This is my first story, and my first song fic, and...well I'm a newbie at this ok! Hope you like!
*disclamer* Yadda yadda yadda I don't own anything and Yes I have messed around with history slightly for this story to take place...indulge me!
*The song "Gloomy is Sunday" is by Heather Nova. An excellent song, go download it off KaZaA now! *giggles*
Dedicated to the excellent Miss Serena and Mr Neo...thanks for the encouragement...
"A story about a time, a story about a place, but most of all, a story about love. A love that will last forever. The End."
Christian sat back and stared at his typewriter. The words 'The End' glared back at him. He had believed that when he completed their story somehow the pain would be gone. He had imagined this moment, a feeling of release, of peace, of happiness, but there was nothing. He looked away from the harsh words, his eyes scanning the room, his room, walls filled with papers, their story. It had filled up his life for awhile, filled the empty space Satine had left in his soul. Her memory had become his muse, and it had replaced the green bitter drink that had seemingly taken over his life. At times he had felt alive again, recalling the way her hair would fall on her shoulders, the curve of her face, and the warmth of her hand on his. But now…
"Now what?" he softly asked himself. And with the absence of the story he felt that familiar longing again. The Green Fairy's call was on the wind. No…no I can't forget it all again, he thought. But then what next? He looked out his window, the Moulin Rouge now in shambles, whores on the street, the smell of decay and death. He closed his eyes and imagined his Satine, the way she was when they were happy, before the disease had stolen the rose in her cheeks. A smile came to his lips and suddenly, as clear as a bell, he heard her voice whispering in his ear, "Tell our story Christian, share it with everyone." His eyes snapped open. Yes, he thought. Now I need to share it, share it with everyone.
-- 11 mo. later --
"Cwistian! Wait for me!" Toulouse stumbled after his friend. Christian had opened the door of his publishers' house and stepped outside. His Tuxedo bowtie felt too tight and he needed some fresh air. Toulouse followed him out, worried over his friends growing detachment from society. After Christian had finished his story he was so excited to share his story. Toulouse remembered feeling so honored to be the first to read it. Christian had made him finish it in one sitting, and then give him his review. He then proceeded to pass it onto Satie, Doc, Rico…but it wasn't enough. He shared it with Ziedler, Marie, even the Diamond Dogs, relishing all the praise, tears, comments and questions. He was even happy with Nini's horrid words of disgust for something so utterly romantic. It was like he was living off of everyone else's emotions to replace the one's he'd lost. Then Harold encouraged him to publish it and recommended some past clients that owed him a few favors. Christian again was filled with happiness. To have it published and allow the whole of Paris, all of France, perhaps even reach his father back in England, to read the story of the never ending love Satine and he shared was almost too much to bare. Toulouse had gone with to the publisher the day Christian was told that they would love to have his story as part of their publishing house and started talking about Christian becoming the true voice of the revolution. The parties started, the money came in. Christian moved his friends into a grand flat with him. And for awhile it was good. For awhile Christian moved on with his life. But lately…
"Cwistian? Evewything Awight?" Christian sighed and looked down at his good friend.
"Yes, it's just a little too warm in there." Christian smiled softly.
"Ohhh…"Replied Toulouse "Yes, too warm."
The two friends stood in silence watching storm clouds gather as the sun set.
"What a gloomy Sunday Toulouse." Christian sighed.
Toulouse looked up at his friend and decided to try to talk to him about his state lately. In fact Toulouse began to become upset that Christian hadn't confided in him about what was bothering him. Were they not best friends? Didn't he support Christian enough to have some right as to know what was happening inside the young poet's heart?
"Cwistian, what is wrong with you? You have a gweat book, a gweat home, GWEAT fwiends to spend time with, and you seem to woose happiness evewy day! You won't tawk to me, or Satie or…or Anywon! I'm worried fow you!"
Christian wasn't expecting such an outburst from Toulouse. He just smiled sadly and shook his head as he softly spoke.
"Toulouse, my dear friend, I cannot write anymore. I've lost my muse; angels have no thought of ever returning her. I thought that by sharing our story I'd be able to move on, or write more, or…but I can't." Christian looked away from Toulouse and walked down a few steps. There was a light mist coming down and the storm clouds were slowly coming closer. "When the book first was published I'd wake in the morning almost giddy, excited at the people I'd meet, the reviews I'd get," He turned and looked up towards Toulouse, that sad smile still on his face, "I was excited to visit with friends, And share idea's for the future, our plans for the revolution…" Toulouse smiled at him then but it vanished as Christian turned from him again and continued. "But now, everyday it's harder to find that sunshine, the reasons for waking are starting to dwindle and sleep, well I haven't slept a good nights sleep since…since Satine was next to me. There is still something I haven't done to achieve that peace my heart longs for, but although I keep searching somewhere I know that peace will not come till I have her back at my side."
"Cwistian, pwease, you know what you must do! You must wite, wite a sonnet to your wuv. Wite to Satine, as funny as it may seem, you always have been better witing!"
Christian turned and looked at Toulouse, his friend so eager to get him out of his depressed state and on with life. Even after Satine had died, Toulouse was the one to bring him food, clean him up after absinthe filled hours, and encourage him during his darkest moments.
"Wet's go back inside, Cwistan." Toulouse looked hopeful.
"No Toulouse, no more parties for me. I'm going home to sleep." Christian saw the disappointment in Toulouse's eyes, and walked back up the steps. Christian reached for Toulouse and hugged him softly.
"You're the most wonderful friend anyone could ask for, truly," Releasing him, Christian took a step back, "You go back in, you have so much left to give, but I must go now." Toulouse looked up, fear growing in his eyes.
"Pewhaps you should not go awone!" Toulouse held onto Christians arms, pulling gently. Christian smiled deeply, touched by his friends concern.
"Toulouse, we've gone through moments like this before so let me calm you fears again. I would never, could never take my own life for fear of not meeting with my beloved. Do not fear, God willing we will meet tomorrow." And with that Christian turned around and walked away, hailing a coach and leaving Toulouse alone.
"God's speed, dear friend." Toulouse whispered before returning to the party.
Christian looked out the window of the coach and noticed the first drops of rain glisten on the cobblestone. His thoughts hooked on something Toulouse had said, "Write, write her a sonnet." Christian sighed. Was it that simple? Was that his last task or would there be another, and another, waiting for him, he would have to live out his life alone on this earth. The coach passed by a man playing an accordion and Christian thought he recognized the tune. He began humming and suddenly words started racing around his thoughts…
Sunday is Gloomy,
My hours are slumber less.
How long had it been since he'd had a decent night's sleep? How wonderful it would be to sleep again. With Satine next to him sleep was always happy and calm, no shadows to haunt him.
Dearest the shadows I live with are numberless.
Now there were shadows everywhere, shadows that smothered him. Christian shook his head trying to clear it, not knowing where the new flow of prose had come from. Christian focused his view out the other side of the coach. Rows and rows of beautiful white flowers lined the side of the road, reminding him of the color of the last dress Satine ever wore on that horrible stage.
Little white flowers will never awaken you.
Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you.
The day they had buried Satine, Christian followed the black coach on foot, as in tradition. It was the longest walk, seeing the coffin that held Satines body, close enough to touch the cold wood that encased her, knowing he would never get to touch her again.
Angels have no thought of ever returning you.
Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?
What a gloomy Sunday thought Christian as the coach came to a stop. Christian let himself out and paid the driver generously. He crossed the street and walked into his apartment building, a clean safe place far from the Moulin Rouge. Toulouse thought it would help if Christian wouldn't have to look at the decaying Moulin Rouge day in and day out. Christian of course invited his four friends to live with him, it was least he could do after so much they had given him. It was a modest building, none of them wanted glitz. But in a lot of ways Christian missed the comfort, the closeness of the Garrett across from the Moulin Rouge. Christian unlocked his flat and closed the door behind him. He crossed the kitchen and living area and went to his room. He locked the door and went directly to his typewriter. He began to type the words that had come to him in the coach. As soon as he had finished more began to flow.
Gloomy is Sunday,
In shadows I spend it all.
My heart and I have decided to end it all.
How would his friends react? Although he had decided to never take his own life, to go on as Satine had requested, he had thought about it. He had even made out a will so that Toulouse and Satie, Doc and Rico would be able to live comfortably. Even Harold and Marie would receive some share if he died. But it was made as only a thought, a whim to appease his imagination of what his death would bring to his friends. He let his fancy run free as he typed the next verses.
Soon there'd be candles and prayers that are sad I know.
Let them not weep, let them know that I'm glad to go.
He sat back as warmth enveloped him. Death. In death would I see her? Recognize her? Would I be able to touch her again? He sighed knowing only death would ever bring him peace in his soul.
Death is not dreaming, for in death I'm caressing you.
With the last breath of my soul I'll be blessing you.
Christian stood and walked over to his window, this view was much different than his last one had been. He now looked down on a park, a square covered with soft grass and tall trees. The rain had begun to fall in earnest now and the leaves looked slippery, glossy. The rain sent a sweet scent into his lungs, a cleansing fresh scent. Never would one smell such a thing from his old view. Above the trees if Christian squinted just hard enough he thought he could see the old windmill. He closed his eyes and remembered the way it used to look, spin, and glow red upon his garret. The noises, the smells, all of them gone from sight but still present in his mind. He turned back to his room and opened his eyes. His breath caught in his throat, for there in his bed was Satine, asleep, a smile on her face. Tears gathered in his eyes and he dared not move for fear he would disturb this dream. He had seen visions of her, sure, when he was drunk on absinthe but not like this, awake, sober.
Dreaming, I was only dreaming.
I wake and I find you asleep in the dreams of my heart, dear.
He needed to be sure, need to feel her warmth, touch her skin. He slowly moved forward towards the bed and, reaching the edge, sat softly and stared. Her long red hair was loose and silhouetting her lovely face. Her breath was slow and steady. She was so still, yet her smile grew. The tears fell freely down Christian's cheeks as he reached out and touched her leg softly.
Darling I hope that my dreams never haunted you.
My heart was telling me how much I wanted you.
Christian lowered his head and closed his eyes, so thankful to have his Satine back. As he opened his eyes his tears of joy became agonizing sobs. She was gone. It was only an apparition his mind had thought up. Standing, outraged, Christian screamed to the heavens.
"God!!! How much longer I ask you?!? How much more must I take!!" Christian collapsed on the bed and cried himself to sleep.
Christian awoke, the early sunrise on his face. He groaned, his eyes swollen from the tears that fell from them. He sat up and remembered the previous evening. With a sigh he mumbled,
"So I have yet another day alone." He rose from the bed and looked around his room. He saw the paper still in his typewriter, his sonnet to Satine still in place. He stopped and took a deep breath and smelt…
"What is that?!?" Christian looked around and swore softly. He had forgotten the garbage in the corner again. With slow steps he walked to the corner where the sack lay and picked it up. He opened the door to his room and found Rico asleep in the hall, lying probably in the same spot he fell when his sleeping attack came on. Christian just stepped over him and continued out the door of their flat. The place for garbage collection was downstairs, and he looked down at his clothes to be sure he was properly dressed. Realizing he had slept in his tuxedo he chuckled to himself. What a sight he'll make, he thought as he left the flat and headed towards the stairs. A man in a crumpled tuxedo taking out the trash. He was at the top of the stairs when he noticed his shoe was untied and, losing his balance, Christian fell down the long staircase. He never felt his body hit the last step, never felt the pain when his head hit the floor, never saw the concern on the faces of the people that gathered. All he saw was Satine, lifting him up, higher and higher. Laughing and holding onto his hand. He started to cry again.
"Satine? Please, I cannot take another cruel joke." He held onto her hand tightly.
"No jokes, no more apparitions, I'm here with you forever." She smiled and kissed him lightly. He broke down and sobbed against her.
"I thought the day would never come! Why, why now…" Christian asked between gasps.
"You finished what you were put on earth to do. You rescued me through your love, you've saved countless of others from pain because you shared our story, and now, with your last beautiful poem to me, you've allowed Toulouse to find love. He will meet his love because of your poetry." Satine smiled, more beautiful that ever. Her eyes shone with an inner radiance that mirrored the love she found in Christian's eyes. They kissed again, softly, never letting each other go as they drifted away into the heavens.
Toulouse hadn't stopped crying for months, it seemed. He had found Christian's last poem and new that he had died free, he had completed whatever he was supposed to do. But now Toulouse was without his friend. The Four Boho's had sold the flat and moved on their separate ways. Toulouse had given the poem he titled "Gloomy Sunday" to Christian's publisher and they placed it in the papers. Toulouse was sitting reading the poem for the first time since it had been printed, in the park across from the flat the four friends had shared. Tears stung his eyes as he finished.
"Um, Excuse me?" Toulouse looked up from his newspaper and looked into the deepest green eyes he'd ever seen. He quickly tried to wipe the tears from his face when he heard her talk again.
"I was just going to offer you my handkerchief. Are you all right?" The woman was beautiful. Toulouse could barely find his voice long enough to accept and say thank you.
"May I sit down? I see you were reading the post, have you read the wonderful poem they included?" She looked at him sincerely as he wiped his eyes only for the tears to be replaced by new ones.
"That is my weason for cwying. I knew the poet and his wuv." He looked at her shocked expression.
"You knew them? Oh how wonderful, and tragic. It must have been grand to see love that strong first hand. I've always wished but…oh here I go rambling to a complete stranger." She looked down at her hands in her lap and blushed.
"No, no wowwies. Hewe, my name is Touwoose Latwec. Now we awe no wonger stwangers." He extended his hand and she smiled and shook it.
"Jane, Jane Arvil. Pleased to meet you. Would you care to join me for some coffee? I would love to hear more about your friends." She smiled softly and sweetly. Toulouse was smitten.
"Yes, that wouwd be gwand." As they stood and walked away from the park Toulouse almost swore he heard Satine's laugh followed by Christian's. He thought to himself, 'Thank you, dear friends. Your story will always go on.'
"There was a boy, a vewy stwange enchanted boy." Toulouse began as the two walked away.
*disclamer* Yadda yadda yadda I don't own anything and Yes I have messed around with history slightly for this story to take place...indulge me!
*The song "Gloomy is Sunday" is by Heather Nova. An excellent song, go download it off KaZaA now! *giggles*
Dedicated to the excellent Miss Serena and Mr Neo...thanks for the encouragement...
"A story about a time, a story about a place, but most of all, a story about love. A love that will last forever. The End."
Christian sat back and stared at his typewriter. The words 'The End' glared back at him. He had believed that when he completed their story somehow the pain would be gone. He had imagined this moment, a feeling of release, of peace, of happiness, but there was nothing. He looked away from the harsh words, his eyes scanning the room, his room, walls filled with papers, their story. It had filled up his life for awhile, filled the empty space Satine had left in his soul. Her memory had become his muse, and it had replaced the green bitter drink that had seemingly taken over his life. At times he had felt alive again, recalling the way her hair would fall on her shoulders, the curve of her face, and the warmth of her hand on his. But now…
"Now what?" he softly asked himself. And with the absence of the story he felt that familiar longing again. The Green Fairy's call was on the wind. No…no I can't forget it all again, he thought. But then what next? He looked out his window, the Moulin Rouge now in shambles, whores on the street, the smell of decay and death. He closed his eyes and imagined his Satine, the way she was when they were happy, before the disease had stolen the rose in her cheeks. A smile came to his lips and suddenly, as clear as a bell, he heard her voice whispering in his ear, "Tell our story Christian, share it with everyone." His eyes snapped open. Yes, he thought. Now I need to share it, share it with everyone.
-- 11 mo. later --
"Cwistian! Wait for me!" Toulouse stumbled after his friend. Christian had opened the door of his publishers' house and stepped outside. His Tuxedo bowtie felt too tight and he needed some fresh air. Toulouse followed him out, worried over his friends growing detachment from society. After Christian had finished his story he was so excited to share his story. Toulouse remembered feeling so honored to be the first to read it. Christian had made him finish it in one sitting, and then give him his review. He then proceeded to pass it onto Satie, Doc, Rico…but it wasn't enough. He shared it with Ziedler, Marie, even the Diamond Dogs, relishing all the praise, tears, comments and questions. He was even happy with Nini's horrid words of disgust for something so utterly romantic. It was like he was living off of everyone else's emotions to replace the one's he'd lost. Then Harold encouraged him to publish it and recommended some past clients that owed him a few favors. Christian again was filled with happiness. To have it published and allow the whole of Paris, all of France, perhaps even reach his father back in England, to read the story of the never ending love Satine and he shared was almost too much to bare. Toulouse had gone with to the publisher the day Christian was told that they would love to have his story as part of their publishing house and started talking about Christian becoming the true voice of the revolution. The parties started, the money came in. Christian moved his friends into a grand flat with him. And for awhile it was good. For awhile Christian moved on with his life. But lately…
"Cwistian? Evewything Awight?" Christian sighed and looked down at his good friend.
"Yes, it's just a little too warm in there." Christian smiled softly.
"Ohhh…"Replied Toulouse "Yes, too warm."
The two friends stood in silence watching storm clouds gather as the sun set.
"What a gloomy Sunday Toulouse." Christian sighed.
Toulouse looked up at his friend and decided to try to talk to him about his state lately. In fact Toulouse began to become upset that Christian hadn't confided in him about what was bothering him. Were they not best friends? Didn't he support Christian enough to have some right as to know what was happening inside the young poet's heart?
"Cwistian, what is wrong with you? You have a gweat book, a gweat home, GWEAT fwiends to spend time with, and you seem to woose happiness evewy day! You won't tawk to me, or Satie or…or Anywon! I'm worried fow you!"
Christian wasn't expecting such an outburst from Toulouse. He just smiled sadly and shook his head as he softly spoke.
"Toulouse, my dear friend, I cannot write anymore. I've lost my muse; angels have no thought of ever returning her. I thought that by sharing our story I'd be able to move on, or write more, or…but I can't." Christian looked away from Toulouse and walked down a few steps. There was a light mist coming down and the storm clouds were slowly coming closer. "When the book first was published I'd wake in the morning almost giddy, excited at the people I'd meet, the reviews I'd get," He turned and looked up towards Toulouse, that sad smile still on his face, "I was excited to visit with friends, And share idea's for the future, our plans for the revolution…" Toulouse smiled at him then but it vanished as Christian turned from him again and continued. "But now, everyday it's harder to find that sunshine, the reasons for waking are starting to dwindle and sleep, well I haven't slept a good nights sleep since…since Satine was next to me. There is still something I haven't done to achieve that peace my heart longs for, but although I keep searching somewhere I know that peace will not come till I have her back at my side."
"Cwistian, pwease, you know what you must do! You must wite, wite a sonnet to your wuv. Wite to Satine, as funny as it may seem, you always have been better witing!"
Christian turned and looked at Toulouse, his friend so eager to get him out of his depressed state and on with life. Even after Satine had died, Toulouse was the one to bring him food, clean him up after absinthe filled hours, and encourage him during his darkest moments.
"Wet's go back inside, Cwistan." Toulouse looked hopeful.
"No Toulouse, no more parties for me. I'm going home to sleep." Christian saw the disappointment in Toulouse's eyes, and walked back up the steps. Christian reached for Toulouse and hugged him softly.
"You're the most wonderful friend anyone could ask for, truly," Releasing him, Christian took a step back, "You go back in, you have so much left to give, but I must go now." Toulouse looked up, fear growing in his eyes.
"Pewhaps you should not go awone!" Toulouse held onto Christians arms, pulling gently. Christian smiled deeply, touched by his friends concern.
"Toulouse, we've gone through moments like this before so let me calm you fears again. I would never, could never take my own life for fear of not meeting with my beloved. Do not fear, God willing we will meet tomorrow." And with that Christian turned around and walked away, hailing a coach and leaving Toulouse alone.
"God's speed, dear friend." Toulouse whispered before returning to the party.
Christian looked out the window of the coach and noticed the first drops of rain glisten on the cobblestone. His thoughts hooked on something Toulouse had said, "Write, write her a sonnet." Christian sighed. Was it that simple? Was that his last task or would there be another, and another, waiting for him, he would have to live out his life alone on this earth. The coach passed by a man playing an accordion and Christian thought he recognized the tune. He began humming and suddenly words started racing around his thoughts…
Sunday is Gloomy,
My hours are slumber less.
How long had it been since he'd had a decent night's sleep? How wonderful it would be to sleep again. With Satine next to him sleep was always happy and calm, no shadows to haunt him.
Dearest the shadows I live with are numberless.
Now there were shadows everywhere, shadows that smothered him. Christian shook his head trying to clear it, not knowing where the new flow of prose had come from. Christian focused his view out the other side of the coach. Rows and rows of beautiful white flowers lined the side of the road, reminding him of the color of the last dress Satine ever wore on that horrible stage.
Little white flowers will never awaken you.
Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you.
The day they had buried Satine, Christian followed the black coach on foot, as in tradition. It was the longest walk, seeing the coffin that held Satines body, close enough to touch the cold wood that encased her, knowing he would never get to touch her again.
Angels have no thought of ever returning you.
Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?
What a gloomy Sunday thought Christian as the coach came to a stop. Christian let himself out and paid the driver generously. He crossed the street and walked into his apartment building, a clean safe place far from the Moulin Rouge. Toulouse thought it would help if Christian wouldn't have to look at the decaying Moulin Rouge day in and day out. Christian of course invited his four friends to live with him, it was least he could do after so much they had given him. It was a modest building, none of them wanted glitz. But in a lot of ways Christian missed the comfort, the closeness of the Garrett across from the Moulin Rouge. Christian unlocked his flat and closed the door behind him. He crossed the kitchen and living area and went to his room. He locked the door and went directly to his typewriter. He began to type the words that had come to him in the coach. As soon as he had finished more began to flow.
Gloomy is Sunday,
In shadows I spend it all.
My heart and I have decided to end it all.
How would his friends react? Although he had decided to never take his own life, to go on as Satine had requested, he had thought about it. He had even made out a will so that Toulouse and Satie, Doc and Rico would be able to live comfortably. Even Harold and Marie would receive some share if he died. But it was made as only a thought, a whim to appease his imagination of what his death would bring to his friends. He let his fancy run free as he typed the next verses.
Soon there'd be candles and prayers that are sad I know.
Let them not weep, let them know that I'm glad to go.
He sat back as warmth enveloped him. Death. In death would I see her? Recognize her? Would I be able to touch her again? He sighed knowing only death would ever bring him peace in his soul.
Death is not dreaming, for in death I'm caressing you.
With the last breath of my soul I'll be blessing you.
Christian stood and walked over to his window, this view was much different than his last one had been. He now looked down on a park, a square covered with soft grass and tall trees. The rain had begun to fall in earnest now and the leaves looked slippery, glossy. The rain sent a sweet scent into his lungs, a cleansing fresh scent. Never would one smell such a thing from his old view. Above the trees if Christian squinted just hard enough he thought he could see the old windmill. He closed his eyes and remembered the way it used to look, spin, and glow red upon his garret. The noises, the smells, all of them gone from sight but still present in his mind. He turned back to his room and opened his eyes. His breath caught in his throat, for there in his bed was Satine, asleep, a smile on her face. Tears gathered in his eyes and he dared not move for fear he would disturb this dream. He had seen visions of her, sure, when he was drunk on absinthe but not like this, awake, sober.
Dreaming, I was only dreaming.
I wake and I find you asleep in the dreams of my heart, dear.
He needed to be sure, need to feel her warmth, touch her skin. He slowly moved forward towards the bed and, reaching the edge, sat softly and stared. Her long red hair was loose and silhouetting her lovely face. Her breath was slow and steady. She was so still, yet her smile grew. The tears fell freely down Christian's cheeks as he reached out and touched her leg softly.
Darling I hope that my dreams never haunted you.
My heart was telling me how much I wanted you.
Christian lowered his head and closed his eyes, so thankful to have his Satine back. As he opened his eyes his tears of joy became agonizing sobs. She was gone. It was only an apparition his mind had thought up. Standing, outraged, Christian screamed to the heavens.
"God!!! How much longer I ask you?!? How much more must I take!!" Christian collapsed on the bed and cried himself to sleep.
Christian awoke, the early sunrise on his face. He groaned, his eyes swollen from the tears that fell from them. He sat up and remembered the previous evening. With a sigh he mumbled,
"So I have yet another day alone." He rose from the bed and looked around his room. He saw the paper still in his typewriter, his sonnet to Satine still in place. He stopped and took a deep breath and smelt…
"What is that?!?" Christian looked around and swore softly. He had forgotten the garbage in the corner again. With slow steps he walked to the corner where the sack lay and picked it up. He opened the door to his room and found Rico asleep in the hall, lying probably in the same spot he fell when his sleeping attack came on. Christian just stepped over him and continued out the door of their flat. The place for garbage collection was downstairs, and he looked down at his clothes to be sure he was properly dressed. Realizing he had slept in his tuxedo he chuckled to himself. What a sight he'll make, he thought as he left the flat and headed towards the stairs. A man in a crumpled tuxedo taking out the trash. He was at the top of the stairs when he noticed his shoe was untied and, losing his balance, Christian fell down the long staircase. He never felt his body hit the last step, never felt the pain when his head hit the floor, never saw the concern on the faces of the people that gathered. All he saw was Satine, lifting him up, higher and higher. Laughing and holding onto his hand. He started to cry again.
"Satine? Please, I cannot take another cruel joke." He held onto her hand tightly.
"No jokes, no more apparitions, I'm here with you forever." She smiled and kissed him lightly. He broke down and sobbed against her.
"I thought the day would never come! Why, why now…" Christian asked between gasps.
"You finished what you were put on earth to do. You rescued me through your love, you've saved countless of others from pain because you shared our story, and now, with your last beautiful poem to me, you've allowed Toulouse to find love. He will meet his love because of your poetry." Satine smiled, more beautiful that ever. Her eyes shone with an inner radiance that mirrored the love she found in Christian's eyes. They kissed again, softly, never letting each other go as they drifted away into the heavens.
Toulouse hadn't stopped crying for months, it seemed. He had found Christian's last poem and new that he had died free, he had completed whatever he was supposed to do. But now Toulouse was without his friend. The Four Boho's had sold the flat and moved on their separate ways. Toulouse had given the poem he titled "Gloomy Sunday" to Christian's publisher and they placed it in the papers. Toulouse was sitting reading the poem for the first time since it had been printed, in the park across from the flat the four friends had shared. Tears stung his eyes as he finished.
"Um, Excuse me?" Toulouse looked up from his newspaper and looked into the deepest green eyes he'd ever seen. He quickly tried to wipe the tears from his face when he heard her talk again.
"I was just going to offer you my handkerchief. Are you all right?" The woman was beautiful. Toulouse could barely find his voice long enough to accept and say thank you.
"May I sit down? I see you were reading the post, have you read the wonderful poem they included?" She looked at him sincerely as he wiped his eyes only for the tears to be replaced by new ones.
"That is my weason for cwying. I knew the poet and his wuv." He looked at her shocked expression.
"You knew them? Oh how wonderful, and tragic. It must have been grand to see love that strong first hand. I've always wished but…oh here I go rambling to a complete stranger." She looked down at her hands in her lap and blushed.
"No, no wowwies. Hewe, my name is Touwoose Latwec. Now we awe no wonger stwangers." He extended his hand and she smiled and shook it.
"Jane, Jane Arvil. Pleased to meet you. Would you care to join me for some coffee? I would love to hear more about your friends." She smiled softly and sweetly. Toulouse was smitten.
"Yes, that wouwd be gwand." As they stood and walked away from the park Toulouse almost swore he heard Satine's laugh followed by Christian's. He thought to himself, 'Thank you, dear friends. Your story will always go on.'
"There was a boy, a vewy stwange enchanted boy." Toulouse began as the two walked away.