Title: Follow Every Rainbow
Author: You-Know-Who
Fandom: Moulin Rouge
Pairing: Christian/OMC
Status: Work In Progress
Rating: Should eventually be R.
Feedback: Oh, yes, please. Especially constructive criticism -- I need it!
Summary: Christian returns to Paris ten years later and meets someone who needs him in more ways than he can count.
Author's Notes: This story is a joy in every way for me to write -- I hope you feel some of that same joy in reading it. And just FYI, my OMC's name is pronounced OH-LIV-EEE-AY, and Christian's last name is OR-FAY-OH.
----
Follow Every Rainbow 1: The Backwards Look
"Mr. Orpheo, may I take your coat?"
He stood silent by the window, lost in reverie, a man with the body of a youth, but a look on his face that spoke of sorrow beyond his years. It was 1910 and he was thirty-two.
"Mr. Orpheo?" He turned when the chambermaid repeated his name, smiled apologetically, and shrugged out of his jacket with a sigh. She took it and began to put it away in the closet as he turned back to the window, staring out at the streets of Paris with an absent expression on his face.
"Anything else, sir?"
Christian Orpheo shook his head, still staring out the window. "No. Just be sure to bring up my mail promptly once it arrives every day. I have important communications which must be answered quickly."
"Yes, sir," she said, and slipped out of the room. The door closed behind her with a quiet *snick*, but Christian did not hear it.
Paris. After ten years, he had returned to the place where he had found and loved and lost Satine. This time it was not the youthful enthusiasm for adventure that had sent him here, but business. His father had died recently, and Christian had become the main liaison of his father's company in France. He would be staying here for approximately a year, to get the affairs of the business straightened out, and then would return home to see whether or not his older brother wished to keep him as the French liaison, or send him to America.
He didn't much care either way. The future was of little concern to him. All that mattered was that he was *here* again. He could walk the old familiar streets again, see his old friends again.
It would never be the same, of course. Satine was dead. Toulouse was dead. The Moulin Rouge was gone, and Harold Zidler had faded into a shadow of his bombastic self.
Yet, even with the memory of death and sorrow hanging over this place, Christian felt happier than he had been in years.
He'd briefly tried to get Satine's book published. It had been turned down by every publisher in not only Paris, but England as well. It existed now only as a few faded copies of manuscript, deep in his trunk.
"Tell our story, Christian," she had whispered in those final moments. And at last Christian had realized that the telling of the story was important, not whether it was listened to or not. Those few pages filled with tears hid the love of his youth inside them. He had stopped trying to find a publisher four years ago.
The music had died. There were no more songs to sing, and no one who called songs out of him that needed to be sung. Christian had plunged himself into his father's company, Orpheus Jewelry, and was now wealthy enough himself to have bought gifts on the scale of the Duke's for pretty girls.
He hadn't. The only piece of jewelry he had made was a small ring, set with a tiny diamond, formed to fit his own hand, and simply bearing the name "Christian" inside it. He never wore it, but kept it around his neck on a chain. He told himself he was keeping it for someone, but had long ago lost hope that anyone would come into his life.
He turned away from the window with a long sigh, and drew the curtains. The dimness of a summer afternoon settled down upon him, and he lay down on the large bed in the center of the room and stared at the walls.
----
When evening came and the bustling noises of people coming home to dress for dinner could be heard, Christian got up and opened the curtains again. A fresh breeze slipped in through the window, teasing at his hair, and though he had not fallen asleep, he felt refreshed.
"I'll walk the streets tonight," he whispered just under his breath. The sweetness of the evening breeze rushed in upon him again, and suddenly he knew he could not stay in that room any longer.
He grabbed his hat and coat, and went from the room without putting them on, walking bareheaded into the late afternoon sunshine. The breeze continued to dance around him as though it were leading him on. For the first time in years he began to feel young again.
He walked for about an hour, finally reaching the edge of the town of Monmarte. His steps slowed as he stared at a bookstore that he and Satine had visited once, giggling and kissing behind the shelves as they searched for a copy of Shakespeare's sonnets.
Christian put on his coat and stepped inside, almost shyly, as if old ghosts would drift out of the back and welcome him.
There were no old ghosts. Just a young man, almost still a boy, glancing up in the dimness with a friendly smile. Something about that smile struck Christian as oddly familiar.
"Hello," he said. "By any chance, do you happen to have a copy of Shakespeare's sonnets?"
The young man held up the book he was reading. "Yes, sir. I do. I love his sonnets; it's amazing how four hundred years later they still speak to us so vividly."
"We've all been in love," Christian said, stepping closer. "Shakespeare just put our love into words that are timeless."
The young man smiled again, slightly mischievous. "I've never been in love." He set the book down and held out a hand. "I'm Olivier Beauport, by the way, and I own this place."
"I'm Christian Orpheo," Christian replied, taking that hand in his own, "and the last time I was in this place, you didn't own it."
"Oh, when was that?"
"About ten years ago," Christian said, letting go of Olivier's hand with a strange reluctance. "In fact, you look oddly familiar to me, even though I'm sure we've never met before. Have you ever lived in London? That's where I'm from."
"No, I've never been to London," Olivier said. "And ten years ago...." His eyes got dim, filling with memory. "That was when everything changed."
"What happened?" Christian asked, sensing a story.
"I was raised by the Calbote family in Bordeaux for the first twelve years of my life. They were the only family I knew. Then, late in the winter of 1899, a man came to see me, claiming that he had known my mother."
"*Had* known?" Christian asked.
"Yes," Olivier said. "My mother was dead. That was the first thing I learned. The second thing I learned was that my mother had been..." He paused, taking a deep breath, and leaned in toward Christian. "A whore at the Moulin Rouge."
Author: You-Know-Who
Fandom: Moulin Rouge
Pairing: Christian/OMC
Status: Work In Progress
Rating: Should eventually be R.
Feedback: Oh, yes, please. Especially constructive criticism -- I need it!
Summary: Christian returns to Paris ten years later and meets someone who needs him in more ways than he can count.
Author's Notes: This story is a joy in every way for me to write -- I hope you feel some of that same joy in reading it. And just FYI, my OMC's name is pronounced OH-LIV-EEE-AY, and Christian's last name is OR-FAY-OH.
----
Follow Every Rainbow 1: The Backwards Look
"Mr. Orpheo, may I take your coat?"
He stood silent by the window, lost in reverie, a man with the body of a youth, but a look on his face that spoke of sorrow beyond his years. It was 1910 and he was thirty-two.
"Mr. Orpheo?" He turned when the chambermaid repeated his name, smiled apologetically, and shrugged out of his jacket with a sigh. She took it and began to put it away in the closet as he turned back to the window, staring out at the streets of Paris with an absent expression on his face.
"Anything else, sir?"
Christian Orpheo shook his head, still staring out the window. "No. Just be sure to bring up my mail promptly once it arrives every day. I have important communications which must be answered quickly."
"Yes, sir," she said, and slipped out of the room. The door closed behind her with a quiet *snick*, but Christian did not hear it.
Paris. After ten years, he had returned to the place where he had found and loved and lost Satine. This time it was not the youthful enthusiasm for adventure that had sent him here, but business. His father had died recently, and Christian had become the main liaison of his father's company in France. He would be staying here for approximately a year, to get the affairs of the business straightened out, and then would return home to see whether or not his older brother wished to keep him as the French liaison, or send him to America.
He didn't much care either way. The future was of little concern to him. All that mattered was that he was *here* again. He could walk the old familiar streets again, see his old friends again.
It would never be the same, of course. Satine was dead. Toulouse was dead. The Moulin Rouge was gone, and Harold Zidler had faded into a shadow of his bombastic self.
Yet, even with the memory of death and sorrow hanging over this place, Christian felt happier than he had been in years.
He'd briefly tried to get Satine's book published. It had been turned down by every publisher in not only Paris, but England as well. It existed now only as a few faded copies of manuscript, deep in his trunk.
"Tell our story, Christian," she had whispered in those final moments. And at last Christian had realized that the telling of the story was important, not whether it was listened to or not. Those few pages filled with tears hid the love of his youth inside them. He had stopped trying to find a publisher four years ago.
The music had died. There were no more songs to sing, and no one who called songs out of him that needed to be sung. Christian had plunged himself into his father's company, Orpheus Jewelry, and was now wealthy enough himself to have bought gifts on the scale of the Duke's for pretty girls.
He hadn't. The only piece of jewelry he had made was a small ring, set with a tiny diamond, formed to fit his own hand, and simply bearing the name "Christian" inside it. He never wore it, but kept it around his neck on a chain. He told himself he was keeping it for someone, but had long ago lost hope that anyone would come into his life.
He turned away from the window with a long sigh, and drew the curtains. The dimness of a summer afternoon settled down upon him, and he lay down on the large bed in the center of the room and stared at the walls.
----
When evening came and the bustling noises of people coming home to dress for dinner could be heard, Christian got up and opened the curtains again. A fresh breeze slipped in through the window, teasing at his hair, and though he had not fallen asleep, he felt refreshed.
"I'll walk the streets tonight," he whispered just under his breath. The sweetness of the evening breeze rushed in upon him again, and suddenly he knew he could not stay in that room any longer.
He grabbed his hat and coat, and went from the room without putting them on, walking bareheaded into the late afternoon sunshine. The breeze continued to dance around him as though it were leading him on. For the first time in years he began to feel young again.
He walked for about an hour, finally reaching the edge of the town of Monmarte. His steps slowed as he stared at a bookstore that he and Satine had visited once, giggling and kissing behind the shelves as they searched for a copy of Shakespeare's sonnets.
Christian put on his coat and stepped inside, almost shyly, as if old ghosts would drift out of the back and welcome him.
There were no old ghosts. Just a young man, almost still a boy, glancing up in the dimness with a friendly smile. Something about that smile struck Christian as oddly familiar.
"Hello," he said. "By any chance, do you happen to have a copy of Shakespeare's sonnets?"
The young man held up the book he was reading. "Yes, sir. I do. I love his sonnets; it's amazing how four hundred years later they still speak to us so vividly."
"We've all been in love," Christian said, stepping closer. "Shakespeare just put our love into words that are timeless."
The young man smiled again, slightly mischievous. "I've never been in love." He set the book down and held out a hand. "I'm Olivier Beauport, by the way, and I own this place."
"I'm Christian Orpheo," Christian replied, taking that hand in his own, "and the last time I was in this place, you didn't own it."
"Oh, when was that?"
"About ten years ago," Christian said, letting go of Olivier's hand with a strange reluctance. "In fact, you look oddly familiar to me, even though I'm sure we've never met before. Have you ever lived in London? That's where I'm from."
"No, I've never been to London," Olivier said. "And ten years ago...." His eyes got dim, filling with memory. "That was when everything changed."
"What happened?" Christian asked, sensing a story.
"I was raised by the Calbote family in Bordeaux for the first twelve years of my life. They were the only family I knew. Then, late in the winter of 1899, a man came to see me, claiming that he had known my mother."
"*Had* known?" Christian asked.
"Yes," Olivier said. "My mother was dead. That was the first thing I learned. The second thing I learned was that my mother had been..." He paused, taking a deep breath, and leaned in toward Christian. "A whore at the Moulin Rouge."