Never written a Moulin Rouge fic before.. Go easy on me, loves.
Chapter 1
It was the stares that bothered her the most. The haunted whispers behind her back and claimed cases of mistaken identity she could handle. But it was the stares that drove her mad.
She arched her back in the slightest, easily keeping her balance on the swing above the captivated crowds. Having done this her whole life (under different circumstances, of course), the only change was how invested her audiences became. The corner of her mouth twinged upward, the piano crescendo'd, and the spotlight vanished from her, temporarily leaving the auditorium veiled in darkness. When the lights returned, the mysterious girl had vanished. Delighted, the men and women on the floor applauded, shouting for encore. Instead, they were rewarded with a high-kicking chorus line.
Breathless, flushed, and grinning like a madman, the starlet dashed backstage. "Do you hear them, Tony? They love me!" For a moment, the vivid images of the stares had vanished in her mind. Pride surfaced and drowned out all else.
Antonio smiled, wrapping his muscular arms around her lithe frame. "I hear them, Cess. Zidler ought to give you a raise," he added, raising his eyebrows and kissing her glistening forehead.
She wrinkled her nose, temporarily pulled back by gravity. "I'm afraid to ask. People might think it's because I look like her."
"No. No, no, no amor. They all saw you out there tonight! No one would think he was paying you off for some other chica. You were beautiful." The urgency left his tone immediately, and his determined expression softened. "I think you were perfect."
Cecily's cheeks darkened to a dull pink tone, and she chewed on her bottom lip. "I love you so much right now," she declared, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him. Taller than she, Tony effortlessly lifted her up and she molded to him.
"I.. do hope that I'm not interrupting?" The chipper voice of Harold Zidler interrupted them, and Tony quickly set Cecily down. She couldn't make eye contact with her boss, but seemed to have trouble holding back a rather serious case of the giggles. "Miss Simon, Senor Morales, must I remind you yet again about the Moulin Rouge's policy regarding fraternization?" He tsked in a fatherly way, approaching the pair.
The red-headed gentlemen paused in front of the girl, and, as always, his heart skipped a beat. Cecily Simon. God, how much she resembled.. But no. He mustn't dwell on that now. He turned his gaze to the Spaniard at her side. What she saw in the brute he'd never know. Zidler cleared his throat. "Miss Simon, I commend you on your superb performance. Angela will alert you should be needed again." He nodded at the both of them, not even bothering for the usually-mandatory slap on the wrist. "Good evening." Boots clicking ever so softly on the dusty wooden floors, he left, returning to his stage to introduce the next act.
Tony gently elbowed Cecily in the ribs, and she burst into peals of laughter. She wasn't even sure what she was laughing at. The laughing fit passed, and she leaned into his arms, resting her head in the nook of his neck. Cess bit her lip again, a nervous habit of hers. "Want to go celebrate?" She teased.
Her fiancé didn't need to be asked twice. She was so light, he was so burly, he lifted her and carried her to her dressing room. Cecily forgot about the stares.
Later that evening, the manager and owner of the red windmill found himself reclining at his desk in the basement of the building. His legs were crossed over his desk, and he was smoking a cigar to celebrate the night's profits. That Cecily was one hell of a money maker.
Zidler frowned, removing the cigar from his puckered lips and blowing a few unimpressive smoke rings. It was uncanny, really, how much she resembled Satine. The two could have been sisters, maybe even twins. His other employees noticed, and avoided the poor girl. At this point, even the patrons were beginning to see the resemblance. The man sighed, taking another puff on his pungent cigar. Unknowingly, she was carving an isolated niche for herself. Good thing she had that Spanish boy to keep her company, even if he was an idiot and a thug.
Satine's death had been almost three years ago. Zidler had heard very little of that playwright/poet since then, but Toulouse was doing a rather good job of reporting items of importance. Like the fact that Christian had almost drunk himself to death twice now, both times rescued by the dwarf. For the first year after her passing, he had refused to leave his apartment, writing some kind of eulogy, or a biography. Harold did not care enough to find out. After that, the poor boy lived in and out of brothels and ale houses, doing his best to forget. Zidler hadn't heard anything of him since then. But since it looked like Cecily was going to be taken on as a permanent member of the company, maybe now would be the opportune time to send a letter to his old friend.
Overjoyed in his own wicked wittiness, Zidler reached for some stationary.