Title: The Show Must Go On

Author/pseudonym: Silk

Fandom: Moulin Rouge

Pairing: Christian/The Duke

Rating: PG

Email address: silkn1@att.net

Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge and its characters belong to Baz Luhrmann and Twentieth Century Fox. This work is not for profit.

Status: New/Complete

Date: 3/7/02

Series/Sequel: No

Other Web Site: http://www.angelfire.com/ny4/tinsel/

Archive: If I sent it to you, please feel free. All others, please ask.

Summary: Christian shares his feelings with the only one who can possibly understand.

Warnings: m/m (implied), angst, spoilers for the movie Moulin Rouge

Notes: This is from Christian's POV.

As always, for my chief source of inspiration, Tinn.


The Show Must Go On
by Silk

I should hate him. He tried to destroy me. But more than that, he tried to take the woman I loved. Panic strikes me suddenly and sharply, making it impossible for me to breathe.

He said he loved her. She made him feel. She reached out and touched that empty face and turned him into someone who loved.

But he didn't love her. He was obsessed with her. He needed to own her, control her, keep her. But he couldn't.

No one could.

Least of all, me.

She was like the sparkling diamonds that surrounded her. She burned brightly, but her incredible light was extinguished far too soon. Beneath the smooth patina of her china doll exterior, there was a living, breathing angel.

I loved her. I wanted to give her everything, though I had nothing to give. I wanted to crack that exterior, once and for all, and let her stand revealed as the goddess she was.

She was the epitome of the Bohemian philosophy: Truth, Freedom, Beauty, but above all, Love.

It's good that she's gone. I should never have put her on that pedestal in the first place. It took her hopelessly out of reach. It placed her directly in the path of those who were too jealous to let her survive.

I can never forget her.

Or him.

He's different now. After he walked away from the stage, I didn't know what to think. I held my life in my arms and I watched it slip away. I sobbed openly, uncaring who knew how much she had touched me. It was a long time before I could see anything but her face. Peaceful at last.

Then he came.

I think it started as some kind of penance. He could never replace what he had taken away. But he tried.

He supported the penniless writer. He wanted me to tell her story. Even if it was really *our* story.

He brought me food. He gave me money. I threw his gifts back at him, cursing him angrily. Still he came.

We were two men who shared something deep and meaningful beyond words. If I said he never really loved her, I lied. He *was* obsessed with her. But no more than I. I breathed her last breath with her.

And now he wants that closeness for himself. With me.

He crept into my bed after midnight. I should have thrown him out. He couldn't stay here. Even if he paid for the room I sleep in.

He said he wanted to talk of her. But it was *my* mouth that he sought, and it was *my* hair that his fingers tangled in.

And God forgive me, I want him, too.

I struggle to catch my breath. Though my earlier panic has faded, my heart pounds relentlessly in my ears, as if reminding me of something I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

The show must go on.



End