Title: Serenade
Pairing: Tristan/Duke
Rating: T for language and some innuendo
Warning: Contains slash. And a touch of sugary fluff.
Summary: Tristan ruins an otherwise romantic moment. Duke demands compensation. Short little fic.
Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! And Moulin Rouge are not owned by me. If they were, the crossovers would be horrible.

"Come what maaaaaaaaay…"

Tristan charged toward the edge of the rooftop, arms flung so far from his body that his spread fingers bent back. He was not only flagrantly mocking the song, but to add insult to injury, he was off-key. Duke covered his ears with both hands and squeezed his eyes closed.

"If you trip and nosedive off of the roof, I'm not going after you."

"Aw, ssa'matter, Duke?" Tristan peered over his shoulder, grinning wildly as he took in the other's irritated expression. His hands lowered slowly; body stopping just short of catapulting over the waist-high wall. "I thought you liked that song."

"I like it when it's done well," Duke replied evenly, taking his time about joining the younger man at the poured concrete ledge. Mature people did not launch themselves like lunatics toward a possible nasty fall. Destination reached, he pivoted on the balls of his boots and settled down on the edge. "And that wasn't remotely what I would consider 'quality.'"

"It's the thought that counts, though, right?" Tristan challenged, and slinked across the gap between where he stood and his companion sat. Without asking, he found the open space between the seated man's knees and widened it with the tips of his fingers pressed against Duke's inner thighs.

"There's probably roughly two million songs out there that cover the topics of love and fidelity in the face of adversity, Tristan," Duke pointed out, letting the bigger man spread his legs without argument, and hooked his calves around the backs of Tristan's thighs.

"You're exaggerating."

"You're bullheaded. But do I complain about that?"

"Sometimes."

"…Okay," Duke allowed himself to be corrected, too preoccupied with hooking his fingertips in Tristan's waistband to argue the point further. "Bad example. Anyway…I think I've heard enough songs with the sole merit of 'it's the thought that counts.' Some technical skill would be appreciated."

"You're a shitty romantic," Tristan retorted, feeling slighted.

Duke rolled his eyes with a snort. "Singing off-key to your lover is hardly something I would consider romantic."

"Can you do better?"

"No. And that's why I let you fuck me instead."

"Just because you can't sing?" Tristan was snickering now. Duke glared at him, pulling his fingers out of the loops of the other's waistband, rubbing his palms briskly together. It was cold up here.

He found warmer hands wrapping around his cool ones, then, tucking them into the front pocket of Tristan's fleece pullover.

The pair of expressions softened.

"You can do better than that, anyway," Duke protested quietly, tamed by the gentle massage of fingers making the pocket bulge and shift. But not completely tamed. "You owe me another one. Done properly this time."

Tristan shook his head – amused, rather than refusing. He proceeded to make it up to Duke – in key, this time. His companion rewarded him richly for the effort.