Eavesdropping
[A/N from "Rosemarie-ouhisama": Lady McClellan (author of the fabulous Christian's Patron) proposed a collaborative Moulin Rouge fanfic, taking as our point of departure the "I Don't Want You to Sleep with Him" scene (or as Lady M. put it: "What the hell is Christian whining about? Satine's the one who actually has to sleep with the Duke! He should be comforting her, not giving her a guilt trip over it!") Well, this was one of the first things that came burbling out of my head. In the end we rejected it for the soon-to-be-unleashed-on-the-'net collaborative fic but Nini INSISTED she have her say and this a "teaser" for things to come, or as an "outtake" of sorts.
And yes, Nini's dialect is rather strong here. Consider yourselves forewarned, and proceed accordingly.
Disclaimer: "Moulin Rouge!" and all it's characters belong to Baz Luhrmann and Craig Pierce; © 2001 Twentieth Century Fox. Without further ado...]
"I don't want you to sleep with him."
"He could destroy everything."
I swear, a body can't go anywhere in this cursed fake windmill without bein' forced to listen to the two of 'em - The poet and the strumpet. Shakespeare and his Diamond, his Scarlet Whore. They've gotten disgustin' lately, billin' and cooin' like doves, makin' eyes at each other as if they think no one else sees what's goin' on. Maybe they really believe that; maybe they're both so self-centered – or else just blind, deaf and dumb – that they forget the rest of us even exist. Oh, but we got eyes, all right – eyes and ears – and there ain't no mistakin' what's going on 'tween the two of 'em.
I was only just trying to take a break after a long day of rehearsin' that stupid play of Shakespeare's, hopin' to find a spot where I could put up me weary feet and enjoy a cig. I found an 'allway backstage; there was no place to sit, but at least it was empty and I could enjoy my fag in peace. So I thought. Then I 'eard their voices comin' through from the other side of the wall, though they was a mite bit muffled. I damn near walked away right then – I'd 'ad my fill of the two of 'em for a lifetime's worth, I swear. But something about the tone of his voice caught my attention – not the usual lovey-dovey simperin', but a low, desperate whine. He sounded like a pup what's been abandoned in the back alley, starvin' and frightened for it's mum.
I kept the cigarette 'tween my fingers but didn't light it, so the smoke and smell wouldn't give me away. This might be interestin', I thought – not that I'm one to eavesdrop, mind.
"It's for us," she nearly hissed through her pearly-white teeth.
I smirked at that one – nearly choked on it, as a matter of fact. So it's all been for HIM, 'as it sweetie? Pretendin' you love the Duke, climbin' the social ladder, settin' yer star in place – at the same time as y' been stringin' your boytoy along just for the fun of it? How long before yer pathetic poet becomes an inconvenience and y' forget about 'im altogether, eh?
Yeah, it's all for 'im. Go ahead and believe what y' want to believe. Both o' you, the whore and the poet? The liar and the fool, more like. What a well-matched pair they are.
"You promised me you wouldn't be jealous," she whispers.
Stupid Shakespeare – do you actually believe 'er silky promises? Have y' forgotten she's a whore, and an actress to boot? A world-class one at that, too I'll give 'er that much. The best I ever saw – with 'er, the pretendin' never stops. Maybe I shouldn't be so 'ard on 'im. After all, I never did see anyone in all my days as naïve as that boy.
Still, there's somethin' about the boy what sets my teeth on edge.
"I don't want you to sleep with him."
Are you daft, Shakespeare? She's a whore – that's her flippin' job! What the 'ell did you think you was signin' up for, shackin' up with 'er, eh?
Oh, this is too much; this is too damn much.
Yeah, it's all for 'im, ain't it, Satine? Lemme ask you, is 'iding yer illness all for 'im as well? That's another thing y' think we don't notice. Can y' be so stupid, girl, as to not notice it yerself? The coughin', the sweat-stained brows, the faintin' – I thought you was fakin' it the first time y' fell off that damned trapeze of yours, 'til I looked over Marie's shoulder and saw the spots of blood soilin' yer dainty lace- edged handkerchief.
And the way you've become so thin that the curves of yer breasts, cheeks and lips withered to almost nothin'? So pale, you are, and always tryin' to catch yer breath – 'ow could y' think that all of us 'ere wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't notice? I, who know you better than anyone else around 'ere? Knew y' a damn sight better 'n that fool boy can ever claim to. He ain't never lived our life of lies – but I have. For better or frickin' worse, Satine – I know you.
And the thing what really boggles me brain (what there is of it - I ain't claimin' ta be no genius) is that Shakespeare ain't noticed any of this. How is it that everyone else ('cepting the Duke, of course, but he's 'is own special class of idiot) is in on the secret 'cept you, Shakespeare? Yer beloved Diamond is dyin'.
"No – no!" Now 'e's, beggin' 'er not to sleep with that Duke. Amazin'. It was part of the package from the get-go Shakespeare; y' knew that well as anyone!
"Come...what...may..."
And she's lyin' to save 'is precious feelings. Or to save 'is perfect image of her. His angel. More like 'is tarnished angel.
Disgustin', is what it is.
"Come what may," he whispers. I see 'im walk past me in the hall, alone for once. He doesn't notice me in the shadows 'cause his eyes is 'ittin' the floorboards; he's too focused on his own misery. Yeah, life's 'ard, ain't it Shakespeare? A real tragedy is what it is.
I say it's about damn time that boy got 'imself a real thorough education. Someone ought'a open his eyes with the truth.
And I'm just the person to do it.
[A/N from "Rosemarie-ouhisama": Lady McClellan (author of the fabulous Christian's Patron) proposed a collaborative Moulin Rouge fanfic, taking as our point of departure the "I Don't Want You to Sleep with Him" scene (or as Lady M. put it: "What the hell is Christian whining about? Satine's the one who actually has to sleep with the Duke! He should be comforting her, not giving her a guilt trip over it!") Well, this was one of the first things that came burbling out of my head. In the end we rejected it for the soon-to-be-unleashed-on-the-'net collaborative fic but Nini INSISTED she have her say and this a "teaser" for things to come, or as an "outtake" of sorts.
And yes, Nini's dialect is rather strong here. Consider yourselves forewarned, and proceed accordingly.
Disclaimer: "Moulin Rouge!" and all it's characters belong to Baz Luhrmann and Craig Pierce; © 2001 Twentieth Century Fox. Without further ado...]
"I don't want you to sleep with him."
"He could destroy everything."
I swear, a body can't go anywhere in this cursed fake windmill without bein' forced to listen to the two of 'em - The poet and the strumpet. Shakespeare and his Diamond, his Scarlet Whore. They've gotten disgustin' lately, billin' and cooin' like doves, makin' eyes at each other as if they think no one else sees what's goin' on. Maybe they really believe that; maybe they're both so self-centered – or else just blind, deaf and dumb – that they forget the rest of us even exist. Oh, but we got eyes, all right – eyes and ears – and there ain't no mistakin' what's going on 'tween the two of 'em.
I was only just trying to take a break after a long day of rehearsin' that stupid play of Shakespeare's, hopin' to find a spot where I could put up me weary feet and enjoy a cig. I found an 'allway backstage; there was no place to sit, but at least it was empty and I could enjoy my fag in peace. So I thought. Then I 'eard their voices comin' through from the other side of the wall, though they was a mite bit muffled. I damn near walked away right then – I'd 'ad my fill of the two of 'em for a lifetime's worth, I swear. But something about the tone of his voice caught my attention – not the usual lovey-dovey simperin', but a low, desperate whine. He sounded like a pup what's been abandoned in the back alley, starvin' and frightened for it's mum.
I kept the cigarette 'tween my fingers but didn't light it, so the smoke and smell wouldn't give me away. This might be interestin', I thought – not that I'm one to eavesdrop, mind.
"It's for us," she nearly hissed through her pearly-white teeth.
I smirked at that one – nearly choked on it, as a matter of fact. So it's all been for HIM, 'as it sweetie? Pretendin' you love the Duke, climbin' the social ladder, settin' yer star in place – at the same time as y' been stringin' your boytoy along just for the fun of it? How long before yer pathetic poet becomes an inconvenience and y' forget about 'im altogether, eh?
Yeah, it's all for 'im. Go ahead and believe what y' want to believe. Both o' you, the whore and the poet? The liar and the fool, more like. What a well-matched pair they are.
"You promised me you wouldn't be jealous," she whispers.
Stupid Shakespeare – do you actually believe 'er silky promises? Have y' forgotten she's a whore, and an actress to boot? A world-class one at that, too I'll give 'er that much. The best I ever saw – with 'er, the pretendin' never stops. Maybe I shouldn't be so 'ard on 'im. After all, I never did see anyone in all my days as naïve as that boy.
Still, there's somethin' about the boy what sets my teeth on edge.
"I don't want you to sleep with him."
Are you daft, Shakespeare? She's a whore – that's her flippin' job! What the 'ell did you think you was signin' up for, shackin' up with 'er, eh?
Oh, this is too much; this is too damn much.
Yeah, it's all for 'im, ain't it, Satine? Lemme ask you, is 'iding yer illness all for 'im as well? That's another thing y' think we don't notice. Can y' be so stupid, girl, as to not notice it yerself? The coughin', the sweat-stained brows, the faintin' – I thought you was fakin' it the first time y' fell off that damned trapeze of yours, 'til I looked over Marie's shoulder and saw the spots of blood soilin' yer dainty lace- edged handkerchief.
And the way you've become so thin that the curves of yer breasts, cheeks and lips withered to almost nothin'? So pale, you are, and always tryin' to catch yer breath – 'ow could y' think that all of us 'ere wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't notice? I, who know you better than anyone else around 'ere? Knew y' a damn sight better 'n that fool boy can ever claim to. He ain't never lived our life of lies – but I have. For better or frickin' worse, Satine – I know you.
And the thing what really boggles me brain (what there is of it - I ain't claimin' ta be no genius) is that Shakespeare ain't noticed any of this. How is it that everyone else ('cepting the Duke, of course, but he's 'is own special class of idiot) is in on the secret 'cept you, Shakespeare? Yer beloved Diamond is dyin'.
"No – no!" Now 'e's, beggin' 'er not to sleep with that Duke. Amazin'. It was part of the package from the get-go Shakespeare; y' knew that well as anyone!
"Come...what...may..."
And she's lyin' to save 'is precious feelings. Or to save 'is perfect image of her. His angel. More like 'is tarnished angel.
Disgustin', is what it is.
"Come what may," he whispers. I see 'im walk past me in the hall, alone for once. He doesn't notice me in the shadows 'cause his eyes is 'ittin' the floorboards; he's too focused on his own misery. Yeah, life's 'ard, ain't it Shakespeare? A real tragedy is what it is.
I say it's about damn time that boy got 'imself a real thorough education. Someone ought'a open his eyes with the truth.
And I'm just the person to do it.