Disclaimer: I don't own the characters and I don't own the song. The song is "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own" by U2, although most of it is said, not sung, in this story.
Author's Note: This is slightly A.U., but not enough to drastically change everything. It's just an extra-sort of scene brought on if Christian had been more persistent. Enjoy!
"The truth…" Satine looked him in the eye. "The truth is that I am the Hindi courtesan and I choose the maharaja. That's how the story really ends."
Christian stared at her. He felt his chest constrict. There was a rushing in his ears. She turned to go and involuntarily he jerked forward and found himself reaching for her, grabbing her arm.
"Christian!" Satine cried, trying to pull free.
But Christian only followed her out into the hallway, hand still firmly on her arm. "You're lying," he said.
"I am not," Satine snapped. "Please—" She pulled again. Christian tightened his grip and looked up at her.
"Tough," he whispered, "you think you've got the stuff. You're telling me and everyone you're hard enough."
"Christian, stop," Satine moaned, but she did not move. Something in the poet's eyes made her stop. It was compassion, something she was not used to.
As if to emphasize this, Christian let go of her arm and laid his hand upon her shoulder, gazing into her eyes, searching for something. "You don't have to put up a fight," he assured her. "You don't have to always be right. Let me take some of the punches for you tonight."
This was nearly enough to break Satine, but she insisted, "You can't fix this." Tears threatened, but she managed to hold them back. "You have no idea…"
"Listen to me now," Christian continued, a sort of urgency mixing in with the softness of his words. "I need to let you know…You don't have to go it alone."
"Yes, I do," Satine said, biting her lip. "You can't give me what I need. The Duke—he can give me everything!" She hated the words as she said them, more so because they were true. She should have believed them. "He can make me a star."
"But does he love you the way I do?" Christian asked.
Satine could not stand it. She could not stand telling him these horrible things meant to break his heart, nor could she stand that he still loved her. "Just leave!"
"No!" Christian stepped closer to her. She was trying to compose herself, but nearly came undone again when he began to sing softly in that voice that had first persuaded her to love him. It was as if inspiration had struck in Christian's desperation to not lose her. It was in his eyes as he sang, "Can you hear me when I sing? You're the reason I sing! You're the reason why the opera is in me!"
"Stop it!" Satine cried, taking a step back. This poet's way with words—it would ruin everything she needed to accomplish. He was making her love him even more, and he was also breaking her heart even as she needed to break his. She couldn't bear to hear any more. "I shouldn't be the reason! Don't you see, Christian? I'm paid to make men believe what they want. I'm a-a—" She spat out the next word with a bitterness like acid—"a whore."
Christian looked struck, rooted to the spot. Satine turned away, prepared to leave, convinced it was over and done with. But it seemed that Christian had one more attempt to make. She heard him say, "Sometimes you can't make it…the best you can do is to fake it…Sometimes you can't make it on your own."
Satine took a deep breath and turned to face him one last time, a cold expression on her face. "I can make it on my own," she told him, voice smooth as ice. "And I don't love you. That is the truth."
She turned around before he could react and ran down the stairs. She did not look back. If she had, she would have noticed the devastated look on Christian's face. She would have seen his heart break. But she didn't see it, and that was the only reason she could go on.