Just to let you know, Moulin Rouge does not belong to me. If it did, I'd be writing a sequel instead of a fanfic.
The location of this story, as well as the characters Christian and Satine, were NOT invented by yours truly.
Christian sat by himself at the bar of The Harlequin, quietly sipping a martini. He felt more alone than ever, thinking of Satine and how he missed her gleaming, pale skin, her flawless copper hair, her sophisticated voice. His ears still sometimes played his memories of her telling him she loved him, always with an "oh" at the beginning, because that was simply how she spoke. "Oh, Christian, I love you." She could never get enough of saying his name while she was still alive, and would work it into conversation as much as possible. It was eerily parallel to his life now: when he was talking with someone, he would often sigh just to get them to ask him if he was alright, and then he would tell them exactly how much he missed her. Satine. She was the reason he lived, and yet she herself had died. It didn't seem possible.
There was a woman sitting in a booth over in the corner, reading a book and gently caressing the handle of her teacup. She had blonde hair that was pulled back in a prim bun, and black glasses with slender rims. She definitely did not belong, and had a way of standing out from everyone else, for her tranquility was so nicely contrasting against the loud laughter and clinking beer glasses coming from other tables. Christian didn't much want to admit it, even to himself, but something about the way she moved when she turned the page reminded him deeply of Satine. Perhaps it was just that she was a woman who interested him, a quality she shared with Satine, that reminded her of his one and only true love. Nonetheless, he took his martini and went to sit by her in her booth.
"My name is Christian, and I hope you don't mind if I sit by you. It's terribly lonely at the bar," he explained softly. She looked up from her book, then carefully placed a bookmark inside it and closed it silently.
"I'm called Ariana," she replied, and removed her glasses, revealing a face so beautiful that he nearly lost his breath. "What is wrong, sir? You look like you've caught sight of a ghost!"
Christian loosened his collar. "It's nothing. It's just that you remind me of someone... someone I loved." He cleared his throat, trying to decide whether he ought to tell her about Satine, and then realized that since he'd probably never see her again after tonight, there was no harm in it. "Someone I loved who lost her life eight months and five days ago."
Ariana looked genuinely fascinated. "There was someone I loved who died eight months and five days ago," she said, astonished. "She was my sister. She danced and sang at the Moulin Rouge, their Sparkling Diamond, she was. I came here to find her, since we were separated by our mother at birth."
Christian's jaw dropped. "She was called Satine," he told her, tripping over his own words. "Satine, my true love."
"Satine, my sister whom I met but once."
He took her hands in his and slowly, so slowly, laid his head to rest upon them. She had the pale, pale skin of Satine that he had always marveled at. He'd often wondered how she stopped from getting tan in the slightest.
"This isn't fair," he whispered, feeling tears building up in his eyes. "It's like I'm in my old life, sitting at The Harlequin with Satine, young and in love... It feels like you are the one I've been searching for, but you can't ever return the feeling, for you've never met me..."
From behind the counter, a woman of about twenty-five glanced over at the table of Ariana and Christian as she rubbed the fingerprints from a beer mug. She wore a vest and a clean white oxford shirt tucked into black button-up pants, making her seem like an everyday man. Her autumn-colored hair was tucked under a simple black beret that concealed her eyes, and her white skin had been tinted beige with a panstick. She watched Christian and Ariana through the distantly-sewn threads of her cap, knowing they couldn't see her, couldn't possibly know who she was, couldn't ever find out that she was the one bringing them together tonight, the one they both had loved. And so distantly in her soul, she felt a tug that showed her exactly how much she wished she could be sitting there between them, telling them the whole story. But she couldn't, and so she kept polishing the glass in her hands.
The location of this story, as well as the characters Christian and Satine, were NOT invented by yours truly.
Christian sat by himself at the bar of The Harlequin, quietly sipping a martini. He felt more alone than ever, thinking of Satine and how he missed her gleaming, pale skin, her flawless copper hair, her sophisticated voice. His ears still sometimes played his memories of her telling him she loved him, always with an "oh" at the beginning, because that was simply how she spoke. "Oh, Christian, I love you." She could never get enough of saying his name while she was still alive, and would work it into conversation as much as possible. It was eerily parallel to his life now: when he was talking with someone, he would often sigh just to get them to ask him if he was alright, and then he would tell them exactly how much he missed her. Satine. She was the reason he lived, and yet she herself had died. It didn't seem possible.
There was a woman sitting in a booth over in the corner, reading a book and gently caressing the handle of her teacup. She had blonde hair that was pulled back in a prim bun, and black glasses with slender rims. She definitely did not belong, and had a way of standing out from everyone else, for her tranquility was so nicely contrasting against the loud laughter and clinking beer glasses coming from other tables. Christian didn't much want to admit it, even to himself, but something about the way she moved when she turned the page reminded him deeply of Satine. Perhaps it was just that she was a woman who interested him, a quality she shared with Satine, that reminded her of his one and only true love. Nonetheless, he took his martini and went to sit by her in her booth.
"My name is Christian, and I hope you don't mind if I sit by you. It's terribly lonely at the bar," he explained softly. She looked up from her book, then carefully placed a bookmark inside it and closed it silently.
"I'm called Ariana," she replied, and removed her glasses, revealing a face so beautiful that he nearly lost his breath. "What is wrong, sir? You look like you've caught sight of a ghost!"
Christian loosened his collar. "It's nothing. It's just that you remind me of someone... someone I loved." He cleared his throat, trying to decide whether he ought to tell her about Satine, and then realized that since he'd probably never see her again after tonight, there was no harm in it. "Someone I loved who lost her life eight months and five days ago."
Ariana looked genuinely fascinated. "There was someone I loved who died eight months and five days ago," she said, astonished. "She was my sister. She danced and sang at the Moulin Rouge, their Sparkling Diamond, she was. I came here to find her, since we were separated by our mother at birth."
Christian's jaw dropped. "She was called Satine," he told her, tripping over his own words. "Satine, my true love."
"Satine, my sister whom I met but once."
He took her hands in his and slowly, so slowly, laid his head to rest upon them. She had the pale, pale skin of Satine that he had always marveled at. He'd often wondered how she stopped from getting tan in the slightest.
"This isn't fair," he whispered, feeling tears building up in his eyes. "It's like I'm in my old life, sitting at The Harlequin with Satine, young and in love... It feels like you are the one I've been searching for, but you can't ever return the feeling, for you've never met me..."
From behind the counter, a woman of about twenty-five glanced over at the table of Ariana and Christian as she rubbed the fingerprints from a beer mug. She wore a vest and a clean white oxford shirt tucked into black button-up pants, making her seem like an everyday man. Her autumn-colored hair was tucked under a simple black beret that concealed her eyes, and her white skin had been tinted beige with a panstick. She watched Christian and Ariana through the distantly-sewn threads of her cap, knowing they couldn't see her, couldn't possibly know who she was, couldn't ever find out that she was the one bringing them together tonight, the one they both had loved. And so distantly in her soul, she felt a tug that showed her exactly how much she wished she could be sitting there between them, telling them the whole story. But she couldn't, and so she kept polishing the glass in her hands.