one in his hair was enough to place a chill in his spine, but it wasn’t in his interest to act like a fool because of it. “Please,” he said, grimacing. “I’d no idea I was carrying a stowaway.” 

[bharisinclair]

charlotte-leigh‌:

“It’s not easy, of course it’s not.” She laughs as well, though she knows that her own situation is just as deeply complicated as Annette’s, if not worsened by her older age. To believe that there was hope for her friend meant there would be hope for herself as well, and most days even the littlest bit of hope was all that she had. “Leaving England wasn’t easy, nor was the war, or writing your book or traveling to America and back again. But you did all of those things, however impossible they may have once seemed.” She offers him a shrug. If anyone could do it, it would be him. “People climb mountains every day.” 

Of course she knew how difficult it would be to escape the web that this life wove for them, how very sticky and tangled the silk threads of red velvet curtains and satin costumes would be the moment Annette tried to make her escape, but eventually a choice would have to be made. The choice between a life of settling for less in the belly of the red monster that was the cabaret, or a life where she could have something real. The two, Charlotte knew well enough, would prove to be mutually exclusive sooner rather than later.

“I can tell you that when I crossed the pond to London, very few of my regular visitors even tried to contact me. There are other girls to entertain them, and that will always be true.” It was perhaps a harsh reality, that patrons sought little more than a warm bed – but she supposed that perhaps it could be a comfort to Bhari’s current predicament. 

“As wonderful as she is, they don’t love her the same way my visitors don’t love me. They’ll find someone else to meet their needs.”

Are there kind ones? 

She has never hated a question so much. Not necessarily because she did not have an answer, but because she does not want to tell him the truth. Of course there are kind patrons, they can’t all be bad, can they?, though she doesn’t suppose that the knowledge of patrons paying to treat Annette so sweetly would set Bhari’s mind to ease. She draws in a deep breath and finishes off the drink in her glass.

“There are kind ones. Visitors who are simply lonely or unlucky in love, who want a placeholder for the person they are truly thinking of. People who are almost tender, should you forget the reality of the situation.” The champagne has gone to her head, but that doesn’t stop her, does it?

“That man from Le Journal was not so bad, I believe. I heard he was kind to her and to Flori together, once upon a time.” 

He’d been following along as best as one learning about the types of ways his was love was being fucked by half the city could. It was a dumb question for him to have asked, he soon realized. Ignorance was a bliss that hindsight could not return him to. 

The nausea that threatened to creep up the back of his throat and made his face warm could not be swallowed down upon hearing what came out of Charlotte’s mouth. 

What was worse? Knowing that his love had once been paid to be part of a mé·nage à trois with the woman he tried desperately to no avail to replace her with? Or was it the fact that such an event happened with one of his coworkers? Just when he thought the fates had decided to take a break on pulling his luck in every which direction, they were back at it with a vengeance. What the Hell had he done to deserve this? Surely this could only have been karma for pulling a trigger on a man in the Marnes, but the only other option to that would have been death. 

Death would have been preferable to knowing all of this. Especially when he believed he knew who the culprit was. 

“Which man from the Journal?” is all the writer could choke out after a moment of staring into Charlotte’s eyes, and hoping for her to reveal this was all one big joke. “Which man from the Journal,” he repeated louder, which was hardly anything at all when he’d begun in a whisper.

[bharisinclair]

nettyfawn‌:

Annette returns the kiss happily as he leans to her, smiling into his lips as her fingertips remained poised upon his jawline. She thinks about the way her nights used to end after shows – tending to patrons after the show was through, taking long baths where she often cried. Collecting clean sheets from the Moulin’s laundress and stripping her bed and remaking it before crawling into it for a lonely night. On the nights she couldn’t stand it, she’d go down the hall and crawl into bed next to Charlotte. It was much of the same in New York; only worse, and with substances added to dull the pain.

This. This is far more preferable in ways that her mind cannot even conjure in this state.  She’s often so worried that she’s slipped into a dream – even more so in this moment when he head is so sloshed with gin and her body is so warm from the bath and her heart is so full from simply looking at him that she feels like she’ll burst if she doesn’t say this right now.

“Bhari, I love you,” she exhales helplessly when his face pulls away from hers, her eyes widening briefly as if her sober mind has decided to make an appearance, observed the scene, before promptly fleeing the room again. Annette lowers herself in the bubbles for a bashful moment, her eyes never leaving his face as she attempts to read his reaction. You only have one chance to say ‘I love you’ for the first time, and she’s absolutely certain that she’s botched it. 

She feels as if she can hear her heartbeat bouncing off the wall of the porcelain tub – as if it’s making ripples like a glass of still water when footsteps approach.

“I’m sorry, is this a bad time to say that? I’ve never said it before. Not out loud. Is that alright?”

Two sets of big eyes, one brown and one green, stared back at one another. The sentiment floated out of her like one of the many bubbles that wrapped around her, and popped just as they did, leaving the realization of what she’d said hanging in the air rather than the sweet smell of soap—he knew which one was better. Wide-eyed, and with a slack-jawed smile, Bhari watched her sink as he tried to remember how to speak. 

The weight of the moment does not go unnoticed by him, who’d been wondering when (and if) this would ever come about. The declaration was present in her letter, many times over, but never had she said it out loud. He did not blame her for that. After all, he was far better at expressing his feelings through writing than he ever was out loud. 

Still. It was nice to hear it. 

“Well,” he swallowed and looked to the tile floor with a smile on his face if only to give her bashful self the privacy from his gaze. “That’s quite convenient.”

Of course one would always have preferred their significant other to admit such a thing with a sober mind, but this was just fine. Drunken mouths often had a habit of speaking sober thoughts, after all. 

“No, no. Please. There’s rarely a bad time to say it.” He sat for a moment, staring at the hands in his lap as he waited for the heat to leave his face. 

There wasn’t much he could think to say or do in a moment spent sitting in such elation, but he knew that he would need to do something. He wanted to do something to express just how he felt but the only idea he had was to stand and push the suspenders from his shoulders, and remove his trousers unceremoniously. The button down was the next to be shorn. 

Still in his button down and boxer shorts (as he was too excited to wait) Bhari climbed into the tub as well, fitting himself in there with his knees like little islands amid the bubbles and his back against the opposite side of the tub to face her. He hoped he looked sillier than she felt. 

“I love you too, my dear,” he said rather proudly. 

[bharisinclair]

nettyfawn‌:

“Mmhm. Zahra outdid herself this time,” Annette agrees, becoming distracted a moment as her toes swirl through some bubbles. She giggles softly, her nose gently wrinkling as Bhari presents his next question. 

“It’s new to Paris. It was part of the act in New York, it’s called ‘Squeeze Me’,” she lets out a brief snort at the irony of the name of the song when coupled with the confinement of the costume. 

“Men really go wild over it,” she explains, cupping a fill of bubbles into her hands before she lets out a gentle blow of breath into them, sending the soaped orbs into a brief float over the water before she sings softly in a seductive coo. Her lips lightly pout as her bared shoulders roll in the playful flirtations that she uses when performing on stage.

“Come on and squeeze me Baby, won’t you tease me Come on and squeeze me I like it, I like it when you tease me”

Her voice gently trails off, and it’s hard to tell whether the rose on her cheeks is from the heat of the bath, the alcohol, or the way he looks at her. (Likely a good combination of all three.) Smiling dreamily at him, she extends her hand to where his face rests, gently trailing her pointer finger down the bride of his nose before falling on the tip. 

“I missed seeing you in the crowd tonight. I like to sing to you…” she sighs, smile still blissfully serene as she leans towards him and places a sweet kiss on the tip of his nose before she tilts her head and takes his face in. Something about it – about him – tugs at her heart so insistently that her eyes threaten to well briefly (which she will later entirely blame on the gin) – she laughs and swiftly brushes her fingers beneath her eyes. 

“You are so very beautiful, do you know that?” Annette asks him, voice hushed for the first time since her proclamations on the cobblestones, moving her wet hands to cradle his jaw and thumbs brushing along the lines of it. 

“You have my very favorite face of any face I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m sure they do,” he retorted. 

Though it was his apartment, his washroom, and his filled tub, Bhari felt as if he were doing something bad by sitting there watching her imitate her routine in the bubbles. With his eyes following the roll of her shoulder, it was far too intimate a show to keep the heat from his cheeks, which he buried into the crook of his arm in order to hide the smile on his face. Typically, seeing Fawn anywhere outside of the Moulin would have given him butterflies of a terrible sort, but the ones he harbored within his middle at that moment were harmless, and lifted laughter up through him.

He goes cross-eyed as her finger leaves a trail of sweetly scented water down the length of his nose. 

“I’m sorry, my dear. I was on a strict deadline and couldn’t break away.” His voice was soft, as it always was whenever she was near; and while the apology was genuine, the excuse was nothing more than a lie. The work was there⁠—it always was⁠—but he’d taken to using that as a way to give himself a break from the Moulin from time to time. A break from the eyes that he would watch, watching her. “I’ll be there next time, right up front. Promise.” 

The way in which she looked at him brought a shiver to his spine, and he lifted his chin from where it perched upon his arm. The compliment she throws to him is no more or less special than all the others she gave him, all of which had helped him learn how to accept them rather than succumb to instinct by denying her praise; but the way it seemed to affect her pulled at his heart. 

“It can’t be very beautiful if it is making you cry,” he said with a nervous laugh.

Water droplets fell upon his arms and shirt as she cradled his face, but he minded no more than she did. Just to be touched by her was a blessing, though his shoulders tightened as he felt her eyes studying him. To answer her question, Bhari did not know, nor did he believe that his countenance was anything but every negative comment he’d received about his appearance. His ears were too big, his nose too pointy, his eyes took up half of his face... The list went on, but time gave him other things to worry about. The moment he’d found someone who appreciated those things was the moment all those old worries returned, and he wished that he could see through her eyes. 

Bhari leaned over the edge of the tub to kiss her softly, lingering there for a moment just long enough to burn the tableau of their being into his memory. Not even the Romanticists could paint such a pleasant picture as the two of them there. 

Bhari broke away, returning to his side of the tub wall that divided them and said, “I would list everything of yours that is my favorite, but I’m afraid the bath would turn cold before I could finish. I don’t want you to freeze.” 

[bharisinclair]

nettyfawn‌:

Annette pulls the sheet from the bed with her as she rises from the bed, wrapping it around herself with practiced grace before rounding the bed and moving to the place where Bhari’s steps had stopped. She understands if he can’t bring himself to be in the bed once more, and she’s more than willing to be the one that closes the distance for them – especially when her choices had been the cause for the largest space between them to date. The cause of nearly all of their miseries.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m here, he can’t anymore.”

There’s a vulnerable hush to her voice, a smallness in it like she’s almost scared. She places her fingertips on his bare shoulders, carefully at first – as if she’s frightened that she’ll take him by too much surprise. The delicate digits trace over his collar before she soft runs them up along his neck, cupping his jaw. She kisses him slowly, with a longing that she’s never felt for anyone but him –she kisses him in a way that she hopes that he can feel it too. Finally parting her mouth from his, she leaves softer kisses over his cheek and the line of his jaw as her arms slip around his waist and she holds him close, her chest to his. She sighs softly, brushing her nose against his cheek before she whispers in his ear.

“Can I go home with you?” she requests, voice gentle with hope. “I just don’t want to be away from you if I can help it…”

Her fingers, though shockingly cold against his flesh, were a welcomed touch. They succeeded in bringing him back down to earth, but they could not remove the question that her words (despite their reassuring nature) planted in his mind: And what if he comes looking for you? 

To love her was to live in blissful misery. The lips that could soothe, as they did in that moment, could also worry his mind with an unintentional mention of the adversity they both experienced in trying to be together. Never had he experienced such rapid switching of ups and downs since taking Petunia through the countryside. 

“Of course,” he replied with a nod, causing the tip of her nose to trace soft lines against his cheek. 

[bharisinclair]

nettyfawn‌:

“Bubbles. Always bubbles, as many as sense allows,” Annette informs him, voice still slurred, sitting up from the position she’d flopped down in upon his rug when he’d disappeared into the bathroom. Making playful chattering sounds to Modo as he had skulked over to sniff her nose and inspect her. She’d giggled at the way his whiskers tickled her face.

She pulls herself from the floor on wobbly legs after giving Bhari her bubble preference, thrown off by the change in her weight now that he’d freed her of her wings. Once she finds her footing once more, she follows the writer back to the bathroom. The gasp of delight she makes at the sight of his bathtub bounces off the walls.

“Look at this thing! It could fit three of me!” 

If she had been sober, she would have undoubtedly been far more coy in the way she undressed in front of Bhari – however, any inhibitions and sense of propriety that she had disappeared once she was three fingers into the bottle of gin. She unclips her garters, unsteadily rolling her rhinestoned stockings from her legs and kicking them from her toes before she shimmies herself from her corset and costume and lets it fall to the floor without care near the bathroom door.

She slips into the water with a happy sigh, letting herself sink and soak and revel in the warmth, closing her eyes for a content moment before she opens them to Bhari once more. Annette smiles at him as she places her chin on the ledge of the tub.

“This is…the most wonderful thing that anyone has ever done for me.”

“Thankfully there is only one of you. Were there more I believe my heart would burst.” 

Eyes followed the hem of her stocking as it rolled over on itself, growing larger as her fingers pushed them down to her toes. He did not realize his own toes curling against the tiled floor of the washroom the moment the stockings fell from her feet, as there were far better things holding his attention. What a process it was, removing the regalia of fantasy. There was no doubt in his mind that it was much easier to shed than it was to put on. 

With his foot he pushed a little stool beside the tub and sat upon it, then took care in rolling the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows so he could rest his arms against the lip of the tub. Modo, who was situated in the doorframe, kept his distance; though much like Bhari he watched the fairy as she splashed about. 

A smile bloomed across his face as he admired the wave of relaxation that soothed the silliness the drink had placed in her. As he sat there watching her with his chin atop his arm, he hoped that it wasn’t too forward to be with her at that moment, but the way she moved closer and mimicked his position gave him the impression she did not mind at all. The bubbles could provide a sense of privacy, and she had until they all popped to tell him to leave if she wanted him to.

 “Draw you a bath?” he questioned in reply. “I don’t believe it.” The smell of the soap bubbles made the room feel as light as she appeared. 

“That was some costume you had on. Have you added a new routine?”