Moulin Rouge


First things first: Pot does not belong to me

This fic was originally written for cactuscontinuum on lj (dedicated to decollement), but I wanted to share it with the rest of the world, too. Though, if you do have lj, head over to cactuscontinuum - there are loads of brilliant TezuFuji fics out there.

Warnings: Uhm, this is eventually going to be deathfic. But for now we only have Atobe using pluralis majestatis instead of Ore-sama, a mix of adress forms, an extremely long chapter and odd formating in the middle. Still, I hope you enjoy.

Thank you very much everybody who reviewed. Makes me happy to see people are actually enjoying reading this. And I hope I'll fulfill all expectations.


III

No matter how fiercely Tezuka tried to deny the blossoming feelings in his chest, he was inevitably gravitating to Fuji's side in the next few days. He found himself at the Moulin Rouge early in the morning, watching the actors practice while simultaneously working further on the script.

And in the break Fuji would drift over; even more beautiful in ordinary clothing than in those glittering stage outfits, ask him what he thought about this or that scene, share his own impressions and – by chance – brush a hand against his. Or lean forward to read the latest sentence written while his soft hair tickled Tezuka's cheek and flash an impish smile when Tezuka cleared his throat.

But then Tezuka would interrupt practice, climb onto the stage to adjust postures. If Momoshirou saw his hand linger a little too long on Fuji's waist or Oshitari had a problem with Tezuka spontaneously taking his place in a dialogue to "get the point across" – no complaint was ever voiced.

There was a new enthusiasm in Fuji's act, a vibrancy to his gestures that Momoshirou had never seen before. Eiji had once, after almost an entire bottle of good red wine, told him that Fuji actually loved this job. Not quite the part of getting men worked up – but the acting.

"I guess it's the only way he can do what he does." Eiji had said, drunk and solemn, "Act all the way … even behind closed doors."

That day Momoshirou, not for the first time, had wished he could change the Moulin Rouge's shady image. Move away from being a high-scale brothel to being an honest theatre. Not for his own sake – but for people like Fuji, Eiji and all those others.

Maybe this time around it would work out, Momoshirou hoped, watching Fuji engage in a heated discussion with Tezuka – who'd taken Oshitari's place for the scene – on stage. The sitar player was trying to convince the concubine that he loved her for more than her beauty; and Tezuka was being quite passionate in delivering his lines.

And the Duke was watching.

As always, if time allowed it and he had no prior engagements, Atobe Keigo made time to come by and watch the rehearsals – or, to be more precise, to watch Fuji. If he was lucky he managed to exchange a couple of words with the actor, or was graced with one of these sweet, sweet smiles; yet regrettably Fuji always was extremely busy.

If not on stage with Oshitari or listening to Momoshirou's directions, then he'd be deep in conversation with Tezuka or fooling around with Eiji – barely a minute to spare for Atobe. Not even for dinner.


"You're not giving everything at practice, I noticed." Tezuka said one evening when Fuji was lounging on his bed instead of accompanying Atobe to dinner – again.

"I'm not?" Fuji tilted his head, "Nobody said so yet. Momo is rather taken, if I may say so. And I didn't hear Oshitari complain either."

Shaking his head, Tezuka clarified. "I don't think anyone of them noticed. Could have, actually."

"How so? At least Shishido would have told me if my acting was sub-standard. He isn't as nice about those things as Eiji or Gakuto are."

"Your acting hasn't changed." Tezuka replied without looking up from his notes, fingers hovering motionlessly over the typewriter, "It's only I feel you can do far better. There is quite a difference between your performance at rehearsals and our private practice sessions already, but I doubt that's all there is to it."

"Touché." Fuji smiled, hugging one off-white pillow to his chest. Tezuka didn't continue, but restarted typing – those scenes, no matter how easily thought up, had to be written down. He'd been surprised when Momoshirou had announced he'd already decided on a date for the premier – and that at a time when the script hadn't even been completed.

"But it's not as if I did it on purpose." Fuji added after a while, "It's … I don't know. I suppose I always watch the audience's reaction; or how my co-actors act and adapt to them."

"So you're not acting for yourself." Tezuka concluded.

"Maybe you're right."

"Maybe." A short silence and even Tezuka's finger stopped. He turned around to look at Fuji.

"But I hope someday I'll get to see that, too."


Atobe Keigo on the other hand wasn't just sitting around either.

Barely a day passed now without him bringing flowers, a present or any other token of affection for Fuji. He didn't mind the money spent, as long as for those precious moments that the rose bouquet passed from his hands into Fuji's smaller ones, the actor stopped caring for the world around them. And that dazzling smile was meant for Atobe alone.

He couldn't help the shiver that went through him when their fingertips touched. Couldn't help but wish for those minutes to last, even when Fuji had already returned to his fellow actors and when Eiji wrapped his arms around his shoulders, Atobe felt a darker sentiment blossoming in his chest.

He wanted Fuji.

And if he asked directly, Fuji could not deny him.

But Atobe didn't want Fuji to be his companion only for the sake of money and obligations. He did not want to be another man on that list of well-paying customers that would be happy to leave the Moulin Rouge a high-class brothel.

What Atobe hoped for was for Fuji to choose him; select him for being who he was – not for his fortune, his social status or whatever. If that required buying presents, indulging strange whims or even taking that writer along on small excursions – Atobe didn't mind.

Not even, when they were seated on a picnic blanket with Fuji and Tezuka lost in conversation, rendering him an outsider.


"You should watch out." Oshitari one day told Tezuka as they were taking a break backstage. "That Atobe doesn't look as if he'd take well to being fooled with."

Tezuka coolly raised an eyebrow and Oshitari continued.

"You and Fuji – it's nice to see you actually smile for once, but I hope you know that the moment our dear Narcissus finds out there'll be hell to pay."

After a moment of silence Tezuka only replied: "I won't let my guard down."


"Atobe-sama!" Fuji exclaimed surprised, turning his back to Tezuka.

The Duke headed straight for the actor, not even glancing at all the other persons present. Tezuka frowned at the interruption, but remained silent.

"Mon chéri, you look lovely as always." Atobe stated, taking one small hand and pressing a shallow kiss on its back, "We have something special for you today."

Tezuka's frown darkened.

"Kabaji!"

Without saying a word Atobe's loyal bodyguard stepped forward, proffering a small box decorated by a violet, satin ribbon. It looked high-quality and within seconds all eyes had come to focus on Atobe and Fuji.

"For me?" Fuji questioned, sounding breathless. "But Atobe-sama, I really can not…"

Atobe shook his head. "If you want to make us happy, accept this humble gift."

"I honestly can't …"

"We saw it, thought of you and bought it. If you are to refuse it we fear it has been bought in vain."

Fuji's shoulders slumped a little, but his smile widened. "You leave me no choice…"

The curiosity when Fuji pulled off the ribbon and opened the box, Tezuka noted with disdain, wasn't faked. While he knew Fuji was not one to be tempted by material things, the boy however liked to receive presents. And Atobe practically showered him with those – while Tezuka couldn't even afford to take him out for dinner.

Maybe he should write his parents and ask them for money; yet he told himself it was not a good idea to enter this competition with Atobe. Fuji was not so shallow…

"… the shop owner told us the silk has been imported from China." Atobe said; feeling strangely pleased at the sight of Fuji's blue eyes wide open. Small white hands touched the silk scarf as if handling antique valuables; fascinated by the smooth sensation.

Atobe smiled. "We have come to notice you have been coughing lately and since winter is coming we thought you might benefit from this."

Fuji in return gave Atobe the most brilliant, dazzling smile the Duke had ever seen.

Neither heard Oishi sigh in the background.

"Would you perhaps join us for dinner tonight?" Atobe asked the moment Fuji stepped off the stage.

Blue eyes blinked, and within those few seconds Fuji hesitated, Tezuka appeared at his side. The playwright's expression was stoic as always and Atobe once again wondered just why Fuji got along so well with that man.

Sensing the presence beside him Fuji flashed the Duke a rather weak smile. "I'm afraid I'll have to decline your invitation. Monsieur Tezuka requested my assistance for working out some glitches in the script tonight."


"We understand it's important for the main actor to be familiar with the playwright." Atobe was saying, fixing Momoshirou with a level glare over his desk in the Gothic Tower. "However we wonder whether the financier has no likewise right…"

Momoshirou swallowed dryly. He'd been afraid of that confrontation; yet knew it had been coming.

"Well, you see, the premier is drawing near so everybody is really upset and nervous and …"

"We are already aware of that." Atobe sharply interrupted him, "Thus we extended dinner invitations at a time when rehearsals had already finished."

Fuji had rejected that man one time too many. And while Momoshirou could understand only too well why Fuji had done so, he was afraid there was little he could do now to mitigate the affair.

He let the silence grow for a minute, before clearing his throat. "Dear Duke, did you perhaps consider… I'm almost embarrassed to say it, but you see … one doesn't easily notice, but Fujiko-chan is rather shy in certain aspects. Maybe the prospect of dining with your Greatness on such short term notice frightened him."

An eyebrow shot up, but Momoshirou saw the wheels begin turning in Atobe's head and almost sighed with relief. Obviously Atobe had forgotten to consider the aspect of their different social statuses and picked up rather well on Momoshirou's implication that Fuji might feel uncomfortable moving in upper-class circles. (which would however be a blatant lie, Momoshirou knew all too well)

"I could talk to him, if you'd like me to." Momoshirou offered helpfully.

Atobe however shook his head. "No, no." he muttered, "We wouldn't want him to feel uncomfortable – maybe a private dinner would be preferable?"

"Just wonderful!" Momoshirou exclaimed, "Splendid!"

And then he leaned forward, fixing Atobe with one intense look. "But you'll have to give Fujiko-chan time to prepare. He's going to faint from excitement otherwise."

"Oh?"

"He secretly adores you." Momoshirou whispered, as if sharing a juicy secret, "Blushes and stutters when your name is mentioned – like a young girl in love for the very first time."

Fuji would forgive him, he hoped. Tezuka certainly would not.

"I'm afraid that's also why he hasn't been speaking to you a lot – and dragged Tezuka along to your outings. He's just afraid of being alone with you, afraid of embarrassing himself in front of you."

Atobe looked vaguely pleased, so Momoshirou decided to go all out. "Fujiko-chan is a brilliant actor on stage, but always so afraid of blunders behind the scenes. He would never forgive himself if he did anything unsuitable in your company."

"He'd never dare to look you in the eye again." Momoshirou added and – for emphasis – snatched a white tablecloth and hid his face behind it.

For a split second Atobe appeared torn between disgust and amusement at the gesture, but then the Duke settled for smug. "So you're saying Fujiko-chan is awed by our prowess."

"Very much so." Momoshirou coyly replied, "You'll have to approach him carefully or he'll run away."

Fluttering his lashes, he added: "You just have to imagine you're seducing a young maiden."

A spark of unholy interest lit up in those cool, unfathomable eyes and Momoshirou had to fight back a shudder. He didn't dare think upon what he was awakening, for Atobe appeared not only appeased, but highly intrigued.

"Like one of those young girls that have never been with a man before?" the Duke asked, for a moment forgetting all about Momoshirou prancing around him with a lacy tablecloth wrapped around his head.

"Indeed." Momoshirou answered huskily, daring himself to lean close enough that the Duke could feel his breath on his cheek. "Being together with you will be a first time for Fujiko-chan."

Atobe's lips involuntarily twitched upwards.

"We shall dine with him on Thursday night. In the Gothic Tower."


"No! No! Tezuka!" Fuji burst into incredulous laughter, dancing teasingly out of Tezuka's reach. Rehearsals had been paused while Shishido and Inui were messing around with the stage props, giving the actors some time to pass as they pleased.

And indeed, Gakuto and Oshitari had been quick to disappear, Jirou had grabbed one of the pillows that made up the Maharajah's chambers and still rested there, deep in slumber and Kaidou had procured a book and started reading.

The lead actor and the writer meanwhile had retreated to the first-floor balcony, lost in some private banter and didn't hear the main doors open beneath them.

Oishi was the first one to emerge from backstage when the doors banged shut. Silence fell as the golden embroideries on Atobe's navy winter coat glittered in the dim lightening. The Duke appeared supremely confident, a self-satisfied smile on his handsome face – and some of the dancers couldn't help but feel faint at the sight.

Oishi bit his lip, while Atobe passed his coat to the ever-silent Kabaji with a flourish; dimly wondering who was going to handle this situation. From the corner of his eye he caught Tezuka and Fuji upstairs, with Fuji's back against one of the wooden support beams, face tilted up to glance at Tezuka, who stood far too close.

If Atobe was to turn around …

Momoshirou chose just that moment to appear. The director was still in his red, over-decorated Maharajah outfit, and hurried towards Atobe with exaggerated enthusiastic movements.

"Dear Duke! What an honour to have you grace us with your presence today!"

The director's smile was dazzlingly wide, but his eyes had already caught sight of his main actor upstairs. He could only pray Atobe was willing to play the charade for the sake of appearances in front of the other actors.

… there was no need for anybody else to know what would happen had already been decided. That freedom of choice within these walls had become a mere illusion.

"Bonjour." Atobe greeted as upstairs Tezuka leaned forward and closed the last of the remaining distance.

"We came to see how rehearsals are progressing." The Duke smugly proclaimed and searchingly glanced over the present actors. There was no telling by his expression, but today he was truly feeling good – he would extend his invitation and then he only had to wait for Thursday night to come. Fuji would finally be his.

Tezuka's kisses were like water, Fuji mused as his arms slid around Tezuka's neck. They could be soft and soothing, deep and intriguing, stormy and passionate and a myriad of other things. With weakening knees he could only hold onto the taller man, wondering if one day he was going to drown in these wonderful kisses.

"Rehearsals are going wonderful." Momoshirou replied brightly, and then suddenly changed his demeanour completely. His dark voice boomed through the room, and Gakuto curiously peeked out. Caught sight of Momoshirou proclaiming on stage. Atobe in the audience. And Tezuka and Fuji lip-locked up on the balcony.

"The Maharajah is already becoming very impatient."

He never wanted to let go, Tezuka thought as small hands mussed up his hair. Maybe he'd always inwardly rolled his eyes when friends had started raving on the wonders of love; but right now he begun to understand. Feeling this warm body pressed up against his, those pliant lips responding, he couldn't help but wish this moment would never end.

"We're currently taking a break while our master technicians fix up some things." Momoshirou, back to being the director, stated in good-humour; as Gakuto disappeared backstage again, dashing upstairs with Oshitari in tow.

Atobe smiled. "So maybe the lead actor would have some minutes to spare for us?"

"Fuji! Fuji!"

Fuji heard somebody urgently hiss his name and rather reluctantly separated his lips from Tezuka's. The writer turned to look into the direction of the caller, his expression stoic even if his face was flushed.

"Atobe's here!" Gakuto hissed.

Not daring to look up in fear of giving the couple away Momoshirou smiled. "But of course."

Tezuka's eyes flew open.

"Fujiko-chan! Stop hiding!" Momoshirou called, praying they had caught themselves up there and Atobe turned around to glance upwards.

Oshitari dove for Tezuka and in a mad tumble, three men went down.

Atobe only saw Fuji smiling at him from the first floor balcony, with his face flushed from nervous excitement. One white hand was holding onto a support beam and his eyes were sparkling.

"Come down and join us!" Momoshirou called, outwardly cheerful but Fuji could easily see through this, "The Duke would like to speak with you."

"Oh my." Fuji put a hand in front of his mouth to signify his astonishment, "With me? I shall be with you at once!"

Tezuka, held down in his uncomfortable position by Oshitari's body on top of him, frowned at hearing Fuji's sweet tone. And his frown deepened further when Fuji turned and walked away without sparing him even one more glance.

As if Atobe's sudden presence had completely banished him from Fuji's mind.

It was all Atobe could do to stop himself from reaching out and touching that smooth skin. As always, up close Fuji looked even more stunning and today his beauty was emphasized by a slight flush spread over his cheeks.

"Atobe-sama." Fuji said, bowing and Atobe automatically shut out the world around him. He didn't notice the insistent look Momoshirou directed at Fuji.

Instead he took hold of one small hand, relishing in feeling a fast pulse under white skin and smiled his best smile – the one that had already charmed half of the Parisian ladies off their feet.

"Mon chéri." Atobe said, not caring about their audience, "We were wondering if you would deign to dine with us on Thursday night."

As etiquette demanded he tore his eyes away from Fuji's face for the moment, and let his gaze slide over the fragile body meanwhile. For a boy, Fuji's waist was quite small, thus he could easily pass for a woman and those long dresses only emphasized this.

Fuji's eyes met Momoshirou's. He didn't dare to glance up, to where Tezuka might be watching and waiting.

"I told you to be careful." Oshitari hissed at Tezuka, while the writer rubbed at his left elbow, brows ceased in discomfort. He couldn't help but feel confused at the fact that Fuji had just walked off – he understood the confusion, but one glance shouldn't have been too much to ask, should it?

"Really, Tezuka, I understand what you're feeling, but the Duke's kind of a big fish out there." Oshitari continued. "You don't want to mess with somebody like that."

Tezuka pressed his lips together. Back at home he'd also been called a person not to mess with. It wasn't as if he didn't know how to help himself. He'd dealt with his share of over-confident aggressors quite successfully – and even if those people here in Paris didn't know, Atobe wasn't that far out of his league as everybody automatically assumed.

"Nobody wants anything bad, Tezuka." Gakuto added from where he was kneeling between the benches, "It's just you should watch out. There are a lot of stage hands around and who knows what kind of rumours those gossiping girls could spawn – nobody of us wants to see you or Fuji get into trouble because of that."

With a pout Gakuto added. "You know, everyone here is really looking forward to doing this musical. So if Atobe was to back out, that'd be …"

Tezuka only nodded in silence. He understood what Gakuto was saying. But he couldn't help but wonder if it was the right thing to do. If Fuji's obligation to the crew was enough of an argument to forsake his personal happiness.

"I should be honoured." Fuji replied, and his voice trembled slightly as Atobe tightened his grip.

Momoshirou bit his lip and Oishi wearily dared to glance upwards to Tezuka. The writer's face seemed expressionless, but Oishi had an inkling of what had to be brewing beneath the surface. If it were Eiji standing in Fuji's place now …

"Then come to the Gothic Tower on Thursday night." Atobe stated; pleased at how the pulse underneath his fingers jumped. "It shall be just the two of us."

Fuji fought to keep his smile on, yet something deep within him was trembling. He understood his obligation far too well, knew exactly what he had to do – and yet he couldn't silence the little voice in the back of his voice that kept wondering whether he wasn't betraying all of them by playing this charade.

"I shall do so." He replied, his voice a mere whisper that carried through the silent room. Atobe smiled in satisfaction – perchance the Moulin Rouge's director had not been lying when he'd told Atobe that this was going to be a first time for Fuji.

With one last bow, Atobe reluctantly let go of that warm hand. "We shall be looking forward to Thursday night." And turned to go with a flourish – but not without casting a smirk up to where Tezuka was watching with an unreadable expression on his face.


"Are you really going to meet Atobe?" Tezuka asked Wednesday evening.

Fuji had come with him to his apartment after the rehearsals had finished for today and since the gang upstairs had gone out, the room felt unusually quite. With half a sigh Tezuka sat down on the edge of his bed and springs squeaked.

Fuji meanwhile drifted over to the window, thoughtfully starring out into the slight drizzle of rain against the onset of darkness.

"I suppose so." The boy replied after a moment.

Tezuka watched the small form and couldn't help but think that Fortuna was being unfair.

"But you turned down all his previous invitations." He stated and saw a slight frown reflected on the window pane.

"Yes. I could, back then. They were less formal and spontaneous." Fuji replied, sounding exhausted, "Not like today."

"You can still tell Atobe you're not feeling well on Thursday."

"Nee, Tezuka." Fuji suddenly turned away from the window and faced Tezuka with a sad smile, "I might be an actor but I don't like lying. And I thought you didn't either."

Tezuka held the blue gaze for a moment before letting his head drop. Fuji was right. They'd already been making up far too many white lies recently and at times he felt as if he didn't recognize himself anymore. Yet just seeing Fuji's smile made every lie told worthwhile.

"And well…" Fuji continued, stifling a cough, "The Duke is the very person financing this musical. And somehow it doesn't feel right to treat the person making your dream possible that badly."

While Tezuka could understand the sentiment; he paled at the implications. The affectionate tone Fuji had used …

"Fuji." He said and the flat tone made Fuji's eyes widen, "Do you mean… you won't turn him down?"

Recognizing the spark lightening up those dark eyes far too well, Fuji bit his lip. He could always lie, but Tezuka would see through him.

"I won't." he simply replied, dimly wondering how he could be so calm.

Tezuka swallowed dryly. To assuage his nervousness he stood up.

"And if Atobe … you know, wants more?"

Fuji closed his eyes resignedly. "I won't deny him either."

"Fuji!"

Three loud steps, then Tezuka was in front of the young actor and reached out to grasp him by the shoulders. Fuji's eyes however remained closed and his voice even.

"Tezuka. You know this is necessary. This is my job, my obligation…"

"There's no obligation forcing you to share a bed with that man!" Tezuka exclaimed, his fingers tightening almost painfully around Fuji's upper arms.

Blue eyes snapped open. "But to tell him more lies?" he questioned, not caring if an ounce of his true emotions leaked through. He didn't want to do this any more than Tezuka wanted him to, but it wasn't as if he had a choice.

Tezuka ought to understand.

"No, Tezuka, no." Fuji shook his head and tried to step back, out of Tezuka's hold, but his back only connected with cold mortar. "I may not hold any feelings for the Duke, but the fact alone that he is the man making my dream possible makes him deserving of special treatment. I'm not going to deny him any longer."

Silence descended. Tension hung thick in the air; Fuji felt as if he was suffocating with Tezuka's eyes boring deep into his own. All he could do was cling onto his resolution, regardless of how badly he just wanted to fall into Tezuka's arms.

Fall into his arms and stay there. All day tomorrow. And tomorrow night, too. With a wistful smile Fuji whispered: "Why couldn't you have been the Duke?"

But in front of him Tezuka's eyes turned cold. All warmth vanished and Tezuka stepped back, detaching his hands from Fuji's body.

"Just do whatever you want."


"What shall I wear tonight?" Fuji asked cheerfully, looking around in question. Eiji still had a frown on his face, but Gakuto had already decided that the least he could do was help with picking out a dress. Even if Oshitari was waiting for him.

Fuji meanwhile picked up one long black dress. "How about that one?"

"Isn't that the one with the slit that almost goes up to your thigh?" Gakuto asked; one eyebrow raised. "It surely suits you."

Eiji on the other hand frowned. "Nya, I don't know. Didn't Momo say you should go for innocent?"

"I guess that means the red dress is also out of question then." Fuji nodded in contemplation.

"You could go for the college girl look." Gakuto suggested. His own closet had a wide variety of such garments and he wouldn't mind borrowing one set to Fuji.

"We don't know if that would suit his majesty's tastes." Eiji replied, "Though considering the length of those skirts…"

"I was only saying." Gakuto shot back sullenly, "Do you have any better suggestions?"

"Fujiko should wear something long with a high neckline, nya. Or pants."

Fuji turned a soothing smile to his worried friend. "Eiji. You know it's not the first time I'm doing this. And we depend on Atobe."

"But Tezuka…"

"Tezuka is Tezuka and Atobe is Atobe. I have to be fair to both of them."

Because, Fuji told himself, even if he couldn't deny anymore that the man he loved was Tezuka, Atobe's feelings were probably just as honest. And the man was making a considerable effort as well, so lying to him any further wouldn't only be cruel, but also go against any ideas of right and wrong Fuji held.

He'd have to give Atobe this chance at least.

"Why don't you wear white?" Eiji suggested after a few seconds.


Tezuka had woken up to a steady drumming of rain against the window. Skies outside were grey and his head had felt stuffed, tired, even if his watch read a time that was closer to midday than morning.

Dimly he had recalled his conversation with Fuji last night, but the turmoil bubbling in the depth of his heart had him trying to bury the memories instead. He didn't like this sense of anxiety disturbing his peace of mind; how he just couldn't seem concentrate.

How every little thing in this room reminded him of Fuji.

After choking down a tasteless lunch Tezuka found he couldn't stay in his apartment any longer. The silence only invited memories of things he didn't want to recall – he hadn't meant what he'd said to Fuji. But he'd been angry.

The walk in the rain didn't do anything to make his mind stop circling around the same subject. Instead Tezuka found himself faced with the realities of Montmartre once again – bohemian spirit and naïve idealism contrasted with stark materialism.

Fuji and he were no exceptions from the rules of society. Things had to be done to live, to survive – to make dreams possible even. Who was he to challenge Fuji's resolve?

He should not have been angry. He shouldn't have blamed Fuji for agreeing to meet with Atobe. He should have…

A sigh. Tezuka could only admit that this must be a lot of harder on Fuji than it was on him actually – it was just that he'd been too blinded by his feelings to see. And now all he could do was apologize and hope Fuji would forgive him.

Tezuka bit his lip. Looked at the muddy ground.

He had to talk to Fuji.


Everybody looked up as the doors slammed open.

Out of breath and with his hair in disorder, Tezuka stalked into the showroom. His eyes looked from the left to the right, wandering over the stage hands and actors loitering around, but didn't stay on anybody for more than a split second.

There was Oishi sitting in one of the front seats, a book opened on his lap; Choutarou sitting together with Shishido behind the piano and Jirou dozing away on a settee. Eiji sitting comfortably on an armchair and metallic noises from off-stage gave away Inui's location.

Gakuto and Eiji sitting together on the edge of the stage, dangling their legs in a rare display of peace between them; but Tezuka's eyes did not find the person he was looking for.

"Where is Fuji?" he eventually asked.

Oishi's shoulder slumped; he could hear somebody sighing, but it was Oshitari, who emerged from backstage, still dressed as the sitar player, to answer Tezuka's question.

"At the Gothic Tower." The dark-haired man replied evenly, eyes boring into Tezuka's. "To have diner with Atobe."

And somehow it sounded like a curse.

"Did you come to apologize?" the man continued, unmindful of the shadow on Tezuka's face. "Did you say something to Fuji you didn't mean? And wanted to rectify things now, as you yourself realize you don't understand your reason?"

Oshitari drew closer, a foreboding expression on his features.

"You're jealous." he whispered into Tezuka's ear.

Drawing a deep breath, Fuji lifted his head as the polished, wooden double doors were opened for him.

"Don't be ridiculous." Tezuka snorted.

Directly behind the door, within the luxuriously decorated, softly lit chamber, Atobe stood clad in his best suit.

Oshitari smiled, tilting his head and Tezuka didn't miss the way his eyes stayed over to the small red head, sitting on the side and chatting with a couple of other dancers.

"You look beautiful." Atobe said, and meant his words. Bowing deeply, he reached for Fuji's hand and placed a kiss upon it.

Oshitari turned back to the writer. "You're in love."

With only a small word of thanks Fuji let himself be guided to the long table; where upon fancy silverware the most delicious meal was laid out. This was beyond anything he had dreamed of in his childhood, but right now he couldn't even rejoice.

"In love?" Tezuka asked, sceptically. Infatuation, maybe. But love?

Because in his mind, Fuji kept seeing Tezuka's cold, stony face.

"Yes, in love." Oshitari grinned. And behind him Choutarou started playing the piano.

There was nothing notable about the soup and the main course tasted like ashes in Fuji's mouth. And Atobe's eyes resting expectantly upon him send cold shivers down his spine.

Tezuka crossed his arms, seeing that Oshitari hadn't gotten to his point yet. The giggling dancers sitting along the stage were slowly getting on his nerves and he longed for the quiet of his apartment.

"I have something else for you." Atobe said, after the used tableware had been carried away.

"And because you're in love…"

Fuji's eyes widened.

"…you're jealous."

Atobe came closer, bearing on his hands the last silver platter that had not been uncovered yet. He should be happy, he knew, but he only felt scared. The cover was whisked away suddenly and the brightly, sparkling diamond necklace underneath made Fuji's heart stop.

"I'm not."

"Atobe-sama…" Fuji gasped.

"Oh, you are." Oshitari replied, smirking, "Because right now…" leaning closer to Tezuka's ear and lowering his voice "Sweet, beautiful Fuji is dining with Atobe."

Those diamonds had to be worth a fortune.

"And who knows…"

"I can't accept this."

"… what might happen."

"You'd hurt our feelings if you were to reject this petite token of affection."

"Just think about it."

"Let us see you wear those."

"Atobe's hands touching him..."

Fuji held his breath. Finger, as cold as the precious stones, were ghosting across his neck. The white skin felt incredible smooth underneath Atobe's hands as he carefully drew the ends of the collier together.

"Atobe's lips upon his skin…"

Spellbound, the Duke leaned down. The smell of Fuji's hair was mesmerizing and the white, small neck looked so tempting; his lips drew closer until Fuji felt cold breath on his shoulder.

"Atobe-sama!"

A shrill cord rang through the hall. "Enough!"

Oshitari only smirked.

"Pardon us." Atobe grinned and his lips descended.

Tezuka couldn't hear anymore, couldn't stop the images from assaulting his mind and Oshitari's words didn't help. This atmosphere of decadence, sexual tension and dim lightening – he couldn't stand it anymore.

Fuji gasped, tensing up as Atobe's lips caressed his neck; frozen in place even as a warm tongue traced his skin. Then teeth replaced lips, nibbling and biting and …

Tezuka whirled around, heedlessly storming out of the Moulin Rouge, leaving the double doors swinging in his wake. Cold rain met him outside, but he didn't care; couldn't chase away the images, couldn't free his mind – so he ran.

Fuji abruptly stood, moving out of Atobe's reach. Blue eyes, wide with well-disguised fear, stared at the smirking Duke. He couldn't help himself, but right now he didn't want to be touched by Atobe. Even if it was his job; even if it was supposed to be just another role to play …

"Did we surprise you?" Atobe asked, closing in and Fuji could smell the wine on his breath. One hand reached out and grasped his upper arm in a painfully tight grip; the other tried to grab his chin, but Fuji twisted away.

"Atobe…" he set out seriously. Somehow he had to tell Atobe to back off, preferably before either of them lost their temper. The consequences would be harsh, Fuji understood pretty well that the price for making Atobe back off now would be painful to pay, but he couldn't pull off the act tonight.

His heart felt like breaking and he couldn't get Tezuka's cold expression out of his mind.

"I…"

"Don't be afraid." Atobe whispered, leaning forward to brush their lips together. "We won't…"

Fuji's mind went blank. Those dry lips against his and something in his chest started screaming; within a split second he forgot all about who that man was and why – he only knew that he did not want to.

"No!" Fuji abruptly turned away, stumbling backwards to escape Atobe's fierce grip. The Duke's hand slipped off his arm, but caught the fabric of the dress. A loud ripping noise echoed through the vast dark chamber, Fuji felt something tear and glanced up anxiously.

Atobe's chest was heaving. The man had a half-obsessed gleam in his eyes; starring at Fuji's now-bared right shoulder. Fuji's throat constricted with fear.

Suddenly Atobe advanced, one hand seizing Fuji's waist while the other went behind the actor's head; long fingers burying themselves in silky, honey-brown hair, painfully forcing Fuji to tilt his head backwards. He wanted to scream but couldn't, when lips violently smashed onto his own.

Alcohol-satiated breath hit his face, a tongue was ravishing his mouth, the grip the Duke had on his hair hurt and he couldn't breathe. Something snapped and Fuji started struggling with all of his strength, teeth automatically clamping down on that tongue.

Atobe howled, jerking his head away and Fuji tried to push him away, almost falling backwards in the process. Fabric tore as Atobe's hand on his waist tried to hold him in place, and Fuji only for a split second Fuji's wide eyes met Atobe's enraged ones.

Then something forcefully collided with his cheek, taking the small actor of his feet and throwing him onto the large divan. The world blurred, darkness on the corners of his vision for a split second, his heart beating like mad. Silk caressed his bare arms, and legs; dimly Fuji registered his throbbing cheek, but could only stare fearfully up at the Duke towering over him, a feral gleam in his eyes.

He never even saw the shadow rise behind Atobe.

A loud clang echoed through the chamber and slowly, almost gently, Atobe sank down. Fuji held his breath until the Duke's body hit the ground and remained there, unmoving. He couldn't tell whether he was dead or only unconscious, but he was definitely glad.

His fingers were trembling where they were clutching the silken blanket, because no matter how often he'd told himself that this was his job that he'd done this before, that Atobe really was no bad man – that wasn't Tezuka. And how easily Atobe had torn away his clothes, thrown him down and overpowered him, had scared him deeply.

Slowly he raised wide-open blue eyes to glance at his unlikely saviour. Not Tezuka – but he'd be a fool to expect Tezuka's help after what he'd said to him – but silent, ever-gentle Taka-san was looking down at him worriedly.

"Are you okay?"

Fuji breathed in deeply, trying to calm his frantically racing heart. To regain some strength in his legs so he could get up and leave. Instead receiving the desired oxygen however, his lungs constricted.

Before he knew it, coughs were wrecking his small frame, dry in the beginning, but the fit didn't abate and the much dreaded metallic taste rose in the back of Fuji's throat. He could only helplessly press his hands in front of his mouth and pray for everything to be over.

Darkness danced invitingly in front of his eyes, but Kawamura's large, warm hand rubbing soothingly over his back convinced Fuji not to give in. Instead, he slumped against the broad frame, trying his best to get back his breath and fight away the tears burning in the corners of his eyes.

Kawamura didn't ask a question, instead he only gently held him and Fuji felt eternally grateful for that steady, unassuming source of support. Taka-san, he unconsciously recalled, was perhaps the only man that ever held him without asking for more.

"We should leave." Kawamura gently said after a while. Fuji had stopped trembling, but Kawamura's heart ached when he noticed how the petite actor was stifling more coughs before nodding.

Carefully Fuji climbed to his feet, his knees still feeling unsteady and Kawamura wondered whether he shouldn't just carry Fuji back. But then again he had known Fuji long enough to understand that the boy had a certain degree of pride that wouldn't allow for any pampering.

He hoped it was enough to be the silent, helpful presence lingering at Fuji's side as they slowly climbed down the winding staircase. It was still raining outside, so Kawamura slipped of his coat and draped it over Fuji's small shoulders.

The white dress was ripped in so many places and Fuji accepted the coat with a small, warm smile and Kawamura felt his heart break.

Kawamura swallowed. Biting his lip he looked out into the darkness, before turning back to Fuji. Momoshirou would understand his decision.

"Go to him, Fuji." Kawamura said, passing the boy his umbrella, "Go to Tezuka."


A knock on the door made Tezuka look up from his sketches.

His chain watch confirmed that midnight was rapidly approaching and the hour thus too late for any decent visitor. Normally he'd already be getting ready for bed himself, but tonight had forced him to drown himself in work – to replace the other thing haunting his mind.

Not only the images. But also Fuji's sad, sad smile last night. He hadn't forgiven himself for being so cold, and even if Fuji refused him any further contact – he had to apologize.

With a sigh he pushed back his chair and went to open the door.

Blue eyes blinked up at him.

Brown hair was messed up, wet and sticking to pale skin. Underneath a too large, dark coat the white dress was ripped and torn and water dripped onto the wood below. The boy was shivering.

Tezuka's heart stopped.

"Tezuka…" Fuji whispered; a soft, tired smile on his face.

And then Tezuka snapped, reached out and pulled Fuji into his arms, not minding the soaked clothes of the actor or the coldness of his skin. Fuji was here and not with Atobe; here in Tezuka's arms and that was what mattered.

"Fuji…. Fuji…" Tezuka kept mumbling; his face buried in the crook of Fuji's neck, as they stumbled inside his apartment and he felt Fuji shudder from the warmth. Small hands reached around his neck, mussed up his still damp hair and clung to him with all their strength.

"Tez…" Fuji muttered, half a sob, and then coughs snatched his voice away. Tezuka held on tightly to the shuddering body, silently wishing he could do more – anything to help – even as his head spun with unanswered questions.

What was Fuji doing here? Wasn't he supposed to be with Atobe? And that torn dress – what did it mean? He dreaded the answer, yet his mind wouldn't stop connecting the implications.

"Fuji, I'm sorry." Tezuka said, as the coughs had stopped wrecking the small body in his arms. "What I said last night – I was angry. I had no right to … I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Fuji gasped; the aftertaste of metallic liquid in his mouth. "It's okay."

All he wanted was to forget; to sink into those arms and never leave them again.

"When Atobe…" he whispered, voice choked with emotions, "When he… I couldn't. I kept thinking about you and I … I couldn't."

Tezuka didn't even feel like rejoicing. Seeing Fuji broken like this, feeling tears soak through his violet cotton shirt, he couldn't help but wish things hadn't turned out like this.

"Don't cry." Was all Tezuka could say, stroking wet hair affectionately. "Everything will be alright."

"I love you."

tbc

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