Roxanne

Rated PG-13 for language I wouldn't normally use in real life, and what may come. Inspired by "Tango de Roxanne" and the characters. If the Argentinean has a name, would someone send it to me? And, to be quite honest, I've forgotten the name of the courtesan he danced with. It's probably Nini or Arabia or something like that, but can we just pretend her name is Roxanne? All right, I have confirmation that her name is Nini. Too bad. From now on, that's her courtesan name. Her real name is Roxanne. It fits so much better-and if you really want to correct me on it I won't get mad. By the way, I'm sorry at how horrible this is-did I ever tell you I suck at plots? Don't kill me too much on this one.

For some reason, he had started it. The musicians had picked up on the music quite quickly, and they played to his voice rather well. He had danced first with Roxanne; the others learned soon enough. The entire hall moved in fluid, sensuous gestures. It seemed passionate and yet distant, cold: it was, after all, the dance to tell a prostitute how one felt about her.

And who in their right mind would love a prostitute? Christian, perhaps, but he was a naive, innocent baby of a boy. He was getting possessive already, over a girl that could never be his. Even now, she was with the Duke, most likely fucking the stuffing out of the man. She was a courtesan, after all, and it didn't matter how much you dressed up the girl or the name. You were still a prostitute.

His gravelly voice brought her quickly back to the present. "Roxanne!" he sang, his voice anguished and full of pain. Almost like he cared. But of course he couldn't care, because the men were shoving her to the floor, rejecting her like yesterday's refuse. While she had gotten used to the rejection-she wasn't Satine, after all, and nothing quite compared to a diamond-it still hurt, every time.

It was a diversion, obviously, meant to take their minds away from what was happening with Satine and the Duke. Christian had slipped away, probably to go trash something, and the diversion was over. Everyone was thinking about the fate of the play, and Roxanne couldn't stand the silence any longer.

Gathering up her skirts, as well as her courage, she walked over to the Argentinean. Aware that everyone was watching her, she kept her head up high.

"Sir," she whispered in her most seductive voice. "That was quite a dance. Would you come up to my room later . . . for a repeat performance?"

He looked surprised, his thick eyebrows climbing his forehead. Roxanne herself was equally surprised when he agreed to it, his textured voice saying "Of course. Shall I see you at nine?"

Everyone had heard that. She nodded and turned away from him. That would give everyone something to talk about, and take their minds off of Satine.

Part of her had done it for the benefit of the crowd, but a larger part of her had done it for her. Perhaps this man would be different. Anyone who could show love to a prostitute, even in a dance, could be worth something.

Steeling herself from the curious eyes surrounding her, Roxanne walked away.