Disclaimer: I own nothing. Go away.
A/N: Yes, just about everything I say about Satie is true. Ja, he's strange.
Chapter Four.
Toulouse walked out of the bathroom. He went into his kitchen, grabbed an apple, and searched for a bottle of anything that Satie had not managed to toss out of his window. After poking round under his bed, Toulouse came up with a half-empty bottle of champagne. He climbed out of his window and perched himself on the very top of the apartment building.
Toulouse looked out on the Parisian skyline. In the distance, the top of the Eiffel Tower gleamed in the morning sun. The windmill of the Moulin Rouge looked innocent, merely sitting, unlit and unmoving. The jeweled top of the elephant sparkled like a beautiful star, and the Gothic tower sat waiting in solemn darkness for its next occupants, who would never arrive, for the Moulin Rouge had closed its doors to all. Not long after Satine's death, Harold Zidler gave up hope. His beloved Moulin Rouge had no money, and no investors, and Harold Zidler was left with an empty building, and the dancers were left with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
Yet, Paris still seemed so beautiful to Toulouse. He looked down at the streets and saw a man lugging a trunk down the hill into Paris.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Christian looked at his typewriter. He sat down and began to type the story. Their story. Satine's story.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Dominique Colet looked around Satie's empty room. Go home, she told herself, just go home.
Looking around, she found one of Satie's old scarves. Picking it up, she put it around her neck. It smelled of Satie. Incense, a little absinthe. Carefully, she tied it onto her neck and stepped onto the balcony. She watched the people rush by each other, none of them going anywhere important. Today was just one more day of work, pain, and boredom.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Toulouse went back inside and grabbed another apple and his walking stick. Carefully, he hobbled down the stairs, determined to go visit Christian. As he reached Christian's door, he noticed a note taped to the door. He opened it and began to read its contents.
"Weft.horrible conditions.weaving for good." Toulouse gasped. "Oh my goodness!"
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Christian wiped his eyes and took another glass of Absinthe. He gulped it down, and immediately began to choke at an explosion outside of his door.
"Cwistian! Cwistian! Wook at dis!"
The door flew open and Toulouse hobbled-as quickly as one like Toulouse can hobble-over to Christian. Toulouse handed him the note. Christian took it and began to read.
"Well? Well?!" Toulouse looked at Christian for a response. In response, Christian emptied half the bottle of Absinthe down his throat.
Christian shrugged at Toulouse. "Well, what? What did you expect from Satie? He's young, he's talented, he's not got a drinking problem!"
"Young? Satie is not young! I am thirty-five, and he, thirty-three. How is that young? I am a painter, he is a composer! He is a Bohemian! The chidwen of da wev-o-wootion! He bewongs here!" cried Toulouse.
"Ah, but you have a drinking problem!"
Toulouse's eyes narrowed. And then he grinned. "So do you."
"I can drink to that."
Christian pulled out another glass from underneath an old sweater. He filled the glasses with absinthe.
"To drinking."
"To drinking," Toulouse replied. The two drank their absinthe. Toulouse finished first. He looked at Christian and Christian returned his look. They began to laugh. Quietly at first, and then it became louder. Almost hysterical.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The Argentinean pounded on Christian's door, waiting for his answer. Instead of Christian, however, he got Toulouse.
"Satie's left!" Toulouse grabbed the Argentinean's arm.
"What? He 'as? Fine! Let 'im leave!" the Argentinean cried. "All I needed was to borrow a glass of-"
Here, his eyes crossed, and he collapsed on the floor, in a worthless heap. Toulouse and Christian did not bother to look over at the unconscious Argentinean.
"He left, Cwistian. I just can't understand it, though. Why would he weave wike dat? Was it because of the Doctor?" Toulouse asked.
"It's possible," Christian murmured. Christian thought back to the last time he had seen the Doctor alive. It was three months after Satine had died. New Year's Day of 1900, Christian was sure. He had died relatively peacefully. The Doctor was asleep. Probably didn't even know he was dying. Christian sighed.
"Toulouse, I don't know why he left. All I know is that he left. Just let him go. There's no use in keeping him here in spirit. Just let go," Christian replied, taking another long drink of Absinthe. He belched loudly, and Christian too passed out onto the floor in a worthless heap. Toulouse sighed. It seemed to be going around this morning.
A/N: Yes, just about everything I say about Satie is true. Ja, he's strange.
Chapter Four.
Toulouse walked out of the bathroom. He went into his kitchen, grabbed an apple, and searched for a bottle of anything that Satie had not managed to toss out of his window. After poking round under his bed, Toulouse came up with a half-empty bottle of champagne. He climbed out of his window and perched himself on the very top of the apartment building.
Toulouse looked out on the Parisian skyline. In the distance, the top of the Eiffel Tower gleamed in the morning sun. The windmill of the Moulin Rouge looked innocent, merely sitting, unlit and unmoving. The jeweled top of the elephant sparkled like a beautiful star, and the Gothic tower sat waiting in solemn darkness for its next occupants, who would never arrive, for the Moulin Rouge had closed its doors to all. Not long after Satine's death, Harold Zidler gave up hope. His beloved Moulin Rouge had no money, and no investors, and Harold Zidler was left with an empty building, and the dancers were left with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
Yet, Paris still seemed so beautiful to Toulouse. He looked down at the streets and saw a man lugging a trunk down the hill into Paris.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Christian looked at his typewriter. He sat down and began to type the story. Their story. Satine's story.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Dominique Colet looked around Satie's empty room. Go home, she told herself, just go home.
Looking around, she found one of Satie's old scarves. Picking it up, she put it around her neck. It smelled of Satie. Incense, a little absinthe. Carefully, she tied it onto her neck and stepped onto the balcony. She watched the people rush by each other, none of them going anywhere important. Today was just one more day of work, pain, and boredom.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Toulouse went back inside and grabbed another apple and his walking stick. Carefully, he hobbled down the stairs, determined to go visit Christian. As he reached Christian's door, he noticed a note taped to the door. He opened it and began to read its contents.
"Weft.horrible conditions.weaving for good." Toulouse gasped. "Oh my goodness!"
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Christian wiped his eyes and took another glass of Absinthe. He gulped it down, and immediately began to choke at an explosion outside of his door.
"Cwistian! Cwistian! Wook at dis!"
The door flew open and Toulouse hobbled-as quickly as one like Toulouse can hobble-over to Christian. Toulouse handed him the note. Christian took it and began to read.
"Well? Well?!" Toulouse looked at Christian for a response. In response, Christian emptied half the bottle of Absinthe down his throat.
Christian shrugged at Toulouse. "Well, what? What did you expect from Satie? He's young, he's talented, he's not got a drinking problem!"
"Young? Satie is not young! I am thirty-five, and he, thirty-three. How is that young? I am a painter, he is a composer! He is a Bohemian! The chidwen of da wev-o-wootion! He bewongs here!" cried Toulouse.
"Ah, but you have a drinking problem!"
Toulouse's eyes narrowed. And then he grinned. "So do you."
"I can drink to that."
Christian pulled out another glass from underneath an old sweater. He filled the glasses with absinthe.
"To drinking."
"To drinking," Toulouse replied. The two drank their absinthe. Toulouse finished first. He looked at Christian and Christian returned his look. They began to laugh. Quietly at first, and then it became louder. Almost hysterical.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The Argentinean pounded on Christian's door, waiting for his answer. Instead of Christian, however, he got Toulouse.
"Satie's left!" Toulouse grabbed the Argentinean's arm.
"What? He 'as? Fine! Let 'im leave!" the Argentinean cried. "All I needed was to borrow a glass of-"
Here, his eyes crossed, and he collapsed on the floor, in a worthless heap. Toulouse and Christian did not bother to look over at the unconscious Argentinean.
"He left, Cwistian. I just can't understand it, though. Why would he weave wike dat? Was it because of the Doctor?" Toulouse asked.
"It's possible," Christian murmured. Christian thought back to the last time he had seen the Doctor alive. It was three months after Satine had died. New Year's Day of 1900, Christian was sure. He had died relatively peacefully. The Doctor was asleep. Probably didn't even know he was dying. Christian sighed.
"Toulouse, I don't know why he left. All I know is that he left. Just let him go. There's no use in keeping him here in spirit. Just let go," Christian replied, taking another long drink of Absinthe. He belched loudly, and Christian too passed out onto the floor in a worthless heap. Toulouse sighed. It seemed to be going around this morning.