Chapter 1

The morning sun slipped into the city of Montmartre, waking its residents no matter how jovial or miserable they were.

One of the more miserable residents was myself, I'm too sorry to say. The sun was not a welcome being to my bloodshot eyes and pounding head. I, of course, felt ill from my rather large consumption of Absinthe the night before, but I knew I needed to get up and have what was called "hair of the dog that bit me" so that I could recover and once again sit at my typewriter and attempt to write another story to sell to the presses. After all, a man has to eat.

I slowly rose into a sitting position, feeling dizzy, as I placed my two bare feet on the floor. As I rubbed my shoulders in an attempt to destroy the pains I had gained from the way I had slept, I realized that I had once again fallen asleep with my pants and suspenders on… and that was it. It seemed I was missing my shirt, but I could see it hanging on the doorknob out of the corner of my eye.

I stood, moving my head from side to side and popping my neck, then fiddled through a rather large group of bottles that I had acquired over the month. The clinking noise as they were bumped against each other aggravated my already pounding head, but I kept on, letting a yawn escape from my mouth.

There was only one bottle with anything in it, and it was only a small bit in the very bottom. It would have to do, and I would have to go and buy some more.

I chugged down what little was left, then set the bottle back in the group with the others.

Come… what… may… The words entered my head immediately after my headache subsided. I shook my head to destroy the thought, but it was still there in the back of my mind. I figured that was as close as I was getting to forgetting until I could get some more alcohol to numb it.

Standing once more, I trudged across the room and snatched up my shirt. After all, there was no time like the present. I let my suspenders hang around my knees as I pulled my shirt on, buttoned it, then tucked it into my pants. I replaced my suspenders and put on my jacket and hat. Afterwards, I slipped on my black socks and shoes.

I wondered if I should shave, realized that I didn't have the tools necessary to do so, and left my room to head out onto the streets, one of the places I preferred to avoid now with the prostitutes calling to me until I pulled my pockets inside out and the smell of smoke all around.

I slammed the door behind me, locking it with my key and shoved my hands into my coat pockets.

-

Despite it being early, the streets were already filled with people. It all seemed fairly quiet, but that was all because I no longer heard singing as I walked. I had no music left within my soul, much less words. It seemed that the crowd looked fairly nice today. I hadn't been out in a month to tell the truth, so I hadn't discovered the change in quite a few of the residents of Montmartre. There was a new glimmer within their eyes, one that reminded me quite a bit of the bohemians that used to live above me before they went traveling around Europe performing their hit play, Spectacular, Spectacular!.

Ah, that play was the story within my story, one deathly similar to the real events taking place. Satine had been the star of the play as well, but after she died, the woman, Nini, took over her part, and the Argentinean was reassigned to his part as the penniless sitar player. Last time I had heard from them was with a letter from Toulouse about four or five months ago. He had said that the play was doing well, but it lived up to its title much more with myself at the end and Satine as the star. I didn't respond. I was angry for him mentioning Satine.

Suddenly, just as I realized that I wasn't paying attention, I was nearly bowled over by a person that was only up to my neck in height.

"Sorry! Oh, so sorry! Oh, I'm sorry!" A youthful squeak of a voice said, stumbling back.

I caught my hat in my hands, and looked down to see whom had been relentlessly apologizing.

He was a young boy with slicked back golden hair and dressed in a brown pair of pants, a brown jacket, a white button-down, suspenders, and a brown bowler hat. His hands were smacked together in a praying position, and he was still stammering out one apology after another.

"Relax, relax," I said defensively. "It's all right."

He stopped mid-sentence and glanced up at me, his blue eyes wide and sparkling. "It… It's YOU!" He exclaimed.

"Me?" I questioned, scratching the back of my neck.

"You grew a beard, but you can't fool me!" He cried. His accent was very heavy. "It's YOU!"

I stepped back a little, somewhat startled.

"You wrote it! You wrote The Moulin Rouge!" The young boy, who couldn't be any older than fifteen, seemed giddy with excitement. I, myself, wasn't too pleased to be recognized. I found it incredible that he even COULD recognize me. I found it my business to ask.

"How did you-"

"The description of yourself in your book," He said, rather matter-of-factly. "I've memorized it."

Now, there was an astonished feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was also a bit perturbed that a young boy would memorize a book. That seemed a bit obsessive.

"I read it whenever I get the chance, " He said, reaching into his coat. He then truly shocked me when he removed a copy of the novel and held it up, pointing at it gleefully. "It's my favorite story! I'm a true bohemian spirit!"

This was my cue to walk away.

"Hey! Wait! Where are you going, Christian? Wait!" The child was persistent, I would definitely give him that. He stumbled up next to me and began walking fast along beside me. "My name is Scott L'opale. I'm a Bohemian Revolutionary who stands for truth, beauty, freedom--- and above that which is above all things, love!" He wailed out rather loudly in his shrill tenor voice.

"Would you keep it down?" I cried, turning and heading back towards my home. I could go buy drinks later.

"-but-- I'm one of the Children of the Revolution!" He cried.

"The Children of the Revolution aren't here anymore," I said, but it seemed that he had completely disregarded that fact.

"I'm going to fix that," He said suddenly, making me turn my head to stare at him.

"You're just a kid," I said, heading towards my door. I was getting rather sick of the boy trailing me. I was looking forward to bidding adieu and slamming the door in his face.

I unlocked my apartment's entrance and stepped inside, but as I proceeded to close the door, the boy slipped past me and ran in.

"Wow! Is this your house?" He asked, a glimmer in his crystal-colored eyes. "It's just as you described! Here's the table where you wrote Spectacular, Spectacular, this is the balcony area where you came up with "Come What May", and this is the bed that you and Satine made-"

"All right, out you go," I interrupted, glaring at him. "I don't remember inviting you in."

"Oh…. Sorry…" He said sadly, but seconds later, he was his perky self again, smiling his pearly whites at me. "Oh, wow! That must be the elephant!" He cried, running over to the window and climbing onto the table to see better, thus getting his footprints over all my work. That wasn't what really bothered me, for I would probably throw all of that away too. "That's where you gave the pitch to the Duke! -and---and!…" His eyes sparkled once again.

I was cracking the knuckles in my fist in aggravation. How dare he just waltz into my house, climb on my furniture, and bring back memories that I'd prefer to forget!

"Oh, wow! This is incredible! Truly, truly incredible! You won Satine over in there by singing her that song!"

I opened my mouth to say something, particularly 'get out', but he interrupted me before I could say a word.

"MY GIFT IS MY SONG-- and this one's for you! And you can tell everybody-- that this is your song!" He sang.

Now, it wasn't that it was bad…. Actually it was, but his maturing voice was an excuse for that. It was the fact that he was singing that song in particular that made me grab him by the back of his suspenders and start carrying him to the door.

"Wait, wait!" He squealed, looking up at me. "Please! I just wanted to ask you some questions!"

I let go of him and let him stand in front of me. Truly, I was still a bit of a softy.

"Um…" He glanced to his right. "Wow, that's a lot of bottles."

"Questions," I reminded, making him turn back.

"Oh, yeah," He said. "Will you…. COME TO MY HOUSE!"

"What?" I asked, taken aback.

"I'm inviting you to dinner… Will you come?" His bouncy, rather loud aura had diminished to almost nothing. "I want you just to come and have dinner, so you can help me…"

"Help you with what?" I asked.

"I… I want to become a writer, like you… and-and- My sister is a great cook! She'll make us a great dinner, I promise!"

"A… a writer like me…?" I questioned. I knew that he liked my work but--

He rubbed his arm uncomfortably and glanced around, occasionally regaining a spark or two in his eyes when he noticed something from the book.

"Well, I…" I muttered, feeling obligated.

"GREAT! Let's go to my house!" He said, grabbing my wrist and dragging me out the door.

"Wait!" I cried, but he ignored it, giggling like an adolescent girl. There was no stopping him, quite obviously… I supposed it didn't matter all that much. I was getting a free, warm meal for the first time in at least months. Plus, the lad was counting on me to help him. I couldn't let him down, and so I decided that I would spend dinnertime at Scott L'opale's house.

Little did I know what I would find when I arrived.

(A/N: This is my first Moulin Rouge fanfic, and it's also my first fanfiction based on realistic things instead of cartoons. I'm going for making it exactly like the movie by putting singing in it and making it from dear Christian's point of view. I figure I won't get very much attention on this story, but if you read it, I hope you enjoyed it.)