Intrinsic Graves
By: Kyuketsuki
4/21/2001
Disclaimer: I do not own Digimon or any of its characters. I am making no profit on this story.
Pairing: Taito
Rating: Not yet rated.
Author's notes / Warning(s): This story was inspired by an advertisment for the movie "Moulin Rouge," which I have yet to see, so don't go critisizing me if it isn't at all like the movie. And if it is, then this isn't plagerism, 'cause when I wrote this it wasn't even released.
A lot of artistic license was taken for this fic. While the Moulin Rouge did serve as a base for a lot of prostitutes, as far as I know, it was not in the gay scene of the time. But I don't care, and neither should you.
*****
The battered cobblestones of industrial Paris housed a managerie of life. Pimps sold their wares while men got sloshed on watered wine. Rats roamed the streets with ease, no one bothered them, for they were as much a part of life as the cold of autumn or the damp of winter. The filthy water that flowed through the Seine let up an ungodly stench which hung eternally on everything. The houses reaked of it despite the constant washing or preventatives. The only thing that smelled worse was the occasional body that somehow managed to wash up along it's stone banks.
It was within these haunted streets that the saddest life of Paris was housed. Factory workers or city employees were stacked story upon story. They filled the constantly damp and dirty inns. The righteous lived right along side the wretched. Fever spread like wildfire. Every cramped inch of the bowels of Paris was filled with life. And every life resented it.
Taichi rubbed a dark stain on his yellowing linen shirt to no avail. The deep red splotch remained undaunted, taunting his strained eyes with vibrant color.
He was young, but not so much as to be questioned about living on his own. He was lost in the large crowds of people just as miserable and poor as he was. Buried in threadbare layers and working just as hard as everyone else, he fit right in despite his sixteen years.
Glancing out at the smoke darkened sky, Tai sighed. One of his best shirts, and it was ruined. He could still wear it to work, but that hardly helped him today. For today he was going with Jyou to the Moulin Rouge.
The thought made him giddy and sick at the same time.
Shoving his head under the limp mattress of his bed, Tai groped for the handle of his suitcase. There was no getting around it, he decided glumly. Five francs was all he had to his name at the moment, and that wasn't nearly enough to acquire a decent set of tails to go out in. He had only one choice left.
The battered leather case was worn to a shine, belying the scrap leather that had contructed it. He didn't bother to remove the film of dust as he flung it onto the bed. The mere jostle of the landing sprung the cheap mechanism which held it closed, exposing the wrapped parcel within it.
Tai untied the grubby twine and ripped the already wounded brown paper. He withdrew a heap of thick black silk and velvet. It was a bit threadbare in places and the formerly black fabric was worn to a gray, but it would suit its purpose. The fact that it was long out of style and fit him poorly didn't matter to Tai, who spread out the jacket and pants in the hopes of releasing as many wrinkles as possible before he had to put it on.
The distant Notre Dam Cathedral rung its bells, signalling the late hour. For one moment as those mellow notes echoed throughout the city, every person felt holy and clean. Even the most dirty of souls felt uplifted. But it lasted only a moment, and when it passed and the last notes died away, the people continued on with their horrible lives.
Yamato missed the moment sorely. It had been a long time since he had felt clean. It wasn't a dirt that could be removed. He had long ago come to terms with it, but the need to be cleansed was still there. He had never been able to get rid of that.
Smearing a dash of color across him pale lids, Yamato looked wearily at his reflection. The dark eye makeup made him look more tired than alluring, but the people who frequented the Moulin Rouge did not seem to mind. He was young and pale, but not sickly so as many of those he passed on the streets. Under the untrustworthy light of oil lamps he was a vision, swathed in silk and bejeweled. He was worshipped by the drunken masses, hated by his few competiters. But none of it mattered when that cheer went up from the crowd to announce his arrival.
Throwing on his coat over a less than conservative suit of velvet and tafetta, Yamato stepped out into the cold night air of his balcony.
"Tonight," he said quietly, as he admired the wretched city around him with a sort of awe. "Tonight is the night."