Chapter One: Arrival, Agreements, and Absinthe
I first came to Paris one year ago, and it was the time of the Summer of Love…
At the time that Gabriel got off the sleek black train at the Gare d'Orsay, he knew nothing about Crowley, the Moulin Rouge, or Samuel Winchester. All he knew was all he needed to know, and that was that Montmartre was the center of the bohemian world, and that he wanted to be a part of it. The world was awash in love and lust, the idealism of beauty and the glory that was truth. Gabriel had been picked up and swept along as well, and as he stepped off of the train in Paris, he had never felt more alive. Bags in hand, he began the long walk to Montmartre.
He had come to Montmartre after a ferocious fight with his father, who had tossed him out screaming about how he'd waste his life in the Moulin Rouge (not that he knew what that was, just that it was in Montmartre and something that his father wouldn't approve of). He was thrilled to be leaving behind his father's bland green lands, the heavy Protestant life for the wonders of Montmartre. They called it a village of sin, and oh, how it was! Women half undressed lounged in the streets, cat calling to him as he walked into its maze of streets. Men held hands with other men, kissing lazily between the glasses of Absinthe that sat temptingly between them. The heat of the Parisian summer had skinny boys lounging nude, and writers and artists painting and writing about them. He stared around in thrilled fascination as he walked down the streets, penniless but for a bag of cash and his clothes, and the one thing he couldn't live without: his typewriter. Musicians called to him as he passed, and the prostitutes flicked their skirts out. It was wonderful, and his heart swelled. Here, he thought, were his people. The children of the revolution, as they were called. He was meant to be with them.
He found a small apartment after a few tries, and was just opening his suitcase on the thin brass bed when an unconscious man crashed through his ceiling.
There was a long pause as he started at the man currently on his floor- well. On his ceiling on his floor. The ceiling was on the floor.
This was going to make a wonderful start to his book, he could feel it already.
"Sorry about that!" a cheery voice in curiously accented English said. "Castiel has narcolepsy. Serious problem, you see, and he wouldn't've crashed through the floor but he was so high."
Gabriel cautiously walked over and looked up through the hole. Three faces looked down at him from the hole, and Gabriel found six eyes suddenly intently focused on him. One, the first speaker, was dusty blonde and wearing a very jaunty beret perched upon his head at a rakish angle. It seemed about ready to fly off and leave him for good. The other, Black and covered in elaborate face paint, seemed to be displeased by something, nose wrinkled. He was a big man, solid and round cheeked. The third was also Black, and was looking more and more dismayed as the seconds wore on, his full lips pursing. He seemed like a man people wouldn't want to cross.
"Balthazar, Uriel, Victor," the blonde continued, just as cheerful as before. "We're your neighbors."
On the floor, Castiel twitched, and everybody jumped, watching him a little nervously. But it seemed the twitch was only to turn over, which he did, and began snoring softly.
"I'm dreadfully sorry about this," Balthazar said, running a hand through his hair and completely displacing the beret. It flew off to parts unknown. "We're rehearsing a play, you see."
"A play?" Gabriel asked, immediately interested. He'd seen plenty of Opera, but a play. Now that could be new. He couldn't recall ever watching a play.
"Yes, very modern. We're calling it-" Balthazar scrambled upright, spreading his arms in a dramatic flair, "Spectacular Spectacular." There seemed to be trumpets in the air. Balthazar dropped his hands, obviously pleased. "We're setting it in Switzerland."
"Or we would be," Victor sniped, "if we had the music finished and Castiel was awake."
They all looked at the unconscious man once again. He twitched, as if to reassure them he was alive.
"We present the play to the financier tomorrow," Uriel said, his deep voice tight.
"If only we had someone to stand in for our young, sensitive, Swiss poet goat herder," Balthazar said dramatically, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. "Then, perhaps we could go on."
Gabriel blinked.
And that was how he found himself being hauled upstairs to the artist's studio, wearing lederhosen, and holding onto a ladder behind a cut out of the Swiss Alps as Balthazar warbled along wearing a nuns habit, Victor played furious piano, and Uriel was shouting over them all, telling Balthazar to get the feeling right. The sets, he had to admit, were decently well painted for being made of very thin, very cheap wood, and the artist's studio was full of warm, bright colors. Understandably, this had to be to help get the creative juices flowing. He wondered if he should find some cast off material to staple to the walls. Maybe that would help.
"The hills animate," Balthazar warbled, "With the euphonious symphonies of descant-"
Uriel whirled on Victor, who had just played an exceptionally loud chord. "Oh, stop! That insufferable droning is drowning out my words! Just- decorative! Decorative piano!"
Victor looked like he was about to commit murder, and Balthazar rushed forward, holding his wimple on his head. "What about-"
They dissolved into discussion as Gabriel stood there, baffled.
"A nun wouldn't say that about hills!"
"What about 'The hills are vital intoning the descant!' Eh?"
"What is it with you and the word descant?"
"The hills quake and shake –"
"The hills are incarnate with symphonic melodies!"
"The hills-"
"The hills-"
And Gabriel could take it no more.
"The hills are alive," he sang out, closing his eyes as the music welled up through his very soul, "with the sound of music!"
Silence, then,
"The hills are alive with the sound of music," Balthazar breathed. "Perfect!" He waved for Gabriel to continue, eyes bright with excitement. Victor began picking the tune out on the piano.
"With songs they have sung, for a thousand years!" Gabriel continued, urged on by Balthazar's frantic gestures.
"Incandiferous!" Balthazar whirled on Uriel. "You two should write the show together! Just think of how good it would be!"
Uriel swelled up like an exceptionally angry balloon, eyes narrowed in disapproval. "Excuse me?"
It would seem that Balthazar's suggestion had not been what Uriel had wanted to hear. With much shouting, angry French, and a whirl of an exceptionally ugly scarf, Uriel flounced out the door with his bags in hand. There was a pause, and then Balthazar turned to beam at him, rushing over to shake his hand.
"Congratulations on your first job in Paris, Monsieur…"
"Just call me Gabriel," he said, shocked, and very nearly screamed when the dark haired man jumped up from the floor below, looking extremely baffled and marginally enraged, though in retrospect that may have just been his default expression. Victor just looked like he was going to start laughing at any minute, and went back to playing with the tune. The man, Castiel, stalked forward to grab his jaw, looking intently into his eyes. While just about everybody towered over Gabriel, this man seemed exceptionally tall, something about the way he held himself making him loom over like a slightly angry eagle.
"You," he said, his voice like gravel being run over by wagon wheels, "have a great talent."
And that was the moment when Gabriel realized the man had a hand on his dick. He manfully resisted the urge to scream, mostly because Castiel didn't seem to realize it was there. He released him a moment later, and Balthazar bounded up, grinning.
"You know what this means, Gabriel?"
"No?" he said, a little scared.
"We must toast you! You have a great success planned!" Balthazar looked beyond him. "Cassie, bring the glasses and drinks! We have to celebrate!"
"Crowley will never agree," Victor said doubtfully as Castiel came back with glasses and a green bottle. "Have you ever written a play before?"
Gabriel was sat down firmly in a chair. "Well, no," he said, as the glasses were slammed in front of him. "But… how hard could it be?"
Balthazar clapped him on the shoulder, beaming. "That's the spirit, Gabe! Now, a toast! Victor, get your pretty ass over here! Together, we are about to create the world's most wonderful Bohemian masterpiece!"
Victor walked over, sitting on one of the rickety chairs with a thump. "How, again, are we going to convince Crowley?"
Balthazar had a plan, and hurriedly sat down, leaning in with a wild grin. "You're going to love it."
The plan was admittedly quite brilliant, and Gabriel found himself wondering suspiciously if Balthazar had once been involved with spy work. The plan was, quite simply, Samuel. Well, there was a bit more to it than that, but it did hinge on the gorgeous courtesan's cooperation, whether knowingly or not. Samuel was a well known lover of the arts, and the person they were expecting to have in the main role for their play. They would dress Gabriel up as a fabulously wealthy, well connected, and famous English writer. Once Samuel heard the poetry, which he was renowned for loving, he would immediately insist that Gabriel write "Spectacular Spectacular" and go about getting funding. It was a perfect plan, except for one thing. Gabriel kept hearing his father in his head, roaring "You'll waste your life with the whores of the Moulin Rouge!"
He sat back as the group stared expectantly at him. "I don't think I can write the show."
"What?" Victor said, surprised. "Why not?"
Balthazar leaned in, apparently intent on hearing his answer, and even Castiel looked concerned.
"Well," he hesitated. "I don't know if I even am a Bohemian revolutionary."
"Is that all?" Castiel said with a laugh, leaning back.
Balthazar shook his head, smiling. "Tell me, Gabriel. Do you believe in beauty?"
Gabriel nodded, confused. "Of course."
"And how about freedom? Do you believe in freedom?" Victor asked, his eyes more gentle than he'd seen before.
"Yes, of course," Gabriel nodded, serious.
"How about truth?" Balthazar shot back. "What about that one?"
"Truth is pure, I believe in it," Gabriel said, nodding.
"And what of love?" Castiel asked, quiet and serious.
Gabriel looked about at the group, who were all waiting for his answer. "More than anything," he said quietly, "I believe in love. Love? Love? Love is like oxygen, love is- is a many splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong! All you need is love!"
Victor laughed, raising the bottle to pour. "Oh, Gabriel. You can't fool us, little man! You're the voice of the Children of the Revolution!"
They had a plan, practically foolproof. Gabriel would meet Samuel, but for now…
Absinthe.
oOo
There was a tiny woman in green dancing around the artist's apartment, and he couldn't stop laughing. Hell, he didn't want to. Castiel and Balthazar were dancing and singing, Victor was pounding out music, and he found himself dancing to the music, laughing when Castiel grabbed him. They kept spinning and whirling around, the green woman singing shrilly as they tossed out lines to each other.
"Tomorrow!" Balthazar shrieked, launching himself at Gabriel and grabbing him to spin him around. "Tomorrow! We go and we become stars!"
"Famous, famous stars!" Castiel yelled back, giggling a little as he flopped onto one of the beds set up in the corner. Balthazar began singing, and Gabriel joined in, the off-key warbling drifting out to the Montmartre streets below, where guitars picked up the melody. The world was wonderful and loud and perfect, and he floated as they danced.
And the lights and colors were so wonderful, like nothing I'd ever experienced before. Everything was wild and free, and for the first time I felt truly alive, truly part of this amazing Bohemian revolution! As we danced and sang, the green fairy following along and singing about the sound of music with us, as we launched ourselves higher and higher with the absinthe. It is like nothing you can ever imagine, and it is wonderful.
And then the next day came, and I put on the suit that they brought me, staring out of my window at the lit up elephant and whirling windmill of the Moulin Rouge.
Before me, though I did not know it yet, was my destiny.
