()() Just in case anyone is unaware of this, Moulin Rouge belongs to Baz Luhrmann et al. I just borrow the characters, distort them, and surreptitiously replace them. On that note, this is my first-ever attempt at Moulin Rouge fic, so if they've been distorted that badly, well, I'm new to the business. Excuses, excuses, I know…Ah well, please go read and comment/gripe/compliment/etc. all the same. ()()
They did not leave the dancehall. No one, so it seemed, dared depart. Nothing short of audacity, that would be, and this being such an unusual case. Anything might happen, there was no telling. Even those who had been with the Moulin Rouge the longest had never borne witness to an even slightly similar situation.
And so they stayed, a stone-faced audience staring out from the darkened floor. An unspoken rapport passed over the group, quiet and complex as a spider's web: take a chair and get comfortable, sit it out until someone brings news and shatters the suspense, sit all night if need be. One doesn't simply stand up and leave in the middle of a show. Obviously.
Someone distributed glasses, cigarettes were passed around, and several minutes rolled by, swirling the liquid, exhaling the vapors, until at last they ran out.
Hours later, they were still there.
Speech had long since degenerated into sporadic sighs, and even those seemed earsplitting. Every sound was amplified alarmingly within a silence so agitated it was almost tangible. In spite of the tension, motion of any kind had ceased to serve any purpose. Heavy curtains swung lifelessly, sluggishly absorbing the slowly thickening cloud of smoke. Hovering beneath, stationary cigarettes drooped between motionless fingers. The room, large and silent, yawned around them. Eyelids still smeared with gaudy makeup lowered to half-mast. Deadpan faces drifted to rest on neighboring shoulders, leaving behind flesh-toned smudges. Nobody slept.
Occasionally, somebody would tap one of the leftover cigarettes and ashes would fall. And sometimes, within the collection of worn stockings and straining corsets and thin white shirts, there would be the sound of a cough, muffled and faint, or the dull clatter of a glass being set upon a table. In her customary black, she sat blearily surveying the glass in her hand. Then he strode forward.
The staccato stamp of his boot on the hardwood floor resounded like a cracking whip.
"We have a dance …"
Heads turned, lackadaisically curious, groping through the tension for another subject to settle on. She set down her drink, mouth and eyebrows arching at the sight of his outstretched hand. Hardly knowing why—he was beckoning to her and her alone, that was why—she stood, unsteady on high heels and buckling ankles. His voice seemed to come from very far away, as if from the end of a tunnel.
"…of a prostitute…"
Somehow she managed her way down the stairs and off the stage. She stumbled once, pitching forward, but quickly covered by emitting a laugh that echoed for several seconds amidst catcalls and titters.
"… falls in love. With her."
Her eyebrows lifted again. With surprising smoothness, she held her hand out to meet his. All eyes were on her, she could tell; inwardly she smiled in satisfaction. Let them watch. Scarcely hearing his words, she felt her feet begin to move in the sharp, suggestive steps of a dance she was sure none of the others had ever learned. One, and two, three… Yes, let them watch.
"First, there is desire," he rasped as if lecturing before a group of schoolchildren. One rough hand fluttered down her arm with something closely akin to tenderness—surprising coming from him, but then he was an actor— his motions matching hers.
"Passion!"
One, and two, three… A thumb caressed her face and she masked a shiver with a sinuous turn of her head. Perhaps the schoolteacher analogy was a bit inaccurate.
"Suspicion!"
One, and two, three... the tempo was picking up, or was it the spinning of her own head?
"Jealousy!"
One, and two, three… definitely the tempo; she quickened her pace, skidded on one heel when he abruptly spun her around.
"Anger!"
One, and two, three… his voice was ringing in her ears and she gasped in spite of herself… a wild twirl nearly sent her tumbling to the floor, but he immediately yanked her in another direction.
"Betrayal!"
One (hand clasping suddenly on her wrist), and two (eyes blazing with an almost demonic fire), three (fingers digging into her skin)…
"When love is for the highest bidder…"
His words were lost to her now, coming only in snatches. She felt herself falling behind and determinedly quickened her steps again, heels clapping against the floor like the trot of a frightened horse. A rapid glance over her shoulder told her that they were still watching.
One, and two, three… Whenever she seemed to catch up, he moved again, rapidly, unexpectedly, like a tormented character onstage. It was less a dance now, she decided hazily, and more a play. But it was a play for which he held the only script. Better keep dancing then; there were steps to follow for that, at least. Her breath was hissing between her teeth, his grip was painful. No one is ever hurt onstage, she reminded herself, discounting the fact that they were dancing before it rather than on it; everything is an act. Yet when he tugged her fiercely to one side, she found herself stifling a cry.
"… there is no love!"
Etcetera, etcetera. She found him pushing her away, then pulling her back, one hand still clamped painfully around her wrist. Possibly she cried out then; she had stopped paying attention to anything other than remaining upright.
"And jealousy—yes, jealousy!"
Yes, jealousy. A thought flitted through her mind, nearly caused her to lose her balance. Another violent twirl. Jealousy.
His eyes caught hers for a moment. "Jealousy! Will drive you…!"
Will drive you, will drive you, will drive you…
"Mad!"