Children of the Revolution
A Moulin Rouge! Crossover
Chapter One: Freedom, Beauty, Truth, Love
There was a boy... A very strange, enchanted boy
They say he traveled very far, very far, over land and sea
A little shy and sad of eye, but very wise was he
And then one day, one magic day, he passed my way
While we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this he said to me
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
is just to love and be loved in return."
Alfred sat in a corner of his dingy room, a bottle of wine clutched in his hand as he cried. Other bottles were strewn around him, all of them dry. The once bright, clean, inspiring room was dark and dirty, just like the city outside it. The light that had once shone was gone from the room, as it was from Alfred. After a moment, he looked up, eyes bloodshot and dull from crying endlessly for days. Under the window was his old typewriter, waiting for him it seemed. Setting down the bottle, he got up and walked over to it.
For a while, he just sat in the desk chair, staring at it pitifully. Then, finally, he grabbed a single piece of paper and fit it in the typewriter. He hesitated, fingers hovering over the worn keys. Then, with a newfound determination, he started writing.
The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.
Tears were falling down his cheeks again, and he grit his teeth. It hurt, it hurt to be back at the desk writing again, but he had to do it. He promised he would. He looked out the window at the familiar red windmill, now gray and dusted, before he started writing again.
The Moulin Rouge. A night club, a dance hall, ruled over by Francis Bonnefoy, a kingdom of nighttime pleasures where the rich and powerful came to play with the beautiful creatures of the underworld. The most beautiful of all these was the man I loved. Arthur. A courtesan, he sold his love to others, and they called him the Sparkling Diamond. He was the star of the Moulin Rouge. The man I loved is...dead.
He stopped typing abruptly, pressing the palms of his hands over his eyes as he wept again. His face was one of a broken man, filled with sorrow and regret. "Arthur," he whispered hoarsely, nails digging into the skin of his forehead. He wanted to stop writing, to throw the typewriter out the window and down another bottle of wine. "No," he said, talking to himself, for he had no one else to speak to. Not anymore. "No you made a promise."
I first moved to Paris one year ago. It was 1899, the summer of love. I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge, Francis Bonnefoy, or Arthur. The world had been swept up in the Bohemian Revolution, and I had traveled from New York to be a part of it. On the hill near Paris was the village of Montmartre. It was not as my father had said "A village of sin!", but the center of the Bohemian World! Musicians, painters, writers, they were known as The Children of the Revolution. Yes, I had come to live a penniless existence, I'd come to write about truth, beauty, freedom, and that which I believed in above all things: love. There was only one problem, I'd never been in love! Luckily, right at that moment, and unconscious Greek fell through my roof.
"Oh my god!" Alfred screeched (in a very manly way, he might add) as a man fell through his ceiling and landed on the floor with a loud thud. He had wavy brown hair and he seemed to be unconscious. Alfred stared at him in horror. Maybe his father was right, maybe he shouldn't have moved to Montmartre. Twenty minutes here and people were falling through his roof. Suddenly, his bedroom door burst open and a Spanish man walked in, seemingly unfazed by the unconscious Greek man on the floor. He was also dressed as a nun. "What's happening?" Alfred squeaked in a high pitched voice.
The Spanish man looked at him and grinned. "How do you do?" he said in a cheerful voice, "My name in Antonio Fernandez Alejandro Ricardo Santiago Carriedo." Alfred stared at him, mouth gaping and glasses askew. "I'm terribly sorry about all this," he said off handedly as Alfred shouted 'What?', and poked the unconscious Greek. He grumbled but didn't wake up. "Yep, alive. We were just upstairs rehearsing the play."
"What?" Alfred said again. Antonio clapped happily.
"A play! It's called Spectacular Spectacular, and it's set in Switzerland," He said. The unconscious Greek grunted and Alfred looked at him, then back to Antonio in confusion. "This is Hercules. He has narcolepsy, I'm afraid. Falls asleep all the time." Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to absorb all the new information. Suddenly, three people poked their heads in through the hole in the ceiling.
"Is he alright?" Asked a woman. The man next to her looked down in amusement, stark white hair standing out again the others. The second man on the other side of her stared dully, obviously used to having Hercules fall through roves.
"I'm going back to the piano," The second man said snootily in an Austrian accent, face disappearing from the hole. The woman huffed angrily.
"How wonderful, our narcoleptic lead actor just fell through the roof, again!" she said, and Antonio smiled sheepishly up at her.
"Don't worry, Audrey," he said, "We've got everything under control." She glared at him and the white haired man laughed.
"I certainly hope you do, we have to finish rehearsal!" She growled. The white haired man winked at Antonio before leaving the hole in the ceiling too. Alfred's head hurt.
"We can find someone to read the lines," Antonio offered. Audrey rolled her eyes.
"Where will find someone to read to role of the young handsome swiss poet?" She snapped. Antonio then looked over at Alfred with a grin.
How did I land myself in this mess? Alfred thought, watching the people around him fight over their lines as he stood awkwardly in a Swiss outfit.
"The hills quake and shake!" Antonio yelled. Audrey scoffed at him. "No, no the hills-" Said the austrian man (who was named Roderich, Alfred had discovered). Hercules suddenly awoke and sat up, and everyone turned to him. "Symphony... Melodies..." he said tiredly, before falling backwards onto the bed and going back to sleep. Everyone started arguing again. Alfred suddenly had a brilliant idea.
"The hills are-" he started to say, but nobody heard him over the arguing. He tried again, louder this time, "The hills are al-" but everyone was still yelling and couldn't hear him. He pouted. How was he going to get them to pay attention? The arguing escalated until everyone was almost screaming at each other. "The hills are alive, with the sound of music," Alfred suddenly sang, and everyone stopped immediately to stare up at him in shock.
The Greek man awoke again and sat up, looking at Alfred dully. "The hills are alive with the sound of music," he repeated in his ever sleepy voice, "I love it." Antonio jumped with joy.
"Alive with the sound of music! Yes it's perfect!" He said excitedly. Gilbert and Roderich agreed, smiling at Alfred. Audrey stayed surprisingly silent. Alfred smiled.
"With songs they have sung for a thousand years," he sang. The group yelled in delight, well, except for Audrey who seemed quite infuriated that everyone liked Alfred's song.
"Audrey, you and Alfred should write the script together!" Antonio said, Gilbert, Roderich and Hercules backing him up. She scoffed angrily.
"I don't think so," She hissed, grabbing her handbag, "Seeing as you don't need me, I will be on my way. Goodbye!" With that she left, slamming the door behind her.
"Here's to your first job in Paris," Antonio said, raising a glass full of strange green liquid at him before gulping it down. Roderich looked around worriedly.
"No offense Alfred," he said, "But have you ever written anything like this?" Alfred bit his lip and shook his head. Gilbert butt into to conversation.
"Ah, who cares, huh?" He said, "The boy has talent! I like him!" He walked over and accidentally put a hand on Alfred's crotch. "Er, not like that," he said, pulling his hand back.
Antonio pulled the group together, Alfred still on the set, struggling to hear. "The hills are alive with the sound of music," he said excitedly, "With Alfred we'll finally have the true Bohemian Revolutionary show that we've always dreamt of!"
"But how are we going to convince Bonnefoy?" Roderich asked. The group all turned to look at Alfred curiously. Antonio hummed in thought for a moment, then lit up.
"Arthur!" he said. The others nodded in agreement. Alfred was confused again, actually, he'd been confused all day.
"Who is Arthur?" he asked. Gilbert broke away from the group and patted him on the back with force.
"You'll find out soon enough," he said. Alfred sighed. Well, at least at the end of all this, he'd have something interesting to write about.
"Alright," Antonio said, "We will dress you up in one of Hercules's best suits and pass you off as a famous English writer."
"Writer?" Alfred asked, but he was ignored of course.
"Once Arthur has your modern poetry, he'll be astounded! He'll insist to Bonnefoy that you write Spectacular Spectacular!" He finished. Alfred wrung his hands, his father's voice echoing in his head 'You're going to end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a can can dancer!'.
"I can't do it!" Alfred yelled, jumping down from the stage and heading for the ladder, "I can't write the show for the Moulin Rouge!" Antonio and the others gasped.
"Why not?" one asked. Alfred frowned.
"I - I don't even know if I am a true Bohemian Revolutionary!" he said. The group looked mortified.
"Do you believe in beauty?" Antonio asked.
"Yes," Alfred answered.
"Freedom?" added Hercules.
"Yes, of course," Alfred replied.
"Truth?" demanded Roderich.
"Yes."
"Love?" Gilbert asked. Alfred paused, eyes shining.
"Love? Of all things, I believe in love. Love is like oxygen, love is a many splendid thing, love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is love!" He said passionately.
"You can't fool us," Antonio said joyously, "You're the voice of the children of the revolution!" The group lifted him up by his arms, cheering. "It's set then, you will audition for Arthur! Now let's have some Absinthe!"
...
So here's chapter one, I hope you all like it. If you have any suggestions leave it in a review.