Moulin Rouge
Pairing: TezuFuji (main), one-sided AtoFuji; other canon pairings
Disclaimer: Not mine; not even the plot is.
I
It is the year 1900.
And the world is changing.
Tezuka Kunimitsu, though young, was very aware of the fact that old morals, antiquated ideals and long-standing sentiments were running out of time. Their existence was drawing to a close, slowly, but certainly, and with that, everything his parents and grandparents had believed and to a certain degree did still believe in, was doomed to give away to a new world.
And while people everywhere mourned the loss of old, venerated etiquette, there was something in the air that made this goodbye almost sweet.
Tezuka Kunimitsu, however, was no member of the new generation's young, hot-blooded idealists who wrote poetry about how the world had to be, proclaimed everything old worthless, pleaded for forsaking every kind of moral and dreamed of a society build on the goodness of the human heart.
To live on love and air – no, that was not, what had brought twenty year old Tezuka to this tumultuous, lively, infamous city on the Seine on one September evening. Neither was he one of those who replaced God with technical achievement; his believe in machinery was limited, because he held firm to that everything can only be as good as it's creator.
Everything considered his college friends might have been rather astonished had they heard Tezuka had crossed the Channel to enter the city of idealists itself. Had anyone dared to ask, he'd have received the following answer.
"Liberty." Tezuka had told his unsettled parents, "I want a chance to develop my own character free of influences and expectations. As you know yourself, if I stay here, I'll be caught in ever-the-same circles of society and those bounds will pose an unbreakable limit, not only for me personally, but also to my range of decision making."
Worried as his parents had been, they'd seen reason. And his grandfather had even been proud.
"Go over there, child, and live. So that, might God want it, if you come back, you won't fall prey to corruption and the temptations of this bored, frustrated society that can do nothing but watch its own demise helplessly with a glass of over-priced champagne."
And then his grandfather had turned away from the window, the sinking sun shining in through white lace curtains painting his face a gentle orange.
"I hope you'll learn something there. Maybe even that …"
Tezuka had spent the longest time of his journey puzzling over his grandfather's parting words. He had heard the term before, but only from his more naïve friends, or from overly idealistic poets. But his grandfather was neither; he was a strict, upright man, who gave little for sentimental whims.
So he couldn't possibly have meant that.
Paris didn't quite show its bright side to Tezuka. And when he'd been directed to Montmartre in search of an affordable flat, he had his first experience with the long-anticipated, infamous bohemian liberty, which he found lacking at the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, where the old elite still ruled.
The sort of liberty he encountered in Montmartre was not quite what he had expected. There were drunken men singing on the streets, girls and women out in clothing that would not even be considered decent within closed rooms and generally …
… this was more what he'd thought a bordello looked like.
And when he looked out of the window of the worn-down one-room apartment he'd finally rented, bright, blinking letters spelling out "Moulin Rouge" glared cheekily up at him. Swallowing, he closed the shutters, praying they would hold for his stay, while trying to find his inner equilibrium.
The infamous Moulin Rouge was just on the other side of the street. This symbol for everything rotten, indecent, decadent; everything that his parents had ever warned him about. The incorporation of everything the old society stood for.
Well, he'd just have to live with it for now.
So he unpacked his rather meagre belongings, and before long his cherished type-writer was set up. He'd concluded he'd use his stay to write something. Ideally a play, as his mother would be overjoyed and literary accomplishment was always an impressive feature in one's curriculum vitae.
Rubbing his hands together, he sat down, posed them over the typewriter--
-- and suddenly there was an odd crash behind him, and then, faster than he could even turn around, the ceiling had given in.
Dust, a flutter of papers in the air and an odd shape swinging like a mutated pendulum - and Tezuka couldn't quite believe his eyes. The shape, it turned out, was humanoid, blond-haired, strangely dressed and snoring.
Vaguely dumbfounded, Tezuka approached the spectacle, while the unannounced visitor (whose foot obviously had been caught within some kind of contraption that left him dangling upside-down) remained soundly asleep.
Three equally astonished faces looking down from the apartment overhead returned his inquiring glance.
Until one of them straightened up and pushed up eerily reflecting glasses. "Ii data." And he appeared about to add something, but a man with hair that was longer that proper on purpose and a rare shade of bluish black took the spotlight.
"Good afternoon, dear neighbour." The glasses wearing man said with a bright smile that was almost as dazzling as the clothes he wore (which weren't anything out of the ordinary, really, but somehow that individual managed to make classical clothing look bohemian).
"I fear we have not been introduced yet – unforgivable, honestly; but fate has smiled down on us. So let us act according to Fortuna's wishes – please join us over a glass of wine one floor closer to heaven."
And Tezuka could only nod.
The moment he crossed the threshold to the apartment over his own, Tezuka discovered he'd failed to appraise the weirdness of those people. The sudden, break-through like arrival of the human bat (that by now had been transported to a divan, but had yet to wake up) had been too much for his brain at that moment.
But now, taking a closer look of the inhabitants of the upper floor, Tezuka couldn't help but wonder what kind of a world he was just entering. And that was, if he disregarded the strange assortment of draperies, odd, mismatched furniture and a rather random collection of clothes, ranging from exotic to absurd. Not to say anything about the layer of glitter that covered everything in sight. A strange heady smell of spices, exotic perfumes, old socks and male sweat drifted about, almost visible in its density.
"Welcome, welcome, to our humble abode, dear strange, please mind your step as the most dangerous, most dazzling, most spectacular items have taken residence up on our floor."
This, to Tezuka meant, he'd better not look down.
His attention was drawn away from the fascinating array as one from the mismatched group stepped forward, bearing himself in his bohemian style suit like any good circus director would. Even if, admittedly, his vocabulary was far more elaborate and he was wearing glasses.
"… to the world where the most fantastic becomes reality. We are Spectacular Spectacular – and this…"
With a rather charming smile, he stepped behind a person even Tezuka would consider tall. Though, Tezuka's first impression was rather influenced by the glass the man was holding. Especially the blubbering, green liquid in it.
"… is our ingenious inventor. No matter what you want, be it an onstage thunderstorm or a love potion, if you want to evoke a deus ex machina or a favourable reaction from your greatest critic, this is the man you should ask – Inui Sadaharu."
Inui smiled. And held out that liquid. "Would you like to try it?"
As politely as possible Tezuka shook his head, failing to notice the bemused smiles that were being exchanged behind his back.
"This very polite man here is Ootori Choutarou – one of the most talented musicians you'll find you ever met. There's hardly an instrument he can't play and – hum a tune and he'll write you done the score. Play a chord and he'll tell you the key."
The individual in question by now was as red as an overripe tomato. Which was somewhat at odds with his rather rare hair colour. Tezuka, however, felt quite grateful that there appeared to be at least one normal individual among his neighbours.
"And then there's our sleeping beauty- Akutagawa Jirou." A thumb pointed into the direction of the still gaping hole, where the fourth member of the theatre ensemble still dangled. "One of his kind. A brilliant actor, really, but suffering from a rare condition – narcolepsy."
Tezuka didn't quite know whether he was expected to gasp or ask for an explanation. As far as he knew narcolepsy wasn't common, true, but whether suffering was really the right word to apply…
"Now, I won't tell you anymore, just be prepared to find yourself fascinated the moment he wakes up."
The other man glanced around, though Tezuka understood that the pause was for dramatic effect only. Still, the entire introduction was quite fetching, once one got used to its weirdness.
"Last but not least, let me introduce my humble self." An elegant bow. "My name is Oshitari Yuushi and I am the leader of Spectacular Spectacular. At your service."
The man possessed style. With a dramatic flair, but style nonetheless. Against his better judgement, Tezuka found himself just the slightest bit impressed. Like when he found a street musician that actually played well.
Still, his face expressed nothing of this when he bowed in front of those three expectant faces.
"Tezuka Kunimitsu. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
There was a moment of silence, but all of a sudden Oshitari's smile grew wider.
And more threatening.
Tezuka didn't quite step away. But, rather suspiciously he followed the direction, in which the dark haired man had turned his head. Looking over the odd knick-knacks covering the ground, until he arrived at the new connection between his own one-room apartment and this flat.
Where Jirou, snoring gently, was still dangling upside down.
But within the thick, tense silence, Tezuka felt that it wasn't his sleeping colleague, Oshitari was looking at.
"Say, Monsieur Tezuka…" Oshitari raised his voice, a dramatic trembolo enhancing his precise, smooth movements, "Might you perhaps be…."
And everybody was waiting with baited breath.
"A writer?"
"Well…" Tezuka wouldn't actually call himself a writer. Sure, he'd written short theatre pieces (which had been quite well received) during his time in college, written essays and short sketches in school and poetry in private, but he had yet to publish anything and thus earn the right to name himself a writer.
Still, Oshitari didn't appear put out. "You see, Monsieur Tezuka, we are currently without one. And a theatre ensemble without a writer is like a man without his heart; only a functional unit, like a golem, incapable of standing on his own feet, voicing his own thoughts, incapable to rear up against the constrictions of pre-made scripts like Prometheus against the Gods."
Tezuka merely raised an eyebrow. He happened to be rather fond of Prometheus, even if he thought there were better ways to go about a rebellion, but he wasn't about to tell that to a man he just met five minutes ago under the weirdest of circumstances.
Oshitari smiled rather benignly. "Don't mind what people tell you about manners, publishers or requirements. In my mind, if you can reproduce your thoughts on paper you are already a writer. It's only society that thinks it's the readers that make the writer, but this is already what makes us – Spectacular Spectacular – so spectacular. We are not like the rest of the world. We do not share their preference for the same, old stories! We want to realize new ideas, directly made into words and brought onto the stage without society meddling!"
Even though Tezuka almost recoiled from the pompous words, he reminded himself not to judge hastily. He'd come to Paris to get rid of all the prejudices that had been hammered into his head back in England, so maybe he ought to take the man in front of him a little more serious.
Certainly, the words used were pathetic and far too much. Though the intent behind them appeared honest – not like those people back at home holding speeches about the values of honesty and humanity and renouncing them the moment they stepped down from the podium.
Oshitari might not have the refined rhetorical skills of the upper class, but he had a vocabulary. And he was honestly enthusiastic.
Sensing his hesitation, Choutarou intervened with a smile. "It's not that bad, really. Just join us for a couple of days and try it – if it's not to your likening nobody's going to stop you from leaving."
Inui only nodded his silent agreement, then looked at his notebook again. "Should we stage on of your sketches we'll naturally share the profits with you."
… yes. He just had arrived in Paris and had on purpose not brought a lot of money with him. And writing home to ask his parents for more was not part of his plans either; what basically rendered him in dire need of a job.
So, after all, there was no actual reason to disagree.
Swallowing down the last bit of protest, Tezuka eventually nodded. "I guess I'll hazard a try."
"Excellent." Oshitari replied, while Choutarou looked overjoyed enough to spontaneously hug Tezuka. Inui chuckled behind his notebook, muttering something concerning the probability of Tezuka agreeing – and Tezuka silently wondered if it had really been a good idea to become a part of this madness.
A sudden change in the atmosphere however drew his mind away from all speculations.
"Tonight."
Oshitari's smirk grew promising, almost forebodingly dark.
"We'll celebrate."
Tezuka looked up; noticing how all heads turned abruptly and even Jirou woke with a hiccup.
"At the Moulin Rouge."
Red, electrically lit letters sparkled overhead, brightening the dark Parisian night sky and in front of Tezuka loomed well-polished, light brown double doors.
The gateway to the realm of Dionysus.
He could hear the music, fast, hard-paced; his mother would have claimed this was nothing any sane person could dance to; the smell of alcohol and smoke permeating the air, together with dark, sensuous perfumes, exotic aromas, and from time to time he caught a whiff of something even more forbidden. There were so many people milling around, he had at times difficulties to stick with his companions; black-clad men in tuxedos, members of every class of society had gathered here tonight.
He saw dark, polished horse-carriages being hidden in back alley, saw men, whose suits were torn and stitched – but all of them were so black, colourless, plain and plebeian compared to the women milling around. Dresses, so low cut and short that they ought not to be called dresses anymore, blood-red lips, faces as white as snow or darker than the night, bright, glittering diamonds, some faker than what was filling a lot of those décolleté and slowly he felt as if his senses were being over-stimulated.
And then, two stiff-standing, expressionless men opened the doors for the group and him.
Heavy, velvet draperies and finest, shimmering marble; red carpets on the ground and lively music, loud, half-hysterical laughter, women almost without dresses, skirts raised high enough to see garters, men with their shirts undone, bearing bright red lipstick marks all over their bodies, clinkering glasses, sparkling chandeliers, glittering necklaces, rose petals and top hats on the ground
Giggling women stumbled past him, their dresses in disarray and cheeks flushed, a stupidly smiling man following them on unsteady feet. A tumult to his left caught his attention; a closer glance revealed a dark-haired woman seductively sliding off her dress, while only a few paces father two men were plainly making out.
Swallowing, Tezuka did his best not to recoil in disgust – seeing the enthusiastic light in his new-found friends' eyes told him such a reaction would not be appreciated – he let himself stiffly be pulled through the crowd, while the music was getting louder and louder.
And then, all of a sudden, a voice rose above all the uproar and automatically all heads turned toward a stage that Tezuka hadn't even noticed before.
"Welcome to our temple of delight, dear Gentleman." A broad-shouldered, gaudily dressed man by the name of Momoshirou Takeshi was announcing. The multicoloured lights were making his hair shine in more colours, than even his outfit consisted of, and Tezuka couldn't tell whether his enthusiasm was real or just a professional act.
"Tonight, let me acquaintance you with the most sensual pleasures known to earth! Don't be afraid to approach our beautiful ladies, but be sure to pay your respects to them! And now, without further ado, here are Moulin Rouge's most beautiful, wonderful, ladies!"
With a graceful turn, he swung away, and exactly at that moment the lights dimmed, a hushed silence hung over the crowd and only the stage remained well-lit. An unfamiliar tickling within his stomach made Tezuka hold his breath.
Without any prior warning the first chord crashed into the wide hall, loud and cheerful and the lights lit up explosively; the curtains were whisked aside faster than the eye could follow and then there were brightly dressed women on the stage, one more beautiful than the other, dark-skinned, light-skinned, exotic and familiar, one girlishly pretty, the next sensually tempting, naively cheerful and fatally beautiful…
His head was spinning.
The scents, the colours, the drink somebody – Oshitari perhaps?- had pressed into his hand only minutes ago was destroying his rationality, playing tricks on his senses and all he could do was lean against one of the velvet covered pillars, while he could dimly hear Oshitari cheering in the distance. Inui's eyes rested fixed on one dark-haired dancer on the left side of the stage, his mouth slightly open and for once, his pen wasn't moving.
Those girls up front were dancing the cancan, voluminous skirts swinging up and up and up and then, as if a magical chord had been played, those girls descended from the stage and mingled with the crowd beneath excited cheers from all directions.
Tezuka took a step back, leaning against the solid wood behind him and knew further retreat was impossible. His newfound friends had abandoned him, leaving only a half-empty bottle, a softly snoring Jirou and overturned glasses behind as the hall became submerged in spectacular chaos of loud music, flashy clothes and multicoloured lights.
Just slightly to his left he found Oshitari standing rather closely to one of the red-haired dancers that had displayed surprisingly acrobatic moves during the show. The girl (even though Tezuka would have sworn he could make out an Adams apple there) was smiling coyly up at the dark haired man.
He turned his head further, trying to find Choutarou – the only one who'd even acted remotely sane during the show, but failed to spy him anywhere. Tezuka couldn't have known that Ootori Choutarou had long since been friends with the Moulin Rouge's main pianist, Shishido Ryou and the two of them had disappeared backstage in search of a quieter environment.
Inui however appeared to be enjoying himself just fine, showing something in his notebook to that one particular dark haired dancer, whose figure showed a surprising lack of curves compared to the other women working here.
As fascinating this decadent spectacle was, Tezuka concluded, it wasn't quite to his likening. The way men let go of all rationality and reduced those women to means to fulfil their desires wasn't quite what he associated with bohemian spirit.
But just as he turned towards the exit, the spotlights turned to the stage again. And once more, Tezuka caught sight of the tall, dark haired man gesturing to the audience to calm down.
"Are you enjoying yourselves?" Momoshirou Takeshi yelled, once again amazed by the countless flushed face staring up at him. "Is this enough?"
And smirked widely when the crowd roared in reply. He'd never thought he'd reach this point. But here he was – with his main star waiting for his cue just behind the curtain.
"No?" Momoshirou asked for clarification and somewhere in the back of the crowd Tezuka felt like rolling his eyes.
Tonight was special, Momoshirou knew. Not only because of the show, but because of the audience – if things went well the Moulin Rouge would be finally able to cast of its image as a shady establishment and become a fully recognized musical theatre.
If things went well…
The Moulin Rouge's star had promised to do the very best to convince the Duke, but…
Now was not the time for doubts or contemplations. Momoshirou smiled brightly, banishing all his worries from his mind for those seconds spend basking in the spotlight.
"Now, I shall give the Moulin Rouge's brightest jewel"
And even before he'd finished his exclamation the crowd was already screaming in ecstasy, clapping and stomping and Momoshirou could only yell his words over the crowd.
"Here is Fujiko!"
And bow out elegantly, just as the lights went out.
A reverent hush settled over the crowd. Even Jirou lifted his head from his comfortable resting place, blinking confusedly at the sudden change of lights. A strange sort of tension lingered in the air, making all hair on Tezuka's body stand.
"Oh…" Inui whispered, glasses glinting in the dimmed lights, "Here we go…"
And Oshitari, one arm still loosely thrown around his somewhat worried-looking red-haired companion, leaned over to conspiratorially whisper into Tezuka's ear: "Watch closely. Because this…"
All eyes turned up towards the ceiling, the room had fallen completely silent.
"…is a moment, you'll never forget for the rest of your live."
For some odd, inexplicable reason, Tezuka's heart shuddered. Gooseflesh rose on his back and a hush went through the silence.
With teary eyes, Tezuka, too turned his head upwards, looked against the blinding lights, where the outlines of a vague shadow were becoming visible. Like a small, small bird, high up against the sun; he couldn't make out any details, yet the contours were becoming clearer with each passing second and Tezuka held his breath.
Up there, sitting gracefully on the swing-like contraption, was possibly the most stunning human being Tezuka had ever laid eyes on. Long, slim legs peeked out from underneath the long, high-slit dress, dangled elegantly, and not even the sparkling jewellery she was wearing could outshine her face.
Smooth, porcelain white skin glowed in the lights, soft, silky looking brown hair framed a beautiful face and when those rose-red lips opened, his heart stopped.
"Diamonds."
A voice, smooth and enchanting, cut through the spell that seemed to hover about the breathless crowd. Blue eyes sparkled within the light, sensuous and promising, stunning in their brightness that seemed to outshine even the precious jewellery decorating her thin neck.
A smile flashed at the expectant crowd; and then those tempting lips opened again.
"… are a girl's best friend."
And then the music set in and everything blurred together. The only thing Tezuka would be able to recall clearly later on was the way Fuji moved; all graceful, subtle gestures and elegant smiles. He forgot to even listen to the words of the song, too lost in the sound of that rich voice.
Tezuka didn't see the Moulin Rouge's director in his colourful clothes walk past him and approach a tall, well-dressed man. Didn't hear the words exchanged behind his back.
How Momoshirou greeted Duke Atobe Keigo and asked him how he liked their show. And how said Atobe inquired whether it would be later to meet the main star in private after the show.
Tezuka's eyes were mesmerized by that beautiful creature that had stepped of the swing to tease the crowd further, accepting presents of admires only to hand them to others, play them until they were on the ground, begging.
But no matter how far she took it, her voice remained strong, unruffled. Her act professional, perfect to a degree that Tezuka hadn't seen even in London's upscale theatres. Fujiko – if that was her real name – was the incarnation of every playwright's dream.
And then, all of a sudden, their eyes met.
Tezuka at first thought it was a fluke, or maybe he was just another poor, soon to be heart-broken person on the receiving end of that dazzling smile, but those sparkling blue eyes lingered. As if to exchange a secret message with him.
… No. He had to be imagining things. Certainly, the alcohol and the air had addled with his brain. There was no way Fujiko would notice him among this sea of over-zealous admirers.
So why exactly was his heart racing like that?
Desperately trying to clear his head, Tezuka did the only thing he could and tore his eyes away. Turning around he almost collided with a tall, well-dressed man deep in conversation with the Moulin Rouge's director in spite of the noise surrounding them.
That man in the black coat didn't look a year older than Tezuka himself, but the way he carried himself – maybe he was one of those patrons. Those people that came here because things weren't working out at home anymore; that believed money could buy what they desired.
Still, this specimen in particular didn't quite fit the stereotype. But with a frown Tezuka turned around again as a pointed elbow courtesy of Oshitari connected with his side. The dark-haired man smirked, before wrapping an arm around his companion and disappearing into the rather indecently dancing crowd.
But there was no time for him to even register what Oshitari was about to do.
Because all of a sudden it seemed as if a spotlight had been aimed at his face; and Fujiko stood barely three metres away, surrounded by a kneeling admires. She was singing, something about women growing old, yet the words completely escaped Tezuka.
She'd caught his stare.
And was returning it with a soft little quirk of cherry-red lips; eyes sparkling with amusement. Tezuka held his breath, while the palms of his hands grew sweaty. He felt like tugging at the collar of his shirt, but willed his hands to remain motionless – and didn't even allow himself to give Fujiko anything other than a cool, collected glance in return.
Fujiko's smile widened, as if accepting an unvoiced challenge.
And without missing a beat or slipping up on a note, the Moulin Rouge's star detached herself from her fans, taking slow, almost predatory steps into Tezuka's direction. The young man didn't move, but his expression didn't change either; not even when Fujiko stopped right in front of him.
"Are you enjoying the show?" she whispered between her lines, a gloved hand coming to rest temptingly on Tezuka's shoulder. He could feel her warm breath on his cheek; barely heard her words over the thundering of his own heart.
He only nodded in reply, trying his best to keep his composure. Not that Fujiko was helping.
"I don't think you're enjoying it enough." She breathed directly into his ear; close enough for some strands of honey-brown hair to tickle Tezuka's cheek, "Why don't you join me on the dance floor?"
It wasn't a question, really. Good manners alone completely forbade Tezuka to reject any ladies' invitation; especially if that one was this extraordinarily beautiful.
Thus he inclined his head, stepped forward and put one hand on the small of her back, taking care not slip too low. For a split second he was almost surprised at how thin her waist seemed, how small that right hand felt within his grasp – and then the music changed.
He barely recognized the rhythm, yet long lessons had schooled him to automatically fall into step, stop thinking and let his body simply move along to the music. People always were surprised that a stiff man like himself was such an accomplished dancer, and he too could sense an ounce of astonishment in Fujiko's gaze, even if mirth was far more prominent.
Fujiko went along with long practiced ease, pressing herself even closer to Tezuka, so that he could feel their bodies touching. And sense the warmth radiating from her. She tilted her head to smile at him, as if to say his dancing skills were still rather mada mada dane.
Tezuka calmly raised an eyebrow and spun her around – skirt and hair flying – before calmly catching her again. Blue eyes glittered.
Left foot back. Wait. Right foot to the side; then two steps forward.
Fuji's left arm sneaked around his neck, teasingly playing with his hair; her body once again pressed closer than was decent – and Tezuka could feel every breath she took, every rise and fall of her chest.
Stop. Tezuka leaned forward, forcing her to bend backwards.
But Fujiko wasn't a well-accomplished dancer for nothing – she leaned back with ease, completely letting Tezuka support her weight, even as she found her head mere centimetres away from the wooden floor.
With a daring smile she let her left foot teasingly slide down Tezuka's leg, but the man firmly clung onto his composure. And dance time was almost up, too.
Tezuka spun her one last time, catching her expertly in his arms afterwards and found she looked even more beautiful, slightly flushed like this. He could feel his expression soften, but the conversation remained one-sided.
"You're a very good dancer – I like that." And than her voice grew softer, even more tempting and there was a light in her eyes Tezuka hadn't seen before.
"Why don't you come to the elephant after the show? I'll be waiting…"
And with one last coy brush of hair against his cheek she was gone, wading through throngs of admires like a queen; beautiful and aloof, singing once again that song about diamonds and women.
His mind was still spell-bound and his skin still tingled, and he didn't even notice how Inui came to stand at his side, eyeing him in unveiled interest. Neither did he notice the jealous glares he was being flashed by countless other men – all he could see were those sparkling blue eyes.
Even if this was fake – it was wonderfully thrilling.
Fujiko was distant again, settling gracefully on the swing once more. Her voice filled the hall, richer than ever and maybe it was just a trick of the light, but she appeared paler than before.
The swing begun its slow ascend as the song approached its final chords; notes getting longer and longer, yet Fuji effortlessly sung them all. No strain showed on her face, not even as the swing had almost reached the ceiling.
And then the music paused, allowing a solo for the singer, but…
Tezuka knew the moment he saw those red lips move in an inaudible gasp. Choutarou turned around the second the music remained silent a beat longer than scripted. Momoshirou's eyes widened in panic, while the crowd still watched in pure fascination.
'She can't breath.' Tezuka thought in shock, and before he even had grasped the implications, Fujiko's eyes fluttered closed. Still so stunningly graceful her body slowly sunk backwards; then small white fingers let go of the ropes.
She fell; a flutter of pale robes and honey-brown hair softly fluttering around that small body; a speechless crowd frozen motionless with shock.
Before anybody could even blink, however, her prone figure had been caught by a broad-shouldered man – not a guest here, Tezuka thought, judging by his plain clothes. A stage hand perhaps; or maybe one of the guardsmen; who, in a touching display of gentleness, gathered Fujiko in his arms and carefully carried her through the still silent crowd.
And out of sight, leaving some hundred men wondering what fate had befallen the Moulin Rouge's star. Even Tezuka couldn't shake off the sense of unease, the need to know that this was none of the tragic fates one Alexandre Dumashad written about.
But suddenly, as if nothing had happened, the Moulin Rouge's director was back on stage. Tezuka never heard what he shouted, but around him, the party continued.
Behind the scenes however things were far grimmer.
Momoshirou started running the moment he was out of the spotlight, immensely grateful that the dancers had taken their cue and immediately been ready to go on stage again. Even Kaidou and Gakuto had gone out, even though Momoshirou knew those two were quite close to Fuji.
No trace of Eiji, one of the Moulin Rouge's two famous acrobats, could be found onstage, but that was natural, he supposed, passing several stage hands in varying states of distress. As long as the show went on, everything was alright…
Momoshirou bit his lip and ducked underneath one old, dirty curtain that separated a small corner from the rest of the backstage area. Surrounded by a small group of worried friends Fuji rested on a worn couch; face far paler than normal.
Kawamura lingered silently in the background, concern written all across his features, but there was little he could do. There was little anyone could do, as even their long-time honorary doctor only gently shook his head in reply to something Eiji had asked.
"Oishi…" Momoshirou tentatively set out, still somewhat breathless from his short sprint backstage. The Duke was waiting, a small part of his mind reminded him, but right now there were far more important things.
Oishi looked up from his conversation with Eiji, a frown on his face. Almost tiredly he straightened up and his expression was already saying more than the Moulin Rouge's director wanted to hear.
"Momoshirou, it's…"
He didn't even finish his sentence as Fuji started coughing all of a sudden. Dry, painful coughs in the beginning, but they turned wet and hacking and Momoshirou felt all colour drain from his face.
Ice froze his mind and he could only watch helplessly as Eiji gently procured a handkerchief and began dabbing it against Fuji's mouth, making soothing noises. Oishi remained standing where he was – he already knew there was nothing he could do.
But when that white handkerchief came away sprinkled with blood, Momoshirou felt as if the ground underneath his feet had disappeared.
This meant…
"… should rest for tonight." He only belatedly caught the end of Oishi's sentence, eyes still transfixed on Fuji's prone form. The doctor was eyeing him with his lips pressed into a grim line, while Eiji made no move to hide the tears glittering in his eyes.
Momoshirou was about to nod, when a small voice in the back of his head protested. "But the Duke requested…"
"Momoshirou." Oishi said fiercely, "This isn't about requests of some wealthy gentlemen anymore. For Fuji this has become a matter of life and death. If …"
"It's Atobe Keigo." Momoshirou could only utter, feeling completely hopeless, "We can't refuse him…"
Oishi, too, fell silent. The name Atobe was well-known, not only in Paris. The young duke belonged to generation of heirs, which generally said little about their own capacities – yet Atobe Keigo had proved himself to be exceptionally gifted. With barely twenty he hadn't – like many of his peer group – spend his father's fortune, but tripled it.
His business acumen was legendary. His style notorious. His capabilities frightening.
But still, Fuji…
A soft cough drew Oishi's attention away from the turmoil inside his mind; and Momoshirou, too, turned to look at Fuji. Still too pale, and those blue eyes were slightly glazed, but their star was conscious and trying his best to sit up.
"I'll…" Fuji cleared his throat, swallowing down the metallic taste, "I'll meet him."
A gentle smile spread over blood-red lips and Momoshirou wondered if this was what heart-break felt like.
"Don't worry, you two. Just leave it to me."
tbc
Thank you very much for reading and please feel free to share any thoughts, comments and/or critic with me.