Author's Note - I dun' own nuttin. God (A.K.A Baz Luhrmann) owns 'em. :-) This chapter's really short. I know.



"Uuuugh.."

Christian awoke with a groan, his hand holding his head. He has a terrible headache. For a moment, he doesn't seem to recognize where he is. . . But, after a few moments, the previous night comes flashing back to him.

He remembers going up to Toulouse's room in search of Absinthe. . . He remembers finding his prize, and downing nearly all of it. . . And then Toulouse and the others came back. . .

And that's about all he remembers.

It had been three days since Satine's death, and the young poet couldn't take it. The first night he had been unable to do anything. He had sat on the stage as Satine died, after she had been taken from his arms, and then until he was carried home by the Argentinean and Chocolat, after hours upon hours of crying. Then he had sat in his room and cried some more. That night, he had gone into a state of silence. He wouldn't speak, didn't cry. . . All he did was stare, the pain evident in his eyes, though he didn't cry or seek comfort. The previous night, however, he had cried. Cried and cried, until he just couldn't cry anymore. And when the tears stopped, he had drank. And drank.

And there he is now. Inside the Boho's apartment, lying on the floor, with a terrible headache.

But he didn't care. The pain in his head and stomach were nothing like the pain in his heart. She was gone. His diamond was gone. Forever. Forever. Forever. Never to return. Gone. Dead. Dead. She's dead. Satine's dead.

With these thoughts, his tears return again, as he sits on the floor, the other Bohemian's passed out around him. "Sa-tine!!!" He screams, his silent cries turning into full-blown sobbing. "Sa-tine!!!"

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Satine awakens slowly, shifting from a rather uncomfortable position on her side. She finds herself laying in the same spot she'd been since she'd arrived: right on the edge of a cloud, of which gives her a perfect view of Christian. She was still wearing the Hindi wedding dress from Spectacular Spectacular, though now it was crumpled and wrinkled, with tear-spots decorating it randomly. The skirt had also served as a tissue, so she certainly looked like a mess.

Despite Phillip's attempts at getting her to go back home with him so she could get some sleep, she had refused, just as she had done each night. She couldn't leave her poet alone. She had also refused everything he offered: she didn't accept it when he offered to go get her some clothes to change into, nor when he went to go get tissues. The refusal of the tissues was just because she was getting used to saying no to him; The refusal on the clothes was for the reason that they were the last thing she'd been wearing when she was with Christian.

Watching him constantly only made her heart ache, but she just couldn't allow herself to do anything else. Blaming his heartache on herself, she feels she deserves to torment herself by watching his agony. If only she had just gone with the plan. . .Sure, he'd believe she didn't love him, but still. . . He wouldn't be hurting as he was now. It is always easier to hate than it is to recover from the loss of someone you love. . . Especially after their duet. They had finally gotten to tell the world of their love; for the first time, they got to be open with their relationship. It's ironic, isn't it? They can be finally be together. . . And then she dies. On the same night.

Staring down at him, she feels the tears returning. She couldn't do this. She couldn't bare it. She shouldn't be here! She should be with him! With Christian!

Watching him sob only makes herself sob. "Oh Christian. . . Christian, I'm here. . . I'm here. . . Please. . . Don't cry anymore. . ." She pleads, her heart being ripped open with every new tear that falls, every breath he struggles to take in. "Please. . . No more tears. . ."

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Almost as if he heard her pleas, Christian's sobbing slows, until it finally stops. Using his sleeve to wipe his eyes, he turns his face up towards the skies(or, more correctly, the ceiling), sadly. "Why, Satine? Why did you have to die? Why?" He whispers, shaking his head. "I can't take this. . . I can't handle not seeing you, Satine. No more tears. No more pain," he whispers, struggling to pull himself to his feet. He was still pretty drunk, but he could handle a flight of stairs. . . Well, kinda.

After stumbling and tumbling his way down the stairs, he finally makes it into his room. Immediately, he goes right towards what he's looking for. Reaching behind his typewriter, he slowly pulls something out, concealing it in his hand. Moving over towards the window now, for the first time since Satine had died, he opened the curtains, to reveal the sun. Opening his hand, he exposes a small blade, watching the sun as it reflected off of the metal. "No more tears, no more pain. . ." he repeats, over and over again, as he brings the blade down onto his wrist.