The Morning After.
By Lunatonks
Disclaimer: I don't own Moulin Rouge, or Toulouse-Lautrec's paintings, or Satie's music, etc. etc., yaddya yaddya ya. Nevertheless, I am saving up for Christian. tee hee.
A/N: I am trying to be a historical as possible here, so I'm sorry if you don't like the way I portray Toulouse, but that is the way he really was back during his dark period. And by the way, Satie left Paris in 1898. I betcha didn't know that. Ok, so, I'm done. So bear with me here, and r&r!
Chapter One.
Toulouse slammed his drawing pencil onto the table outside of the bar he was sitting at with Satie and Christian. He angrily stood up and shoved his chair into the table.
"What is it, Toulouse?" Christian asked, almost afraid of the answer.
"Some certain artists cannot work properwy when other wude patwons at the bars are stawing!" Toulouse screamed. Christian blinked. Satie turned to look where Toulouse was looking. He found himself looking at two middle- aged men in filthy, ragged clothing looking shocked.
"C'mon, Toulouse, we're leaving," Christian took Toulouse by the arm, and steered him away. Satie grabbed Toulouse's sketchbook.
One of the ragged men stood up and walked over to the table the three Bohemians had been sitting at. He held up the pencil.
"Toulouse, I think you forgot your walking stick!" he called out to the dwarf. The other people sitting around him laughed loudly. Christian kept a stronger grip on Toulouse.
"Ignore them. What do they know anyway? They know nothing of fine art. Know nothing of what an exceptional artist you are, Toulouse," Satie spoke quietly.
Slowly (and I mean slowly, as Toulouse couldn't walk very well) the three trudged up the hill back to Toulouse's apartment. Toulouse was silent the whole way back. It took them nearly an hour to reach his apartment.
When they got there, Toulouse instantly reached for his bottles of Absinthe, rum, champagne, and a glass. Christian and Satie instantly seized the lot of it.
"No more for you, Toulouse. You've had plenty," Christian said, wrenching the Absinthe out of his grip.
"Damn you, Cwistian, give me back my won twue love," he said half- conscious.
"No," was Christian's reply. Satie quickly took the bottles and threw them out the window. Toulouse was quickly pulled out of his drunken trance.
"Satie? What did you do?! DAMN YOU! BOF OF YOU! CURSE YOU TWO TO HELL!" Toulouse began throwing things around. Paintbrushes, glasses, a shoe, anything Toulouse could get his hands on quickly became airborne. "My Absinthe! Why did you two frow it away? Why? I own-wee wove to dwink! And it is the own-wee fing that woves me!"
"Come on, Christian. There is nothing you can do. Let him alone," Satie said seriously. Quietly, Christian and Satie exited Toulouse's apartment.
Toulouse passed out on the couch.
Disclaimer: I don't own Moulin Rouge, or Toulouse-Lautrec's paintings, or Satie's music, etc. etc., yaddya yaddya ya. Nevertheless, I am saving up for Christian. tee hee.
A/N: I am trying to be a historical as possible here, so I'm sorry if you don't like the way I portray Toulouse, but that is the way he really was back during his dark period. And by the way, Satie left Paris in 1898. I betcha didn't know that. Ok, so, I'm done. So bear with me here, and r&r!
Chapter One.
Toulouse slammed his drawing pencil onto the table outside of the bar he was sitting at with Satie and Christian. He angrily stood up and shoved his chair into the table.
"What is it, Toulouse?" Christian asked, almost afraid of the answer.
"Some certain artists cannot work properwy when other wude patwons at the bars are stawing!" Toulouse screamed. Christian blinked. Satie turned to look where Toulouse was looking. He found himself looking at two middle- aged men in filthy, ragged clothing looking shocked.
"C'mon, Toulouse, we're leaving," Christian took Toulouse by the arm, and steered him away. Satie grabbed Toulouse's sketchbook.
One of the ragged men stood up and walked over to the table the three Bohemians had been sitting at. He held up the pencil.
"Toulouse, I think you forgot your walking stick!" he called out to the dwarf. The other people sitting around him laughed loudly. Christian kept a stronger grip on Toulouse.
"Ignore them. What do they know anyway? They know nothing of fine art. Know nothing of what an exceptional artist you are, Toulouse," Satie spoke quietly.
Slowly (and I mean slowly, as Toulouse couldn't walk very well) the three trudged up the hill back to Toulouse's apartment. Toulouse was silent the whole way back. It took them nearly an hour to reach his apartment.
When they got there, Toulouse instantly reached for his bottles of Absinthe, rum, champagne, and a glass. Christian and Satie instantly seized the lot of it.
"No more for you, Toulouse. You've had plenty," Christian said, wrenching the Absinthe out of his grip.
"Damn you, Cwistian, give me back my won twue love," he said half- conscious.
"No," was Christian's reply. Satie quickly took the bottles and threw them out the window. Toulouse was quickly pulled out of his drunken trance.
"Satie? What did you do?! DAMN YOU! BOF OF YOU! CURSE YOU TWO TO HELL!" Toulouse began throwing things around. Paintbrushes, glasses, a shoe, anything Toulouse could get his hands on quickly became airborne. "My Absinthe! Why did you two frow it away? Why? I own-wee wove to dwink! And it is the own-wee fing that woves me!"
"Come on, Christian. There is nothing you can do. Let him alone," Satie said seriously. Quietly, Christian and Satie exited Toulouse's apartment.
Toulouse passed out on the couch.