Author's Note: Finally, I make my return to the world of Moulin Rouge fanfiction. I have as of late been busy delving into Harry Potter (with The Dark Side of the Moon, a Lupin-centric vignette—and yes, that was a shameless plug), but of course I can't stay away from the beloved Red Windmill for long. As always, this story is dedicated to my penniless writer (. . . sing out this song and I'll be there by your side), along with Anna, drama-princess, She's a Star, Greta, Theia-Eos, karadarlin, Lily Bird, Spyre, chesire-catt, Mystery, Angie, Diamond Cat, The Great Kara, Nat, Peachy, Marauder, and Francesca Wayland, for reading and reviewing Daughter of the Underworld. You guys are truly and utterly inspiring.
Also, on a random side note, plaid shirts and striped pants rarely make a positive fashion statement, according to the little dog office assistant in Microsoft Word. I'd also like to dedicate this to the little dog, whom I have named Bob. I do, however, wish he would stop winking at me. It is most distracting.
Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge or its characters (those characters being any you actually recognize); they all belong to the respective individuals responsible for creating them, and those who happen to own the rights. Chapter title is credited to William Shakespeare, a line from the play Romeo and Juliet. No copyright infringement is intended, and due credit will be given throughout the story for any songs that may be used.
Tempt Not a Desperate Man
"Tell me the truth, tell me the truth!"
"The truth? The truth is . . . I am the Hindu courtesan . . . and I choose the maharajah."
The scene kept replaying itself in Christian's mind, over and over, threatening to drive him to insanity, a malady he was already standing upon the brink of, heartbroken and torn. His heart told him Satine loved him, that everything had been real—how could it have been a lie? Everything flickered past like a faulty film reel, and when he closed his eyes to make it go away, the images only seared themselves to his eyelids; a flash of brilliant silken red hair, a soft-spoken declaration of love whispered with warm breath against his ear, a gentle caress of her hand against his cheek.
Then she had sent him away; she had ended it all. There was no more a real life mirror of the Hindu courtesan's affair with her penniless sitar player, no more come what may, no more dreams of flying away from it all, of being together . . .
Love was like oxygen, and Christian was suffocating.
Giving a stifled whimper, unable to even summon the ability to cry anymore, Christian curled up shivering, still feeling utterly chilled despite the warm woolen confines of the blanket the Bohemians had wrapped him in after dragging him in off the street. What a fool he must have looked, standing outside the Moulin Rouge, screaming her name to no one but the rain and the cold, unsympathetic turning of the red windmill wings.
The thumping of uneven steps against the bare planks of the floor was the only reminder he had that he was not alone in the room. Toulouse moved into Christian's field of vision, hands perched atop his cane, his expression one of heartfelt concern as he gazed at his stricken friend. "Things are not always the way they seem."
"Things are exactly the way they seem," Christian bit back dully. The motion of speech made the cut on the side of his face sting, but the pain was almost welcome—a physical distraction from the building numbness inside him.
"Christian," the dwarf-like man pressed on, "you may see me only as a drunken, vice-ridden gnome whose friends are just pimps and girls from the brothels." He smiled weakly at his own self-deprecating description, then his face went into a serious set again, and he pressed on earnestly, "But I know about art and love, if only because I long for it with every fiber of my being."
He paused, leaning in as if he were about to drop a great epiphany upon the young writer, though he did not see it as any less than the obvious. "She loves you. I know she loves you."
Christian first looked as if he would remain unresponsive, then finally he stirred to speak. "Go away, Toulouse. Leave me alone. Go away."
Toulouse stared at him doubtfully, but reluctantly complied and moved to the door to gather his hat and coat.
He didn't move fast enough, however, for Christian raised his voice—a rare occasion for the normally quiet and thoughtful man. "Go away!"
Casting one last, saddened look at his friend, Toulouse backed out of the door, closing it softly behind him.
Christian didn't turn to watch Toulouse go; he simply remained staring at the wall opposite the small bed—the bed he and Satine had shared together—looking at but not truly seeing the flaking plaster of the walls, the faded and peeling paper that was nearly covered by pages of various drafts of the script that had been tacked up there during happier times. Happier times, when he was living a dream, and she was his muse.
How could it have all been a lie?
How could she have chosen the Duke?
Christian had offered his heart and soul freely . . . to a woman who was not able to do so in return.
"She loves you. I know she loves you."
He shook his head slowly, denying Toulouse's words. He wanted to shut it all out; he wanted to drown all his sorrow and all his grief in Absinthe, until he felt nothing at all anymore . . .
"I can't do this, Christian. It's too hard."
"Sure you can, just keep trying. Don't give up."
The remnants of a long ago conversation with his younger sister echoed in his mind. Don't give up.
Satine's love was the one thing that had given him strength—yet at the same time it was his worst insecurity.
"I know she loves you."
"Don't give up."
Frustrated, Christian covered his ears with his hands, shaking his head as if he could get rid of the words. But the seed of doubt had been planted, and it was blossoming until he could ignore the possibility no longer.
He had to know.
In better times, it would have been a pain for Christian to do such a thing, but when he pawned his much beloved Underwood typewriter, he simply shoved the handful of francs into the pocket of his threadbare jacket, and spared the machine not a passing glance was it was left displayed in the pawn shop's window, a lonely instrument without anyone to master its artful design.
Insecurity and doubt twisted his stomach into knots as he walked to the Moulin Rouge, its stately sails turning silently in the winter wind, fevered breath escaping his mouth in frosted clouds. A vengeful side uncommon to the young writer had emerged, clawing its way to the surface in a jealous rage, and within his pocket his fingers curled tightly around the rumpled bills, closing them into his fist so tightly the ink might have bled out in protest.
A part of him wanted to tell her she had meant nothing to him, that she really was no more than a courtesan, a whore. He wanted to throw that money at her feet and then curse her for ever entering his life and making him believe she loved him. He wanted to hurt her as badly as she had hurt him.
Yet, there beneath the need for vengeance, beneath the smoldering jealousy and anger, there was a spark of hope, a part of him that wanted her to come running back to him and tell him that it hadn't meant a thing, that there was some logical explanation why she would say such hurtful things. He wanted to hold her and tell her everything would be all right; that he would take her away from there and they would start their life together anew.
Sucking in a breath of the chilled air, allowing it to numb his ability to feel as much as it would, Christian slipped through the crowd of aristocrats that had shown up for the grand premiere of Spectacular Spectacular, easily going unnoticed . . . because who, of course, would notice a shabby, penniless writer among the throng of rich and beautiful people?
It was a simple enough matter to sneak in—everyone was distracted by preparation for the show, from the lowest-paid stage hand to Zidler himself. Dodging through backstage, certain to keep himself out of sight, Christian crept carefully but steadily in the direction of Satine's dressing room, the one that had been bought for her by the Duke. Just another reminder of what the man could give her that he, the penniless writer could not.
Punishing himself with the stinging thoughts, but still unable to stop thinking them, he continued to press past the pieces of the set and hanging costumes that littered the entire backstage area, until finally he reached the door of Satine's dressing room, which was left carelessly open.
Sometime during the journey there, the money had found its way out of his pocket and into his hand, and he leaned there against the doorway, breathing lowly.
"I've come to pay my bill."
Clearly startled, Satine whirled around to face him, eyes widening momentarily—then her face set back into a pale mask of composure again, gaze hardening. "You shouldn't be here, Christian. Just leave."
She moved to push past him, but Christian blocked her way out of the dressing room, then pressed his way inside. Satine backed away, watching him warily, and with a look of increasing anxiety filling her eyes. Panic?
"You made me believe that you loved me . . . why shouldn't I pay you?"
"Please, Christian . . ." Her tone had softened, and she gazed at him with an expression he would have seen as pleading, had he not been distracted by his own anguish.
"You did your job so very, very well!" he cried, and the door slammed shut with a reverberating bang that made Satine jump, startled.
Christian, however, was barely fazed; he simply advanced toward her, waving the handful of francs in a frenzied manner. "Why can't I pay you like everyone else does?"
"Please, Christian—just leave."
Satine tried to move past him again, but he grabbed her by the shoulders and began to shake her, demanding, "Tell me it wasn't real!"
She shook her head, looking away from him. Her breathing was coming now in labored gasps, and she could hear footsteps coming toward the door.
"Satine, it's time to get on the stage!" Marie called into the dressing room. For a lingering moment, both within thought the woman would enter, but her footsteps quickly enough faded away as she was distracted by another of the performers.
"Tell me it wasn't real!" he cried again. "Tell me you don't love me! Tell me the truth!"
"I'm dying, Christian!" she screamed out at him, without thought of what she was saying.
The words seemed to freeze everything in time.
Christian stood in gaping silence, as if he had been slapped, and Satine wrested herself out of his grasp, stumbling backward a few steps. She regained her balance and stared at him, tears running down her cheeks.
"I'm dying."