Original Sin

The thick smoke wafted and swirled like a cloud of incense from nearly every table, billowing into a haze. The laughter, a chaotic chorus, was like a carnival night, deafening to the point he had to wonder if continuing to play the rickety piano would even matter. His partner, the singer, was already past the point of apathy; instead of the sultry velvet she had when they started, her voice was raspy and raw, yet the crowd didn't seem to mind—not even when her pause became more frequent when she had to down another glass, then giggle like she had not done anything wrong—and they cheered for her anyway.

If that was not disgusting, it was undoubtedly pitiful. But what do you expect from a seedy establishment like this? It was like a blemish on Paris's once-pristine skin, a sore nobody bothered to take care of. At least all the patrons were having a good time, even if it was just a mask they wore. Men, women, rich, poor, drunk, sober, weary, happy—none of it mattered here. In fact, it was almost as if that was the point.

To think he would be reduced to this. Once a promising naval officer, now a bard for carousers who wouldn't even understand what he played. They were here for the singer, and that was only because she was pretty like a postcard, with a body more fitting for a cabaret dancer than a bar songstress.

And he was just a background noise. Then again, he wouldn't call himself talented. He only knew enough not to embarrass himself.

The song went on, and it was only the last few chords, and all eyes were on his partner.

Almost all of them.

That recently arrived patron, sitting on the frontmost seat, was looking at him, and his fingers nearly slipped. But the song mercifully ended after that, and the singer took the chance to have a breather before retiring backstage for the time being. He stayed and shakily reached for the whiskey he had nearby as the gaze lingered, along with the small smile that seemed more like sorrow forced to hide than anything.

The drink did little to quell his nerves. The cigarette he lit, which ended up hanging limply from his lips, was about as helpful.

And he had all the right to be uneasy. To be angry, if that was appropriate.

After all, the reason he was there was just sitting a few meters away from him, clad in a crimson dress that he knew so well, her presence getting under his skin. She wasn't drinking or smoking. She was just there, sitting with one cheek resting on her palm, a saintly presence amid a sea of sin.

She wasn't that saintly, he reminded himself as he recalled things they had done. But he had never blamed her for his predicament. They played a dangerous game, fallen prey to the serpent of temptation—and when it was time to pay the price for their transgression, he decided it was better for a no-name officer to bear both their crosses rather than see France lose her beloved leader, her greatest hope, her light in the dark.

Their eyes fleetingly met again before he looked away lest he would hunger for more, his chest feeling like someone had sunk a dagger in and twisted the blade, then salted the wound. She must have come to remind him that she was still there. Still watching.

Perhaps to tell him she still cared?

No, he dismissed the notion. She shouldn't be. The war was already over, and she shouldn't be jeopardizing her hard-fought peace just for this. He wasn't worth everything and anything she had stood against for.

He finished his whiskey, put out his cigarette, and got off the stage—no more songs for tonight. The singer was supposed to be back by now, but she had likely passed out in the back. It was a good thing she was the owner's daughter else she would have been out on the streets long ago.

Now, he needed another drink—or drinks, plenty of them. Dionysus would be proud once he was done.

He didn't feel like talking to anyone, so naturally, the patrons didn't let him, asking where the singer was, throwing empty praises his way, or some other nonsense. He gave curt replies or simply shrugged as he made his way to the counter, and the bartender gave him his usual double without being asked. He knocked it back without pause or thinking and asked for another. That was soon gone, and the next one followed.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down there," the bartender shook his head as he swiped the empty glass off the counter. "You don't look so good, friend."

'Why the hell do you think I'm here? Give me another, Pierre, and I don't mean your lecture."

He was halfway done with that glass when the seat next to him was taken, and he didn't need to look or even guess who had taken it. He could recognize the scent of her perfume, her favorite, its fragrance smelling like a spot of heaven in that hell.

"You shouldn't be here...Richelieu."

It was painful to say, the words bitter like wormwood in his mouth. Because, no matter what, he couldn't deny he missed her, the longing akin to a hungry beast clawing from within. Seeing the flash of hurt in her eyes and how her smile faltered only made him feel even more rotten inside.

I would tell you the same," she replied; her silken voice was gentle like the embrace he craved, and he had to remind himself to breathe. "This...is not where you should be."

"Where else should I get penance, Richelieu?" He emptied the glass but couldn't bring himself to ask for another. The bartender seemed oddly relieved before busying himself with tending to the other drunkards, leaving them to their devices.

"Penance is for the repentant. But did you...ever regret what we did? Because I didn't. Despite the many times I went to the confessional or prayed, in my heart, I just knew that I had fallen in love with you...and much more; and it just felt right and I couldn't regret it. But I know I will regret it if I can't save you from yourself."

Did he ever regret it? Even after everything? If he weren't inebriated, he would've racked his brain, trying to come up with reasons why he should. But alcohol had the nasty tendency of making even the most guarded honest and crumble—and even then, seeing her before had the wall he built around him becoming a mere house of straws, teetering on collapse.

No, he had no shred of regret, even if he should. That fateful night of their fall, when they finally gave in to their desires, they gained paradise.

"No...I didn't regret it," he confessed with as much solemnity as he could muster. "I don't care if it's a sin, a crime, an affront to the Almighty; I've never regretted it, even if it means damnation. Even now...even now...I...could never forget. Everything about you..."

He stopped, as it was becoming difficult to take in air and because she didn't need to hear about how he still yearned for the warmth of her body, the sweetness of her moans, and all the sordid details of their trysts. But seeing the red tint on her cheeks, he thought she didn't need to be told. 

Yet she had the warm smile of someone reminiscing a treasured memory. It was a relief.

"Neither could I. You were my first...and to be able to have this feeling like a human being does, I feel blessed, no matter how ironic it is."

"Your first..."

The weight of the words sank in, and his mouth was dry.

"And my last."

He knew it. She wouldn't move on, not without him. He was her first, and she wanted him to be her last. And, God, did it hurt. She'll be the death of him.

"Why? Why me?"

"Because I still want you. I still need you."

When her fingers brushed against his own, the spark sent the beast deep within howling and roaring and rattling at its cage, and his chest pounded painfully.

"But..." The rest of the words died in his throat when she looked back, uncharacteristically stern, with her hands gripping his like it was the end of days.

"You could waste away here, destroying yourself slowly. And when that happens...what about me? What about me, alone, left without the one I love, being only able to watch him wither and cast away to die a slow death?"

He realized it now. He had been selfish. So utterly selfish. He had thought himself undeserving and pushed her away, fancying himself a martyr for the greater good—for her own good. But in reality, he was only inflicting the same pain he had felt, if not worse by many folds, on her.

How could he be so cruel? So unthinking?

His eyes misted over, but only for a short while. Soon, her hands and the wood panel of the counter were wet as the tears leaked out from a heart that had been long closed shut.

"I'm sorry," he said, again and again like a broken record, and he knew it would never be enough—not even if he threw himself at her feet.

He only stopped when she cupped his face, and he met her gaze, the warmth and understanding in them making him wish he had seen things the same way.

"It's okay. Everything will be alright."

She had said the words before. But he was too blinded by self-loathing and desperation to see them for what they were.

But the feeling of her lips on his own after that was like a revelation, and now he could.

So very clearly, unclouded.

"Don't be afraid," she whispered as she broke away, her thumbs softly caressing the tears away. "Don't be afraid to love again."

She certainly didn't, for she would never seek him out otherwise.

"I...I will," he promised, and her smile shone in the dark, calming the beast down. "Th-thank you. Thank you, Richelieu."

"Don't thank me yet, my dearest," she cooed, pressing a finger on his lips. "We have a lot of work ahead. But you don't need to carry your burden alone. You're not alone anymore. Now, let us go home."

Home. He had no idea where that would be. Certainly not the vermin-infested flophouse he was staying at. He wouldn't allow her there, no matter what. But she definitely had a place in mind, and where she would lead him, he would follow, and now he found himself being hopeful once more.

She led him away from hell, and as he wobbled and stumbled past the gates of Hades, she caught him in her arms—and when he looked up, Paris was again the City of Light he had known. The starlight was there, as did the streetlights—and Richelieu herself.

And when the night would be over, he knew he would wake up to find her in his arms again. Or the other way around. He'd be fine with both, and he was looking forward to it. Judging from how springy her steps were, so was she.

It didn't take long for them to reach her place. It didn't take long for the crimson dress to slide off her and hit the floor, along with everything else, including his own garments. It didn't take long for them to end up in the bed and rolling on the sheets, laughing, moaning, calling out the other's name, and caressing each other in places and in ways they were familiar with, feeling the other's skin and heat and scent.

But tonight, it felt like the first time, just like the night that started it all when the serpent ensnared them, when they surrendered themselves to the allure of the flesh.

And he would still have no regrets. Even if they were still two sinners, bare and vulnerable, they had found salvation in each other.

Maybe when it's all over, they will be scared again.

But maybe this time they won't be afraid.