Disclaimer: If I really owned this, do you think I'd be writing fan fiction? Right. I thought so. Anyways, the idea of the flowers and the adaptation of "The Lady of the Roses" was mildly based on La Dame aux Camélias by Alexandre Dumas fils. You should really read it; it's the exact same story as Moulin Rouge, a charming novel. ;)
A/N: I haven't written a Moulin Rouge fic in awhile, so bear with me if it's completely horrible. Just a pointless and rather plotless ficlet, most of which I'm not too happy with. The ending, and some parts in between are still bothering me; I don't like how they turned out. Ah well, hope you enjoy!
Roses
For five days out of every month she had long stemmed red roses, and for the remaining days the roses were white.
She'd get up early each Sunday with only one thought in mind: her roses. She liked to have the first pick of the day, when they were still fresh and lively. She's stand there for a good couple of minutes, caressing the soft velvet petals and breathing in the wonderful aroma her flowers gave off. The man who owned the store, a delightful old gentleman, would always tie a ribbon around the stems to match the color of the roses. Red for those five days, and white for all the rest.
The girls would tease her when she would finally enter the Moulin Rouge, flowers in hand. They'd given up asking her why she bought the roses, knowing they'd get no answer. It soon became a ritual, and whenever she was incapable to buy her roses, someone always saw to it.
Her customers even began to learn that the only flowers she'd accept would be roses. Any other types would either be thrown away or given to one of the other girls, most likely Babydoll or Juno. There was soon a running joke that her name should have been The Lady of the Roses instead of The Sparkling Diamond.
No one, not even Christian knew what the roses symbolized. He had asked her one night, when their bodies were pressed together, both feeling a faint spell of lethargy spread across them. She had propped herself up on an elbow and smiled at him, a look of innocent delight flitting across her face. She said nothing, only shook her head enigmatically and proceeded to kiss him tenderly.
"We're all allowed to keep secrets, love, this one's mine." She had whispered as she laid her head on his chest.
Christian didn't bother to pursue the matter. From then on, however, he only brought her white roses, and the occasional red.
It was through Toulouse that Christian learned something of Satine's roses however. It had been right after Satine had told him she was staying with the Duke. Toulouse was trying to comfort Christian, and for once, was unusually sober. After yelling at him to go away, the artist had turned back towards Christian.
"Hope," he whispered, more to himself than Christian. "They represent hope, for things she never had, and knows she never will have. They remind her of happier times, her childhood perhaps."
Christian had stared at the closed door long after Toulouse had left. It was then that he went back to the Moulin Rouge.
She died in his arms, brief happiness and peace fluttering across her ashen face. Life left her body slowly as tears of red and white fell from above her and Christian.
She was buried in a small, crowded cemetery shortly after her death. Every week he would place a bouquet of white roses on her grave, and for the last five days, he made sure they were red. He knew she was smiling down on him, giving him hope.
A/N: I haven't written a Moulin Rouge fic in awhile, so bear with me if it's completely horrible. Just a pointless and rather plotless ficlet, most of which I'm not too happy with. The ending, and some parts in between are still bothering me; I don't like how they turned out. Ah well, hope you enjoy!
For five days out of every month she had long stemmed red roses, and for the remaining days the roses were white.
She'd get up early each Sunday with only one thought in mind: her roses. She liked to have the first pick of the day, when they were still fresh and lively. She's stand there for a good couple of minutes, caressing the soft velvet petals and breathing in the wonderful aroma her flowers gave off. The man who owned the store, a delightful old gentleman, would always tie a ribbon around the stems to match the color of the roses. Red for those five days, and white for all the rest.
The girls would tease her when she would finally enter the Moulin Rouge, flowers in hand. They'd given up asking her why she bought the roses, knowing they'd get no answer. It soon became a ritual, and whenever she was incapable to buy her roses, someone always saw to it.
Her customers even began to learn that the only flowers she'd accept would be roses. Any other types would either be thrown away or given to one of the other girls, most likely Babydoll or Juno. There was soon a running joke that her name should have been The Lady of the Roses instead of The Sparkling Diamond.
No one, not even Christian knew what the roses symbolized. He had asked her one night, when their bodies were pressed together, both feeling a faint spell of lethargy spread across them. She had propped herself up on an elbow and smiled at him, a look of innocent delight flitting across her face. She said nothing, only shook her head enigmatically and proceeded to kiss him tenderly.
"We're all allowed to keep secrets, love, this one's mine." She had whispered as she laid her head on his chest.
Christian didn't bother to pursue the matter. From then on, however, he only brought her white roses, and the occasional red.
It was through Toulouse that Christian learned something of Satine's roses however. It had been right after Satine had told him she was staying with the Duke. Toulouse was trying to comfort Christian, and for once, was unusually sober. After yelling at him to go away, the artist had turned back towards Christian.
"Hope," he whispered, more to himself than Christian. "They represent hope, for things she never had, and knows she never will have. They remind her of happier times, her childhood perhaps."
Christian had stared at the closed door long after Toulouse had left. It was then that he went back to the Moulin Rouge.
She died in his arms, brief happiness and peace fluttering across her ashen face. Life left her body slowly as tears of red and white fell from above her and Christian.
She was buried in a small, crowded cemetery shortly after her death. Every week he would place a bouquet of white roses on her grave, and for the last five days, he made sure they were red. He knew she was smiling down on him, giving him hope.