I believe

Disclaimer: As much as I pretend to believe, the Moulin rouge ddd…doesn't belong to me, and this fills me with a great sadness. I don't own the song in this song fic either, apparently it was written by Ervin Drake, Irvin Graham, Jimmy Shirl and Al Stillman but don't quote me on that because I'm not sure. The song is called 'I believe', I don't know who originally sang it but I do know that 'The Bachelors' did a cover of the song because that's the only version of the song I've heard.

AN: I just thought that this song is really nice and I thought (there's that word again 'thought', ME THINK! Yeah right. Lol) that it suited Toulouse, I hope u like it. Now remember to review: - )

Toulouse poured the remainder of the absinth from the bottle in to the grubby sink.

*I will never taste another drop of this sinful drink again* he vowed to himself

*Never again! * But on an unconscious level he knew that by the end of day he would be. 

After his makeshift attempt of trying to repair the gaping whole that was in his floor, Toulouse padded over the old wooden floorboards to his easel. He picked up his favourite tatty paintbrush and dabbed it into a thick blob of rouge paint. As the red tipped paintbrush stroked the canvas, the passion within him completely engulfed his entire being and he began to sing…

       I believe, for every drop of rain that falls,

     A flower grows . . .

     I believe that somewhere in the darkest night,

     A candle glows . . .

     I believe for everyone who goes astray,

     Someone will come, to show the way,

     I believe, I believe . . . 

     I believe, above the storm the smallest prayer,

     Will still be heard . . .

     I believe, that someone in the great somewhere,

     Hears every word . . .

     Every time I hear a newborn baby cry,

     Or touch a leaf, or see the sky,

     Then I know why, I believe!

     I believe, above the storm the smallest prayer,

     Will still be heard . . .

     I believe, that someone in the great somewhere,

     Hears every word . . .

     Every time I hear a newborn baby cry,

     Or touch a leaf, or see the sky,

     Then I know why, I believe!

Toulouse stood back and admired his work, one of his best pieces yet he thought. He'd painted the Moulin rouge in all it's glory and the sun shone brightly down on it. As Toulouse was putting the finishing touches to the shadows that the Moulin rouge cast, a huge explosion went off and scaring him half to death. A slip of the hand had just ruined his painting; a black smear now dominated the vibrant colours of the red windmill.

The wind carried the infuriated voice of Harold Zidler in through Toulouse's open window

" You brainless fool! Do you know how long it took to set up that special effect?" the strain of 'spectacular spectacular' was beginning to take its toll on Zidler.

Toulouse looked at his painting with despair and walked over to his table and picked up a new bottle of absinth, undid the top and put it to his lips, when a little sparrow landed on the windowsill and chirped a bright melody for the rest of the world to hear. Toulouse withdrew the glass bottle from his lips and walked back over to the grubby sink to pour the alcoholic beverage down the drain.