Archive of Our Own ^beta

His steps echoed, hollow and cold on the stairs. He'd come to this room so many, many times but he had never had such a message to deliver. The door was half-open.

The shabby little room was awash in paper and bottles; papers of the news, papers of torn typing; papers with drawn hearts on them; bottles of wine, bottles of spirits, bottles of laudenum. The doors to the narrow balcony were open to the chill October breeze. Immediately, Satie went over to shut them. He turned, his eyes wide and sad in his over-large bald head.

Christian was either asleep or had passed out. He lay sprawled across the narrow iron bed, half-clothed, his slender body tangled in the single sheet. Gently, Satie reached for the thin blanket bunched at the end of the bed. I t felt whisper thin, unsubstantial to cover those fragile limbs. The boy was falling to pieces. More than half a year had past since he'd written his tragic tale in the simplest of prose. It had been published, both here in Paris, in French, and in his homeland of England in his native language. The proceeds had disappeared in a wash of liquor, a haze of opium. Now he was broke once more with no inspiration, nor any wish to continue.

Satie glanced over to where the Doctor hovered at the doorway.

"He's shivering in his sleep."

The Doctor nodded and helped Satie cover the slight body. His hand dropped down to push the dark hair back from the boy's forehead. It was burning hot.

"I think he's ill."

Satie shook his head and silently pointed to the bottle on the nightstand. Absinthe, next to a crusted glass and a cracked sugar bowl. The bottle was empty, as were all those littering the floor around the small room.

They stood staring at each other, anything rather than consider the young creature lying on that squalid bed in a stupor of pain.

"I don't think I can tell him." Satie faltered.

Their loss was a palpable presence, seeping into the small room from the carpet-covered hole in the ceiling, from the lack of the laughter they all missed so badly.

A low moan made the Doctor look down. Christian was stirring, his long lashes quivering scraps of darkness against his pale cheeks. .

"Christian? Christian, look at me. Wake up!!"

Slowly, the big eyes opened, dazed and circled. He immediately reached for the empty bottle, tipped it back to his sleep-slack mouth, then tossed it away petulantly.

"What?" his voice cracked dryly.

"Christian, can you understand me?" Satie sat next to him, turning the stubbled, thin face toward him.

The boy's blue eyes closed in exhaustion, a narrow line of pain drawn too clearly between his dark brows. He nodded.

"Get me a drink, dammit..." he murmured half to himself.

Satie reached a few bills across to the Doctor. "Go get something. Anything. " His eyes met the others in pain. "Please. For us all." He turned back to the half-concious youth.

"Christian!! C'mon!!" He forced himself to lightly slap the boy's cheek. The dark lashes lifted again.

"What? What do you want!!" The low voice was choked. Satie knew the b oy had been dreaming again. Dreaming of her, dreaming of what he'd lost. He would never understand how the world could be so cruel to those so young and so lovely. He forced himself to continue.

"It's Toulouse, Christian."

As if in slow motion, the young man forced himself up against the iron headboard. He smiled, still half-drunk and swaying.

"Tell him to come on in!!! The Doctor's getting us a drink." The dark head fell forward as those last words were swallowed in an incoherent mumble.

Satie made himself grab the boy's shoulders. They felt so slight, the bones thrusting through the pale flesh.

"Christian, listen to me."

The boy forced his head up, reeling. His eyes were rolling. Satie suppressed a sob and raised his hand to slap the thin cheek again. The blue eyes snapped into attention, lashes fluttering wildly.

"What!!? What is it?" Christian shook his head hard, lank hair flying.

"It's Toulouse, Christian. He's gone." Satie's voice was flat. He could hardly bear to speak the words. "He's gone, cheri. "

"Gone?" Christian's eyes were dazed.

"He died a month ago. I just got a letter."

"Died?" Satie looked into those eyes briefly, then stared resolutely at the floor. He wished he could have submitted to torture rather than do this. The boy's lips were slack and trembling, his big eyes wide and shocked sober.

"No!" Christian's voice was a whisper. "No more death. It doesn 't exist. It can't."

A sob tore through the thin body. "No!!!" he moaned harshly. His eyes spilled tears but they were unconnected to his voice. "It's not real. " That voice was soft, unemotional. Then a long shuddering sob made his whole body shake. His head fell back against the bars of the headboard, eyes closed, his tears a river down to his pulsing throat. Satie wiped his nose and face with a grimy handkerchief.

The Doctor knocked timidly at the door, then came in, bottle cradled against his worn overcoat. Satie gestured to the sugar bowl and the Doctor searched about the room for more glasses. There were but another two that were vaguely clean. The Doctor poured a liberal amount into Christian's glass, took the dirty fleche from the bedside, stuck a sugar cube in it and slopped water from the carafe through it. Satie held the milky chartreuse liquid to the boy's lips. "C'mon Christian. Drink up. To Toulouse." His eyes darted to the Do ctor, who was busily preparing their own drinks. His friend refused to look up, refused to show the tears running into his beard.

Christian gasped and took a few long, laboured breathes, then reached up for the glass. His hand shook, the liquid swaying in the glass like a green tide .

"To Toulouse." he choked the words out, then bolted down the liquor. H is eyes grew wide, his head thrown back as he gasped for breath against the terrible bitterness burning down his throat.

Then he started to cough.

Satie's hand paused in mid-swallow, listening to that deep, racking sound torn from within the slender body. The boy was gasping, his struggle for air lost as he fell forward onto Satie's shoulder, knocking the glass from his hand. The green liquid seeped slowly into the thin bedclothes. Satie pushed him back against the pillows.

Christian's tears had coursed through a thin line of blood at his mouth. The Doctor reached over to touch the reddened lips with one dazed finger.

He looked up at his friend with aching eyes. "Satine's last gift." he whispered.