Later that night, Christian sat in his garret, trying to work on the play. But his mind was a blank. He kept thinking back on his conversation with Alyse, and he could only come to one conclusion--he'd been quite rude to her. When conversation had shifted to something he hadn't wanted to talk about, he'd just walked away. That was no way to handle things. He was just going to have to be more careful how he dealt with the subject from now on. Because he was certain this wouldn't be the last time someone spoke to him about his past.

About Satine.

He sighed and pushed back his chair to walk to the window. He leaned against the frame and looked across the street. Lit up brightly against the night sky loomed the Moulin Rouge, and next to it, Satine's elephant. And it was still hers. When Zidler had been given back the deeds to the theatre, he'd had the elephant restored to its former glory--but he hadn't allowed anyone to use it, or live in it, and nobody questioned his decision. It was quite evident, without words, why he did it.

Christian usually made a point not to look in that direction anymore. But tonight, he stared at the elephant, wondering if he'd be able to see the ghosts of two young lovers courting each other through song.

He shook his head. "I try not to think about what might have been," he sang to himself, holding onto the frame. "'Cause that was then, and we have taken different roads. We can't go back again, there's no use giving in. And there's no way to know what might have been..."

On another sigh, Christian turned from the window and returned to his typewriter. Pretty words, he thought, that didn't mean a thing. It was hard to not wonder.

Pushing his melancholy thoughts aside, he focused on his work. The stars were bright in the night sky before he slipped into his bed.


******




Alyse awoke the next morning to butterflies in her stomach. She looked around her room as she lay in the bed. The sun shown in through the windows, brightening the place a bit. Absently, she made a mental note to buy some flowers while she was out later on.

She still couldn't quite believe what had happened to her yesterday. It all felt like a dream--yet she knew it wasn't, because she was to go into today for fittings and "other theatre business," as Zidler had put it. It was so unreal, winning a part in a play at the Moulin Rouge, written by the man who'd unwittingly guided her destiny.

Christian. The butterflies turned into a swarm as his face came to her mind. He was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. She giggled at her silliness and pulled her blanket over her head. It wouldn't do her any good to moon over the writer, especially when he was clearly off limits. She cringed as she recalled the disastrous discussion of yesterday. She made another mental note--to apologize to him if she found the chance. And put aside this hero worship crush, she told herself sternly. She had to be professional.

An hour later she was entering the Moulin Rouge. She pushed a few stray hairs back from her face and looked around as she walked into the theatre. On the stage stood Harold Zidler, making a speech much like yesterday's to a new group of people. Unsure what to do, she stood for a moment, and fortunately he noticed her quickly.

"Oh, my little peach!" he cried, scrambling off the stage and bustling down the aisle to her. "Come, come!" He pulled her up onto the stage and introduced her to the crowd, who made appropriate noises.

Christian looked up from his perch on the back of one of the theatre chairs. The poor girl was getting that overwhelmed look again, he thought as he flicked ashes from his cigarette into a tray. He tapped his feet on the seat of the chair in time to the rumbles from the orchestra pit as he mulled over the situation. He saw one of the ever-present stage hands heading backstage, and called out to him quietly. "Would you find Marie and send her out to take Miss Alyse for her fittings?" he asked the boy, who nodded and sprinted backstage. He turned back to the stage where Zidler had apparently forgotten Alyse was there for a reason, and was gesturing madly toward the crowd, explaining how the male leads had very, terribly important jobs in this play, and therefore the actors had to be very, terribly talented. Christian rolled his eyes. He wondered how long Zidler would go on and leave Alyse to stand there next to him. Fortunately, Marie hurried out onto the stage just then, and in a flurry of words, ushered Alyse to the back.

The next few hours were a blur to Alyse. She was poked, prodded, turned, measured, squeezed into corsets and dresses and hats. Her hair was teased, combed, twisted and, amazingly, tamed. She stood in front of mirrors. She stood in front of people. She'd never felt so bared to the world in her life as she did as she stood in a corset and was measured by Marie and another girl. They exclaimed over her youthful figure, her creamy skin, her glorious hair. "You were made for the stage, love!" Marie cooed as she spun Alyse to look at herself in the mirror.

She didn't hardly recognize the reflection. For starters, her hair was straight. She vaguely remembered one of them saying something about how it wouldn't stay that way, but they needed an idea of how it would look. She ran a hand down her hair. No curls! Somehow they'd fit her into a gorgeous, wispy creation of a dress. It was light blue and gauzy, strapless and all straight lines, save for the edges of the skirt, which swirled around her feet. They'd created cleavage, Lord knew how--probably the corset, she thought dazedly--and she could hardly get past that fact. "I'm, uhh…" she began, gesturing toward her chest.

"Don't worry, love, it'll all stay there," Marie assured her, grabbing her hand. "Let's go show everyone how gorgeous you are!"

"Oh, oh, no, I couldn't possibly have anyone see me like this…" Alyse shook her head, but Marie was surprisingly strong and pulled her out into the hallway in the direction of the stage. "People are going to see you like this every night when you're performing, so you'd better get used to it!" she said cheerfully, and burst out onto the stage with Alyse in tow. "Where's Harold run off to?" she called.

Christian paid her no mind. He was immersed in his typing, trying to finish up this play as soon as possible so rehearsals could start properly soon. But when he heard oohing and ahhing from the direction of the stage, he pried his eyes from the typewriter for an instant. And saw why every man in the theatre had their eyes riveted to the stage.

Alyse stood there, with Marie gesturing madly next to her. Her hair was straight. He noticed that right away. It fell past her waist now, shiny and long. The dress…he swallowed around a sudden tightness in his throat and realized to his embarrassment that his hands were sweaty. He mentally shook himself. Just because she was gorgeous, with a tiny waist and was wearing a dress that made her look like some kind of exotic angel was no reason to go getting himself into a state. He wouldn't allow it. Couldn't allow it.

It was hard to push back the little creeping feeling of jealousy that tore into his gut when the Argentinean spun her around in circles, though.

She laughed, and as she stopped spinning, spotted Christian, sitting alone at his typewriter. He was watching her, and her insides turned fluttery again. The chatter around her receded for an instant, and all she saw was him, all she heard was her heart pounding. Then Toulouse cried, "We must find Harold!! He must see this beautiful creature!!" Marie clucked her tongue and told Alyse to wait right there and not move a muscle, and the little group took off looking for Zidler.

She stood there, all right. Christian didn't think she was even breathing for a minute, then she gave a little sigh. She was trying so hard to look calm, he thought. But he could see her hand shake as she reached up to touch her hair. He made a decision in a flash. He knew what it felt like to be new here, to feel out of place, to be overwhelmed. Clearly she needed a friend. He could be that for her. He admitted to himself that he wanted to know her better. He could be that honest. But all he could offer her, all he could offer anyone, was friendship. He didn't have the capacity for love anymore. But friendship…you couldn't get too hurt being someone's friend, not like you could by loving them. As long as he didn't get too close to her, he was sure this could work out. He nodded to himself, pleased with his plan. He unfolded himself from his chair and walked towards the stage.



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[lyrics:

What Might Have Been-Little Texas]