Disclaimer: They're none of mine.
Notes: Why write it? Because Moulin Rouge slash is a great weakness of mine and there isn't nearly enough of it out there. I place the blame for this little vignette on a delicious Livejournal icon belonging to one Faith Accompli.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fanchon had been all her life in the city, not that she looked it. Her appearance had more than once proven advantageous. The vainer households delighted in showing off a servant who was both pretty and obedient, and she fit the criteria nicely. Due to her dark skin and eyes, most supposed her to be of Eastern descent. One fanciful family had taken to calling her Cleopatra, and she had rather liked the idea of being compared to a queen. She had been called many things in her life, but she always looked back on that one with a certain fondness. Her current employers, however, had re-christened her Fanchon, and so Fanchon she became.
A bony hand batted at Fanchon's arm in a manner she supposed was meant to seem threatening. "Piss off, why don't you?"
Her burst of compassion was beginning to curl at the edges. "Christ, I'm just trying to help."
The other girl was just as exotic and had seen all the places Fanchon never had. She had been in Moscow and Lisbon and the unpronounceable cities of the East. The sibilant syllables of her name were also unpronounceable, and were slurred sloppily together in the sobriquet Shong. Shong had seen the world in all its filth and glory and all it got her in the end was a dung-heap in the alley. Fanchon found her wearing weeks of grime and a green silk dress.
The cook was at her throat the instant the door closed.
"You know what you're like?" she demanded. "You're like the brat who brings home everything from stray kittens to sewer rats. Only you bring in people, which is worse. At least animals won't rob you blind." She cast a dark look at Fanchon's room, no doubt listening for any offensive noises within. "You'd best get rid of your pet before someone finds out."
Shong spoke three languages, albeit rarely, and swore as eloquently as Fanchon herself, far less rarely.
"I'm from China," she said once, curled on the bed in the flat they took after Fanchon's life of service came to an end, "but my father was a Russian." God alone knew how she had come to be in Paris, but Fanchon never pressed for more details than Shong was willing to give. Amber eyes, thickly fringed and slightly tilted, narrowed at an unseen point a few feet away. "The bastard had me sent away, I think. It was a long time ago." She half-shrugged and her hair fell forward; silently, Fanchon drew a finger along the severe, snowy streak that knifed through the dark cascade.
Not Shong. Xia-huan.
Try and say it.
They were recruited together and Shong hardly spoke to anyone else at first. When other dancers misplaced clothes or jewels, she was easy to put the blame on. Gypsy took her by the neck once and shook her like a tambourine. Fanchon, shrieking curses, knocked over a table of perfumes in her haste to seize the offender by her intricately plaited hair and slam her against the wall.
"Te quiero," he murmured, sluggishly reaching for Xia-huan's arm. Unruffled, she gave him a dazzling smile. It didn't matter whether she understood him or not; in most respects, men were remarkably homogenous.
"Is it all right if I bring my sister?" she asked, running a finger along his cheek.
The Argentinean blearily surveyed the dark-skinned girl beside her. "Querida, bring 'em both."
Years later, Fanchon, a vision in the bronze and indigo of her estranged homeland, is still the first to fish Xia-huan out of bad nights colored tar-black with smoke and screams, call her a china doll (a nickname Xia-huan hates, but tolerates), run a comb through sweaty black hair. When Fanchon storms in after another spat, seething like a panther, red streaks gleaming on her coppery face, Xia-huan is still the first to stride over with a damp cloth and quiet words, to drop a lipsticked kiss on the injured skin.
In this place, all things unattainable bump and mingle within easy reach, although some remain forever elusive. But not for everyone. They have seen to that, clawing their way to the top together, gleefully carrying their half of the apocalypse in miniated smiles, swirling skirts, and defiance of the ultimate impossibility.