Short chapter. But mental nonetheless.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The first thing he realised when he woke up was that he was warm. The second was that his hair hadn't completely dried yet.
He sat up, pushing the various multicoloured blankets off him; he was shocked by the sudden cold air. He realised why; one of the windows he was staring out of was broken.
This is not the Elephant, he realised, looking around at the faded walls and the new things that had been tossed carelessly around the room. The clothes he was wearing now – less formal than the ones last night – were dry, thank God. He found a coat on the floor, pulled it on and began to search for shoes.
He realised where he was: he was in Toulouse's apartment, in the spare room, and –
His blood ran cold. He was in Toulouse's apartment.
Christian looked out the window; the sun was sinking in the sky. He had to stop waking up so late. An odd pang hit him as he remembered the show was on tonight; a spark of pain lit up in his cheek and in his chest. He remembered he'd been hit in the face by –
His throat closed up and he stopped looking for the left shoe, reaching his hand up to his face and touching the healed skin. Trying to ignore the thought, he shook his head, a little desperately. After everything that had happened last night, Toulouse and the others had brought him to their apartment. How was he even going to look them in the eye? Would they even want to look him in the eye?
Judging by the movement from the other room, they were still here, probably waiting for him to wake up. His throat was dry and his chest was aching terribly, so much that he felt he might throw up. He didn't bother trying to tell himself it was all in his head; he remembered crying, only for a little while, that was stupid, was it really?
Then it was all cold, wet, misery, darkness. Right; he could barely breathe after what Erik – the Ghost – had done and in the end unconsciousness won. He gladly gave in.
What time was it now? Did he even care? Could he even go back to the Opera Populaire after leaving Christine to deal with Satine last night –?
Satine! What the hell was he going to tell her? 'Oh, yeah, when I thought you'd died, I might have lost my heart to an Opera Ghost. Just putting it out there –' Hold on – LOST MY HEART? Exaggerating, right.
Why did he leave Satine last night? Why didn't he just stay with her, not go after the Ghost?
He put his hands to his head, giving a small groan. What could he do? He had to explain to Toulouse, the Argentinean and Satie – what could he say to them? They'd seen much worse than Satine had heard – or more, if she believed Christine's statement, heard exactly what his friends had seen.
He could always just run through and pretend not to remember; he could pretend he was drunk or something and got... confused, oh crap, what was he going to do? That wouldn't work at all.
Just walk out of here, find Satine, and explain something. See if Christine said anything afterwards.
Hell, he'd left the Opera Populaire; it shouldn't be a part of his life now. Tonight was supposed to be the night he could forget everything and finally go on living. Avoiding his mother and father. Living with Satine, everyone at the Moulin Rouge. Not really being bothered.
But no.
'Help,' he realised he was praying. 'Please help me.'
He got to his feet (he had found the other shoe) and ran a hand through his hair. He lifted his head and walked to the bedroom's door. He took a deep breath and opened it.
His first thought was Damn! I could have gone out the windows!
Three heads swivelled to look at him then swiftly looked away. They didn't look disgusted, that was the good part. But they looked – afraid to meet his eyes, unsure of what to say, unsure of what to think.
Disgust might have been better. Arguing made it easier to get out of a room!
Christian swallowed, rubbing the back of his head. 'Thank you,' he said lamely, but clearly.
Toulouse continued washing plates, not looking at him. The Argentinean continued reading a book upside-down. Satie must've suddenly felt drowsy because now he was asleep. The only indication that he had been heard was the nod Toulouse gave.
Christian had enough; he walked swiftly across the room, opened the door and lunged out, slamming it behind him. It was chilly out here; the sunlight was disappearing rapidly.
He'd been out for a long time. His chest constricted painfully as he thought of why and he stuck his hands deep into his coat pockets, keeping his head down as he trudged across the hallway, down the stairs and out, blissful outside, wondrous outside where no one would talk to him.
He stood there on the dirty ground, staring at the Moulin Rouge. He saw everything that had happened last night from a different view, sometime from across the room or sometimes right next to himself. He could see his eyebrows rising when Satine and Christine were snapping at each other, could see himself trying not to laugh as Toulouse tried to 'charm' Meg, could see the Ghost punching him across the face, the top half of his body, spinning to the right, his legs barely holding him up from the shock.
He kept staring until someone yelled at another person about their cat being in the wrong house and the other person yelling that they didn't own a cat and if they did it wouldn't be called Mister Tibbles, and decided to leave quickly before that argument got out of hand; both men sounded very drunk. As he walked swiftly away, he heard a drunken moan, 'Awright, awright, 'e's my ca', come here, Mistah Tibbles...'
Ignoring the ever so normal lives of people and their cats, Christian moved at once more quickly. He needed to get to the Opera Populaire, get it over with and leave, leave and never come back, forget everything, why did his chest hurt so much?! –
'WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!' he yelled suddenly to the empty street he was travelling down. Something in an alley gave a startled yelp at his outburst and scampered away. But Christian didn't just mean his chest; how could anyone be as cruel as he had? He'd left the Opera Populaire for an old life, though it was his life now, he'd left it all and for –
He really had to get to the Opera Populaire.
--
He ran the rest of the way there. When he got there, he bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath as he looked up at the grand building. It caught in his throat again when he saw the lines of people outside the Opera House.
They were all coming to see it. Posh-looking ladies, pompous men and what looked like a lot of rich snobs, but nonetheless they were here. He felt like he was about to throw up again. They'd hate it, he knew it, they'd all hate it. He stared; the sun was nearly down and he could hear their excitement, they'd be going in soon and they could talk about it as much as they wanted to, how this play was so different to anything they'd seen.
He caught the words 'Don Juan Triumphant' a few times through the crowd but paid no attention to it – yeah, like he would.
Christian knew he could find Meg, Christine, Madame Giry, hell, Carlotta, behind stage butwould the others be in there? Satine, Zidler? He had a feeling Raoul would watch from a Box and the Ghost – holy hell, would the ghost be there? His chest shrunk painfully and he hoped not.
The moon had come out; tonight it was full and its face looked neutral. He could see the poster that had been put up for his play – play, it wasn't an opera, there was singing in it, yes, but nothing amazing, just what had happened in real life – the play he hadn't been able to give a title. He couldn't think of anything for it. But the poster read the words Moulin Rouge!
He blinked; it plainly said Moulin Rouge, French for Red Mill, and the aristocratic gods of Paris had come out to see it.
He really had to throw up.
And then there was a voice, a middle-aged female voice which sounded so familiar and it said 'Good God, it that Christian, over there? Do you think he can see us? Christian, over here!'
He bolted; there was nothing else left to do – he scooted up the steps and ran through the doors, ignoring the people who snapped after him 'Ahem, there is a line, young man!' All he needed right now was to know he could just hide somewhere.
People were pouring in suddenly; he looked around in case Firmin and Andre were around to tell him what was happening, to tell him that they'd let the audience in and the play would begin in a few minutes, that –
He stopped and looked around; the opera house truly was beautiful on the inside, grand and old. He'd missed that.
Breathing in, he ran as fast as he could, past all the memories every step held, as long as he could make it to backstage. He bumped shoulders with someone, muttered a hasty apology and continued to walk, even after he heard Raoul call out 'Christian?'
And he was past the staircase that would lead him up to his old room, where his typewriter still was. It was like walking into the first place you'd ever lived as a child, when you were an old man; every little detail held an emotion, surprise, pain, happiness, whether it was an old staircase you'd fallen down, a door you'd hit your elbow on every time you walked through it or the bed you slept in until you decided to leave home.
He couldn't see Toulouse or the Argentinean – he didn't notice them as he ran as well. Perhaps they weren't coming. He couldn't blame them if they didn't; seeing their friend with his tongue in another man's mouth after he was forever going on about how much he loved Satine, even though he'd been 'diagnosed' with lovesickness wasn't a very good image, he supposed. Hell, he knew – the Ghost had been hoping for that to happen.
He moved quickly into the backstage, hearing the chorus girls heavy thanks that he had suddenly returned but not really noticing them; he saw Christine chewing her fingernails, looking terrified (obviously over what happened last night), Meg practising with other girls, the man who was playing him running his hands through his hair so much it was sticking up and –
Carlotta suddenly screeched and he turned to look at what she was staring at. He realised she was staring at him, her mouth wide open. Everyone around turned to stare at him too, jaws dropping and eyes widening everywhere. Christian took an involuntary step back and someone tapped his shoulder. He turned around and Madame Giry slapped him across the face.
He winced – it had been where the ghost had hit him – his head turned to the right with the aftermath of her hand when suddenly she gave a little sound that sounded almost, almost like a choked sob. Then she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly.
That was when all the talking began; a lot of people had missed him and he was surprised as to how many people knew his name. He felt happy to be home as he tried to hug as many people as he could back.
This isn't your home.
He saw the sandy-haired man sitting on a crate, watching the events fold out before him but not noticing them too much; he looked deep in thought. When everyone was through talking to him (he noticed Meg and Christine had disappeared) he went and sat down on a crate next to the man.
'Bad day?' Christian asked.
The other man smiled. He was wearing a simple bow tie, dress shirt and dark pants. 'How'd you guess?'
'Luck.' The other man chuckled lightly. He extended his hand. 'Anton.'
'Nice to meet you, Anton. Haven't I seen you around the Moulin Rouge before?'
Anton glanced over at him. 'You're from the Moulin Rouge, huh?
Christian blinked – the man didn't know him. That was a relief, oddly enough. 'Yeah. I think I've seen you with Satine.'
Anton blinked, his grey eyes wide. 'Who?'
Okay, now this was confusing. The man who he saw around Satine AKA the Sparkling Diamond all the time didn't know her name. He hit a mental blank for a moment and Anton asked, 'What's your name again, sorry?' He looked and sounded like a fairly rich man and he was... Christian supposed Meg would call him good-looking but thinking about that made him feel sick.
'Tall woman. Red hair, blue eyes... main event at the Moulin Rouge...'
The other laughed. 'Satine?'
Christian stared. 'Um, yeah.' He looked up suddenly, hoping there was no one in the rafters. His heart should be pumping at the mention of his lady's name, he should be falling over with the amount of love he held for her, he should at least feel his stomach flutter when he thought of her... he didn't. And yet the thought of the Ghost, somewhere up there, or anywhere was enough to make him feel nothing but pain.
He hated Christian. That was the plain truth. And it was his fault, he had to screw up everything didn't he? He felt tears threatening and stopped, feeling almost terrified; he loved Satine, he loved Satine –
'Her name's Elieutte,' Anton said, still laughing a little.
Christian gave him a grim smile. So Satine told him a different name. Showed how much the man knew about the Moulin Rouge. 'Actually, her name's Satine. I don't know what she's been telling you, but –'
'Yeah, sure,' Anton cut across him, rolling his eyes. 'I don't know what you've heard, but I've been with her way before Paris, good man – I met her in England, where she'd been staying for about three years.'
Christian stared at him. 'What?'
'Oh, mate,' said Anton, staring at him with pity and amusement, 'didn't you hear? Satine was Elieutte's sister, that's right, I remember, younger twin by thirty minutes. Elieutte basically left Paris when the only business was brothels. Instead, Satine became the amazing star. Fell in love with that writer. Then she died.'
Christian stared at him. 'Yeah, she died.' He felt nothing after he said that; Satine was dead and gone, and it didn't pain him to say it.
'And Zidler heard that this writer – you know, one who organised this play, in fact, I'm certain it's their story, you'll see it tonight – was making the money roll in. One idea and everyone wants to hear it.'
Christian didn't remember making the money roll in – was everyone that excited? He let Anton continued, listening intently. 'And?'
'And, well, he get Elieutte to move back down here, offering her a lot of money to be her sister – they looked exactly alike, no kidding, huh? So he could get that writer back. Told everyone she was alive.'
So Toulouse hadn't known. Nobody had known. Christian felt another world crash around his head and he knew this time he deserved it. Anton was the secret lover to Elieutte here, and he was the Duke, the thing keeping them apart. It made sense – the fights with Zidler, the odd things she did.
That's why you didn't love her, it wasn't the right Satine, a part of his mind said weakly. He told it to shut up as he realised what he'd done – he had an odd feeling within him now, something that made him realise that if it all happened again, he wouldn't say 'yes' to Toulouse, even if it was the real Satine.
No, that's not true, you love her!
No, I don't.
He felt like an idiot – he'd ruined his life. Oh, God, he was lovesick... the Argentinean had seen it all along. It just took one complete disaster of a night to realise it...
'And did you really think I'd fallen in love with you?'
Did I?
He put his head in his hands, feeling horror and misery and dread run through him. What had he done? What was he going to do?
'By the way, I never did get your name,' Anton's voice twittered.
Christian sat up and extended his hand. 'I'm Christian, the writer. Nice to meet you.'
--
:) Hope you enjoyed! Reviews are appreciated!
