Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge or the characters.
Author's Note: I have nothing to say about this, really, except that it was partially inspired by thinking about the Chronicles of Narnia. Odd, but I'll take inspiration when it comes. Enjoy!
Christian drifted like a ghost through the streets of London.
Everything was gray. The streets, the buildings, the people, the sky that always threatened rain but so far had not made good on its promise. Even the sun, when it chose to show its face, only served to highlight the utter grayness of everything rather than make it disappear.
Christian felt as gray as everything around him.
He hadn't wanted to come back. It was a last resort, he told himself. He hadn't wanted to prove his father right in that going to Paris had been a waste of time.
He told himself constantly that it wasn't a waste because he had found true love, and that meant everything. And in the past it would have meant everything, but reality had a way of changing one's perspective. The Moulin Rouge closed, Christian had no money, and his friends had gradually disappeared until there was no one left.
Nothing remained for him in Paris, and he found himself with no choice to return to England.
He still hadn't told his father. He had ignored any sense of guilt that accompanied this and brought a small flat with money gained from selling his typewriter. He found work in a bookshop, doing mindless things like sorting books and giving some recommendations. Not many people went into the shop, however, so he had much time to himself. Eventually, he planned to gain enough money to get another typewriter.
Beyond that, he had no idea what he was to do.
There was his story, the story he had written about Satine and him and their love. He had tried, in vain, to bring himself to be able to sell it, but the very idea made him feel strange. Part of him thought it was wrong, like he was selling himself. Another part argued that people could benefit from this tale of love, that his words could have a profound effect on them, and wasn't that what he had wanted to do as a writer?
He crossed a street. It was evening, the shadows were lengthening. He thought about returning to his flat, but it was small there, and he often felt cramped and lonely. It was ironic, and he smiled at the thought, that in Paris he had never left his garret, and here in London he could hardly stand his flat.
Someone giggled, and Christian looked up. Across the street there was a group of woman, some watching him, a few talking to each other. Giggles and raucous laughter erupted here and there. Christian's heart constricted and began to beat wildly in his chest.
They were whores.
It was like being in Paris all over again. They were strange. A few of them were beautiful in the same way Satine had been beautiful, with pale skin and a sort of diamond like quality to them that made them stand out from the drabness of the street.
Christian found himself staring, and he abruptly turned and began to walk briskly down the street. Clearly he had lost himself wandering and ended up in a seedy neighborhood. He cursed himself as he walked; it seemed he had a bad habit of doing that.
He thought himself foolish, really, to think that just by escaping Paris he could escape the memories. The same thing could have happened here, in London, or in New York, or in China, somewhere, and it all would have led to the same end. The cities weren't so different as he thought. It pained him, to think he could never escape.
Paris and London were both full of people, colourful people, people who could remind him of that strange lost time in his life, the time he spent at the Moulin Rouge.
Christian passed another group of scantily clad women on the street and averted his eyes.
A chill quite suddenly took hold of him and he felt his lungs constrict. He paused in his walk and coughed into his hand. When he pulled it away he was surprised at the bright red now spotting his skin.
Red, like the rouge she put on her cheeks, like her ruby red lips, like the blood she had coughed onto his shoulder the night she died.
Christian shook his head and wiped his hands on his dark pants. "Same city," he muttered, "different names." He decided that now was a good time as ever to head back to his flat.
He was beginning to wonder whether he had really escaped his past, or if this was just a new way of having it all come back to him again.