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Christian wakes slowly to find himself cocooned in warm bedding, a soft murmuring noise emanating from elsewhere in the room. It takes him only a moment to place it as Satine whispering. Although she’s clearly trying to be quiet, he can still barely hear her speaking in hushed tones on the other side of her studio apartment. He’d recognize the sound of her voice anywhere, even in a form he isn’t meant to hear due to Satine assuming he’s still asleep and therefore likely trying not to be a bother.
As if she ever could be.
Christian stretches his arm out and feels the other side of the bed—just in case he’s mistaken—but he finds the sheets empty. They’re still warm at least, indicating Satine hasn’t been up for long without him. He pulls his arm back and tucks it under the fuzzy pink blanket once again, his movements unhurried, his muscles still rousing from sleep.
Though he’s still too groggy to focus on any words, Christian just lies there for an indeterminable amount of time, listening to the cadence of Satine’s voice, the ebb and flow of an apparently one-sided conversation, interrupted only by the occasional giggle—a light, pleasant sound that makes his heart soar. He can tell that she’s comfortable with whomever she’s speaking, the quick pace at which she keeps up her half of the chat indicating that she isn’t overthinking before she answers. Also the current quality of her voice is different from the one Satine used when they had first met, the one he imagines she still uses around customers and strangers and other people she doesn’t trust.
Christian has only recently found himself in the inner circle of people allowed to hear Satine’s real voice, the one that indicates she’s being honest, no longer hiding her true self—gasping his name against the overheated skin of his neck during the height of passion or, just last night, emanating from the pillow beside his in the most adorably groggy fashion—and he treasures every syllable. Perhaps Satine is on the phone right now, whispering with her friends about the night she and Christian had spent together—their first sleepover. He hopes she’s saying good things, thinks based on the tone of her voice that’s a safe bet to make.
At length Christian opens his eyes and scans the room, taking in the sight of Satine seated at her vanity table in the corner. His heart does a little flip in his chest when he spots her but he continues to lie there, drinking in every detail. She’s somehow even more beautiful every time Christian sees her. She’s wearing a pink robe, her dark and slightly messy curls cascading down her back as she talks to her cat, Bijou—not on the phone with her friends, then—who is standing on the vanity, looking expectantly at Satine as if hanging on her every word. Christian can certainly relate to that feeling.
“Mrrow!” Bijou says insistently and with such volume that Christian has no idea how he managed to sleep as long as he had. The fluffy white cat lifts her paw and bats at Satine’s arm while Satine attempts to apply some type of powder to her own face with a makeup brush.
“You’ll have your turn; be patient,” Satine whispers, leaning her whole body while moving her arms first to the right and then to the left in an attempt to dodge Bijou’s gentle swats, giggling all the while in a way that makes Christian’s chest feel warm. “And be quiet,” she tries to insist, though the giggling makes it hard to take her seriously. Likely realizing this, Satine swallows her laughter and tries her best to fix Bijou with a stern expression. “We have a guest so you must be on your best behavior,” she continues, lightly booping the tip of the cat’s nose with the end of her makeup brush.
“Mrrp.” Bijou lets out a noise of annoyance but does leave Satine alone for the time being, stretching by reaching her front paws out in front of herself and then dropping into a downward dog pose.
Or perhaps he ought to think of it as a downward cat pose? Christian doesn’t want to offend his girlfriend’s daughter and he thinks comparing such a regal being—now daintily licking her paw clean from any specks of most likely imagined dirt—would loathe being compared to something like a smelly, panting, slobbering dog. Christian files that line of thinking away for now, making a mental note to ask Satine later. He’ll have to wait until he’s out of Bijou’s earshot so he doesn’t embarrass her or himself.
“Now, you may have your turn.” Satine’s voice draws Christian out of his thoughts and back to the present as she selects another brush from a cup on the tabletop, lightly dusting it across Bijou’s forehead and cheeks.
Christian swears Bijou actually smiles, preening as she leans into the application of whatever is on that brush.
“There you are. Now it’s my turn again.” Satine sets aside the brush, but Bijou decides she isn’t done yet.
Bijou follows the path of Satine’s hand across the table, flopping onto her side and rubbing her cheek against the inside of Satine’s wrist. When Satine withdraws her arm—leaving Bijou alone on her side without the treatment she’s asking for—the tip of the cat’s tail flicks with agitation, her face wrinkling into the expression of someone so obviously disgruntled that Christian nearly laughs out loud.
“Aw, sweetheart,” Satine says with a cluck of her tongue and a shake of her head, caught somewhere between light teasing and genuine sympathy, “you have to wait.” She selects a palette of something—eyeshadow, perhaps?— and another, much smaller brush. But before she can do anything with it, Bijou makes her displeasure known, apparently having reached her limit of being patient.
“Mrr-ow! Mrr-ow!” Bijou demands, rising to her feet with an air of intense indignation, her tail swishing across the vanity top, knocking over several bottles and tubes.
“Hush,” Satine hisses, picking up the cat and settling her atop her thighs, petting the cat’s head in a more rushed manner than Christian is used to seeing, as if frantically trying to quiet Bijou as quickly as possible. “If you keep doing that you’ll wake Christian.”
As this is the first time Satine has let Christian sleepover, it’s his first time getting to witness her morning routine. Christian’s ideal morning would have involved waking up with Satine still wrapped in his arms, but he has to admit that this is a close second. Satine is positively adorable while interacting with Bijou, and he’s enjoying this little glimpse into her life when she thinks she isn’t being watched, when she’s just being herself without hiding behind a facade or pretense. But Christian decides it’s now time to announce his presence. Satine simply not realizing he’s woken is one thing, but feigning unconsciousness for the sake of spying on Satine feels dishonest.
“That’s alright; I’m already awake,” Christian says, sitting upright and stretching his arms above his head.
Satine startles at the sound of his voice—or perhaps it’s the sudden movement in her periphery that causes it—dropping the brush in her hand and causing Bijou to leap onto the floor and dive under the bed, frightened simply because Satine is.
“I’m sorry,” Christian apologizes, sliding out from under the covers and getting to his feet, quickly pulling on his briefs. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“That’s quite alright,” Satine says, though her hand is still clutched to her heart and Bijou makes a noise that can only be classified as grumpy, still choosing to remain hidden underneath. Satine recovers a moment later, holding her hair out of her eyes as she leans over, peering around the floor near her feet, likely looking for the brush she dropped.
Christian spies it, peeking out from under the corner of the bed. Bijou swats at him when he grabs it, her claws scratching white lines across the back of his hand that hurt slightly but don’t break the skin. He takes it for what it is; a warning, a statement that Bijou isn’t angry at Christian, yet, but he’s on thin ice and needs to continue treading carefully. That’s pretty much how Bijou has acted every time Christian has visited the apartment: oscillating rapidly between overeager affection and a watchful wariness, doling out gentle head butts and intimidating glares in equal measure.
There’s a history here, Christian knows. It isn’t something Satine has admitted outright but rather something she’s talked around, a secret someone from her past that makes her quick to startle, that leaves her hands trembling and her eyes wide with fear and her cat hiding under the bed at the smallest provocation. Christian suspects an ex, though—while he’ll certainly listen when Satine is ready to share—he tries hard not to let his mind stray there too often, wary of frightening Satine even more with his display of protective anger. He can’t imagine not being furious if he’s ever entrusted with the details. Though he’ll try to reign it in, Christian knows he is entirely incapable of stomaching the concept of someone evil enough to harm people and animals in general, but especially in reference to Satine and Bijou. You just don’t do that to a partner or a small animal—or anyone for that matter—but especially not to those who should have been able to feel safer with you than with any other. You treat them with respect, kindness, compassion.
Love.
“Here,” Christian says, holding the makeup brush out toward Satine on his flat palm, letting her be the one to close that final distance.
“Thank you,” Satine says, smiling up at him as she takes the implement, and Christian notes with relief that her hands aren’t shaking. Then—almost immediately—her smile falters and she ducks her head, embarrassed. “Don’t look at me too closely yet; I haven’t finished my makeup,” Satine says, reaching blindly backward and giving Christian a gentle push away.
Christian refuses to let something like that slide. He sidesteps her hand and gently turns Satine’s face until she’s looking almost shyly up at him, a strange emotion to draw out of Satine. She appears to only have finished the base layer of her makeup, her face contoured but her eyelashes and brows still light, her lips not yet painted the deep red he’s accustomed to. Breathtaking. “I’m looking closely as I’m allowed,” Christian says, tracing the curve of her jaw with his thumb.
Satine places her hand over his, holding it where he’s holding her.
“And I find you as beautiful as ever,” he pronounces, kissing her on the forehead when she flushes, something like wonder shining in her eyes.
“Mrrph,” Bijou says from under the bed, reminding Christian he ought to ask for her forgiveness too.
“And you are as well,” Christian says, reluctantly releasing Satine and walking back to the bed. He lies prone on the floor—making himself as small and non-threatening as possible—peering underneath and making eye contact with Bijou.
For a long moment Bijou just stares back at him, studying him with one green eye and one blue. Then she slinks out from under the bed while Christian attempts to remain still, hardly daring to breathe too deeply in case the rush of air ruffles her fur and displeases her. Bijou sniffs for a moment at Christian’s face—her whiskers tickling him, making him shake in silent laughter—before she leaps over his head and lands delicately on his upper back. She turns around and almost immediately begins grooming Christian’s hair. Bijou digs her claws into his back in annoyance when her rough tongue catches on the long strands. His mother would say he needs a haircut but Christian likes his hair this length and—given that Satine hasn’t complained yet—he thinks perhaps he can get away with postponing a trim for at least a little while longer.
“Were you doing Bijou’s makeup?” He asks curiously, resting his cheek against his own bicep, trying to turn enough to see Satine without turning so much that he further annoys Bijou. Her nails dig slightly harder into his back and Christian tries his best to hide a wince. Bijou takes her job as a hairdresser very seriously; he wonders if she’s drawing blood.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Satine mumbles as if embarrassed. She rises to her feet and lifts the cat off of Christian’s back, though whether that’s so she can finish their morning routine or because she caught his wince, Christian isn’t sure. Satine resettles on her vanity seat with Bijou in her lap—facing Christian this time—and gently begins petting Bijou’s fluffy white fur. In no time at all Christian hears quiet purring.
“I think it’s sweet,” Christian comments, pushing himself into a sitting position on the floor while Satine flushes positively scarlet. “How did it start?” He asks.
“Within the first few days of me bringing Bijou home,” Satine says, laughing softly. “She is very attached to me and likes to be included in everything I do. So—on one of her first mornings here—rather than watching me do my own makeup in her usual, quiet way, she kept pacing all over the place, and she was very vocal.”
Bijou—done with being pet for the time being—climbs from Satine’s lap onto the vanity. She bats gently at a tube of concealer; not hard enough to knock it to the floor, just enough to make some room for herself.
“At first I couldn’t figure out what had gotten into her; I was afraid she was ill,” Satine continues, turning to reorganize the other items atop her vanity so there is enough space for Bijou to spread out across the whole surface if she so chooses. “But she didn’t seem to be feeling unwell, it was more like she was just very adamantly trying to tell me something. After a little trial and error, I finally realized she wanted her makeup done, too.”
“Meow!” Bijou says agreeably, sitting down and resting her tail delicately atop her front paws, showing Christian that she is, in fact, capable of being patient when she wants to be.
“There isn’t actually any makeup on this because I don’t want her to get sick,” Satine confesses to Christian in a stage whisper behind her hand before grabbing Bijou’s brush once more and holding it out, letting the cat rub her own cheeks against it. Bijou begins purring again, closing her eyes in contentment. “But she won’t leave me alone long enough to get ready unless I pretend to do her makeup as well.”
“I love that,” Christian says truthfully. He casts about the room, locating another chair in the small kitchen area and dragging it over. “Me next, please,” he says eagerly, dropping down into it with barely contained excitement.
A look of surprise briefly flits across Satine’s face; there one moment and then gone the next. Still, it’s enough to make Christian’s stomach drop as the coziness of this morning routine he’s just tried and failed to infiltrate shatters, an all-too-familiar sense of shame he hasn’t felt in a long while creeping back in.
“I’m sorry,” Christian blurts, staring down at his hands because he’s unable to look Satine in the eye any longer, scared of what he may see in her expression. “Perhaps it was too soon to bring this up. I mean, it isn’t that I like wearing makeup, exactly—it’s more that I don’t mind wearing makeup?” He tries to say, except it comes out more like a question. “It can be fun. Sometimes,” he hastens to add.
Christian’s palms are sweating, his heart racing. He’s only just gotten Satine to trust him enough to let him stay the night and now he may have ruined it all—so many months of progress gone—and for what? Makeup to Christian is far from a necessity, definitely not something he needs and therefore not something worth taking a monumental risk over. It isn’t as if he’s trans and feels like he needs to play with it as a form of gender expression. Because he’s a man.
He is a man.
He thinks.
He’s pretty sure, at least.
He’s never really questioned that of his own volition; mostly the questions circling around and around in his head are brought on by the words of others, his father and his uncles and school bullies and—
Christian takes a deep breath, pushing all of that down, down, down, because he can’t go there right now—because that would mean he isn’t fully here, and he has a problem to solve here. So he ignores the identity crisis and the bullies and moves forward. “But the real reason I asked is because you and Bijou have this adorable thing you do together and I wanted to be a part of it. So it isn’t really about the makeup, you see? Though if it were about the makeup I guess I thought maybe you’d be—I don’t know, understanding?—because you have friends who aren’t girls who wear makeup, a-and you put imaginary makeup on your cat. Though she is a girl cat so I guess perhaps that is more acceptable to you than—”
He’s interrupted by Satine’s hand covering his own. “Christian,” she says, and for a moment his mind goes still, waiting anxiously for whatever she’ll say next, wondering precisely how cruel or repulsed she may be in her condemnation of him. “Breathe, love,” she says simply. “You’re alright. But you need to breathe.”
She doesn’t sound too upset so Christian obediently takes one deep breath, then another, focusing on the steadying feel of Satine’s hand on his own, his feet on the floor, his butt on the seat of the chair. Then—all at once—her words process. “I’m alright?” He asks, only slightly embarrassed when his voice comes out small, when it cracks. His gaze snaps up to Satine’s, finding her watching him intently, appearing patient yet worried, her face seemingly void of any of the repulsion or disgust he was so terrified of mere minutes ago.
“Yes,” she says, squeezing his fingers, offering a small, reassuring smile. “You’re alright.”
Christian breathes. In and out. In and out. “Are you upset?”
Satine shakes her head, her lips pursing slightly. “I love you. Exactly as you are,” she says so emphatically that Christian thinks he may cry. “You never have to hide any piece of yourself—do you understand?”
“But—you seemed—when I said—”
“You caught me off guard,” Satine admits. “Doing your makeup is something I’ve imagined on occasion. You have excellent features; I’d love to enhance them with makeup. Your eyes…” She says, leaning closer while studying his eyes intently, a mere breath away, and Christian is powerless to look anywhere else. “Your jaw…” Satine’s hand trails almost absently down the side of Christian’s face, causing him to shiver. “And your lips…” Satine presses her thumb against the seam of his lips.
It’s second nature for Christian to part his lips and take Satine’s thumb inside his mouth, to scrape the pad of it lightly with his teeth.
He’s rewarded with Satine’s shaky inhale, the darkening of her eyes. But she merely shakes her head and withdraws her thumb, fixing him with a smirk that promises later. But later means not now, so Satine begins speaking once more, continuing to address the issue at hand.
Christian’s mind takes slightly longer than hers to get back on topic, to grasp hold of the next words Satine utters and string them into thoughts he can follow. Makeup, Christian reminds himself. Cosmetics. That’s what we’re talking about. But quelling his lust makes his nervousness rise to the forefront of his mind all over again.
“I’ve dated enough men and been met with enough outrage at the suggestion that I learned not to ask. So you surprised me—but in a good way.” Satine’s grin widens even further, her eyes alight with excitement. “I’m going to have so much fun doing this,” she enthuses, practically bouncing in her seat with giddiness. “I may have to do it more than once.”
Christian swallows, shame and anxiety and so many other emotions that had been fighting for dominance in his mind finally starting to quiet down and fade away, being replaced primarily by relief and a tentative sort of excitement. “Okay,” he says. He stares down at Satine’s nails—pale pink and glossy—and wonders what Satine would say if he asked to get a manicure together. That could be fun.
“Wait—actual makeup or Bijou’s makeup?” She questions.
“Actual makeup,” Christian says, trying not to squirm in his seat at the small spike of anxiety caused by her clarification.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Satine responds without missing a beat, and Christian realizes she really means it. He’s safe here; all of him.
Unable to go a moment longer without it, Christian leans in and kisses Satine. Her lips are soft and she tastes of toothpaste rather than lipstick. It’s unfamiliar, but far from unwelcome. Christian could definitely get used to this: drinks and dancing at the club, skin-on-skin sleepovers under Satine’s pink sheets after engaging in other activities, mornings with toothpaste kisses and giddy applications of blush and eyeliner. Softness and warmth and safety and acceptance and love and—
Christian jumps backward hard enough that he nearly tips the chair over when something small and warm and furry lands in his lap.
“Mrow!” Bijou says, staring up at him with her wide, jewel-toned eyes.
And Bijou. Of course—how could he forget? “Turnabout is fair play, I suppose,” he muses, scratching the cat lightly behind her ears the way Satine has shown him she likes.
Satine laughs. “She wanted to remind you that you’ll have to wait your turn. I have a queue going.”
“Oh, of course,” Christian agrees amiably. “I wouldn’t dare try to cut in front of Bijou in line.”
“What do you think?” Satine asks Bijou, dusting imaginary powder across the cat’s head, her cheeks, the bridge of her nose. “Is he a keeper?”
Bijou turns around in Christian’s lap—once, twice, three times—before she settles, curling up into a donut shape with her chin resting on her paws. Her eyes drift closed and she begins purring almost immediately. It’s the first time she’s trusted him enough to fall asleep on his lap rather than transferring to Satine’s for her nap. Christian is so excited he hardly dares breathe. Her message is clear.
“My thoughts exactly,” Satine muses, almost as if to herself. Then she scrounges around on her vanity until she retrieves the pencil-shaped object she’s looking for. “Close your eyes,” she instructs, the fingers of her free hand light on Christian’s chin, holding them both steady.
Satine slides closer and her knee bumps Christian’s. The movement jostles Bijou just enough that she voices a sleepy chirp of protest, yawns, and then leaps onto the floor, setting off in search of a corner of the apartment where she can nap uninterrupted.
Christian is too distracted at the moment to care much that his bonding moment with Bijou was so short-lived. There will be other days spent in Satine’s apartment, other chances to win Bijou over bit by bit. Right now, his world has narrowed to the intense expression on Satine’s face and the firm grip she has on his chin. The gesture—grabbing him, holding him where she wants him—makes a not particularly surprising kind of heat bloom in his stomach, his mouth going dry, his eyes getting stuck wide open, unable to tear his gaze away from Satine’s. Christian’s earlier desire has returned full-force, though he doesn’t think Satine has brought it back on purpose. Though she definitely notices the effect she’s having on him.
This much is obvious when she immediately abandons her own chair for his lap, and Christian is suddenly extremely aware that Satine is only in a silk robe and Christian only in his briefs, meaning there are only very thin layers of fabric between their bodies. Or perhaps—if Satine didn’t bother to slip on any underwear underneath her robe—
“What kind of look are you going to do?” Christian babbles nervously, attempting to cut off that line of thinking as quickly as possible. Though he isn’t certain why that’s what he asked. He knows so little about makeup that he likely won’t understand Satine’s answer. “What colors will you use?” He asks next. That’s better. He knows his colors, at least. Even if the feel of Satine’s fingers on his chin is enough to make him forget every color in the world but the deep brown of her dark eyes.
Satine chuckles throatily at how obvious he’s being and Christian squirms. “Don’t be nervous,” she says with a smirk, and Christian wonders whether or not they’re still talking about makeup. “I’ll take care of you. Just close your eyes, and trust me.”
So that’s exactly what he does.