Author's Note: This is the first time writing for Moulin Rouge! so I hope that you like what I have written. I have seen many "What happens next?" Stories and decided to add my version to the pot. Thanks ahead of time to all of my reviewers and silent stalkers, I hope there are many.

Disclaimer: If I owned Moulin Rouge! The dying would all have been done by the Duke.

The End

How full of truth these two small words were to Christian. For days, his fingers had flown over his typewriter, stopping only when his unsteady digits reached for a drink or his tears blurred his vision to the point of being unable to write. He had been drunk a majority of the time; Satine's face grew more beautiful and her memory grew stronger when more alcohol was coursing through his system. She would flit around the room, just out of reach. He would reach for her some times, his fingers outstretched desperately to touch her again for just a second, but he never felt her.

He was visited, at first, by some of the Moulin Rouge cast, but they moved on as soon as the Duke repossessed the building. Soon, even the Bohemians let him be; only Toulouse stayed, but after several months the dwarf stuck to living downstairs and letting his presence be known only by the warm plates of food outside of his door that grew cold, and the rare bottle of Absinthe.

Christian sat slumped in his chair, staring in forlorn at the final page of Satine's story. The shadow of a beard on his chin was itchy and uncomfortable, but when he raised his arm, it wasn't to scratch. His fingers clumsily wrapped around his bottle of alcohol, and he brought it to his lips. His throat, though it ached for more, received none, and in rage Christian stood up and threw the bottle against the wall, the sound of broken glass falling to the floor making a deafening sound in the otherwise quiet room. He stood swaying on his feet, the room spinning in front of him.

His eyes fell on the soiled dress shirt that hung on the back of his door. It was the shirt that he had cried on all those months ago when Satine's body was still above ground. It had her blood that had signified her last breath spattered on in, creating a ruined smell. Somewhere, in the sane part of his mind, Christian knew he should get rid of it. He knew what he was doing was childish and stupid, and that he should move on. It was what she would have wanted.

But how could he move on? He was a young man not even in his thirties, and he was broken. Broken by the same thing that lifted him so high. It was barely a year ago that he had believed so heavily on Love, and had wanted to feel that feeling with every nerve in his body. Now, he wished he hadn't ever gone to the Moulin Rouge, never saw the "Sparkling Diamond." Because it would have meant never going through this suffering, this pain.

Never knowing her.

Christian grabbed the back of his chair to keep himself from falling over and stared at his last bottle of alcohol sitting on his desk. It was a wine bottle, one that he had bought the day he had met Satine. He was going to save it for them, but time had moved so fast, and then, every moment they had alone was too full of Love and passion and work that they had no time. So he had saved it for a later date. But that there would be none of.

He picked up the bottle hesitantly, sloshing the liquid around in the glass, thinking deeply for the first time in a long time. He glanced at the typewriter, and those two words once again burned in his mind. The End. It was the end; the end of the story, of Satine's life, of the Moulin Rouge, and now…of him.

He opened the wine bottle and brought it to his nose, smelling the sweet flavor. This would be his last drink, and by the time that he was finished, if the alcohol hadn't killed him, then the jump from his balcony view would.

A clear goal now in his mind, Christian stumbled over to the door to smell his blood-covered shirt one more time and to say goodbye to the material world. He leaned down and collapsed, his legs being unable to support him any longer. The wine bottle sloshed, and a few drops fell to the floor.

He didn't notice.

He sat there, running his fingers on the cloth like he used to her skin, his eyes closed as he remembered her. Then, as his fingers ran across the inside of the shirt, he felt something and his eyes shot open. It was hard and cold, nothing like a button of a small knot of material. He grabbed the foreign object and gently took it out of his shirt.

In his hand, he held a small diamond earring.

It was hers, he knew it. Tears came to his eyes again as his fingers wrapped tightly around the object, the bottle being sat down on the floor as he curled into a ball, bringing his gift-bearing fist close to his heart. He sat there for a few minutes before he wanted to look at it again. He pulled his hand away from his chest and slowly opened his fingers, afraid that it might have been a dream, and that his hands were empty. But it was still there, a small, twinkling ray of hope and happiness. It was real; he knew that as soon as he took a glance at it. It was a small, teardrop shaped earring that dangled only slightly, a smaller cut one directly beneath it. It was one of the ones that Satine wore during her last performance.

'Tell our story, Christian. Promise me.'

He ran his finger over the jewel, closing his eyes, leaning his head against the wall. Then, he looked at the bottle of wine, sitting there, daring his to pick it up, begging him to drink it and get it over with. No more pain or suffering, no more horrible memories. He would be free, he could fly away from all the troubles and heartbreak. Christian picked up the bottle.

He walked out onto the balcony, the earring still in his fingers. His eyes squinted in the light, and he had to lean on the railing. He glanced down and swallowed. It was a long way to go. He brought the bottle to his lips and took a small swing, the wine the best tasting thing he had consumed the past few months. Then, he flung it over the balcony and onto the streets below, and for the first time in a long time, the edges of his mouth curved slightly upward.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, the earring still tight within his grasp. Christian looked at the windmill that no longer turned and slowly read the old, faded letters that spelled out a dream.

And he wondered how much the Duke was selling it for.

Hope that everyone saw the symbolism I was trying to portray, not sure if I made it work or not.

Reviews would be loverly!