Disclaimer: No profit is being made in the unabashed exploitation of these characters. If any opportunities arise, please let me know.
Warning: Slash. F/F. As in, Satine being with someone other than Christian, although (take note, canon fiends) this does take place before the M'sieur le poet even enters the picture. Kindly leave if this idea makes you ill, as it will only intensify in later chapters.
Notes: *deep breath* This idea has been rattling about in the back of my brain for some time now and I had to get it out. It's also my first time experimenting with Nini in the first person, so forgive me if her voice is off. Any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated; I like hearing different opinions.
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It was 1893. The Moulin Rouge hadn't been open long enough to tell for sure, but I could already guess which newcomers would have to spend years working their way up and which ones would make their names instantly. That was me, one of the second kind. Nineteen years old and still new, but I'd been lucky enough to land a main role in a top act the year before. Not bad for a slapdash acrobat who'd been living on smoke and stale bread for the past few years. I was in heaven.
But the better things get, the more likely they are get worse.
And yes, actually, that was cynicism there. Bohemians might not want to believe it, but some people still have it in them. I know, the damn ideals are all the rage now. Wander about with your head in the clouds and pretend not to notice how miserable you are. God forbid anyone focus on reality anymore when idealism is so much nicer. Swill your drinks and sing your songs and watch for miracles through your wineglasses. It's a hell of a way to make a living. Have you ever tried to pay a screeching landlady with dreams?
Me, I'll take the wine and parties, but my head wasn't made to travel in any clouds that don't come from filthy factories, sullenly smoking pipes, or other lovely tokens that come with living on the ground. And ideals: to hell with them all. There's a few of us who haven't been knocked senseless by them. Empty-headed optimism never does any good.
Except I didn't know that back then. I was on top of the world for a little while, and I didn't understand it when my luck turned with the year. Toulouse, the one who'd put the act together, was away. His relatives, I heard, had some idiotic idea about sobering him up for good. "Convalescing," they called it. I'd performed with a dancer from the Argentine, but, since he was nowhere to be found, there was little hope for repeating the act. And as happy as Harold had been with me before, he had already moved onto other projects. Winter was setting in and things looked bleak.
Then the new girl came.
She couldn't have been all that old, but she had a kind of. . .I don't know, a way about her I'd never come across before and haven't since. Some kind of aura, the bohemians would call it. Sort of serene and confident and modest all at the same time. And she was gorgeous; tall, with dark red hair worn loosely enough to let a few curls frame her incredibly pale face—only the combination made her look otherworldly instead of sickly—and eyes a purer blue than even Babydoll's, untouched by kohl. I got my first look at her when Harold was showing her around one evening, and she took my breath away. Literally. Creola was lacing me up at the time and I almost keeled over right there.
She was in a plain dress, ragged but neat, and she carried herself like a princess. I could see right away why Harold wanted her. This one wouldn't have to do any dancing or teasing to make gentlemen start doling out the diamonds. She could do it just by being. Not that Harold would ever allow that, of course; he always was good for wringing the most profit out of everything. The girl was a gold mine waiting to be exploited. I almost felt sorry for her, knowing how easily she would fall to his skillful persuasions, but at the same time I felt gratified in knowing she would stay. Good company could be hard to come by, and I somehow knew right away I wouldn't mind being in hers.
Harold was introducing me ("And this, my dear, is another one of our outrageously talented dancers…"), but I was too busy gasping to look anything close to outrageously talented. As soon as I was able, I began a reply, but the girl dipped her head in my direction and smiled, which turned my mind to milk. "Pleasure to meet you," she said, and her voice was like a song.
"So you're a new one, then?" I asked, moving forward. Creola, who still had a hold of my laces, tugged them pointedly and practically made me fall over again. The girl looked at me curiously. "I don't usually get dressed in the hall," I blurted out. "It's just, the dressing room's not all that big. I mean, Christ, Harold, if I'd known you'd be bringing anyone by, I'd never've—" I was babbling. None of us ever cared who saw us dressing, but for some reason I felt I should explain myself. After a few more dim-witted seconds, I gave up. "Yeah, I'm Nini. Nice to meet you."
She nodded. "I know you. You did the fire tango last year."
Dear God, she knew who I was. "Yeah," I said dumbly.
Harold was glowing like one of his chandeliers. "This is Marcille. Isn't she adorable? Like a little bird, almost."
She ducked her head. "Monsieur Zidler, please."
"Harold, my swallow, just Harold. We don't go in much for formality here"
She gave an embarrassed little laugh, but she didn't look away. He had her then and we all knew it.
