A/N: Um. . . it's weird. Just give it a chance.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Sometimes they would sing. Sometimes they would dance. Sometimes they would simply run lines. Sometimes they would laugh. Sometimes they would talk. Sometimes they would kiss and caress and make love and exchange I love you's the whole night through.
And sometimes they would dream.
In the hazy afterglow of the golden Parisian sunset, when night was upon them and the next day loomed in every breath, every winking star hinting at the daunting prospect of yet again hiding their love, Christian and Satine would put their heads together and dream. They would dream of a time, of a place, of a heaven-on-earth where they could be what they wanted, when they wanted, where they wanted. Out of the underworld and in a happily ever after of their own.
And it was so real.
They would fly away from this village of sin, fly away together. The wrought-iron bars of the Rouge holding them back would disappear forever, leaving them free to fly, to live, to breathe, to love.
They would dance among the stars once more that night, winking merrily along with them without a care in the world, naïve innocence grabbing common sense by the neck and tossing it to the four winds. Laughter would escape smiling lips and tears of joy would spill out of gleaming eyes, and over and over again would they suddenly realize that this blissful freedom was theirs for the taking, a freedom all their own.
When they would skip giddily onto the train departing for the countryside the next evening, passersby would see an insanely foolish and scandalous couple; a couple that was utterly incongruous with the sea of black hats and gray people. They would see two goofy kids who laughed and smiled and giggled too much, their cheeks rosy and their eyes bright, daring to be so immoral as to kiss and hold hands in the presence of society.
And as they would walk down the car of the train in pursuit of their compartment, arms around each other, the stuffy old lady with the pinched, sour face walking next to them would give them a dirty look. Satine would just smile with saccharine sweetness before entwining her fingers in Christian's hair and pulling his lips forcefully to hers. And the lady would pout and hobble off in a huff, muttering rather loudly in an irritably high-pitched voice about how there were no such hooligans back in the day. They would just laugh before kissing again and again and again.
When the city would disappear into the fading day, rolling hills of evergreen tinted with the setting sun would pass fleetingly before their eyes. They would eagerly close heavy lids, both snuggling together with contented smiles on their faces.
And as they would wake the following day with the train's shrill whistle, the new morning still fresh outside their window, they would hear the conductor hollering something or other about the next stop which would just so happen to be theirs. Christian would kiss Satine's forehead lazily before fully blinking the sleep from his eyes, and would chuckle good- naturedly when she would mutter, "No, just a few more hours . . ."
But of course it would be she who would be standing impatiently at the door of their car, fully dressed and makeup-ed as she would whine for him to hurry up. And when he would finally be ready, she would brush her lips across his quickly, then wipe the lipstick off of his mouth, and repeat this again and again until he would finally take a handkerchief from his pocket, gently wipe all of the sticky red from her lips, and kiss her with such passion that her toes would curl.
And then they would search the countryside for the perfect abode, deciding one way or another that they didn't like this or they didn't like that or my goodness that was the ugliest house they had ever seen. And finally they would find a quaint, poetic little cottage that they would both fall in love with, immediately paying their first expense to that squat little old man who would own it.
And then they would get married. They would invite only Toulouse, their dear friend to whom they owed everything, who would watch with tears in his chocolate-brown eyes as his best friends, whom he worshiped and adored, would say their vows under the watchful eye of the priest. That pretty little chapel that would reside on the hill nearby would witness a miracle of love that day.
Christian would write their story shortly thereafter, and would become world renowned. Money would begin to flow in, something they had never had before, and they would agree to move into that gorgeous chalet not too far from their cottage that they would visit from time to time. . . you know, for old times' sake.
And it would be in that chalet, nine months later that they would gaze into the glowing face of their newborn daughter, with her father's ebony hair and her mother's azure eyes and ivory complexion. And her name would be Belle, for she would be beautiful. And as she grew they would spend those long winter nights toasting toes by the fire and telling her the story of Mummy and Daddy's love; how it overcame all obstacles. And she would laugh and cry and smile, and let her mind be filled with dreams of her own, dreams of falling in love.
And they would watch her live her own happily ever after and fall in love and have children of her own. And all would always enjoy those visits to Grandmama and Grandpapa's beautiful chalet, where all would be welcome with open arms. And Grandpapa would always have a new story to tell, and Grandmama would always have a new song to sing.
"Sing that song for us, Grandmama. And Grandpapa too."
"A new one?"
"No, no, that song from the 'old days'. You know, Come something."
"Oh, you mean Come What May."
"Yes, yes, sing it for us."
And they would.
"You know, there is a story behind that song."
"Oh, do tell us, Grandpapa, please!"
"Well, once upon a time there was a courtesan, the most beautiful courtesan in all the world. . ."
And when youth will have left their bodies but not their souls, when their skin would be wrinkled and gray and crow's feet would be set in the corners of their eyes from smiling too much, their hair a faded silver and their hands gnarled, their eyes would still hold the same sparkle they did so very long ago. For even in old age, they would still be the happiest couple alive, still truly, madly, deeply in love. . .
And then they were back, just a poet and his courtesan, sharing a garret in the underworld with hot tears fading their starry-eyed dreams to black. Their flawless love was forever tainted; their naïve hopes splashed with gray where the palette grew dim and jaded. For while they knew dreams, they also knew reality. And in a world with a heart of coal, there would be no happily ever after.
Not for them.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Sometimes they would sing. Sometimes they would dance. Sometimes they would simply run lines. Sometimes they would laugh. Sometimes they would talk. Sometimes they would kiss and caress and make love and exchange I love you's the whole night through.
And sometimes they would dream.
In the hazy afterglow of the golden Parisian sunset, when night was upon them and the next day loomed in every breath, every winking star hinting at the daunting prospect of yet again hiding their love, Christian and Satine would put their heads together and dream. They would dream of a time, of a place, of a heaven-on-earth where they could be what they wanted, when they wanted, where they wanted. Out of the underworld and in a happily ever after of their own.
And it was so real.
They would fly away from this village of sin, fly away together. The wrought-iron bars of the Rouge holding them back would disappear forever, leaving them free to fly, to live, to breathe, to love.
They would dance among the stars once more that night, winking merrily along with them without a care in the world, naïve innocence grabbing common sense by the neck and tossing it to the four winds. Laughter would escape smiling lips and tears of joy would spill out of gleaming eyes, and over and over again would they suddenly realize that this blissful freedom was theirs for the taking, a freedom all their own.
When they would skip giddily onto the train departing for the countryside the next evening, passersby would see an insanely foolish and scandalous couple; a couple that was utterly incongruous with the sea of black hats and gray people. They would see two goofy kids who laughed and smiled and giggled too much, their cheeks rosy and their eyes bright, daring to be so immoral as to kiss and hold hands in the presence of society.
And as they would walk down the car of the train in pursuit of their compartment, arms around each other, the stuffy old lady with the pinched, sour face walking next to them would give them a dirty look. Satine would just smile with saccharine sweetness before entwining her fingers in Christian's hair and pulling his lips forcefully to hers. And the lady would pout and hobble off in a huff, muttering rather loudly in an irritably high-pitched voice about how there were no such hooligans back in the day. They would just laugh before kissing again and again and again.
When the city would disappear into the fading day, rolling hills of evergreen tinted with the setting sun would pass fleetingly before their eyes. They would eagerly close heavy lids, both snuggling together with contented smiles on their faces.
And as they would wake the following day with the train's shrill whistle, the new morning still fresh outside their window, they would hear the conductor hollering something or other about the next stop which would just so happen to be theirs. Christian would kiss Satine's forehead lazily before fully blinking the sleep from his eyes, and would chuckle good- naturedly when she would mutter, "No, just a few more hours . . ."
But of course it would be she who would be standing impatiently at the door of their car, fully dressed and makeup-ed as she would whine for him to hurry up. And when he would finally be ready, she would brush her lips across his quickly, then wipe the lipstick off of his mouth, and repeat this again and again until he would finally take a handkerchief from his pocket, gently wipe all of the sticky red from her lips, and kiss her with such passion that her toes would curl.
And then they would search the countryside for the perfect abode, deciding one way or another that they didn't like this or they didn't like that or my goodness that was the ugliest house they had ever seen. And finally they would find a quaint, poetic little cottage that they would both fall in love with, immediately paying their first expense to that squat little old man who would own it.
And then they would get married. They would invite only Toulouse, their dear friend to whom they owed everything, who would watch with tears in his chocolate-brown eyes as his best friends, whom he worshiped and adored, would say their vows under the watchful eye of the priest. That pretty little chapel that would reside on the hill nearby would witness a miracle of love that day.
Christian would write their story shortly thereafter, and would become world renowned. Money would begin to flow in, something they had never had before, and they would agree to move into that gorgeous chalet not too far from their cottage that they would visit from time to time. . . you know, for old times' sake.
And it would be in that chalet, nine months later that they would gaze into the glowing face of their newborn daughter, with her father's ebony hair and her mother's azure eyes and ivory complexion. And her name would be Belle, for she would be beautiful. And as she grew they would spend those long winter nights toasting toes by the fire and telling her the story of Mummy and Daddy's love; how it overcame all obstacles. And she would laugh and cry and smile, and let her mind be filled with dreams of her own, dreams of falling in love.
And they would watch her live her own happily ever after and fall in love and have children of her own. And all would always enjoy those visits to Grandmama and Grandpapa's beautiful chalet, where all would be welcome with open arms. And Grandpapa would always have a new story to tell, and Grandmama would always have a new song to sing.
"Sing that song for us, Grandmama. And Grandpapa too."
"A new one?"
"No, no, that song from the 'old days'. You know, Come something."
"Oh, you mean Come What May."
"Yes, yes, sing it for us."
And they would.
"You know, there is a story behind that song."
"Oh, do tell us, Grandpapa, please!"
"Well, once upon a time there was a courtesan, the most beautiful courtesan in all the world. . ."
And when youth will have left their bodies but not their souls, when their skin would be wrinkled and gray and crow's feet would be set in the corners of their eyes from smiling too much, their hair a faded silver and their hands gnarled, their eyes would still hold the same sparkle they did so very long ago. For even in old age, they would still be the happiest couple alive, still truly, madly, deeply in love. . .
And then they were back, just a poet and his courtesan, sharing a garret in the underworld with hot tears fading their starry-eyed dreams to black. Their flawless love was forever tainted; their naïve hopes splashed with gray where the palette grew dim and jaded. For while they knew dreams, they also knew reality. And in a world with a heart of coal, there would be no happily ever after.
Not for them.