Moulin Rouge
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Pairing: TezuFuji (main), one-sided AtoFuji; other canon pairings
Prompter: decollement
Summary: Atobe acquires the deeds to the Moulin Rouge, Fuji is informed of his fatal illness and decides act.
Warnings: Loooong, possible ooc, pluralis majestatis instead of ore-sama; scenes play out different than in the movie
AN: I apologize for the late update and am eternally grateful to everybody who read (and left a comment). Thank you very much. bows
Part IV
Friday morning was grey and dreary and reminded Atobe that the year was approaching its end. Not that his aching head particularly minded the lingering darkness outside; just as the caress of cool silk had chased the weariness from his body after waking up.
Last night had not been supposed to end like this.
On one hand he was angry at having been knocked out by an – as of yet – unknown person. The act itself counted as a crime and Atobe knew he could easily press charges. But then again, his own behaviour prior to this had not been flattering either.
In fact, now, that the alcohol had stopped obscuring his senses, he felt appalled. Hadn't he resolved not to lower himself to the status of all the other men trying to win affection with money? Hadn't he wanted to give this new notion a chance; this love that people everywhere were praising?
Heaving a sigh, he straightened up. It didn't quite help his resolve either that in the back of his mind a voice kept reminding him, that – regardless of whatever idea he himself entertained – Fuji ought not have rejected him.
And Tezuka.
Kabaji had told him Fuji had gone and stayed at Tezuka's small apartment last night. He shouldn't be bothered, he knew, but something deep in his chest was aching. The sensation was unfamiliar and Atobe wasn't yet sure what to do about it.
But he had to do something or he'd go insane.
"Fuji! Fuji!"
The actor woke to Tezuka softly shaking his shoulder. Buried underneath warm blankets he felt no inclination to get up, but smiled when Tezuka leaned down to place a soft kiss on the top of his nose.
"You have to get up." The writer whispered, affectionately tracing the white cheeks with his fingers, "Rehearsals will start in an hour."
A shadow crossed Fuji's face for a split second as the warm, illusory cocoon burst to be replaced by reality's obligations. He had yet to face Momoshirou and most certainly the Duke wouldn't take last night's events lying down…
"Are you feeling alright?" Tezuka asked, faint lines of concern visible on his face. Fuji just hadn't stopped trembling last night; not even after he'd told Tezuka everything. It had taken far too long for the boy's hands to warm up again and even longer for him to fall asleep, even in the safety of Tezuka's arms.
"Yes." Fuji answered softly. His throat felt a little sore and he hoped he wasn't coming down with something – he was planning to give his very best at the premier.
Tezuka brushed a couple of hairs aside. "If you're unwell, you should rest. You're still pale…"
"I'm okay." Fuji replied with a faint smile and sat up.
It was time to face reality.
"What did Atobe want?" Oishi asked the moment Atobe had left the director's office. Eiji followed him in, biting his lip nervously and Momoshirou looked dreadfully pale.
There was a contract lying on the table, but Oishi wasn't calm enough to read it over right now. They were all anxious since they'd heard about last night from Kawamura – who'd been reluctant to tell the entire story, but the little he had related had been bad enough.
Eiji had been about to run over to Tezuka's to make sure Fuji was alright, but Oishi had been able to convince him to stay. Tezuka most probably was capable of dealing with the situation on his own – and, most important of all – Tezuka was the person Fuji needed.
The change in the young actor since Tezuka's arrival was remarkable. Formerly false, shadowed smiles had turned bright and cheerful; and for once since Oishi had known the boy he'd been completely content.
Momoshirou's sigh drew him out of his contemplations.
"Close the door." The director advised and Eiji silently complied.
"Atobe…" Momoshirou slumped back into his chair, "Now owns the deeds to the Moulin Rouge."
"What?" Eiji exclaimed and Oishi felt all blood leave his head.
With a bitter smile the director carried on: "He said it's for financial security only. But, you know…"
They understood far too well. Far, far too well.
Straightening himself up, Momoshirou fixed both of them with a level glare. "Don't tell it anybody yet. Especially not Fuji."
Atobe's coach was parked in front of the Moulin Rouge when Tezuka and Fuji hurried over, five minutes before rehearsals were due to start. Fuji bit his lip and tried to keep his smile from fleeing, while Tezuka gave the contraption a dark glare.
Then the doors opened and their ways split.
Fuji was immediately accosted by an extremely worried Eiji, followed by Oishi who appeared no less concerned. Together with Gakuto and some other familiar faces they disappeared off-stage, while Oshitari fixed Tezuka with a contemplative frown.
When Tezuka raised an eyebrow questioningly, the blue-haired actor only shook his head – but his expression meant no good. Before Tezuka got a chance to inquire however, a hand on his shoulder distracted him.
Inui pushed his glasses up. "Did you finish the script?"
Blinking in surprise Tezuka nodded. "Yes."
"Momoshirou wants to see it, so could you please fetch it now?"
Upon entering his dressing room after fending of all the worried inquiries, Fuji was surprised to discover a large, beautifully arranged bouquet of white camellias, white carnations and purple hyacinths.
Stepping closer, he didn't hear Eiji entering. Only when the red-head spoke up, Fuji looked away from the elegant flower arrangement.
"They're from Atobe." Eiji commented darkly. "He said he'll be here to watch the afternoon rehearsals…"
Fuji nodded silently. And when Eiji had left again, he sighed and pressed his eyes together. Last night everything had gone wrong. Hadn't he made up his mind to…?
And now, Atobe had sent him purple hyacinths (i).
As promised, Atobe appeared later in the afternoon. He had wanted to come earlier, so that he might be able to speak to Fuji in private, but some business deals had taken longer than anticipated.
Fuji was already on stage, dressed in his half-finished vibrant red costume and singing beautifully, while backstage Inui experimented with the lightening. One moment the stage was bathed in red, the next the room held a soft, golden glow.
Momoshirou was stuck between acting his part and voicing his opinions on Inui's latest arrangement, but the other actors continued to play their parts without a hitch. Imagining the costumes finished and the stage decorated, the musical looked promising enough.
Still, Atobe felt safer with the deeds in his hand. If anything went wrong he could call things off at anytime he wanted – not that he intended to. And seeing Fuji on stage made him all the more certain that this musical was going to be a success.
When he went to take a seat in the front row however, he caught sight of Tezuka.
Perhaps the writer hadn't heard him enter, but his eyes were glued onto Fuji's small form. Almost obsessive, Atobe judged the way the writer was staring. Fuji most certainly was mesmerizing, but a gentleman ought to be able to keep himself in check.
… at least when he was sober.
Atobe couldn't quite chase away the dark emotions that had overcome him at seeing Tezuka already here – the writer was lucky to be able to spend so much time around Fuji. He had no prior business matters to attend to; could do what he wanted with his time…
Envy, while unsuited, was hard to avoid.
And then all of a sudden Fuji's voice stopped.
Atobe's head shot up, wide-eyed he stared as Fuji gasped for breath. Saw Eiji turn, paling rapidly; didn't even hear the music stop abruptly; could only watch as the actor tried to from words, to breath, to do anything…
Fuji's long eyelashes fluttered, one small, white hand reached out in a futile search of something to hold on, and then he collapsed.
There was a thick, all-encompassing darkness smothering Fuji's senses and somehow his body felt weightless, but far too lethargic to move at the same time. For once, he felt relaxed and warm and his lungs had stopped burning, even if his throat still felt sore. But he was already grateful there was no metallic aftertaste left in his mouth and he could breath without coughing.
A bit of fatigued had remained and for once Fuji was about to indulge; snuggle deeper into this soft cocoon and return into Hypnos' realm. But then the hand he hadn't even noticed holding his own left unexpectedly; a door closed somewhere far, far away.
"Atobe." Tezuka sounded fairly displeased. A rarity, really, as the man showed little emotion to the outside world. He had to be fairly stressed, Fuji deduced.
"Tezuka." Atobe replied, equally terse.
The steps came closer and Fuji felt those piercing eyes focus on himself. He wanted to curl away, but his body refused to move.
"Has your obsession reached the degree that you can't even give him a break anymore?" Atobe questioned, turning to Tezuka, who merely raised an eyebrow. "While we see the necessity of heightened pressure for good performing, there is such a thing as too much pressure."
"What are you saying?" Tezuka evenly asked, but Fuji could feel the tension building up far too well.
Atobe pressed his lips together. "Your presence is stressful for the actors, we feel."
And while Tezuka could only blink in surprise, Atobe had already gathered momentum.
"We'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from watching the rehearsals any further from this point on." Atobe coldly declared and Fuji felt the room temperature sinking by several degrees.
"I understand your desire to wish so." Tezuka replied, his words polite but his tone icy, "However as the writer there are no legal grounds for me to stay away."
Atobe merely raised an eyebrow. "The script has already been completed, as far as we know. We deem your presences detrimental to Fuji's health."
There was a moment of tense silence – long enough for dread to blossom in the depth of Fuji's stomach. Too many unspoken words still hung in the air and he had a very bad feeling about it.
"You are entitled to your own opinion, Atobe-sama." Tezuka answered, not losing an ounce of his composure. "Don't hold it against me if I feel inclined to disagree, though."
"So you will continue to come?" Atobe questioned and the almost gleeful undertone swinging in his voice raised Fuji's distrust to new levels. Tezuka, too, sensed something amiss.
"There is no valid reason to be absent." He carefully replied.
Atobe smirked. Slowly, almost sadistically the corners of his mouth moved upwards and he spoke the following words slowly, clearly savouring his triumph, even as Tezuka felt the ground slip out from under his feet.
"So you haven't heard yet. Just this morning we acquired the deeds to the Moulin Rouge."
Fuji's heart stopped. Had anybody looked they'd seen his fingers twitch, but the two men were wrapped in their conversation.
"And since that names us the legal owner and Moulin Rouge our private property we have every right to deny you further access."
Had Tezuka been a little less stoic, a little less self-controlled, only a little less calm, he'd have either broken down or flown at Atobe that very minute. Whatever foothold he'd had over the situation suddenly slipped through his fingers; his point of contact with Fuji violently destroyed by this annoyance.
Instead of wrapping his fingers around that neck hidden underneath a white lace scarf; or even punching that arrogant visage hard enough to break the nose and disfigure it permanently, Tezuka remained standing quietly where he was. Not a muscle in his face moved, though he was falling apart on the inside.
"Do you understand what we are saying, Tezuka?" Atobe asked suddenly, his victorious smirk wiped away; replaced by a far darker expression Tezuka had not yet seen on his face. Those eyes coldly bored into him and there was not a shadow of the civilized humanist Atobe pretended to be left. Not even the arrogance – this was the ruthless, unscrupulous businessman that had made fortunes.
Tezuka swallowed but refused to be intimidated. He remained standing near Fuji's prone form on the settee.
"If you ever set foot into the Moulin Rouge again without a proper invitation, I can not guarantee for your life."
Thunderstruck, Tezuka could only nod very, very slowly. He had no choice – even if his heart was wailing in protest and an abyss of swirling darkness threatening to overtake his soul. Fuji wanted to scream, but even if he'd been conscious he couldn't have – shock froze his mind, body and soul.
Atobe was plainly threatening Tezuka's life. When had things become like this? Why…
Why had everything come to such a painful conclusion?
"We have further business with the manager." Atobe calmly state, his arrogant, educated self completely restored, "When we return in twenty minutes, we expect you gone."
Even if Fuji remained pale, he insisted he was fine and rehearsals continued as scheduled during the following days. Atobe kept coming, and as Tezuka couldn't, Fuji made sure to go and visit the writer every evening, often also spending the night.
As the weather grew colder those moments when his hand touched the worn wood became precious. There was always a softly lit room awaiting him, a dinner and the warmth of Tezuka's embrace. More than often, they did barely more than embrace.
Rehearsals were becoming more and more taxing, often lasting long after sun set. Fuji grew increasingly tired, sometimes stumbling even on stage – but he tried to keep those moments as few as possible. He was all too aware of Eiji's worried eyes watching his back or Oishi's constant reminders to take it easy.
The coughing, though, was truly getting bothersome, because at times Fuji felt his voice scratch or notes go astray – which irked him, even if Choutarou said not to mind, he still hit far more right notes than Momoshirou.
Speaking of the director, the man was more subdued than usual. Fuji might not have noticed had he not overheard the conversation between Tezuka and Atobe, but like this he could easily tell that the changed ownership was deeply bothering Momoshirou. Still Fuji smiled, appreciating the effort Momoshirou put into making things seem alright – this kind of thoughtfulness was truly heart-warming.
The least Fuji could do in return was give his best on stage. And smile when asked if he was feeling alright; reassure everybody even if his head was spinning.
It was on one of those late afternoons after a long day of practice that Fuji felt particularly worn out. He tried his best not to let it show, but Eiji at least had caught on.
The very moment their scene was completed, the red head turned to Fuji, fixing his friend with a penetrating stare and said: "Sit down, Fuji. You look as if you're about to faint."
True, he felt like it, but Fuji raised his head and smiled the best smile he could manage. "Don't worry. I'm al …"
All of the sudden the ground wasn't underneath his feet anymore, the world was spinning, somebody screamed his name in the background and the world went black.
"Fuji!" Eiji jumped forward and barely managed to catch his friend's body before it hit the ground. Sinking to his knees he carefully gathered Fuji's unresponsive form in his arms. His friend's face was pale and even unconscious he was gasping for breath.
"Oishi! Oishi!"
"I suppose it might be stress." Oishi said calmer than he felt a few moments later when they had carried Fuji backstage and made sure the actor hadn't injured himself in the fall. Eiji nodded with a sigh, eyes inevitably travelling over to Fuji. The boy's breathing had evened out and he appeared to be resting peacefully – almost a rare sight these days.
"He lost a lot of weight recently…" Eiji muttered, stroking one pale hand.
Oishi pressed his lips together. "Eiji, it might have been only stress tonight, but …"
"I know." Eiji whispered forlornly, "I know."
When Fuji came to he was lying on an old settee, backstage with a bloodied handkerchief clutched in his right hand that just wouldn't stop trembling. He felt cold and dizzy, but Eiji's hand stroking his hair soothed the worst of the pain away.
Slowly opening his eyes Fuji turned a small smile on his long-time friend.
"Eiji…" his voice sounded uncharacteristically weak and Eiji looked heart-breakingly worried.
"Is he awake?" Somebody in the background asked and Fuji became aware of quite a couple of persons surrounding the settee. His first instinct was to sit up and apologize for worrying everybody, but his body refused to cooperate. Breathing alone hurt; sitting up was out of question.
There were Momoshirou and Oishi; Kawamura stood a little farther in the background; Gakuto and Oshitari near him.
A sense of dread blossomed in Fuji's stomach. Something he'd long known subconsciously; something he'd tried to deny …
"Fujiko-chan…" Eiji whispered, probably trying to be reassuring, however his voice emerged as a strangled sob. "I… We…"
Drawing a deep breath Oishi steeled his nerves and stepped forward. He knelt down beside Eiji so that he could look into Fuji's half-lidded, fever-glazed eyes.
"Fuji…"
Momoshirou bit his lip.
"I need to tell you something." Oishi started, his voice soft yet steady. "Your coughing…"
"…it's not a normal cold, is it?" The actor asked with a weak smile on his ghostly-pale face.
"No." Oishi confirmed. "It's tuberculosis."
Grave silence fell over the small group. Only distant sounds from the stage filled the air, while Eiji held his breath, waiting for Fuji's reaction. And the metallic taste spreading in Momoshirou's mouth told him his lip was bleeding – but he couldn't care less.
Fuji remained calm. With a faint smile on his face he turned to his friends. "I see."
He didn't even feel particularly shocked or grieved. Maybe he'd really known all along, but most of all, he didn't want everybody to look at him with that expression. Fuji smiled because he didn't want people to worry; especially those treasured few he called his friends.
He wanted to see those precious persons happy.
Sadness had no place on Eiji's face, as little as he wanted to see Momoshirou frown anywhere else than during acting on stage. Oishi had already enough to worry about without adding Fuji on his list – so he resolved he'd do his best to make all of them forget about his illness.
One more question had to be answered, though.
Fuji managed to keep his smile from trembling when he turned to Oishi again.
"How long do I have?"
Oishi held his glance even if it broke his heart.
"Three month perhaps – if you take it easy. Otherwise…"
He just couldn't bring himself to say that it might be a matter of mere weeks.
"There is something I'd like to talk to you about." Momoshirou started, as soon as Tezuka had settled down opposite of him.
The writer nodded silently.
Momoshirou sighed and decided to go straight to the point. "We'll change the ending."
There was no visible reaction from Tezuka and that disturbed Momoshirou far more than any expression of rage or discontent would have done.
"I spoke with the Duke and the actors and everybody feels that the ending – while beautiful, very much so – just won't go too well with the audience. It's just too … too intellectual. This musical is meant to amuse people, entertain them – not to make them think. I know wanting to change the world or the way people think has long since been the task of writers and philosophers – but not ours."
Tezuka remained stoic. After Momoshirou failed to say anything else, he asked: "How will the play end, then?"
"Most people suggested turning it into a tragedy." Momoshirou looked away, out of the window, "Traviataii-style or something like that. The Duke however was rather insistent the story should have a happy ending."
All Momoshirou got in return was one barely raised eyebrow; otherwise Tezuka appeared not half as surprised as the director himself had been when Atobe had announced his expectations. Even Fuji had looked stunned for a moment then.
"When the sitar player is about to be executed the henchman changes targets at last minute and shots the Maharajah." Momoshirou recounted, sounding not very convinced. "Because the Maharajah has been an unfair tyrant people are rebelling … I know it's not very good, but the audience can understand that scheme. Revolutions and rebellions have always been popular – and are far easier to understand than the idea of liberty as the greatest proof of love."
"I understand." Tezuka replied tonelessly and Momoshirou felt like sighing.
Gathering his resolve, Fuji raised his hand to knock on the door.
For a single moment he let himself dwell on those gold-tinted memories. How often had he come here feeling cheerful? How often had his hands touched this wood already and had he ever spent a time more happy than within the room that lay beyond?
But no more, no more.
Tonight he'd play the role of his life. Tonight he'd settle things. And then cling onto those wonderful memories of happy days for whatever time remained.
There was no more time for contemplation, or unintentionally tear-shedding. Tezuka opened the door, already dressed down for the night. His eyes widened in surprise at seeing Fuji, but narrowed instantly.
The unreadable expression on Fuji's face hadn't escaped the writer's notice.
"Tezuka." Fuji started, voice even, "We need to talk."
A nod and Tezuka opened the door. "Come in, then."
Fuji stepped, but did not sit down. The room was just as softly lit as always and the welcoming warmth threatened to overwhelm his senses for a few moments, but Fuji steeled his resolve.
It would be better for everybody if he broke things off with Tezuka. Not because of Atobe, no, even though Fuji dimly understood that at one point in the future he might have had to decide between the two men.
Considering what Oishi had told him however… A faint smile crawled to his lips. He loved Tezuka, loved him from the bottom of his heart and only wanted to see him happy.
Having a beloved die in front of his eyes would certainly cause far greater unhappiness than the impending quarrel. If Tezuka hated him, Fuji concluded, he could die with his mind at peace.
"I won't be seeing you anymore." Fuji announced.
Tezuka flinched, turning around. Confusion swam in his eyes, mixed with hurt and suspicion and Fuji wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around those wide shoulders and take his words back.
"Is it because of the Duke?"
The actor shook his head.
"Why then?" Tezuka asked and Fuji heard the well-suppressed tremble in that smooth voice. It hurt to see Tezuka look at him like this, to watch his heart break, but …
This was no place for compassion. If Fuji tried to reason Tezuka would not hate him, but only be sad and grieve. And this was not what Fuji wanted.
Telling himself this was another play, Fuji slowly raised his head, a cold smirk playing on his lips. "Are you sure you want to know?"
Confused at the strange behaviour, Tezuka fell silent, watching in disbelief.
"You finished the script, didn't you?" Fuji asked coolly, straightening himself up and brushed his fingers disdainfully over the table. How often had they eaten here together? Had talked about the most whimsical things and …
No regrets now.
"I don't need you anymore."
Tezuka's eyes opened wide, thunderstruck. Silence hung gravely over the small room, with Fuji seemingly uncaring and Tezuka fishing for words.
"What?" ,was all the writer managed in the end. There was barely any blood left in his face and the oncoming sadness reflected in those hazel orbs had Fuji's heart aching.
"Not what." The actor replied, shrugging his shoulders, "That's it. The play's over, you can go home. Or come and watch, I don't care."
Tezuka breathed in audibly. "Wh … are you saying you have been using me?"
"Such a harsh way of putting it." Fuji shot back, "But I guess, yes."
Sadness gave away to indignation. Anger. Fuji felt his soul tremble at the sight, but had to remind himself, that this was exactly he reaction he had wanted.
"Everything was a lie?" Tezuka questioned, voice growing louder, even if disbelief was yet stronger than rage. "Everything you told me… everything we did together… all of that was fake?"
Fuji smiled calmly. "I am an actor, Tezuka. It is my job to make people see what they want to see."
"You mean … you … I…" Tezuka sputtered and Fuji used the moment to further this heart-breaking exercise in cruelty. "It was rather easy to fool you, if I may say so. I had expected you to be somewhat harder to crack, but well… Did you honestly believe I'd pick you over Atobe? Are you that naïve?"
Even if he could feel the air trembling with tension and anger, Fuji went on: "I needed a script, fast preferably, to win the Duke for the project, so I'm rather grateful you appeared on the scene back then. And also helped me to make the Duke so nicely jealous. You're too nice for your own good, really."
Steeling his nerves, Fuji raised his eyes to meet Tezuka's.
"But for what reason should I fall in love with a penniless, naïve day-dreamer when a wealthy, world-wise Duke is the alternative? I'm really surprised you thought I actually loved you…"
The deed had been done. Fuji could see the whirling emotions in Tezuka's eyes, how firmly the writer was pressing his lips together and felt tears well up in his own eyes.
"I never loved you either!" Tezuka yelled after a split second and stormed out.
Fuji felt him brush past but made no move to stop him, even if his heart was screaming. Furiously he tried to blink away the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes; not moving even as a door slammed shut and Tezuka's footsteps grew distant.
Maybe he'd never see that man again.
He'd just gone and intentionally destroyed what little happiness had remained in his life. Told the cruellest lie to the only man he'd ever loved. And still loved so much it hurt just to recall his face.
And those hands, so warm and gentle…
With a choked sob Fuji collapsed to his knees.
This is it, he thought, the morbid finality almost sweet to his shattered heart, this is the end. He had nothing left to loose.
"I love you…" Fuji gasped, voice trembling, burying his face in his hands, "I love you…"
(i) Purple hyacinths I'm sorry
To all readers: thank you very much for reading to this point, and you'd make me very happy if you left a comment on what you liked or not liked.