Here is my Moulin Rouge Klaine fic I said I would write! The ending is super weak, but it's a start! I'm on spring break all this week so I'll be able to update nightly hopefully! :)

Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. And then one not so very special day, I went to my typewriter, I sat down, and I wrote our story. A story about a time, a story about a place, a story about the people. But above all things, a story about love.

He could remember the first time he saw him. The image of the singing courtesan, emblazoned with feathers and sequins, spinning from the swing above the Moulin Rouge emitting notes higher than he had ever heard come from any male's mouth was burned into his mind. And every time he thinks about him, Blaine Anderson finds himself wiping away the tears and going back to his type writer.

The man I love is dead, Blaine types.

"The man I love is dead," he repeats as a whisper into the empty room.

He drags his fingers through his unkempt hair and looks out the window until all he sees is the Moulin Rouge windmill and he feels himself going back in time, to one year ago.

The night was colder than usual and Blaine pulled his coat tighter around him as he stepping the Moulin Rouge, with the prospects of submitting his show to the great risqué cabaret. "This is never going to work," he muttered through his grin to one of his companions.

"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised, monsieur. You never know what can happen here."

The ornate doors open and soon Blaine was facing the Moulin Rouge in all its glory. In front of him was a stage with elaborate decorations, lights hung from the ceiling, some draping down to create the feeling he had suddenly entered a circus tent. Surrounding the dance floor were small private booths, though Blaine thought the word private was used loosely here.

He grumbled as the party slid into one, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the hook outside the booth. "Blaine!" the smallest member of the group yelled, grabbing his hand and dragging him towards the dance floor, "You must dance!"

Blaine groaned inwardly; a quick scan of the room and he quickly saw there was no one here he wanted to dance with. The Moulin Rouge was filled with dancers, men and women alike, in sexy but somehow tasteful costumes. Everyone was attractive, with the right amount of rouge on their cheeks, but seemed hollow inside. They were courtesans; they were paid to give their love to the men in the audience. And nothing about that excited Blaine in the slightest.

And it wasn't because Blaine didn't want to fall in love, in fact he loved love more than anything else in the world. As a writer, there was nothing better to be infatuated with, his only fault being that he had never actually fallen in love with another person before.

While he was lost in thought once again, a leggy redhead had snuck her arms around his neck and was pressing her body against his while swaying in an erotic rhythm. Blaine tried to peel her off, say 'Thanks, but no thanks,' and return to the safety of the leather upholstered booth.

And then the lights went out.

Nothing on earth could prepare Blaine for what he was about to see. He was the star of Moulin Rouge, the most popular (and expensive) courtesan. The first thing Blaine saw wasn't the outfit of cream colored feathers and rhinestones wrapping around his slim frame. No, it was his skin. His pale alabaster skin that made his bright, blue eyes stand out, even though he was seated a good 15 feet above everyone else.

And that voice. It was pure and clean, and so high Blaine wondered if he was a eunuch. "Who is that?" Blaine whispered into the ear of the closest courtesan.

"That's Kurt," she snapped, and Blaine didn't know if that was out of bitter jealousy or anger towards Blaine's ignorance.

"Kurt," Blaine repeated, his eyes never straying from the beautiful countertenor who now was spinning on a trapeze while belting high notes.

The trapeze was slowly lowered and Kurt was helped off and stepped foot on the floor. He looked up demurely through his long lashes, making quick eye contact with Blaine before continuing his next song.

Blaine was surrounded by a sea of people and yet never felt more lost. In all his years of living, he had never seen anyone like the man before him now. He was transfixed by the beauty and grace he carried, but then there were those eyes. Those eyes that were hiding so many stories that Blaine desperately wanted to hear.

He stepped closer and closer to the center of the circle surrounding Kurt, pushing his way through. He had to get closer to him.

Kurt suddenly turned around, looking into Blaine's eyes for the first time. "You," he whispered, throwing his arms around Blaine's neck, pulling him closer to him, "I hear we are to…do business together."

Blaine's eyebrows shot up, "You heard? Already? Well, yes. We'd love to collaborate, if you'll have it."

"Oh, sweetheart," Kurt said, moving his hips in a rather distracting manner, "I'd love to collaborate with you."

A goofy giggle escaped Blaine's lips before he could even try to repress it. Kurt smiled back, bringing his body closer to Blaine's.

Blaine let his hands slip lower down Kurt, until they were resting on the curve on the small of his back. "Watch it," Kurt snapped, bringing Blaine's hands back up, "You haven't paid yet."

He allowed Blaine to dance with him for the remainder of the song, before slipping back into the crowd and back onto the trapeze. As he finished the song on another spectacular high note, something went wrong. Blaine saw Kurt's body go rigid and let go of the swing before falling, thankfully safely, into the arms of a man waiting below. The crowd, Blaine included, cheered it off as though it was part of the act, whooping at the great feat they had just witnessed.

The manager of the Moulin Rouge quickly escorted Kurt's limp body offstage, hushing the crowd as he sent on more dancers in his place.

Kurt started to stir on a cot backstage. His nurse stood above him, her face worn with wrinkles, proffering him a spoonful of medicine. "Take this love," she said as he took the spoon in his mouth.

"There. Better?"

Kurt nodded, pushing himself up to rest on his forearms. "My costume is much too tight," he insisted, taking the handkerchief from the nurse to cough in to.

What Kurt didn't notice as he tossed the handkerchief aside to change was that the white piece of cloth was speckled in red blood.