Not quite the comedy that its name suggests, this is a Moulin Rouge/Phantom of the Opera crossover involving two heartbroken men sharing their thoughts over a drink.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Moulin Rouge. I don't own The Phantom of the Opera. Technically I don't really even own the title. I think that covers just about everything…
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No one noticed the young man as he entered the noisy pub. If they had cared, they would have recognized him, but that was fine with him. He preferred the anonymity. He didn't come to make friends, he reminded himself as he peered through the smoke-choked bar-light. He came to forget.
"Absinthe, please," he said, settling in at the corner of the bar and draping his coat and scarf over the stool beside him.
"Go home, Christian," the large man behind the bar advised. "You're too young to be in here.
"I'm old enough."
"That's not what I meant." The bartender leaned over the bar. His eyes showed concern. "This is where old men come to drink themselves to death, Christian," he whispered. "You don't want to be like them. Go home."
"My drink please," he reminded him shortly. So much for anonymity.
He sighed. "Have it your way, son." He prepared it in the traditional way, dribbling it slowly over a stark-white sugar cube, and placed it hesitantly on the bar. He watched Christian for another moment before returning to his work.
"Absinthe- a bit strong for an English boy like you," a voice whispered from the shadows.
"What?"
After a brief pause, it continued in a softer tone. "You've lost someone."
Christian looked around. He had no idea where the voice had come from until an older man leaned forward out of the shadows. He wore a cape, tuxedo, black gloves and a fedora. The brim of his hat was pulled down low on his forehead so Christian couldn't get a good look at his face.
"Oh, excuse me. I didn't realize you were sitting there." He gathered his things and started to move.
"I don't mind. You may stay."
"Um, alright." He returned to his seat and laid down his coat and hat again.
"Who was she?"
"I'd rather not talk about it," he muttered, taking a sip of his drink and grimacing.
"She was your first?"
Christian turned to face him. "Who are you?" he demanded, irritated.
"My name is Erik," the shadowy man replied simply. He tipped his hat up a little, revealing the white half-mask beneath it.
Christian gasped. "You- I've heard of you!"
"Please don't shout, Christian," Erik cautioned.
Christian looked around and then leaned toward him. "You're the Opera Ghost!" he exclaimed in an excited whisper.
"Ghost?" Erik frowned. "I never liked that title. I was once called the- "
"Angel of Music," Christian finished, wide-eyed. "I know. I've heard your voice is the most captivating sound in all the world. All of the Parisian Underground knows of you."
Erik shook his head. "I don't sing anymore," he said quietly, wondering silently to himself why this boy hadn't mentioned anything of his crimes. Maybe he was afraid. 'Like she had been,' he thought, narrowing his eyes.
"What do you mean you don't sing anymore?" the boy nearly cried, then regained his composure. "I don't understand. How could you just turn it off like that?"
Erik considered him thoughtfully before he changed the subject. "I'm certain my music isn't all you know me by. So few do. Most recognize me for a more wicked reputation."
Christian lowered his eyes to look into his glass. "I know." He looked up and met his eyes. "But you did those things for love. I'm not so sure I wouldn't have done the same."
"You don't know the whole story." Erik looked away.
"No, but I know what it's like to be consumed by jealousy, and I know what it can drive you to."
Erik cocked his head to the side. "So, who was she?"
"She was a- " Christian swallowed hard. "She was a courtesan. Her name was Satine."
Erik scoffed. "A courtesan? You were in love with a courtesan!"
Christian winced. "Yes."
"Well done, son. I hope you didn't catch anything unpleasant," he laughed callously and took a drink from his glass."
Christian shot out of his chair, his face red. "I won't hear you speak of her that way!" he cried, frantically grappling for the masked man's throat.
Erik seized his hands and forced him back to his seat. "Calm down, man. You're making a scene!" He pulled his hat down further over his eyes as he looked around. "Crazy Bohemian," he muttered, but as far as he could see, no one had been bothered enough to notice Christian's outburst. Must happen often here, he thought, not exactly surprised, but relieved.
Christian propped his head up on his arms and covered his face with his hands. "She was a can-can dancer at the Moulin Rouge when it was still in commission. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I loved her at first sight. Neither of us knew love until we found each other. We had plans to run away together. I wanted to take her away from there as much as she wanted to be free of it, but-" His voice cracked and he snatched his glass up for another drink. "As it turned out, God had other plans. She died in my arms, and there wasn't a thing I could do for her," he spat.
Erik sat silent for a moment before he spoke. "Perhaps you were luckier than I thought."
Christian looked up at him quizzically.
"Her name was Christine," Erik began. "She had the love of a young Vicomte, Raoul de Chagny, who was almost as beautiful as she was. He was young, handsome, rich, and highly respected. They also had history- "childhood sweethearts", it seems. Obviously I could not compare to him, but I could not bear to lose Christine. So I forbade her from seeing him.
"I had been giving her singing lessons, under the pseudonym of the Angel of Music, a creature planted in her head by her deceased father's fairy tales. Later, I would reveal to her my true identity, but right then all I could think of was getting rid of this Vicomte. He was persistent, however, and she succumbed to his charms. She tried to hide it from me, but inside the Paris Opera House, the walls have eyes… not to mention ears. I heard every word they said to each other, and it drove me mad. So, I forced her to choose. And she chose me."
Christian was completely enraptured. "But then what happened? Where is she now?"
He sighed. "She only did it to save him. You see, my conditions were that if she chose me, the Vicomte would go free. Otherwise, he would die and she would have to go through life as I had: brokenhearted, longing for the one who was unattainable."
"That was cruel," Christian said quietly, looking down at his hands.
"Yes, I suppose it was," Erik replied evenly.
"But I'm not so sure I wouldn't have done the same." He looked up. "Go on."
"In the end, I let her go. If she loved him so much that she would give up her life for his and spend it with me, she deserved much more than a gargoyle such as myself."
"I tried that," Christian reflected solemnly. "There was a point where Satine left me; it was for a Duke. She said he'd offered her a new life, a career as an actress, everything she'd ever wanted. How could I compete? She would be better off with someone who could afford to give her everything she deserved anyway." Christian hesitated. "I had a friend, however, who wasn't so easily satisfied. He was convinced that she still cared for me. I tried to ignore him, but the minute he confessed his suspicions, I began to doubt. What if he was right? I mean, how could I live my life knowing she was out there somewhere with another man-- against her will?" He swirled the green liquid around in his glass.
"And what did you do?"
"I went back. What else could I do? I loved her. I would've died for her. I almost did." His eyes began to cloud. "If only we'd known. If only I'd known…"
He sighed. "Satine was sick. Consumption. You'd never know it the way she sang."
Erik smiled inwardly. He understood well the power that a woman's voice could exert over a man's heart.
Christian laughed. "Not like an angel, no. She was wild. Cat-like-"
"Unrestrained," Erik finished, fondly remembering a young dark-haired girl dressed in black and gold, white lacey sleeves hanging from her shoulders, a red rose in her hair. He grimaced a moment later when he remembered the conclusion to that fateful night. "Everything had been going according to plan, and then-"
"There was a conspiracy. She lied to me-" Christian's brow furrowed in bewilderment as if he still couldn't quite grasp what he was saying.
"Yes!" Erik hissed, rage flooding through him again at the remembrance of the betrayal.
Christian's eyes clouded over. "And then, things just-"
"Fell apart," the older man sighed tiredly.
Christian downed the remainder of his drink. The bartender eyed him, concerned. He choked until he sagged, defeated, on his stool, his head buried in his arms on the bar.
Erik regarded him silently for several minutes. Then, he shook his head.
"Monsieur, if you don't mind my asking, how do you plan to get home?"
"I'll walk," he stated miserably without lifting his head.
"Walk? You can hardly stand."
Christian raised his head and scowled at him. "I can manage just fine, thank you," he said curtly. To prove it, he put on his coat and hat, and with a mighty lunge, hoisted himself off the stool and into a nearby table hosting a party of six. Amid the indignant exclamations and hoots of laughter, Erik appeared and helped the young man up.
"I apologize for my companion, Madames and Monsieurs," he said to the party as he hauled Christian away quickly. "He is not himself tonight."
"You'll do well to keep your servants on a leash, Monsieur, if you're going to take them into town with you!"
"Servant! He couldn't serve table wine without his hands shaking and his nose turning red just from the smell of it!"
Erik rolled his eyes. Lucky for them, the dolts were too drunk to want to fight, and too ignorant to recognize him. They must have thought he was a man of nobility and Christian his servant.
"You haven't much of a head for spirits, my friend." He propped Christian up on his stool and straightened his suit. "Where do you live?"
"I have a flat with a friend."
"Is that so?" He slung Christian's arm over his shoulders and began walking him to the door.
"Yes. His name is Henri Marie Raymond Toulouse Lautrec Monfa," Christian slurred over the syllables with more than a little difficulty.
"Toulouse Lautrec…" Erik echoed thoughtfully. The name sounded familiar.
"Mmm-hmm, but he always says to call him Toulouse." They reached the door and Christian tripped over the doorframe, nearly bringing Erik down. The street was icy and fat snowflakes fell silently.
"I see," he strained, putting the boy back up on his feet. I'm getting too old for this, he thought to himself as he negotiated the frozen patches. Finally they reached the coach Erik had brought. He tapped on the door to wake up the driver who had slipped inside to escape the cold. The scruffy man bowed apologetically for dozing off and began readying the horses.
"To the old Libertine Hotel, my good man," Christian addressed the coach driver and giggled before turning back to Erik. "Toulouse is a wonderful fellow. He really is. You should meet him! We write songs together," he babbled.
"I'm sure he's a brilliant man," Erik replied and gave him a little shove into the carriage.
Christian flopped gracelessly to the floor and began to laugh.
"Come on, man, get up. You're making a fool of yourself."
"I am a fool, and so are you," he said and laughed harder. "Everybody plays the fool," he sang to a strange melody Erik had never heard before.
The masked man cocked an eyebrow. "What have I gotten myself into?" he grumbled before he climbed in and shut the door. He seated himself across from Christian, who was slumped against the wall of the carriage, humming a little tune to himself. It was different from the other one, simpler, more sweet. He seemed to be in his own little world, and Erik let him have it. He sensed that he wasn't much good for conversation at the moment, anyway.
Soon the tune turned into words:
"She can kill with a smile,
She can wound with her eyes…"
Christian furrowed his brow, seemingly looking for the words to continue. In an instant he found them and they poured out of him effortlessly:
She can ruin your faith with her casual lies,
And she only reveals what she wants you to see
She hides like a child
But she's always a woman to me…"
They soon reached the old hotel, long out of commission. The carriage stopped and Erik helped Christian negotiate his way out of the carriage. Once the young man was securely on his feet, Erik headed back to the carriage.
"W- wait! Mister Erik! Aren't you coming to meet Toulouse?"
"Not tonight, Monsieur. Get some rest. We'll meet again. Au revoir." With a flourish of his cape, he disappeared into the carriage and rode away into the night. Christian watched him go, a childish smile growing on his face. "Toulouse!" he hollered, indifferent to who heard him or who was sleeping. He ran up the stairs and disappeared into the building. "Toulouse, wake up! You'll never guess! Touloooooouuuuse!"
Erik sat looking out the window at the snowflakes drifting by. He found himself humming the little song Christian had composed in his drunken stupor. The words were simple and Erik had to smile. It wasn't music from the Opera, but there was a revolution happening, and this boy was the heart and soul of it. He was the future. Quietly, he began to sing:
"She can kill with a smile,
She can wound with her eyes…"
She can ruin your faith with her casual lies,
And she only reveals what she wants you to see
She hides like a child
But she's always a woman to me…"
The end.