#c.annette

[appellemoiange]

@nettyfawn​ ✷ closed.

           “Merde sacrée...”

A half-full glass of champagne shattered on the floor beside her bedazzled heel as she looked upon the stage of the Moulin. Two blondes dancing side by side, one in lace and the other in pearls, both absolutely stunning in their own ways, but that was not what shocked Lusine. 

A flip of hair, a teasing glance over the shoulder, and she could have sworn that she was looking at Adele’s sweet face again after all these years. It was as if she’d been visited by a phantom as she moved closer to the stage, a formidable suspicion clouding her thoughts. Her gaze would not leave the young woman until she was certain she was wrong, for fear of losing her. 

Were she not of sound mind, she would have believed she was in a trance. 

Lusine pushed her way towards the front of the crowded room, heels clicking fiercely in her wake until they stopped altogether upon recognizing the dancer beneath those bleached locks that had her fooled. Once upon a time, she was Lusine’s bébé lapin. 

When the curtain was drawn, Lusine rushed to the guarded doorway beside the stage, pleading with the security man to go catch the fawn. The flash of a beaded costume behind him drew her eye, and pulled her voice from her chest, louder than it had been in years. 

“Annette!” she shouted, hoping to grab her attention. “Annette!”

[arturodemarin]

@nettyfawn ❃ closed.

Dark eyes fall from the proscenium, with its deep red curtains, to the piano that was situated stage left. It was familiar, like an old flame, and perhaps it was. In a metaphorical sense, he was far more in love with that instrument than anything or anyone in his life during those beautiful days when he sat on its bench. Arturo would have looked beneath it to find the spot on its wooden leg where he had carved his initials that one drunken rehearsal day long ago, but he was too afraid to find it missing. The memory, alone, would suffice. 

He sat alone in one of the booths towards the back of the room, nursing a glass of gin he’d taken from a distracted patron so as not to have to go to the bar, himself. He hated the guilt it brought him these days. The way in which he goes unnoticed in the Moulin now, when not too long ago he was a featured player in the show, both humored him and made him want to die. 

“Old habits die hard for you as well, hm?” he said from the shadows as a familiar flash of green strode past his table. 

[bharisinclair]

@nettyfawn ❈ closed. [continued from event]

The cork slipped from clumsy hands and ricocheted off the wall with the pop of the champagne bottle. Bhari poured two glasses, and joined Annette in the other room where she waited for him. It was such a relief to be rid of the bowtie and jacket that now sat draped over a chair. A bubbling glass was handed to his fairy, his own taking a place on a table before he went to open a window and let the night in. As always, the late hour allowed the music of the Moulin to travel down the boulevard and into apartment.  

It’s been some time since she was last there properly, if one does not count their unfortunately timed reunion. “Tell me if it becomes too cold and I’ll close it.” he said, reclaiming his drink and sitting beside her. “I just love the air at this hour.” 

[bharisinclair]

@nettyfawn​ || [continued]

Something about the way Bhari held her hand made her heart jump inside her chest, again and again like an anxious child begging for a treat. Walking hand in hand was the most simple of intimate gestures (especially seeing as this was the limit of contact that most people got in polite society before marriage),  but it seemed to make Annette more aware about everything about their bodies. His hold of her hand only led her mind to thinking about how they would feel on her waist, her thighs – beneath her clothes and against her skin. How would he hold her, what would he chose to touch…?

Was it unnatural for a courtesan to blush?

“How could I not listen to a thing you say? You say some of the most lovely things I’ve ever heard in my life…”she admitted, watching his face as they walked along. She would only look away to confirm they were taking a correct turn or to make sure there was nothing on the path to trip over. There was something about him tonight, and perhaps it was the drink in him, that he didn’t seem as caught up in his own mind and nerves as he usually was; she couldn’t help but be intrigued. Not that she minded his nerves at all – she found them quite sweet. She found everything about him becoming rapidly endeared to her in a way that was, frankly, a little bit frightening.“I…I tend to find myself thinking about the things you say long after I have left your presence.

“Perhaps he and I should hold a contest,” Annette continued to joke as they neared the edge of where Montmartre began. “See which one a man of taste would pay more for – one of Picasso’s faces or mine.”

“The Moulin is just along this street, once we make this turn you’ll be able to see the lights and the windmill,” she told him, placing her hand on top of his so his hand was cradled between his as they walked along.  She almost wanted to pull his hand to her lips and kiss it with gentle affection, but she restrained herself. “Do you live near? I’d like to see you home safely…”

All he could do was laugh in utter disbelief at the fact that she thought anything he said was worth remembering. How silly! he thought, though also believing it to be entirely endearing in a self-confident sort of mindset he typically kept to himself. He snorted through his pointed nose, which moved back and forth like the point of an off-kilter compass as he humorously shook his head.

“I hope you don’t think me crass for saying this--” he started, at his side he squeezed her hand, “I mean it with the best intent, but, I imagine you must make far more than he does. On average, mind you.” The last few words, though slurred, were affected with the tinge of small laughter. If the price of their first night together was anything to base facts off of, she had him beat. While reputable, the painter was just as poor as the rest of the Bateau crowd. 

They rounded the corner, and there were the red lights of the windmill just as she predicted. But if that was the case...

Bhari turned his head to the right and saw the familiar bistro and market signs he knew quite well... and his lamp post, as well as the missing stone just off of the curb where he frequently just missed twisting his ankles on a daily basis, no matter how many times he stepped over it. 

“Oh, but you have.” He smiled wide and clumsily fished at the lining of his jacket for his key. “This is me!” The fetched key was aimed toward the yellow door of his building. The bubbly smile on his face fell when he realized that this would be where they parted ways. He had to think quickly.

“Would you like some tea? To, err... To thank you-- Such a spectacular chaperone, I felt very safe.” Nervously, he laughed through his nose as he waited for her to answer. The silence had him visibly anxious, even in that state.

[bharisinclair]

@nettyfawn ❈ Starter Call

    ‘ I promise.’

    It’d taken some time, but he’d made good on his word-- though whether it would be considered a good idea was yet to be decided. The words he punched into pages weren’t enough, but the timepiece he’d received on his fifteenth birthday, the one with golden gears on its face, was received well enough by the pawn shop that he was able to scrounge up the remainder of what he would need for her. He never cared much for that gift, and only brought it along on his escape to Paris as a last resort, in case he truly became a starving artist or needed a quick fix to keep the roof over his head. Bhari could think of no other moment he needed a last resort than this one. This was his master plan. The climax of his story.

       Exchanging time for time. Poetic. Nevertheless, it still wasn’t enough, as her price had grown significantly in the days he’d been away punching at his typewriter for something he could sell to the Journal. Rightfully so. In his opinion, she was worth more than a king’s ransom, but his pockets sighed. Time was running out, and the chatter at the Moulin Rouge about young Fawn, the virgin, and her big debut became louder and louder as it fell upon his ears, making him sick with worry. How many was he competing with? How deep did their pockets go? And most importantly---what did they want from her?

     Without Anthony’s help, his savior, Bhari would not have been standing there in the middle of The Red Room, wringing a handkerchief between his hands to threads. Bhari had requested the gentleman who escorted him to the lavish room not to mention his name. He was so certain he wanted it to be a surprise, but immediately second-guessed himself once the gentleman disappeared. 

    This wasn’t his first time within the Red Room, and that fact frightened him, as the last time he haunted this space was with Minette, and the night ended terribly. You speak far too much, Monsieur. She wasn’t a fan of his poetry in the slightest. Don’t you wish to use those lips for something else? He remembers her yawn, and how it felt like a knife in the gut. The champagne had put her to sleep before he could finish the third stanza, and he was forced to leave the Moulin that night more than just penniless. Uninspired.

    Despite the heart in his throat that choked him into delirium, Bhari snapped into action as the door creaked open. Like muscle memory from every boring and forced afternoon spent calling upon young women in their living rooms, Bhari bowed. He was thankful for the excuse to divert his eyes away, not wanting to see the expression on her face. Would she be happy to see him here, in this way? He doubted he could handle a Red Room rejection for a second time. 

    “Mademoiselle,” he spoke to the floor. “I am making good on my promise.” 

[bharisinclair]

Break Me [for Netty]

@nettyfawn ( @thesterlingmoran too, you dog ) ❃ Drabble Me

                            [the murder weapon]

                                                 Oh, 

                                                                       he thinks.

     The movements are beautiful, but with each joining of their bodies another seam of his drunken heart pops, releasing the contents of his affections to pool within the pit of his sour stomach. Suddenly, the drink in his hand seems like poison–or, rather, the aftertaste which still lingers on his tongue. Alcohol makes people fools. People like him. The music throbs in his head like a fist knocking the sense into him over, and over, and over… 

                                     We only said goodbye with words                                                              I know a hundred times

     The handsome dancer  lifts her with such ease, embracing her time and time again, holding her in positions Bhari had considered before, but suspected his imagination was where they would remain. Somehow, seeing this only solidified that idea. A bundle of peonies, once grasped in the hand that wasn’t holding a drink, fell to the ground beside him. He’d practically groveled the editor of the Journal to exchange a fiction piece he’d written for the few francs he’d used to buy them. They were to be a gift for her, left in the powder room for an excellent performance, but now they rested beneath the shoe of a drunk. Lord, what fools these mortals be. 

              “You’ll have to come back and see me on a night where I dance.”

      He hears her voice in his head. Was this what she wanted? There’s a sobering realization that hits him: he had read everything wrong that night they met. Funny. He could analyze the actions of literary characters until he turned blue in the face, and yet he couldn’t take a hint from a young woman within the real world. She wanted him to come back to see this. She wanted him to know that he couldn’t compare to whatever was happening on stage.  There was something there, he could see it in the steps–how familiar they seemed in each others’ arms. My God, he’s seen the light. They’re lovers.

                                                           And life, is like a pipe                                And I’m a tiny penny rolling                                           up the walls inside

      The curtain has been lifted, and he finally sees the club for what it is. Everything is an illusion. A fantasy. How could he have fallen for it? Fallen for a performer. Always chasing— wasn’t that the point of the green fairy? That was the act. The glittering green he’d obsessed about for days, the same green that kept food from his mouth and sleep from his eyes, was nothing but a puckish charm. One he’d taken to like a child to a simple parlor trick. He would have exclaimed in this moment if his throat weren’t so tight from his heart being caught in it. 

     Surely, it was the liquor that led him into such a trap. It had to be. The truth was much harder to swallow than the brandy. 

[bharisinclair]

@nettyfawn​ || continued from chatzy

Annette's heart aches at his words, his lips on her cheek, his smile that is hopeful and hopeless all at the same time. "I can't," she whispers, a sadness falling over her face. If she leaves with him, the client finds out. Is dissatisfied. Turns back to her employer and leaves an angry word and demands his money back. Or worse, demands another night with her free of charge. "Please, know that there is nothing more in this world that I want than that, but I cannot. He -- He's paid, he has my night."

His hearts sinks into his chest. Her hand, still between his own, is brought to his chest. Bhari nods in understanding, though he wishes he didn’t. Perhaps it would be better not to understand; to have stayed the barfly with stars in his eyes. This is his night, not Bhari’s. Though the writer can’t think of anything that could go wrong by whisking her away, he trusts her completely. Gently, he lowers her hand and releases it at her side. “We should clean your dress,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble on my behalf.”

[bharisinclair]

bhetty affair au

     “And then what?” she sighed against his neck. This was their routine within the small bubbles of time they could sneak away together: she pleads for him to weave her stories of what splendors a shared life could offer, if only the gold ring that bound her would disappear, and he happily entertains her. 

      “We run as far as our feet will take us.” Between thoughts his kisses hit her cheeks like raindrops, gentle, and so very unlike the hand between her thighs. “We’ll travel the world, eat ourselves sick in Italy, dance in the streets in Spain, have a little house in the country where we’ll raise little ones that have your smile.” Fingers curled ever so slightly against the spots he knew would make her whine in ways that made her cheeks flush. 

     Below him, her breath was heavy. “And then what?” she asked, the words trembled like her legs. 

    “You’ll be happy.”