Bullet to the Blue Sky
By Bohemian Storm
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, they belong to the wonderful Baz Luhrman. The title of the fic is shamelessly stolen from the title of a U2 song. It just fit. Milla came up with Christian's last name.
He was simply tired. It was nothing more or less than that, though he was sure someone would read their story and assume he had ended it all for her. That just wasn't true. She had been his reason to live, not his reason to die. His reasons to die were far more simple than love or depression; he hadn't been depressed in months, really. He was just tired.
His body ached, limbs tired and muscles withered and wasted away. He hadn't left his flat since July, since the streets below had bustled and tourists had laughed and chatted in their broken French. It was now November, snow deepened on the ground and the tourists were gone now. Montmartre was quiet, a cold, clear sun beating down from the blue sky.
His landlady occasionally brought him food, though she had long since refused his appeals for Absinthe. He'd been sober for three months, only because his bottles had run dry in late August. He was becoming a myth ... the man who never left his flat, the man who was never seen.
There was a boy ...
He had taken the gun from Toulouse's flat after he had died. It had been wrapped in red silk, stuffed into a drawer and forgotten. The barrell still stone, gleaming in the light that poured through the window. He had never known that Toulouse had owned a gun and now that he did know, he didn't want to know why. It would just be better for him to pretend that Toulouse had always been happy, that the tiny painter never would have used the shining gun with the single bullet on himself. The gun was his now, it didn't matter where it came from anymore.
He sat by the window now, at the desk where he had written their story, the dried out typewriter covered in dust and sticky splotches of Absinthe. Tied with a length of ribbon from her hair were the yellowed pages that told the story he had promised to tell. In his trembling and weakened hand he held the gun, then reached forward with the other and opened the window latch. Snow billowed into his room, the cold stinging his face.
He was completely exhausted.
A very strange, enchanted boy ...
Against the bright blue sky there was a black bird flying. It's wing flapped twice before it soared past his window and doubled back. It swooped past him again, more snow being picked up on the wind and deposited in his room.
He wasn't sad anymore; he smiled softly at the black bird against the sparkling blue sky. He hadn't been sad in a long time, but he could hear his father's voice echoing in his head.
... You'll waste your life ... Fall in love with some can-can dancer ... I'm not surprised ... Nothing left to live for ... Useless ...
His father thought he understood everything, but he knew nothing. He didn't know a thing about his own son. It didn't bother him anymore, it was hardly a concern in his shortened life that his father had made mistakes. Every parent made mistakes, his had just made more than was considered normal. Whatever had happened at home hadn't created the person he had become now.
She had done that. She had created him with her love, pure love like nothing he had ever felt before. She had undone the wrong in him and prefected the right. He had only had to love her in return for the favour.
They say he wandered very far ...
It was so close now, looming over him and calming his racing heart and shaking fingers. The silver gun was steady, light reflecting off it and catching the gleaming feathers of the black bird in it's beam. The bird made a soft whistle before it flew from sight, leaving him alone with the snow, the sky and the gun.
Toulouse's gun, now his gun. It was the gun that would finally give him the rest his broken body was screaming for. He wasn't afraid anymore, the fear had left him long ago when the sadness had fled, leaving an empty void inside of him. He ached sometimes but he never knew what he was aching for. Satine had been gone for so long already, he had learned to live without her. His friends had left as well and although he was never really lonely he missed them sometimes. Mostly at night when the lights of the Moulin shone into his bedroom, throwing fiery shadows of demons past across his floor.
That was when he missed them.
But the ache was something else entirely. His body pleading for the rest it so deserved.
Very far, over land and sea ...
The gun was cool, chilled by the wind and snow that built up around the chair as he sat and thought calmly of his last moments. He seemed peaceful in his macabre tableau, his features only weathered slightly by time, still the picture of the young man who had fallen so foolishly in love. It was like nothing had changed and yet everything had.
The sky is clear enough to shatter with a bullet, he thought, staring up at the blue through the snow that collected around him. He wasn't cold, not at all, the snow and wind couldn't reach past the weariness that had overcome every sensation of his body.
He raised his hand, gun pointing at the sun, wondering if he could truly blast apart the winter afternoon with a single shot. It was his only bullet and he would have to choose. The sky ... or himself. The gun was unwavering, despite the numbness that had crept into his fingers and down his wrist. He could blow apart everything, make everyone see the strain that had taken him down. He would show them what his life had been like.
And then one day, one magic day he passed my way ...
His eyes shifted to the yellowed manuscript on the table, his gaze as fierce and unwavering as the gun on the blue sky. That had been his release, the story in which every pain and every tear had been poured into. That would show the world what his life had been like, not the bullet to the blue sky. His gift was his writing, he would tell everyone how wonderful it had been to love her, to see the world for what it truly was. It had been ugly and frightening, it had been nothing he'd expected and everything he'd dreamed.
But now ... now all the weary, jaded boy wanted to do was sleep. He wanted to lay his head upon her ivory skin and sleep next to her forever, dreams of marriage and their children being shown like black and white moving pictures across his eyelids. The sleep would be so rewarding, so complete after needing it for so long. It would just be like closing his eyes for an afternoon nap that he would never wake up from. The dreams would just go on and on, stretching into epic tales of things he had always wanted to do and never had the chance.
While we spoke of many things, fools and kings ...
The gun moved away from the sky, shaking now and pressing against his temple. The metal was cool against his hot skin; hot despite the snow that had built up in his room, surrounding him in swirling mists. He was ready to sleep, to slump forward lifelessly, fingers brushing his beloved typewriter even in his last seconds. He would embrace the cold that came for him, that tugged at his soul with chilling fingers. He would fall into it with open arms because it soothed him, it made his body feel new.
Someone would find their story and someone would publish it. It was good - he would never deny his talent - and it was exactly the type of story people needed. It was hope and truth, it was light on a dark night when you were lost and needed a way to find your home. It was everything his life had been for a beautiful year and everything it hadn't been for the past ten.
This he said to me ...
His finger was on the trigger, just an ounce more pressure, just the tiniest bit and it would be over. He would finally sleep under the snow and the blue sky, he would sleep with his typewriter and their story. He would sleep with her by his side, singing softly to him in her sweet voice. He would rest and recover and they would move on. They would move on together.
He didn't feel it like he expected he might of. There was no pain and no sudden desire to live. He simply fell forward, slumping onto the desk with the gun still held in one withered hand, the snow cushioning his head. It felt like going home, finding a place where he belonged and knowing that he never had to leave.
Christian Everett died in the snow, the tiny droplet staining the manuscript tied with her ribbon and as the shot rang out in Montmartre, the sky shattered and snow tumbled downward.
* * * *
He hadn't known the boy would actually publish the story. He had never expected to see the hardcover book bound in red being displayed in a bookstore window. But Christian had died and only months later it had appeared there, calling to him.
So he had bought a copy.
With shaking fingers, Harold Zidler opened the cover and his eyes scanned the opening page. On it was written a single sentence and his lips parted to breathe the words into the chilly air.
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return."
End