A/N: So drama-princess is back. . . and she's trying her hand at a new (for her) genre! I've got some sad (or happy-- it depends how your preference runs) news for everyone, though. I'm putting The Aspects of Love and How to Win the Heart of a Poet on hiatus. I do plan to finish both fics, and I probably will continue my series, but for the moment, I just can't work up the enthusiasm to to write them. So, in the meantime, here's a modern day romance set on the streets of Broadway. Feedback is not required, but highly appreciated, and will help segments come faster.
Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge and all characters related to it are the property of Baz Luhrmann, while all songs (unless otherwise mentioned) are the property of their respective owners. All original material (characters, plotline) are copyright me. Song used in this chapter was Don't Rain on My Parade from Funny Girl.
Dedication: To the splendiferous Kara, who pioneered the modern-day genre with the absolutely wonderful Crazy Love, and whose writing had a great deal of influence on this story. You rock, chica.
And now, on with the show!
~Broadway Baby~
Chapter 1: Rain on My Parade
Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter.
Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter!
Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade. . .
Barbara Streisand's soaring, forceful voice faded into silence as Chris Montomgery took the CD out of his player. He looked around at the white, sterile room that he'd spent his last nineteen years existing in. What traces of life he'd managed to instill in this poster room for suburban mediocrity had vanished as he'd gathered his possessions for the bend in the road he was about to travel along. Gone were the dog-eared books he'd found solace in during the hell of public school. Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Nathaniel Hawthorne, James Joyce-- all his fellow dreamers had been neatly packed up into cardboard boxes. He ran a hand over the lid slowly, wishing that he had time to curl up on his windowseat and lose himself in the beautiful stories they told.
Chris was a dreamer. Everyone who knew him acknowledged that, whether it be in his father's disgusted rants to his best friend's gentle teasing. His soft, blue-green gaze was always focused off to the horizon. And above all things he dreamed about, he dreamed about love. He spent long hours curled up, reading about the great loves of fiction, thrilling to the soul-changing experiences the lovers always shared. The rest of his life was shallow and cramped, filled with unsympathetic family members and fellow students who noticed him only to proclaim him gay.
Chris bit back a wince at that memory. He didn't have anything against people like that-- after all, one of his (few) friends had been gay, but he sometimes wished that he could have spoken to a girl without receiving offers to go shopping. One of the many reasons he was unspeakably grateful for his high school diploma.
Chris, you've got to get away from here, his best friend since childhood had advised him the day he left for New York to become a Broadway producer. He'd been some ten years older than Chris, but they'd shared a bond closer than brothers. I'm worried about you, Little Prince. I don't know how you're going to do without me. Come on up when you're ready to be a famous playwright, okay?
Chris raised his lonely gaze to the walls that revealed no trace of the colourful posters that had so recently been packed away. The famous Broadway shows that were portrayed on glossy white paper were safely rolled up into neat cylinders. With a little bit of miracle, he'd be on his way to see those plays in just a few days.
Hi, Chris. His younger sister Meg stood in the doorway, her shoulders slumped at the sight of his suitcases. You're really going, huh? Chris sent her a wan smile and nodded. Meg was probably the one person he would miss. He loved his shy, awkward little sister. She was the one who stuck up for him with their dad when Matt Montgomery got a little too frustrated at his son's habits. Chris sighed and held out a hand for Meg, bringing her close a in a hug. He would miss her.
I'm glad, Meg said softly. She glanced down at the heart-shaped locket she wore around her neck and pried it open to reveal a miniature portrait of a smiling woman in her thirties. Mom would be too, she added, cradling the picture in her palm. Chris glanced down at his mother's face and closed his eyes, willing the tears to stay unshed, stinging only in his heart.
he said quietly. Meg gave a soft sob, and he wiped away the single tear that appeared near his sister's eyes. Even though a car accident had claimed their mom four years ago, it still hurt like yesterday. Chris bit back a few tears of his own as he remembered the telephone call that told him his mother was dead. He hugged his sister closer, wondering if he could really leave. Meg, I'll miss you so--
What the hell is going on here? Matt Montgomery's irritated voice broke through the moment. Christian Andrew Montgomery, what the hell do you think you're doing? Meg winced and tried to slip away into a corner, but her father turned on her. And you! Margaret! What does he mean that he'll miss you?
You could ask me, Chris suggested softly. Meg buried her face in her hands. She'd had to witness too many fights between her father and brother in the past four years. She didn't want to see anymore. She just wanted Chris to get away, to escape this small town life.
All right, Matt said tersely. What do you mean, Chris? He glared at the suitcases that surrounded him. What does this mean? Chris took a deep breath and raised his chin.
I'm going to New York. Matt raised his eyebrows sardonically.
Chris replied firmly. I've always wanted to be a playwright. I'm going to be on Broadway. He caught sight of his father's face and felt his resolve drain away in spite of himself. Every bit of self-doubt he'd ever felt caught up with him again.
Just like that, Matt said, disgusted with his son's dreams. The older man glared at Chris. I am sick and tired of this ridiculous obsession with Broadway, he said, his words punctuated with a sharp gesture. You want to waste your life with some waitress who'll sit and audition for your naive little shows that'll never see the light of stage, Chris? Is that what you want? You don't have the talent or the drive, Chris.
Chris protested, knowing it was futile. His father would rant for a while, send him down to his office, bring up his mother, and then Chris would sent back to a life of boredom and unhappiness. He glanced over at Meg's downcast face and shook his head mentally. He couldn't let his father do that to him. If he managed to beat Chris down, then what chance would Meg have to get out of here? As he thought furiously, trying to figure the most graceful exit, his father began to speak again.
You have my company, and you're going to go through what life says you should, his father continued. You're going to get your MBA, and you're going to stop this Broadway nonsense this instant, Chris. I am not going to hear another word about your silly dreams. Now, put your things away and get your ass down to my office, and I'll put you to doing some real work.
Chris stared into his father's eyes. I'm going to do this. Matt shook his head angrily and began to pace the length of the room. His voice settled into his preacher's voice, droning on about the moral values that Chris should be living his life by.
Broadway's just a dirty place filled with sin. Your mother and I--
Dad! Stop it! Chris cried, his hands balling into fists. Mom would have wanted me to do what I thought I could! It's not fair that you keep bringing her up every time you want me to do things. She's dead, Dad, and I miss her, but I can't live my life based on what you think she would have wanted. With a defiant glare, he picked up two of his suitcases and took a step towards the door. Matt stopped his pacing and stiffened.
Don't do that, Chris. Don't throw your life away like this, for God's sake! Don't you care what you your mother would think?
Dad, don't do this, Meg said quietly from her corner.
Don't run away from your problems, Matt continued, listing off with narrowed eyes. He shook an angry finger at his son. Don't let your pretty fantasies--
Don't tell me! Chris cried sharply. The room fell silent, and he saw a small smile appear on Meg's face, giving him strength. She knew what he wanted to do, all right. Their father folded his arms and stared at Chris, waiting for the next protest to counter.
Go for it, she mouthed, quietly easing back and picking up his remaining two suitcases. With a quick nod, she vanished out of the door, escaping Matt's notice.
Don't tell you what, Chris? his father asked quietly, his voice dangerous. Chris took a deep breath and opened his mouth. He'd been looking forward to this moment ever since he'd first dreamed of going to Broadway. With a briefly apologetic smile, he began to sing, feeling the music course through him. This was his life, and he was going to live it.
Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter, Chris began, trying to make his words as crisp as Barbara Streisand's had been. Once he realized that his voice was in tune, he let it soar out over the air. This was his dream. He wasn't going to let his father take it away from him.
Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter. Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade! He walked out the door, followed by his father, who appeared to have been stunned into silence.
Don't tell me not to fly-- Chris slid down the banister, raising his suitcases as he quickly reached the marble floor and stood, a triumphant grin on his face. I've simply got to! His father began hurrying down the stairs, hampered by his business suit and shoes.
If someone takes a spill, it's me and not you! Chris stared up at his father, still hurrying down the stairs. Who told you you're allowed to rain on my parade? he sang, wondering the same thing in his heart. Weren't parents supposed to encourage their children's dreams?
I'll march my band out, Chris sang, striding out the front door to where Meg had left his suitcases in his beat-up old car. A thrill was pulsing through his veins, giving him a courage he'd never had before.
Chris, stop it! The neighbors will hear! his father hissed, trying to hush his son and remain nondescript at the same time. A vein was making an prominent appearance on his forehead. Chris ignored him and continued to belt out the song. He felt like he'd just stepped out into the sky. He tossed his suitcases in the back and hopped into the old car.
I'll beat my drum! And if I'm fanned out-- Chris turned to his father and nodded deferentially. Your turn at that, sir. His father's red face turned a very unbecoming shade of violet. At least I didn't fake it, he added, hiding a smile at his father's fury. Hat, sir, he sang, picking up Matt's baseball cap and tossing it to him. I guess I didn't make it.
Chris, be quiet! his father begged, twisting the hat in his hands as he spoke. Just be quiet!
But where they're on the rows of sheer perfection, Chris sang even louder, a secret pleasure at finally disobeying his father's stupid wishes running through him. It was about time he told his dad where he was at. Nobody had the right to take away what he was meant to become. A freckle on the nose of life's complexion. The cinder or the shiny apple of its eye! With a flourish, he inserted his key and turned it. As he backed out, he sang his farewell to his father through the open windows, hoping that Matt might understand why he had to leave.
I gotta fly once. I gotta try once! Chris stopped backing out and stuck his head out the window. Only can die once! His father threw his hands up in the air and headed back towards the house, but Chris's melody continued to float through the air. Ooh, life is juicy, juicy and you see. I'm going to have my bite, sir!
Chris inserted his Funny Girl CD and pressed play, glad that he'd insisted on spending the extra money on the player. He tapped his foot as the music filled the car, imagining himself on the stages of Broadway singing out to the actors that were playing in his show. As Barbara Streisand reached the point he'd been singing at, Chris threw back his head and belted out the song along with her.
Get ready for me fame cause I'm a comin'! I simply gotta march, my heart's a drummer! Annoyed, an expensive black BMW veered a little too close to him. Normally Chris would have backed off and let the car go its way, but he just turned the volume and waved to the irritated driver.
Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade! That was it, Chris decided. Nobody was going to rain on his parade any longer. Not his father, not anybody. He was going after his dreams, and he wouldn't be held back by anyway. He was going to Broadway and he was going to write plays about truth, beauty, freedom, and love-- all those things he seen in books, but had never had a chance to live. Chris took a deep breath and glanced back to change lanes to drive up to the airport.
I'm gonna live and live now, he sang softly, his jaw set in an expression of pure determination. Get what I want, I know how. One roll for the whole shebang-- one throw, that bell will go clang. Eye on the target and wham! One shot, one gunshot and bam-- He pulled into a convenient parking spot, hoping that Meg would be able to make her way to come pick up his car soon. He bit his lower lip in doubt, but once he caught sight of a jet, he grinned and opened the car door to sing to his escape.
Hey Broadway baby! he sang, his arms rising up in a perfect imitation of what the heroes always did in the movies. His black hair fell over his forehead, and he knew people were staring at his messy appearance and his pose, but he pushed the thought aside. He had to shed this lingering self-doubt. Here I am!
Chris grabbed his suitcases and loaded up the battered cart, humming the theme to himself all the while. He jogged up to the airport with the first genuine smile that had crossed his face in several months. Hope surged through him, colouring the world a beautiful rose colour.
Get ready for me fame, cause I'm a comin', he whispered to himself. I simply gotta march, my heart's a drummer. It was true. He had to do this. He was meant for more than a pretty wife at twenty-one and a place in his father's company. Chris cast a long look back at his car, at his former life, and hesitated. What if this was wrong? He didn't want to throw away his life.
he said aloud. He met the curious gazes of more than a few passerbys and he turned back towards the airport, squared his shoulders, and didn't turn his thoughts toward his doubts. Nobody was going to stop him. Especially himself.
he sang out loud, ignoring the raised eyebrows. He was going to Broadway. And he was going to become a famous playwright, sharing his dream with the world. He wouldn't let anyone tell him differently. No, nobody. . . is gonna. . .rain. . .on my . . .parade!