DISCLAI--- oh never mind.
A/N: Uh, please review? Oh, and this is my first Moulin Rouge fic so go easy on me, I bruise easily. I already have too much bruises. Lol… ; )
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This story is about deception, faith, salvation, believing in yourself, and of course, having fun while your doing it.
*
"YOU WILL NOT BE WASTING YOUR TIME WRITING ABOUT LOVE IN THE MOULIN ROUGE!"
A dumpy, frail man with a bushy white beard and a humungous bald spot in the middle of his shiny head shouted into Christian's face, making him wince at the ghastly breath his father never seemed to get rid of. "You will not waste your time writing about love in the Moulin Rouge!" The old man leaned against his luxurious Oakwood cane. He said it over and over again until he implemented into his son's head, and he would scream it over and over again until he lost his scratchy voice.
Christian looked into his father's stormy gray eyes and reluctantly nodded. "I will not be a writer, do not worry. Writers do not get the money. I am aware of that." Christian swallowed down the hallow feeling in his throat, with a feeling of guilt for saying those words.
He lived for writing, for singing out beautiful words of praise and love to gorgeous girls of London royalty, making them weak at the knees, and making their hearts flutter rapidly. He wished to go to the heart of Paris, Montemarte, where the much-anticipated bohemian storm was infusing. Montemarte, where the artists, painters, and writers of the bohemian revolution were waiting anxiously for his arrival—a rich, spoiled bard from the chic high-society of London. Instead, was going to live a boring life--- probably a desk job as an unexciting journalist writing about the commencing World War, with his father's dull friend from who knows where. The last thing this writer wanted to be was a lying, insincere, journalist who wrote for a broadsheet that the smart citizens used for wiping their bums. Christian was full of raw, insatiable love that his father never received. Love, that the right, respectable women--- courtesans, preferably, would be awarded with. Christian plucked his top hat off his head and set it down on his bedside table. He watched his father, who looked like his head wasn't in London. His small, usually critical eyes were gazing out Christian's skylight. His look was faraway and whimsical, and he smiled, as if reminiscing, and then his father frowned, and he looked distressed. For the first time Christian truly looked at his father with respect and admiration, he followed it up with a fake grin plastered on his amiable face.
His father's blood pressure seemed to lower, and he twisted his mouth up menacingly, which was supposed to be a smile. "Well then, you will simply work for my friend, yes? He is wonderfully wealthy, my boy." He winked.
Christian faced the window over looking the busy streets of London from the zenith floor of his sky-scraping edifice. 'More women over in Paris, more poems to be written, more love songs to be sung from various balconies, and… more love to be found.' He aspired. 'But I do not wish to work for father's friend. I want to write for the Moulin Rouge, write a play, a novel, even a tiny poem, anything about love and being loved in return!' Christian turned around and looked into his father's hopeful face. "I am not so sure." He said as he folded his hands behind his back.
His uncle's small, peering gray eyes widened and his look turned scandalized. "What do you mean? You want to go to the Moulin Rouge?" He sputtered, "Christian, a respectable young boy from a good position in society getting wasted in the Moulin Rouge with a cancan dancer?" His father looked ready to snivel and blubber.
Christian laughed. "How are you so sure that Mr. Wilkes, a respectable old boy from a good position in society, who plays poker with you every Sunday, hasn't been to the infamous Moulin Rouge?" He shook his head. "If you only heard the tales he has told me about Montemarte, Moulin Rouge, and the courtesans, well, father, you would want to go as well---"
"STOP THIS AT ONCE!" Even if he was old and feeble, Christian's father could yell pretty well when the time called for it. "So it's that Wilkes who has been putting ideas in your head? The dancers in that… place… are dirty and not to be trusted. They do not know the meaning of real love, my boy."
Christian gazed up at his father, who held a lot of wisdom in his eyes. Christian had never listened to his father sincerely, but he knew this time that this old man was speaking the truth. That he knew what he was speaking of. It was like he learned---
From experience.
So that's how Christian found himself promising to the old man (who was about to get a heart attack--- again due to his flighty son) that he would not step into the Moulin Rouge, and speak not but one word to a cancan dancer, except of course, He was with a substantial, respected man like his friend, who Christian will be living with. And this led to Christian into asking, "So whom will I be staying with while in France, father?"
His father grinned. "Ah, you will get along just fine."
"Really?" Christian laughed.
"Yes! He is part of the best circles in Paris, and---"
Christian was becoming intolerant. "Who is he?"
"Rich! Did I mention that?"
"WHO??" Christian stood up.
Christian's father sighed amusingly. "The duke."
*
A/N: Oooohh… Lol… ; ) Next chapter we go to that elephant, in the Moulin Rouge, in Montemarte, in Paris, France… ; ) and Please review!! ; ) PLEASE!!!
A/N: Uh, please review? Oh, and this is my first Moulin Rouge fic so go easy on me, I bruise easily. I already have too much bruises. Lol… ; )
*
This story is about deception, faith, salvation, believing in yourself, and of course, having fun while your doing it.
*
"YOU WILL NOT BE WASTING YOUR TIME WRITING ABOUT LOVE IN THE MOULIN ROUGE!"
A dumpy, frail man with a bushy white beard and a humungous bald spot in the middle of his shiny head shouted into Christian's face, making him wince at the ghastly breath his father never seemed to get rid of. "You will not waste your time writing about love in the Moulin Rouge!" The old man leaned against his luxurious Oakwood cane. He said it over and over again until he implemented into his son's head, and he would scream it over and over again until he lost his scratchy voice.
Christian looked into his father's stormy gray eyes and reluctantly nodded. "I will not be a writer, do not worry. Writers do not get the money. I am aware of that." Christian swallowed down the hallow feeling in his throat, with a feeling of guilt for saying those words.
He lived for writing, for singing out beautiful words of praise and love to gorgeous girls of London royalty, making them weak at the knees, and making their hearts flutter rapidly. He wished to go to the heart of Paris, Montemarte, where the much-anticipated bohemian storm was infusing. Montemarte, where the artists, painters, and writers of the bohemian revolution were waiting anxiously for his arrival—a rich, spoiled bard from the chic high-society of London. Instead, was going to live a boring life--- probably a desk job as an unexciting journalist writing about the commencing World War, with his father's dull friend from who knows where. The last thing this writer wanted to be was a lying, insincere, journalist who wrote for a broadsheet that the smart citizens used for wiping their bums. Christian was full of raw, insatiable love that his father never received. Love, that the right, respectable women--- courtesans, preferably, would be awarded with. Christian plucked his top hat off his head and set it down on his bedside table. He watched his father, who looked like his head wasn't in London. His small, usually critical eyes were gazing out Christian's skylight. His look was faraway and whimsical, and he smiled, as if reminiscing, and then his father frowned, and he looked distressed. For the first time Christian truly looked at his father with respect and admiration, he followed it up with a fake grin plastered on his amiable face.
His father's blood pressure seemed to lower, and he twisted his mouth up menacingly, which was supposed to be a smile. "Well then, you will simply work for my friend, yes? He is wonderfully wealthy, my boy." He winked.
Christian faced the window over looking the busy streets of London from the zenith floor of his sky-scraping edifice. 'More women over in Paris, more poems to be written, more love songs to be sung from various balconies, and… more love to be found.' He aspired. 'But I do not wish to work for father's friend. I want to write for the Moulin Rouge, write a play, a novel, even a tiny poem, anything about love and being loved in return!' Christian turned around and looked into his father's hopeful face. "I am not so sure." He said as he folded his hands behind his back.
His uncle's small, peering gray eyes widened and his look turned scandalized. "What do you mean? You want to go to the Moulin Rouge?" He sputtered, "Christian, a respectable young boy from a good position in society getting wasted in the Moulin Rouge with a cancan dancer?" His father looked ready to snivel and blubber.
Christian laughed. "How are you so sure that Mr. Wilkes, a respectable old boy from a good position in society, who plays poker with you every Sunday, hasn't been to the infamous Moulin Rouge?" He shook his head. "If you only heard the tales he has told me about Montemarte, Moulin Rouge, and the courtesans, well, father, you would want to go as well---"
"STOP THIS AT ONCE!" Even if he was old and feeble, Christian's father could yell pretty well when the time called for it. "So it's that Wilkes who has been putting ideas in your head? The dancers in that… place… are dirty and not to be trusted. They do not know the meaning of real love, my boy."
Christian gazed up at his father, who held a lot of wisdom in his eyes. Christian had never listened to his father sincerely, but he knew this time that this old man was speaking the truth. That he knew what he was speaking of. It was like he learned---
From experience.
So that's how Christian found himself promising to the old man (who was about to get a heart attack--- again due to his flighty son) that he would not step into the Moulin Rouge, and speak not but one word to a cancan dancer, except of course, He was with a substantial, respected man like his friend, who Christian will be living with. And this led to Christian into asking, "So whom will I be staying with while in France, father?"
His father grinned. "Ah, you will get along just fine."
"Really?" Christian laughed.
"Yes! He is part of the best circles in Paris, and---"
Christian was becoming intolerant. "Who is he?"
"Rich! Did I mention that?"
"WHO??" Christian stood up.
Christian's father sighed amusingly. "The duke."
*
A/N: Oooohh… Lol… ; ) Next chapter we go to that elephant, in the Moulin Rouge, in Montemarte, in Paris, France… ; ) and Please review!! ; ) PLEASE!!!