Of Passion and Pretending
© 2003 Black Tangled Heart
Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge is property of phenomenal Baz Luhrmann and his brilliant team.
Dedication: To Janice, for being absolutely wonderful as both a friend and writer. Endless thanks for your amazing encouragement, constructive criticism, love and support. You are an angel.
Note: I've been fascinated with non-canon pairings lately, though I did start this story quite a while ago and have only recently picked it up again. I've written about the romantic relationships between Nini and the Argentinean, as well as for Satine and Christian, but I wanted to examine the dynamics of a performance relationship.
--
First loves are what you remember. When I'm wizened and snow-haired I won't think of you, but of my love for the theatre and the beauty of the spotlight shining on my face. I share the pale beam tonight, with another whose talent braids itself with mine to form something beautiful.
This is my first love. Rehearsing lines by candlelight and letting my voice slide over the notes of the scale. Dance steps to flow alongside the songs that fill empty need in me. Lipstick and perfume to construct the mask, but my heart still beats with passion for the stage that has never existed anywhere else. Not even with you.
Before you came to me, I loved only the stage. Even if tears melted into my bed sheets until I slept, I would always face the morning knowing that love waited for me. Even if the love did not manifest itself in the face of a man or the weight of a night's pay, I found it in my acting, and those who did the same next to me.
He holds my hand tightly, bronze skin a sharp contrast to my own white. His voice is that of an angel; his kiss traced with absinthe and cigar smoke. His enthusiasm is infectious. He brings colour to Nini's cheeks. He is the soul of the Moulin Rouge. His harshness to ground us to reality, his fervour to keep the fires burning in our hearts. The Argentinean quells our asphyxiation. Perceptive are his eyes; sure is his touch. Like you, he knows I am more than a body and voice. The respect he shows the women of the Underworld is as rare and magnificent as a rose after rain. We are not merely whores to him, but individuals, and exquisite ones.
I feel you flinch when he kisses me. Your tender heart bruises. I tell you every night after we make love that I am an actress, that his caresses mean nothing in the way of a lover. I will not deny for a moment that I love you. It is your purity that has lifted me from damnation. Love existed between Nini and her dancer before you knew anything of our theatre, or of the Village of Sin.
You've confessed to me time and time again that you're no actor. You blame stage fright. I know that you aren't being truthful with me. You are shy, I know this. Not shy enough to resist making up a love story on the night we met, or insisting that we should be lovers. Now you are more reserved; terror drives you to silence when a threat looms in your path. Do you fear that our love will be more easily exposed? Is that why you're so often apprehensive? Tell me more when we're alone, and you've no inhibitions.
The Argentinean and I connect in a way that you and I do not. At the same time, I share with you what I would not with him. Unlike the Duke, the Argentinean knows that I play characters regardless of whether or not I am onstage, and still he treats me respectably, never prying to know what's truly underneath. He knows enough from seeing me with you.
The stage is not the only place where he and I assume nightly characters; rehearsals are ongoing, even when the Duke doesn't oversee the progressions of the production or you make script changes. I let go of the false personas the moment I'm in your arms, but there are many others who live in character.
As I am completely aware of the facades I adopt, I am never quite sure as to whether the Argentinean does the same. The passion with which he exists flows into his role; his dances nearly light the floor on fire and his voice ensnares a room. Perhaps he is exuberant in compensation for his sickness. Nini has allowed him the same freedom that you have given me. With her, his true nature reveals itself, even if it is forced into shadows when the limelight touches us.
There was a night I shared with him, when my youth seemed to be evaporating, and I greedily clung to what was left, rapturous at finding pleasure with others. With his proposition came the fulfilment of my desire. The edge was a precarious place to be. I absorbed the thrill it gave me like I did the sounds of his native language when lust consumed us both.
Years have passed since, the passion of the body has since transitioned into fervent professionalism, now that your chaste kisses are on my lips, and he makes nightly love to Nini.
You are my heart, Christian. With his place and passion in my life, the Argentinean has helped me reach new heights. But it is truly the stage that gives me strength to fly.
--
© 2003 Black Tangled Heart
Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge is property of phenomenal Baz Luhrmann and his brilliant team.
Dedication: To Janice, for being absolutely wonderful as both a friend and writer. Endless thanks for your amazing encouragement, constructive criticism, love and support. You are an angel.
Note: I've been fascinated with non-canon pairings lately, though I did start this story quite a while ago and have only recently picked it up again. I've written about the romantic relationships between Nini and the Argentinean, as well as for Satine and Christian, but I wanted to examine the dynamics of a performance relationship.
--
First loves are what you remember. When I'm wizened and snow-haired I won't think of you, but of my love for the theatre and the beauty of the spotlight shining on my face. I share the pale beam tonight, with another whose talent braids itself with mine to form something beautiful.
This is my first love. Rehearsing lines by candlelight and letting my voice slide over the notes of the scale. Dance steps to flow alongside the songs that fill empty need in me. Lipstick and perfume to construct the mask, but my heart still beats with passion for the stage that has never existed anywhere else. Not even with you.
Before you came to me, I loved only the stage. Even if tears melted into my bed sheets until I slept, I would always face the morning knowing that love waited for me. Even if the love did not manifest itself in the face of a man or the weight of a night's pay, I found it in my acting, and those who did the same next to me.
He holds my hand tightly, bronze skin a sharp contrast to my own white. His voice is that of an angel; his kiss traced with absinthe and cigar smoke. His enthusiasm is infectious. He brings colour to Nini's cheeks. He is the soul of the Moulin Rouge. His harshness to ground us to reality, his fervour to keep the fires burning in our hearts. The Argentinean quells our asphyxiation. Perceptive are his eyes; sure is his touch. Like you, he knows I am more than a body and voice. The respect he shows the women of the Underworld is as rare and magnificent as a rose after rain. We are not merely whores to him, but individuals, and exquisite ones.
I feel you flinch when he kisses me. Your tender heart bruises. I tell you every night after we make love that I am an actress, that his caresses mean nothing in the way of a lover. I will not deny for a moment that I love you. It is your purity that has lifted me from damnation. Love existed between Nini and her dancer before you knew anything of our theatre, or of the Village of Sin.
You've confessed to me time and time again that you're no actor. You blame stage fright. I know that you aren't being truthful with me. You are shy, I know this. Not shy enough to resist making up a love story on the night we met, or insisting that we should be lovers. Now you are more reserved; terror drives you to silence when a threat looms in your path. Do you fear that our love will be more easily exposed? Is that why you're so often apprehensive? Tell me more when we're alone, and you've no inhibitions.
The Argentinean and I connect in a way that you and I do not. At the same time, I share with you what I would not with him. Unlike the Duke, the Argentinean knows that I play characters regardless of whether or not I am onstage, and still he treats me respectably, never prying to know what's truly underneath. He knows enough from seeing me with you.
The stage is not the only place where he and I assume nightly characters; rehearsals are ongoing, even when the Duke doesn't oversee the progressions of the production or you make script changes. I let go of the false personas the moment I'm in your arms, but there are many others who live in character.
As I am completely aware of the facades I adopt, I am never quite sure as to whether the Argentinean does the same. The passion with which he exists flows into his role; his dances nearly light the floor on fire and his voice ensnares a room. Perhaps he is exuberant in compensation for his sickness. Nini has allowed him the same freedom that you have given me. With her, his true nature reveals itself, even if it is forced into shadows when the limelight touches us.
There was a night I shared with him, when my youth seemed to be evaporating, and I greedily clung to what was left, rapturous at finding pleasure with others. With his proposition came the fulfilment of my desire. The edge was a precarious place to be. I absorbed the thrill it gave me like I did the sounds of his native language when lust consumed us both.
Years have passed since, the passion of the body has since transitioned into fervent professionalism, now that your chaste kisses are on my lips, and he makes nightly love to Nini.
You are my heart, Christian. With his place and passion in my life, the Argentinean has helped me reach new heights. But it is truly the stage that gives me strength to fly.
--