#c.elodie

[arturodemarin]

❃ @elodiecelestine

It was the time of evening when things began to move slower and slower; chests rising and falling beneath the weight of sleep, lovers tucked in corners connected by their mouths, fingers on thrumming strings, and the petting of thick dark hair belonging to the head of a blissfully unconscious Frenchman in the lap of a star. The Bateau Lavoir was filled to the brim with life due to an impromptu reunion of the Moulin family, both old and new, but languidly so. It seemed, to Arturo at least, that he and Miss Celestine were the only two left in the world conscious and aware of their surroundings. A rare feat for Arturo, though not so much for Elodie. 

As he played the guitar in his lap, soft and easy, they spoke in hushed voices, so as not to wake Monsieur Rousset, who had happily shut his eyes in a drunken state with his head in her lap and had not opened them since. 

“What types of acts are they having you do at the Moulin these days?” he asked. “I have not been in some time.”

[bharisinclair]

@elodiecelestine || [continued]

She was already laughing, but the way he shielded the purring cat from the clouds of smoke made her giggle all the more - though it was through horrid tobacco flavored coughs. Finally, she is finished hacking and stands up a little straighter, holding the flaming cigarette near her face the way she had seen ladies do. She thought it made her look distinguished, elegant. Not that she cared to look distinguished or elegant. “It isn’t,” she smiles, “but I’d say it’s in my first 10.”

With her free hand, far from the presence of smoke, she reaches to scratch his companion’s head, between his ears. How she wished they were allowed pets in the Moulin Rouge, but ever since that rotten dancer’s cat 2 years ago had torn up the hardwood floors, all pets were strictly off limits. That didn’t stop girls from sneaking them in, but Elodie was far too fearful for any of that. Perhaps she could convince Monsieur Roussett to go with her to the zoo to make up for it.

“I thought I recognized you as well!” She laughs, letting the ash on the end of her cigarette grow longer and longer. “I’ve seen you around the Moulin Rouge. I work there as a dancer.” She smiles and strikes a pose, similar to the end poses they perform after each routine.

“They call me Luna.”

"Oh!” He exclaimed a sound from deep in his core, eyes wide with recognition. Bhari’s lanky arms stretched outward, dropping the cat (who aptly dropped to its little feet) in the process. “La Lune!” he called out into the night, deepening his voice to sound more like the emcee from the Moulin. If the pose hadn’t placed the little dancer in his mind almost immediately, the following smile certainly would have, as he’d spent many nights being a barfly watching the girls do their routines and knew it well. Inexplicably, though he’d never held a conversation with the young woman, it felt as if he’d found a friend in the night. Luna’s smile was contagious.

The urge to mention Fawn tickled the inside of his stomach, but he refrained. Before the ash to her cigarette fell to the ground, Bhari reached out and took it from between her fingers gently---as gentle as a drunk could. “It’s a good thing you are not a singer,” he said, tapping the ash and avoiding the cat circling their feet. He took a drag from her cigarette before holding it back out to her. “Is this a Moulin party?” Bhari gestured toward the building.