Hey, people...this is my first fic on the moulin rouge i hope it turns out different to all the others--and i hope ya'll like it of course.

In this fic, Christian will actually FIGHT for Satine

"You promised," she gently nuzzled up against my shoulder. "You promised—that you wouldn't. be. Jealous."

I swallowed hard and my hold around her back tightened. When have I ever made such an unpromising contract with her? She knew that our relationship were much more than that of a deal. What is there to bargain for when one doesn't even know the original cost of love?

Yes, love. Above all things, love. And at this very moment, the thing that I needed the most—was love.

Yet I had to pretend.

The Moulin Rouge: a fantasy universe filled with an ever-lasting string of nighttime pleasures. I came a long way for Paris; And out of all the places, I chose the most innocence-consuming black hole as the inspiration for my endless desire of love.

I swallowed. What can I say? I'm the one who—so whole-heartedly— believed in truth, beauty, freedom and love. The value of love—that's what I think is most worthy of. But this is the wrong place to look for a gullible fantasy. Here, tricks jested by the creatures of the underworld works far more efficient than those words of mine. The songs that I sang, which once brought a spark of beauty in her eyes, were unsung for such a long time that I almost lost track of its perfect tune. And I guess I'll never find them again.

"I lied." I swallowed again. It was as if I could barely raise my voice above a whisper. It was that hard. "I'm jealous." I trembled. "Yes, I promised," She sighed a desperate sigh, and I felt my heart about to burst with the same reverberating despair. "Satine, but I'm the one with the ridiculous obsession with love, not you; you can't choose the one you truly love—I can." I took a deep breath and I drew away from her, my hand still on her shoulder.

The slanting rays of the overcast sunset were those of my words, those bloody, testifying last resorts I have, which are here and here for only one reason: to see if she really cares about love.

It's not about me, no. But it's about the duke. I don't care about the duke and nor does Satine. Yet Zidler does. Harold Zidler is the one that made the duke's existence an unyielding gloom over both me and Satine. I never saw him square on—not until just now. I haven't cared about his simple existence, until the moment when Satine had gone down the stairs a minute ago, to agree to sleep with him.

The thought itself was painful. Utterly painful to the guts that no words in my once carefree world have ever had the vocabulary to describe the tearing and shattering of my whole being.

"What do you mean? Christian," her eyes swept over me and pinned down on the floor on the left side, landing on the wooden floor, the way it swept every time she hears something that she doesn't want to and wants to turn her back on it.

"Look at me, Satine," my voice was hoarse with plea. "Tell me that you won't give in to the duke, Satine--" I made her face me with my own, trembling grasp. "I didn't do anything for you except…" I gasped for breath as I looked up and my gaze met hers square-on, "…for letting my stupid imagination run away with me…"

"Oh, Christian—that wasn't what I meant to say, you…"

Shush--"I know, I know, Satine; but what I meant to say is that I'm going to fight for you for real. I am to hold a duel with him. I told him about it--"