(no subject)
Pairing: TezuFuji (main), one-sided AtoFuji; other canon pairings
Prompter: decollement
Prompt: Tezuka/ Fuji (and the rest of Seigaku, I suppose. Bonus points if Hyotei is involved somewhere) in a Moulin Rouge AU.
Wordcount: ~ 6700
Genre: Drama, Romance
Summary: Finale. Tezuka gets dragged back to the Moulin Rouge for the premier and things play out from there
Warnings: Character death, long, possible ooc, scenes play out different than in the movie.
A/N: 5/5. Finally complete. ^_^
Moulin Rouge
V
Eiji could tell something was off when Tezuka didn’t appear to watch their rehearsals anymore, but instead there was Atobe and Atobe alone sitting in the front row with his eyes never leaving Fuji.
And while Atobe’s presence wasn’t as bad as expected - the man at times proved he possessed a dry, but quite charming sense of humour and more than an ounce of thoughtfulness, he wasn’t Tezuka. Because, no matter what Fuji claimed or how bright those smiles directed at Atobe were, Eiji knew that for some unfathomable reason, the writer alone had captured Fuji’s heart.
But Tezuka failed to show his face. Neither did Fuji leave for overnight stays at his place anymore. Oshitari, when asked for reasons, could only helplessly shrug his shoulders.
For the oddest reason even Atobe appeared somewhat concerned. The Duke had stopped demanding for Fuji to accompany him to fancy restaurants, but instead was completely content to exchange a few words after each rehearsal before leaving. What had not ebbed away were the presents and Eiji couldn’t help but suppress a sad smile at times.
“He’s quite thoughtful…” Oishi had once uttered, drawing curious glances. Atobe’s present, that night, had been a beautifully woven cashmere coat; soft and warm, just exactly the thing Fuji needed amid falling temperatures and rainy evenings.
It was Gakuto, however, who muttered the condemning words: “If he’d only fallen for Atobe…”
And even if Eiji was quick to protest and Gakuto agreed even faster, there was no way to wipe the frown away from Oishi’s face or chase the ideas from everyone’s mind. Not for them, no; even if a liaison between Atobe and Fuji might have mitigated relations immensely; but for a much more profound reason.
The one nobody dared to voice - Atobe had the capacity to command the resources necessary to save Fuji’s life.
Since however Fuji had lost his heart to Tezuka, the resulting choice had been harsh. Love or life - nobody, nobody among them would have ever blamed Fuji had he decided to elope with Tezuka. Or pick Atobe for the mere reason of easing his suffering if not curing that painful sickness.
Yet Fuji had chosen neither.
And it broke Eiji’s heart.
On stage, Fuji was a true sight to behold by now.
He’d lost a painful amount of weight, but there was so much impossible more elegance to every movement and his voice - he had an audience spell-bound within the first two lines of a song; could chase away any doubts and worries with a mere couple of notes.
Regardless of his own emotions, Fuji thought with a slight smile.
It made him happy to see everybody look at him with wide-open eyes, see incredulous smiles blossom on disbelieving faces, watch as admiration grew even on Atobe’s impassive face. Or those small, honest smiles after rehearsals - it made him all the sadder for being incapable of returning Atobe’s affections.
But he’d made his choice and even if his own heart was breaking, it had been the better decision to stop deceiving the Duke - no matter how much he missed Tezuka’s warmth at his side.
A sudden coughing fit took Fuji at surprise.
There was only a split second in which he couldn’t breathe; then the golden lights spun wildly and when he came to he was lying on a couch behind the stage.
“Fujiko…” Eiji trailed of, lingering worriedly in the background.
Fuji’s finger tightened around the bloody tissue. Momoshirou bit his lip, and Fuji could tell something was eating his friend and manager from the inside.
“I…” Momoshirou glanced away, into the direction of the stage where rehearsals were still taking place, “I don’t want to ask anything anymore of you, Fuji. You’ve already done more than enough. And now…”
He had to look away again, but Fuji hadn’t missed the tears welling up.
“I want to finish this play, Momoshirou.” Fuji said, softly but determined. “You know I’d always hoped for a chance to stand on stage and play a real role. And now, that this dream is within reach - don’t take away the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do.”
“But the Duke…” Eiji muttered from the background, and Momoshirou only gestured at him to be silent.
“I know.” Fuji said with a soft smile, “The Duke holds the deeds. The Duke is paying for all of this - this is going nowhere without him.”
Momoshirou hung his head. “Yes. Maybe. But still, you shouldn’t … I mean, you don’t love him.”
“But he’s got the ticket to fulfil all our dreams.” Fuji replied, still gentle.
“What about Tezuka?” Eiji demanded, stepping forward, face scrunched up in concern.
Fuji directed the most heart-breakingly sweet smile at him Momoshirou had ever seen. “I love him. But you heard the doctor - I won’t live long. It wouldn’t be fair to him if I did anything. So I’ll do what I can to make everybody happy.”
“Oh Fujiko…” Eiji choked out, stumbling forward and gathering his smaller friend up in his arms. “Fujiko-chan.” He buried his head in the crook of Fuji’s neck, undoubtedly letting the tears fall that remained burning in the corners of Momoshirou’s eyes.
Fuji managed to stifle a cough and then brought one hand up to gently stroke Eiji’s vibrant red hair. “It’s okay, Eiji.” He whispered, slightly breathless and it tore painfully at Momoshirou’s heart to see how illness was weakening Fuji slowly but certainly.
“It’s okay.” Fuji repeated, but Eiji only clung to him like a drowning man would cling to a raft.
Because, really, Momoshirou thought, it wasn’t okay. Nothing was ever going to be okay again. Fuji was going to die and he planned on spending those last days playing a charade, rejecting perhaps the only person he’d ever truly loved.
“Fuji.” Momoshirou said after a while, slowly trying to find the right words to say, “Please don’t feel obliged. You don’t owe us a thing, so don’t …”
‘Don’t go and do something that stupid.’ Momoshirou wanted to say, but found himself unable to, faced with that gentle smile on Fuji’s pale, pale face.
“Fuji, this is … I don’t know, could be your last chance, so don’t go and make yourself unhappy.” He flashed a weak smile in Fuji’s direction, “The Duke might have us by the neck, but honestly - this isn’t your problem. And we’ll live somehow, anyways. We’ve managed without the Duke before, too.”
“Thank you, Momo.” Fuji replied, “Thank you.”
But Momoshirou could see that his words of encouragement hadn’t done a thing to change Fuji’s mind.
The following days passed in a blur of rehearsals, last minute adjustments and a general state of panic and elevation. Nerves were blank and more than once Eiji and Gakuto had to be physically restrained from attacking each other.
At those times Momoshirou felt incredibly grateful to Oshitari’s presence. The lead actor remained calm and collected and always managed to find the right words to distract Gakuto from whatever he was fighting with Eiji about.
Oshitari, too, kept a wakeful eye on Fuji’s steadily worsening condition, calling for breaks more often than usual and keeping water and tissues close by. It did little good, though - Oishi looked grimmer after each check-up and recently Fuji had taken to not relating the results anymore.
But even without the doctor’s diagnosis, Momoshirou could see that Fuji was running out of time. Their lead actor for the female part had lost an almost incredible amount of weight in a short time; and while he’d appeared small and fragile before, he’d been trained and fit. Now, however, barely an ounce of that strength remained and more than once Fuji had fainted during rehearsals.
Still, his voice on stage remained strong and enthralling. When he was up there and acting it was far too easy to belief everything was alright, and Fuji always looked truly happy after finishing a song or a scene, smiling brightly.
Oishi had prescribed rest, however. ‘He won’t live to see next month if he keeps going at this rate.’ The doctor once had confessed to Momoshirou, silently, behind the scenes, because he didn’t want Eiji to hear and worry and further.
Fuji, however, knew. But it seemed he had stopped caring - attending more rehearsals than he strictly needed, suddenly giving his everything in each and every song. And spell-binding every single person in the area.
Certainly, Fuji had been good before. But that was nothing compared to now. The vocals, the acting, the gestures - were executed with something far beyond Fuji’s usual unshakeable perfection.
And Tezuka, Tezuka who had always been a little sceptical about Fuji’s performance, always claiming there was something lacking, wasn’t even there to watch. Now, that the script had been finished, the writer had stopped appearing; and at times Momoshirou felt like running over and dragging the writer here by the scruff of his neck.
But sitting in the front row, watching rehearsals instead of Tezuka, was Atobe. Atobe Keigo, utterly captivated by Fuji’s performance, yet completely unaware of his sickness. Fuji had directly forbidden them to tell him - refusing to reveal anymore weaknesses to a man he so obviously didn’t love but still tried to make happy. Everybody was less than happy with the arrangement, most of them all probably Oishi.
There were medicaments out there, the doctor had once informed Momoshirou just after another practice break in order for Fuji rest had ended, they were expensive and couldn’t cure the sickness, no, but they could slow it down considerably.
“It’s only a question of weeks, now.” Oishi had added, “With those medicament it might be month, perhaps even one or two years.”
Later that night, Momoshirou had directly confronted Fuji. “… please, this is the least that man can do for you; it’s not as if that would be much money for him.”
Fuji however had remained firm. “And then, those two years I’ll gain - to spend them with Keigo? He isn’t a bad man, Momoshirou, but as you said, I don’t love him. And somehow I think we’ve been using him too much already.”
Another wonderfully warm smile. “So I’d rather have him believe this lie if it makes him happy. And I can keep doing what makes me happy this way, too.”
With a sigh Tezuka turned to the window. The sun had just appeared somewhere beyond the smog fogged horizon. One hour until the show at the Moulin Rouge started.
The invitation from Oshitari still rested on his desk even though he’d contemplated burning it more than once. So the Duke had won and Fuji wasn’t Tezuka’s - and why did he even care?
Hadn’t Fuji stated things clear enough? Calling everything between them a lie, a façade, an act. He was only a somewhat talented writer and they depended on his play - the moment it had been finished there was no need for any further contact.
He could be with Atobe as far as Tezuka cared. Those two were obviously made for each other - shallow as they were. He’d had enough of make-believe and people betraying their ideals for vulgar reasons. Tomorrow morning he’d take the first train back to the coast and if things worked out, he’d be in London two days from now.
There, he’d install himself as a lawyer, forget about Paris, the Moulin Rouge and Fuji, and then, someday, he’d marry a nice, decent woman and have some children with her. Believing in foolish ideals didn’t pay off - he’d teach them. They were nice to look at, impressive to speak of, but useless in everyday life.
Much calmer than before he turned away from the window, looking around in his room. Only one more night, than he’d be gone from this hole. The ceiling still hadn’t been repaired, but that would be the problem of the next tenant.
He was just about to return to folding his clothes, when a sharp, urgent knock at the door tore him from his contemplations. Wondering whether it might just be the landlord coming to collect the key a day early, Tezuka opened without inquiring first.
And met with Momoshirou’s flushed red face mere five centimetres away. Hot breath hit his face, Tezuka recoiled but Momoshirou advanced instantly.
“Tezuka.” The Moulin Rouge’s director bit out between gasps - had he run over? - “Come. The show will start soon.”
Tezuka’s expression didn’t waver. “No.” he replied and turned away
“Oi, what the hell are you trying to pull?” Momoshirou asked behind him, “Running away? Coward’s way out?”
Tezuka restarted folding one of his dress shirts. The smell of one particularly fresh perfume still clung to it.
“Did Fuji hurt your feelings? And now you don’t have enough courage to even face him anymore? Oi, Tezuka, are you a man or a mouse?!”
Grinding his teeth Tezuka reminded himself not to react. He’d made up his mind. He wouldn’t go and watch even if he wrote the sketch himself. No more Fuji in his life. Never again.
“What about Fuji’s feelings? Did you ever stop to think about his side of the story? Do you know why he agreed to go out with Atobe? Did you ever stop to put two and two together? Or do you plan on wallowing in self-pity forever, clinging onto pathetic delusions when the truth is right in front of your eyes?”
A sweaty hand fell onto his shoulder and Tezuka even though Tezuka felt like shrugging it off, he remained motionless.
“Do you even have the slightest idea what Fuji is going through to make everyone happy? Your stupid self included?”
That hand was trembling. Whether with anger or with sorrow Tezuka couldn’t tell - only those emotions were threatening to tear open the gates in his heart he had so firmly closed. Already he could feel the turmoil underneath the frozen surface.
“We’re finished.” Tezuka stoically replied, refusing to budge from his place. Strong fingers clenched painfully on his shoulder as Momoshirou’s face darkened threateningly.
“The boy is an actor, Tezuka! An actor! Just how blind are you?!”
Tezuka had not dared to entertain the mere idea. Because, if that scene had been fake, if that had been a façade and he’d failed to see through it - he’d never quite forgive himself. Still, there were so many things to consider and last but not least, Atobe’s threat remained.
Unemotionally Tezuka said: “It if of no consequence.”
Perhaps it was more of an attempt to retain his own façade; to convince himself - but Momoshirou’s eyes lit up with an unholy fire.
“You…!”
All of a sudden, the hand wasn’t on Tezuka’s shoulder anymore, but clenched to fist that connected violently with Tezuka’s cheek. The writer’s head whipped around; stumbling backwards Tezuka grabbed hold of a table to keep himself from falling.
“You know, you don’t even deserve him!” Momoshirou yelled, “And if I didn’t know that tonight might probably be his …”
The director caught himself at the last possible minute and instead of completing his sentence fixed Tezuka with a dark glare. Reaching out he once again grabbed hold of Tezuka’s arm.
“Just come on and watch the show!”
Numbly he let himself be pulled out to the streets, only dimly aware of his smarting cheek and the cold air. Momoshirou was marching forward at a brisk pace, taking no note of anything around them, his face still flushed an angry red.
When the streets grew smaller, turned into small, dark alleyways between smoke-darkened houses he eventually recognized the way they were taking. And certainly, soon enough Momoshirou pushed his way through cardboard boxes and a maze of indescribable thing to violently push open one old, iron door.
“Come on!” he hissed when he felt Tezuka hesitating.
He could hear the music playing inside from here. Could already see the bright colours, golden lightening and the beautiful, laughing faces in there. The memories of warm smiles, the sensation of silk underneath his fingertips and skin on skin were far too present.
But Atobe…
“Come!” Momoshirou was beyond exasperated. He had to be on stage again in ten minutes himself, so he had little time to spare. Especially not for somebody like Tezuka.
With one forceful tug he dragged the writer inside, while Tezuka wondered if Cesar had felt the same when he’d crossed the Rubicon .
The lights were blindingly bright and within the darkness countless waiting eyes were fixed on the stage. Jewels glittered like little stars when diamond necklaces caught the light as their owners moved. Hushed voices exchanged whispered conversations, feathered fans waved gently as if to dispel the tense, expectant atmosphere.
“It’s completely sold out.” Eiji reported breathlessly. Oishi could easily see that his face was pale underneath the stage make-up. Nervousness had replaced playfulness for the moment - ten minutes until the show was due to start.
“Tonight will be amazing.” Oshitari said, silently stepping up behind them. His stage outfit was complete; a breath-taking arrangement of silk and cotton in colours brighter than the sun. The man appeared confident, a small smile on his lips as he reached out to pat Gakuto’s shoulder reassuringly.
The petit red head turned; his eyes wide and looking younger than he was underneath all the glitter. “There are so many people out there…”
“And we worked hard for that.” Inui smoothly interjected while passing by, an odd assortment of chemicals, light bulbs and unidentifiable paraphernalia clutched in his arms.
Choutarou flashed a shy smile into Shishido’s direction, as the dark haired boy hurried after Inui. “Yet it’s something completely different…”
“Yes.” Eiji Gakuto timidly agreed, “We’ve performed before, but you know… it wasn’t so much about the performance. But tonight it’s as if we were a real theatre…”
“Isn’t that what you always dreamed of?” Oshitari questioned, eyes gazing thoughtfully in the direction of still shut dark velvet curtains, “The one goal high above all the others; the one abstract dream that most of us had expected to remain just that for eternity - but alas, Fortuna’s fickleness has dealt us a surprising development.”
Those deep, dark, bewitching eyes refocused on his immediate surroundings. “So maybe we should stop questioning what patterns the ladies of the water are weaving, leave all snakes and eagles to those gentlemen in Vienna and instead of pondering what the future may or may not hold, we should just enjoy the moment.”
Drawing himself up to his full height, Oshitari spread out his hands. “How long have we been dreaming about this? How long - and now this moment has finally come. So instead of fretting - let us all do our very best.”
“Let us make this a night nobody will ever forget.”
All of a sudden the lights dimmed.
Eiji’s eyes flew open.
Silence fell - a moment of tension; skyrocketing expectations and butterflies spreading their wings, fluttering nervously in Eiji’s stomach. Oishi held his breath, strained his ears, listening to catch a sound, if any …
Gakuto bit his lip.
And then the lights came on again; the music started and already after the first three cords Oishi felt the hair on his arms standing up. The notes rang out, clear and loud, echoing wonderfully in the wide hall - but, blinking slowly, all eyes focused on the appearance in the centre of the stage.
Dressed in stunning, oscillating colours Fuji stood in the middle, a small, almost demure smile on rose-red lips. A diamond necklace glittered sparkled brightly in the limelight; honey hair appeared golden and Jirou let go of a breath he had been holding.
If anything, that expression in Fuji’s eyes …
Eiji’s hands trembled and at his side Oshitari could only nod in silence, as if confirming his own prediction.
The harmony changed, from F to D minor; Fuji cast his eyes down for half a second before raising his head again, flashing the most enthralling smile at the audience. One deep breath… And then that beautiful, clear voice rang out. Strong, rich, all-encompassing - captivating the entire audience within barely five notes.
Disbelief; white-faced admiration and pure, unaltered surprise on many faces; fans involuntarily stopping in mid-movement; men forgetting to breath - the Parisian society was successfully enchanted. And even Inui felt a fine tremor in his fingers - never before Fuji had sung the sharp notes that precise or clearly.
And the dominants, oh those dominant chords… Maybe he’d died and gone to heaven. No opera star of this century, not in any of the opera houses he’d visited within his life Atobe had ever heard a more beautiful voice. Hitting the right notes was one thing, he logically understood - but what Fuji was doing was beyond.
Far, far beyond anything he could logically comprehend.
Perfect, Tezuka thought in his hiding place behind the stage the very moment the first notes rang out, This is it. This is…
The quantum that had always been missing; the small edge that Tezuka had always felt lacking - no matter how beautiful Fuji’s voice, how seductive his smiles might have been prior to this; Tezuka had in some obscure, instinctive way known that hadn’t been the true extent of Fuji’s talent.
But tonight, tonight Fuji wasn’t holding back anything anymore. Tonight the small brunet was allowing an already completely enchanted audience to witness what he truly was capable of. Within the span of five minutes the universe had been inverted.
Ten minutes into Fuji’s solo and Eiji had entirely forgetting about his nervousness, while Oishi surreptitiously wiped at his burning eyes. The world outside; all traces of the rainy autumn night had disappeared from perception. Audience and actors were lost in small, exclusive world full of wonderful music and fantastic sceneries - reality, with all its short comings was left outside.
“No, Oshitari, I…”
Tezuka still had no idea how Oshitari had managed to find him where he was hidden behind stage - maybe Momoshirou had told him. But in the break between the first and the second act the lead actor had stormed upstairs and pulled Tezuka from his corner.
The writer had more than once tried to convince Oshitari to stop what he was doing, but the blue-haired man wasn’t listening to any of Tezuka’s protests. With quick and precise movements he stripped his turban, shirt and jacket and proceeded to dress Tezuka with them.
“You love him, don’t you, Tezuka?” Oshitari asked and yanked the turban on rougher than necessary. When the writer remained silent, he continued. “And you know that he’s sick and in love with you, too? Then why don’t you go out there?”
“But he…”
“Damn it Tezuka!” Oshitari was practically yelling, “That boy is an actor and a whore! And you know that! So swallow your stupid pride for once and all and get your ass out there and tell him what you feel!”
Tezuka remained unmoving, even as Oshitari’s gestures grew considerably more violent.
“Tezuka! Fuji is about to die! Do you really want him to die believing you hate him? … because if that’s what you want… then I’ve never met a more pitiful excuse for a human being.”
“… what?”
Oshitari sharply glanced up. Tezuka, white-faced, stared back at him; confusion mixed with dark foreboding reflecting in hazel eyes. And the lead actor couldn’t help sighing, trying to calm his own raging temper.
Nobody had told Tezuka the whole truth, it seemed.
“Fuji is…?” Tezuka repeated in disbelief; even if his racing mind managed to fit the pieces together to a dreadful picture. All the coughing … Momoshirou, Oishi and all the others … those worried expressions.
And even their very last night together …? Was all this because of …?
“Yes.” Oshitari replied bitingly, “He’ll die. And because he didn’t want an oaf like you mourning him, he broke up with you.”
Tezuka’s heart shuddered to a stop. His mind whirling from the implications - he needed to, oh, he needed to - Yet his mouth protested automatically. “But the Duke…”
“This isn’t about the Duke!” Oshitari yelled.
“But he’s got his man set on me! He’s going to kill me!” Even as he uttered the words, Tezuka suddenly felt very, very pathetic. What kind of a man was he, to pick cowardice over his heart? What…
“Even that man - cold-blooded as he may be - won’t shoot you in front of a full audience. The Duke has more brains than that.” Oshitari pressed his lips, grabbed Tezuka by the lapels and pulled him closer.
“For God’s sake, just go out there. I’d long since have rooted for the Duke, but Fujiko-chan never stopped loving you. So please… if only for tonight. Everybody here wants nothing more than to see him happy…”
There were tears in the corners of Oshitari’s eyes, Tezuka realized. And icy spread through his veins, as the horrible revelation settled in. Even though he’d known of Fuji’s illness, known that he was running out of time - he thought his condition was that sever.
Than again, he hadn’t seen Fuji in almost half a month - but still… for a sickness to advance that rapidly…
“Now, GO!”
Oshitari violently shoved him forward, voice half-choked with unshed tears and Tezuka stumbled into motion. Almost on autopilot his feet carried him toward the stage, the music and the lights.
He could hear Fuji’s voice, strong and passionate, better than ever before; Choutarou working magic on the instruments and Inui bewitching the audience with smoke and lights. The tap-tap of high-heeled shoes hitting the wood betrayed the dancers; the ‘owws’ and ‘awws’ coming from the audience clearly indicated solo parts by either Kikumaru or Gakuto.
Clearly, tonight everybody was giving his very, very best.
And he’d intended to stay back. Pack his suitcase and return. So, drawing a very deep breath he steeled his nerves for the riskiest endeavour he’d ever undertaken in his entire life.
Then he stepped out into the limelight.
Fuji’s eyes flew open - for a split second, far to short to be picked up by an outsider - everybody on stage froze in surprise. Torn between happiness and anger Eiji only glanced at Tezuka before recalling his part, just as Gakuto did.
Blue eyes lingered maybe a second longer and Tezuka already felt his knees weaken, but then a small, private smile blossomed on Fuji’s lips. He hadn’t expected to see Tezuka ever again, thus having him here, tonight meant more than all the jewellery and fame in the world.
Having Tezuka by his side one more - one very last time - even if only in a play was the most he could hope for. Was more than he’d dared to wish for. And whatever turn of fate had brought the handsome writer here tonight, he’d be eternally grateful.
“How do you like the play so far?” Momoshirou asked, eyeing the Duke nervously. There was no way in all seven circles of hell that the man had missed Tezuka’s appearance on stage. And even if, for some reason, Momoshirou didn’t really care for the Duke’s opinion - their musical was a success, even before the last curtain had fallen - he couldn’t help but dimly worry about the future.
The Moulin Rouge was completely dependant on Atobe Keigo.
Those cool grey eyes glittered with a strange light; one that Momoshirou had never seen before. Atobe tugged a little at his impeccable suit - a shining icon of expensive tailoring even among the sea of wealthy gentlemen populating the audience.
“It is quite fetching.” Atobe smoothly replied and Momoshirou found it hard to read his face. “I’d very much like to congratulate Fuji.”
Pale lips quirked up in a small smile. “He looks rather pale as of late. Maybe he should rest for a while after the performance has been done.”
Atobe almost flinched at the cold glance Momoshirou rewarded his statement with. On the inside however, the corners of his lips drooped - his suspicions were confirmed; especially when Momoshirou heaved a deep sigh.
Halting in a shadowed corner out of the path of the extremely busy stage hands Momoshirou took one good, long look at the Duke; ignoring the dictations of social standing completely. The man, for all his ruthlessness, was most certainly no idiot. And he’d proven - more than once - that he cared neither for fashionable naïve idealism or stiff, unyielding social boundaries.
Maybe, just maybe, Atobe Keigo wasn’t so very different from them.
Just another human being; just another player in this game, even if he’d grown up with the literal silver spoon in his mouth. But observing him watch Fuji; seeing all those small affectionate gestures - he certainly was trying.
Those feelings weren’t affected. There was nothing to be gained for Atobe from an alliance with Fuji. Nothing material, and especially no social status.
“Let me be honest.” Momoshirou said, slowly; still wondering if he was making the right decision. But once more, he unconsciously recalled Oishi’s harsh prediction, Fuji’s carefree smile and the disconcerting sensation of responsibility - of being able to change this.
If a few, well-meant words could prolong Fuji’s life, then he would speak them. And even if it meant that Fuji was going to hate him for eternity - if the boy’s personal dream could come true, then he’d bear it.
Sober brown eyes met grey.
“Fuji is sick. Very sick. Has been for a long time.”
Atobe’s expression changed imperceptibly. A shadow seemed to sink over his eyes, but within the twilight Momoshirou couldn’t tell. For a moment the busy noises of changing backgrounds was the only sound filling the air.
Then Atobe nodded slowly. “It’s tuberculosis, isn’t it?”
Momoshirou blinked in surprise - but then he recalled that Atobe was as educated as world-wise; so the Duke might have guessed Fuji’s sickness long before he’d even started suspecting.
“He didn’t want to let anybody know.” Momoshirou added, looking away, “Fuji really wanted to …”
“He isn’t being treated now, right?” Atobe sharply interrupted, “We’ll make arrangements as soon as tonight’s show is finished. We’ll …”
“Director!” a sudden voice cut into their conversation and Momoshirou turned to fix the approaching stage hand with a deep frown. “Director, we have a problem! Please come along!”
Swallowing, Momoshirou nodded into Atobe’s direction. “I apologize. But you should find Fuji in the small room on the left just when you go off stage.”
“Tezuka… I…” Fuji gasped with tears glittering in his eyes. “No. You can’t …”
He started coughing then, small, wet coughs that he tried to stifle with a plain white cloth - that already bore more red stains then Tezuka felt comfortable seeing. Biting his lip the writer reached out a hand - why, oh why had he only realized so late? Why had he been so blind? - to touch Fuji’s shoulder.
The actor raised his head, blue eyes met brown. “You shouldn’t love me. Not after everything I said to you … not since…”
“I don’t care.” Tezuka replied, a gentle, sad smile playing on his lips. “I love you, no matter what.”
Outside thunderous claps echoed. The last act was about to begin.
Fuji’s red lips trembled in the twilight. “I’m sick. Tezuka, I’ll only bring you sadness. I’ll … I’m going to die soon.”
His heart was breaking, yet Tezuka couldn’t help but smile reassuringly. Every gesture, no matter how small, merely served to tell him just how much Fuji had cared all along. How all had been set up for his sake alone, how all this had been endured until now … And how painfully blind he’d been.
“I know.” He whispered huskily, “And I don’t care.”
Those blue eyes widened; their sparkled brighter and more beautiful than the diamonds around Fuji’s small neck.
“I wish I could change fate. I wish I could - but then I can’t even change my own words back then.” Tezuka stated. “All I can do is apologize.”
“Don’t.” Fuji ordered breathily, stepping closer to Tezuka, “Don’t start apologizing. Because there are so many things I’ve done I should apologize for - to you, to Atobe, to everybody. Call me selfish, but I don’t want to apologize.”
A bright, dazzling smile blossomed on the small, white face. “Not when there is something else I would much rather say.”
And with that Fuji closed the last of the remaining distance between them, wrapping his arms around Tezuka’s shoulders and - still reeling from those heart-breaking, sweet words - Tezuka returned the gesture.
“I love you, Tezuka.” Fuji said, “I shouldn’t, I know, much less even tell you so. I’ll die soon and there’s Atobe who’s done so much for me … But I guess in the end the heart doesn’t yield to any imperatives, social or rational . So, for what it still is worth, I love you Tezuka, I really do.”
Up on the balustrade Atobe sighed deeply.
Just for those few moments that his face was hidden completely by the darkness and with nobody there to watch him, his expression fell. A ghost of something usually unseen and never openly displayed crossed the young Duke’s face.
“So this is how the story ends.” He whispered, mostly to himself and downstairs Fuji and Tezuka embraced, lost in their own universe.
Tearing his eyes away Atobe bit his lip to suppress the unfamiliar pain welling up in his chest.
“Kabaji.”
“Us.”
“Let us act for a bit.”
The curtain rose for the final act and Fuji felt dizzy with all the lights directed at him. This sea of glittering eyes, sparkling jewels and most of all, this exhilarating atmosphere were leaving him breathless. Never before standing on stage had been so thrilling, never before he’d felt quite like this.
There was Eiji, already exuberantly happy with their success, Momoshirou’s wide, completely content smile, those thumbs-up Inui had flashed at him in passing, Oshitari’s amused smirk - and most of all Tezuka at his side.
Tezuka’s hand holding onto his, firmly, unwaveringly, even if the rest of the world was spinning. Lines passed without him even realizing it, and Fuji sang better than ever before, even if he could feel his strength draining.
Settling back down onto the cushions he took a deep breath - the last solo had taken far more out of him than expected. He had to blink twice to focus his vision again and there was nothing he could do about the pain in his lungs.
Only pray he wouldn’t start coughing before the performance was complete.
Then the Maharajah stepped in front of him, just as the script dictated. Fuji raised his eyes - and met cool grey instead of Momoshirou’s brown ones. At the very last moment he stifled a surprised gasp, though Tezuka couldn’t stop himself from shuddering.
Hidden underneath the Maharajah’s colourful costume was none other than Atobe Keigo. What was he …?
And then the Duke opened his mouth.
And sang.
The very lines the Maharajah ought to sing; delivering them with perfect timing and not one wrong note. Eiji’s eyes widened and even Momoshirou, on his new place in the front row, couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief.
Standing up there on stage Atobe Keigo didn’t even look the slightest bit out of place. Rather, he appeared completely at home in the limelight; every step oozing confidence - as if he’d practicing the part all his life.
It was wonderful, Tezuka had to admit. Atobe Keigo’s singing voice left nothing to be desired, and when Fuji joined him in the final duet, the world stopped moving for a moment. The gooseflesh on Inui’s arms was not caused by autumn temperatures or even anything physical.
But then came the end Momoshirou had dreaded all along. The sitar player was to be executed and on a wave from the Maharajah one of the guards stepped forward. Oishi’s head snapped up, and Momoshirou, too, recognized Kabaji.
Wide-eyed Tezuka stared into the barrel of a gun. The audience - still believing all was part of the play - waited with baited breath, while Fuji’s struggled to remain conscious. Tezuka’s arms were warm and the darkness tempting, but he knew...
With each shuddering breath he drew, he could feel his strength ebbing away and already even the bright stage lights were fading from his vision.
Cold black eyes looked down at Tezuka from underneath a guard’s costume. A click, those thick, dark fingers moved and Tezuka desperately clung onto his composure.
“That’s it.” Was all he thought, before a sudden, decisive movement caught his eye.
The evil Maharajah, just about to oversee the execution of his greatest enemy; Atobe Keigo himself descended from his throne. Exchanging dubious glances, Eiji and Gakuto hesitantly stepped aside, allowing Atobe to advance.
Kabaji turned his head to wait for orders. Tezuka held his breath and behind the stage Oishi and Oshitari were praying for the best.
A shadow fell across Tezuka’s face.
In shock he opened his eyes and witnessed the most breath-taking event he’d seen since encountering Fuji. Atobe Keigo stepped in between him and the gun - without any pompous gestures. Only one decisive step and then he stopped.
Didn’t even turn to look at Tezuka and Fuji. Instead, he fixed his eyes at Kabaji before turning to the audience.
“And in the end, I finally understand.” He proclaimed, acting absolutely true to his part - far better than Tezuka would ever have expected him to, “Love is a child of Liberty and won’t be forced - not by money nor by reason.”
Breathless, Momoshirou clung to a support beam backstage. Oishi’s eyes widened and Oshitari paled, but smirked. Tezuka however, felt all blood leaving his head and his grip on the shuddering figure in his arms tightened.
Those were his words. Those words that had been so dear to Tezuka, but had been taken out of the play.
“So if you truly love someone.” Atobe closed. “Set them free.”
Without knowing anymore why there were tears slipping down his face, Tezuka leaned forward, heart trembling the moment he found Fuji’s beautiful blue eyes meeting his. The actor practically flew in Tezuka’s arms - too dizzy to walk straight or even hold himself upright anymore.
Fuji’s face was horridly pale, even if the glow of the stage lights painted his cheeks a beautiful shade of gold. Tightening his arms around the smaller boy Tezuka let him slowly slide to the ground.
The smile on Fuji’s face was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in his entire life. And even if he could feel each laboured, shuddering breath the actor took, he couldn’t help but smile.
Those blue orbs were clouded, but still sparkling.
With all the tenderness he possessed, he leaned forward and kissed him. Fuji’s lips were everything he’d ever dream of, he knew at that moment. Soft and warm and he could taste sweetness underneath the metallic tang of blood.
A weak hand reached out, tangling in his hair even if it trembled from the effort.
If only this moment could last forever.
If only time could stop.
Atobe turned, blinking away the tears burning in his own voice. His heart ached, but this, he understood, had been the right decision. Regardless of what people would say - having seen the smile on Fuji’s face was justification enough.
Looking out proudly over the see of enchanted faces, he forced himself to smile and complete the play with a deep bow.
Slowly, almost hesitantly the audience started clapping. Eiji and Gakuto exchanged a glance, before bowing, too and the other actors followed.
Tears glittered in the dim lightening, as the clapping rose to a thunderstorm. Chairs were shoved backwards, as the first persons stood up - and faced with the standing ovation Momoshirou wiped at his eyes.
This was everything they’d ever dreamed of.
Everything they’d worked so hard for.
But Fuji, wrapped securely in Tezuka’s arms, wasn’t moving. A beautiful smile still lingered on blood-red lips, even if his chest had stopped rising and falling. The small white hand that had formerly been buried in Tezuka’s hair lied motionlessly on the cold floor.
Tezuka silently hid his face away, drawing the still body closer to him. Fuji’s skin was still warm and soft and somehow he didn’t want to believe that here, among golden spotlights and roaring applause, everything had come to an end.
And then, the curtain fell.
The End.
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Crossing the Rubicon - back when Cesar wasn’t yet supreme ruler, he crossed a river named Rubicon with his army and the act started a war which resulted in him becoming the big boss
Ladies of the water - the Norns (Skuld, Urd and Verdandi) that weave the threads of Fate
snakes and eagles - references to Nietzsche; animals heralding - broadly spoken - a change of the world
Gentlemen in Vienna - means Sigmund Freud and contemporaries referring to Kant’s categorical imperative
Prompter: decollement
Prompt: Tezuka/ Fuji (and the rest of Seigaku, I suppose. Bonus points if Hyotei is involved somewhere) in a Moulin Rouge AU.
Wordcount: ~ 6700
Genre: Drama, Romance
Summary: Finale. Tezuka gets dragged back to the Moulin Rouge for the premier and things play out from there
Warnings: Character death, long, possible ooc, scenes play out different than in the movie.
A/N: 5/5. Finally complete. ^_^
Moulin Rouge
V
Eiji could tell something was off when Tezuka didn’t appear to watch their rehearsals anymore, but instead there was Atobe and Atobe alone sitting in the front row with his eyes never leaving Fuji.
And while Atobe’s presence wasn’t as bad as expected - the man at times proved he possessed a dry, but quite charming sense of humour and more than an ounce of thoughtfulness, he wasn’t Tezuka. Because, no matter what Fuji claimed or how bright those smiles directed at Atobe were, Eiji knew that for some unfathomable reason, the writer alone had captured Fuji’s heart.
But Tezuka failed to show his face. Neither did Fuji leave for overnight stays at his place anymore. Oshitari, when asked for reasons, could only helplessly shrug his shoulders.
For the oddest reason even Atobe appeared somewhat concerned. The Duke had stopped demanding for Fuji to accompany him to fancy restaurants, but instead was completely content to exchange a few words after each rehearsal before leaving. What had not ebbed away were the presents and Eiji couldn’t help but suppress a sad smile at times.
“He’s quite thoughtful…” Oishi had once uttered, drawing curious glances. Atobe’s present, that night, had been a beautifully woven cashmere coat; soft and warm, just exactly the thing Fuji needed amid falling temperatures and rainy evenings.
It was Gakuto, however, who muttered the condemning words: “If he’d only fallen for Atobe…”
And even if Eiji was quick to protest and Gakuto agreed even faster, there was no way to wipe the frown away from Oishi’s face or chase the ideas from everyone’s mind. Not for them, no; even if a liaison between Atobe and Fuji might have mitigated relations immensely; but for a much more profound reason.
The one nobody dared to voice - Atobe had the capacity to command the resources necessary to save Fuji’s life.
Since however Fuji had lost his heart to Tezuka, the resulting choice had been harsh. Love or life - nobody, nobody among them would have ever blamed Fuji had he decided to elope with Tezuka. Or pick Atobe for the mere reason of easing his suffering if not curing that painful sickness.
Yet Fuji had chosen neither.
And it broke Eiji’s heart.
On stage, Fuji was a true sight to behold by now.
He’d lost a painful amount of weight, but there was so much impossible more elegance to every movement and his voice - he had an audience spell-bound within the first two lines of a song; could chase away any doubts and worries with a mere couple of notes.
Regardless of his own emotions, Fuji thought with a slight smile.
It made him happy to see everybody look at him with wide-open eyes, see incredulous smiles blossom on disbelieving faces, watch as admiration grew even on Atobe’s impassive face. Or those small, honest smiles after rehearsals - it made him all the sadder for being incapable of returning Atobe’s affections.
But he’d made his choice and even if his own heart was breaking, it had been the better decision to stop deceiving the Duke - no matter how much he missed Tezuka’s warmth at his side.
A sudden coughing fit took Fuji at surprise.
There was only a split second in which he couldn’t breathe; then the golden lights spun wildly and when he came to he was lying on a couch behind the stage.
“Fujiko…” Eiji trailed of, lingering worriedly in the background.
Fuji’s finger tightened around the bloody tissue. Momoshirou bit his lip, and Fuji could tell something was eating his friend and manager from the inside.
“I…” Momoshirou glanced away, into the direction of the stage where rehearsals were still taking place, “I don’t want to ask anything anymore of you, Fuji. You’ve already done more than enough. And now…”
He had to look away again, but Fuji hadn’t missed the tears welling up.
“I want to finish this play, Momoshirou.” Fuji said, softly but determined. “You know I’d always hoped for a chance to stand on stage and play a real role. And now, that this dream is within reach - don’t take away the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do.”
“But the Duke…” Eiji muttered from the background, and Momoshirou only gestured at him to be silent.
“I know.” Fuji said with a soft smile, “The Duke holds the deeds. The Duke is paying for all of this - this is going nowhere without him.”
Momoshirou hung his head. “Yes. Maybe. But still, you shouldn’t … I mean, you don’t love him.”
“But he’s got the ticket to fulfil all our dreams.” Fuji replied, still gentle.
“What about Tezuka?” Eiji demanded, stepping forward, face scrunched up in concern.
Fuji directed the most heart-breakingly sweet smile at him Momoshirou had ever seen. “I love him. But you heard the doctor - I won’t live long. It wouldn’t be fair to him if I did anything. So I’ll do what I can to make everybody happy.”
“Oh Fujiko…” Eiji choked out, stumbling forward and gathering his smaller friend up in his arms. “Fujiko-chan.” He buried his head in the crook of Fuji’s neck, undoubtedly letting the tears fall that remained burning in the corners of Momoshirou’s eyes.
Fuji managed to stifle a cough and then brought one hand up to gently stroke Eiji’s vibrant red hair. “It’s okay, Eiji.” He whispered, slightly breathless and it tore painfully at Momoshirou’s heart to see how illness was weakening Fuji slowly but certainly.
“It’s okay.” Fuji repeated, but Eiji only clung to him like a drowning man would cling to a raft.
Because, really, Momoshirou thought, it wasn’t okay. Nothing was ever going to be okay again. Fuji was going to die and he planned on spending those last days playing a charade, rejecting perhaps the only person he’d ever truly loved.
“Fuji.” Momoshirou said after a while, slowly trying to find the right words to say, “Please don’t feel obliged. You don’t owe us a thing, so don’t …”
‘Don’t go and do something that stupid.’ Momoshirou wanted to say, but found himself unable to, faced with that gentle smile on Fuji’s pale, pale face.
“Fuji, this is … I don’t know, could be your last chance, so don’t go and make yourself unhappy.” He flashed a weak smile in Fuji’s direction, “The Duke might have us by the neck, but honestly - this isn’t your problem. And we’ll live somehow, anyways. We’ve managed without the Duke before, too.”
“Thank you, Momo.” Fuji replied, “Thank you.”
But Momoshirou could see that his words of encouragement hadn’t done a thing to change Fuji’s mind.
The following days passed in a blur of rehearsals, last minute adjustments and a general state of panic and elevation. Nerves were blank and more than once Eiji and Gakuto had to be physically restrained from attacking each other.
At those times Momoshirou felt incredibly grateful to Oshitari’s presence. The lead actor remained calm and collected and always managed to find the right words to distract Gakuto from whatever he was fighting with Eiji about.
Oshitari, too, kept a wakeful eye on Fuji’s steadily worsening condition, calling for breaks more often than usual and keeping water and tissues close by. It did little good, though - Oishi looked grimmer after each check-up and recently Fuji had taken to not relating the results anymore.
But even without the doctor’s diagnosis, Momoshirou could see that Fuji was running out of time. Their lead actor for the female part had lost an almost incredible amount of weight in a short time; and while he’d appeared small and fragile before, he’d been trained and fit. Now, however, barely an ounce of that strength remained and more than once Fuji had fainted during rehearsals.
Still, his voice on stage remained strong and enthralling. When he was up there and acting it was far too easy to belief everything was alright, and Fuji always looked truly happy after finishing a song or a scene, smiling brightly.
Oishi had prescribed rest, however. ‘He won’t live to see next month if he keeps going at this rate.’ The doctor once had confessed to Momoshirou, silently, behind the scenes, because he didn’t want Eiji to hear and worry and further.
Fuji, however, knew. But it seemed he had stopped caring - attending more rehearsals than he strictly needed, suddenly giving his everything in each and every song. And spell-binding every single person in the area.
Certainly, Fuji had been good before. But that was nothing compared to now. The vocals, the acting, the gestures - were executed with something far beyond Fuji’s usual unshakeable perfection.
And Tezuka, Tezuka who had always been a little sceptical about Fuji’s performance, always claiming there was something lacking, wasn’t even there to watch. Now, that the script had been finished, the writer had stopped appearing; and at times Momoshirou felt like running over and dragging the writer here by the scruff of his neck.
But sitting in the front row, watching rehearsals instead of Tezuka, was Atobe. Atobe Keigo, utterly captivated by Fuji’s performance, yet completely unaware of his sickness. Fuji had directly forbidden them to tell him - refusing to reveal anymore weaknesses to a man he so obviously didn’t love but still tried to make happy. Everybody was less than happy with the arrangement, most of them all probably Oishi.
There were medicaments out there, the doctor had once informed Momoshirou just after another practice break in order for Fuji rest had ended, they were expensive and couldn’t cure the sickness, no, but they could slow it down considerably.
“It’s only a question of weeks, now.” Oishi had added, “With those medicament it might be month, perhaps even one or two years.”
Later that night, Momoshirou had directly confronted Fuji. “… please, this is the least that man can do for you; it’s not as if that would be much money for him.”
Fuji however had remained firm. “And then, those two years I’ll gain - to spend them with Keigo? He isn’t a bad man, Momoshirou, but as you said, I don’t love him. And somehow I think we’ve been using him too much already.”
Another wonderfully warm smile. “So I’d rather have him believe this lie if it makes him happy. And I can keep doing what makes me happy this way, too.”
With a sigh Tezuka turned to the window. The sun had just appeared somewhere beyond the smog fogged horizon. One hour until the show at the Moulin Rouge started.
The invitation from Oshitari still rested on his desk even though he’d contemplated burning it more than once. So the Duke had won and Fuji wasn’t Tezuka’s - and why did he even care?
Hadn’t Fuji stated things clear enough? Calling everything between them a lie, a façade, an act. He was only a somewhat talented writer and they depended on his play - the moment it had been finished there was no need for any further contact.
He could be with Atobe as far as Tezuka cared. Those two were obviously made for each other - shallow as they were. He’d had enough of make-believe and people betraying their ideals for vulgar reasons. Tomorrow morning he’d take the first train back to the coast and if things worked out, he’d be in London two days from now.
There, he’d install himself as a lawyer, forget about Paris, the Moulin Rouge and Fuji, and then, someday, he’d marry a nice, decent woman and have some children with her. Believing in foolish ideals didn’t pay off - he’d teach them. They were nice to look at, impressive to speak of, but useless in everyday life.
Much calmer than before he turned away from the window, looking around in his room. Only one more night, than he’d be gone from this hole. The ceiling still hadn’t been repaired, but that would be the problem of the next tenant.
He was just about to return to folding his clothes, when a sharp, urgent knock at the door tore him from his contemplations. Wondering whether it might just be the landlord coming to collect the key a day early, Tezuka opened without inquiring first.
And met with Momoshirou’s flushed red face mere five centimetres away. Hot breath hit his face, Tezuka recoiled but Momoshirou advanced instantly.
“Tezuka.” The Moulin Rouge’s director bit out between gasps - had he run over? - “Come. The show will start soon.”
Tezuka’s expression didn’t waver. “No.” he replied and turned away
“Oi, what the hell are you trying to pull?” Momoshirou asked behind him, “Running away? Coward’s way out?”
Tezuka restarted folding one of his dress shirts. The smell of one particularly fresh perfume still clung to it.
“Did Fuji hurt your feelings? And now you don’t have enough courage to even face him anymore? Oi, Tezuka, are you a man or a mouse?!”
Grinding his teeth Tezuka reminded himself not to react. He’d made up his mind. He wouldn’t go and watch even if he wrote the sketch himself. No more Fuji in his life. Never again.
“What about Fuji’s feelings? Did you ever stop to think about his side of the story? Do you know why he agreed to go out with Atobe? Did you ever stop to put two and two together? Or do you plan on wallowing in self-pity forever, clinging onto pathetic delusions when the truth is right in front of your eyes?”
A sweaty hand fell onto his shoulder and Tezuka even though Tezuka felt like shrugging it off, he remained motionless.
“Do you even have the slightest idea what Fuji is going through to make everyone happy? Your stupid self included?”
That hand was trembling. Whether with anger or with sorrow Tezuka couldn’t tell - only those emotions were threatening to tear open the gates in his heart he had so firmly closed. Already he could feel the turmoil underneath the frozen surface.
“We’re finished.” Tezuka stoically replied, refusing to budge from his place. Strong fingers clenched painfully on his shoulder as Momoshirou’s face darkened threateningly.
“The boy is an actor, Tezuka! An actor! Just how blind are you?!”
Tezuka had not dared to entertain the mere idea. Because, if that scene had been fake, if that had been a façade and he’d failed to see through it - he’d never quite forgive himself. Still, there were so many things to consider and last but not least, Atobe’s threat remained.
Unemotionally Tezuka said: “It if of no consequence.”
Perhaps it was more of an attempt to retain his own façade; to convince himself - but Momoshirou’s eyes lit up with an unholy fire.
“You…!”
All of a sudden, the hand wasn’t on Tezuka’s shoulder anymore, but clenched to fist that connected violently with Tezuka’s cheek. The writer’s head whipped around; stumbling backwards Tezuka grabbed hold of a table to keep himself from falling.
“You know, you don’t even deserve him!” Momoshirou yelled, “And if I didn’t know that tonight might probably be his …”
The director caught himself at the last possible minute and instead of completing his sentence fixed Tezuka with a dark glare. Reaching out he once again grabbed hold of Tezuka’s arm.
“Just come on and watch the show!”
Numbly he let himself be pulled out to the streets, only dimly aware of his smarting cheek and the cold air. Momoshirou was marching forward at a brisk pace, taking no note of anything around them, his face still flushed an angry red.
When the streets grew smaller, turned into small, dark alleyways between smoke-darkened houses he eventually recognized the way they were taking. And certainly, soon enough Momoshirou pushed his way through cardboard boxes and a maze of indescribable thing to violently push open one old, iron door.
“Come on!” he hissed when he felt Tezuka hesitating.
He could hear the music playing inside from here. Could already see the bright colours, golden lightening and the beautiful, laughing faces in there. The memories of warm smiles, the sensation of silk underneath his fingertips and skin on skin were far too present.
But Atobe…
“Come!” Momoshirou was beyond exasperated. He had to be on stage again in ten minutes himself, so he had little time to spare. Especially not for somebody like Tezuka.
With one forceful tug he dragged the writer inside, while Tezuka wondered if Cesar had felt the same when he’d crossed the Rubicon .
The lights were blindingly bright and within the darkness countless waiting eyes were fixed on the stage. Jewels glittered like little stars when diamond necklaces caught the light as their owners moved. Hushed voices exchanged whispered conversations, feathered fans waved gently as if to dispel the tense, expectant atmosphere.
“It’s completely sold out.” Eiji reported breathlessly. Oishi could easily see that his face was pale underneath the stage make-up. Nervousness had replaced playfulness for the moment - ten minutes until the show was due to start.
“Tonight will be amazing.” Oshitari said, silently stepping up behind them. His stage outfit was complete; a breath-taking arrangement of silk and cotton in colours brighter than the sun. The man appeared confident, a small smile on his lips as he reached out to pat Gakuto’s shoulder reassuringly.
The petit red head turned; his eyes wide and looking younger than he was underneath all the glitter. “There are so many people out there…”
“And we worked hard for that.” Inui smoothly interjected while passing by, an odd assortment of chemicals, light bulbs and unidentifiable paraphernalia clutched in his arms.
Choutarou flashed a shy smile into Shishido’s direction, as the dark haired boy hurried after Inui. “Yet it’s something completely different…”
“Yes.” Eiji Gakuto timidly agreed, “We’ve performed before, but you know… it wasn’t so much about the performance. But tonight it’s as if we were a real theatre…”
“Isn’t that what you always dreamed of?” Oshitari questioned, eyes gazing thoughtfully in the direction of still shut dark velvet curtains, “The one goal high above all the others; the one abstract dream that most of us had expected to remain just that for eternity - but alas, Fortuna’s fickleness has dealt us a surprising development.”
Those deep, dark, bewitching eyes refocused on his immediate surroundings. “So maybe we should stop questioning what patterns the ladies of the water are weaving, leave all snakes and eagles to those gentlemen in Vienna and instead of pondering what the future may or may not hold, we should just enjoy the moment.”
Drawing himself up to his full height, Oshitari spread out his hands. “How long have we been dreaming about this? How long - and now this moment has finally come. So instead of fretting - let us all do our very best.”
“Let us make this a night nobody will ever forget.”
All of a sudden the lights dimmed.
Eiji’s eyes flew open.
Silence fell - a moment of tension; skyrocketing expectations and butterflies spreading their wings, fluttering nervously in Eiji’s stomach. Oishi held his breath, strained his ears, listening to catch a sound, if any …
Gakuto bit his lip.
And then the lights came on again; the music started and already after the first three cords Oishi felt the hair on his arms standing up. The notes rang out, clear and loud, echoing wonderfully in the wide hall - but, blinking slowly, all eyes focused on the appearance in the centre of the stage.
Dressed in stunning, oscillating colours Fuji stood in the middle, a small, almost demure smile on rose-red lips. A diamond necklace glittered sparkled brightly in the limelight; honey hair appeared golden and Jirou let go of a breath he had been holding.
If anything, that expression in Fuji’s eyes …
Eiji’s hands trembled and at his side Oshitari could only nod in silence, as if confirming his own prediction.
The harmony changed, from F to D minor; Fuji cast his eyes down for half a second before raising his head again, flashing the most enthralling smile at the audience. One deep breath… And then that beautiful, clear voice rang out. Strong, rich, all-encompassing - captivating the entire audience within barely five notes.
Disbelief; white-faced admiration and pure, unaltered surprise on many faces; fans involuntarily stopping in mid-movement; men forgetting to breath - the Parisian society was successfully enchanted. And even Inui felt a fine tremor in his fingers - never before Fuji had sung the sharp notes that precise or clearly.
And the dominants, oh those dominant chords… Maybe he’d died and gone to heaven. No opera star of this century, not in any of the opera houses he’d visited within his life Atobe had ever heard a more beautiful voice. Hitting the right notes was one thing, he logically understood - but what Fuji was doing was beyond.
Far, far beyond anything he could logically comprehend.
Perfect, Tezuka thought in his hiding place behind the stage the very moment the first notes rang out, This is it. This is…
The quantum that had always been missing; the small edge that Tezuka had always felt lacking - no matter how beautiful Fuji’s voice, how seductive his smiles might have been prior to this; Tezuka had in some obscure, instinctive way known that hadn’t been the true extent of Fuji’s talent.
But tonight, tonight Fuji wasn’t holding back anything anymore. Tonight the small brunet was allowing an already completely enchanted audience to witness what he truly was capable of. Within the span of five minutes the universe had been inverted.
Ten minutes into Fuji’s solo and Eiji had entirely forgetting about his nervousness, while Oishi surreptitiously wiped at his burning eyes. The world outside; all traces of the rainy autumn night had disappeared from perception. Audience and actors were lost in small, exclusive world full of wonderful music and fantastic sceneries - reality, with all its short comings was left outside.
“No, Oshitari, I…”
Tezuka still had no idea how Oshitari had managed to find him where he was hidden behind stage - maybe Momoshirou had told him. But in the break between the first and the second act the lead actor had stormed upstairs and pulled Tezuka from his corner.
The writer had more than once tried to convince Oshitari to stop what he was doing, but the blue-haired man wasn’t listening to any of Tezuka’s protests. With quick and precise movements he stripped his turban, shirt and jacket and proceeded to dress Tezuka with them.
“You love him, don’t you, Tezuka?” Oshitari asked and yanked the turban on rougher than necessary. When the writer remained silent, he continued. “And you know that he’s sick and in love with you, too? Then why don’t you go out there?”
“But he…”
“Damn it Tezuka!” Oshitari was practically yelling, “That boy is an actor and a whore! And you know that! So swallow your stupid pride for once and all and get your ass out there and tell him what you feel!”
Tezuka remained unmoving, even as Oshitari’s gestures grew considerably more violent.
“Tezuka! Fuji is about to die! Do you really want him to die believing you hate him? … because if that’s what you want… then I’ve never met a more pitiful excuse for a human being.”
“… what?”
Oshitari sharply glanced up. Tezuka, white-faced, stared back at him; confusion mixed with dark foreboding reflecting in hazel eyes. And the lead actor couldn’t help sighing, trying to calm his own raging temper.
Nobody had told Tezuka the whole truth, it seemed.
“Fuji is…?” Tezuka repeated in disbelief; even if his racing mind managed to fit the pieces together to a dreadful picture. All the coughing … Momoshirou, Oishi and all the others … those worried expressions.
And even their very last night together …? Was all this because of …?
“Yes.” Oshitari replied bitingly, “He’ll die. And because he didn’t want an oaf like you mourning him, he broke up with you.”
Tezuka’s heart shuddered to a stop. His mind whirling from the implications - he needed to, oh, he needed to - Yet his mouth protested automatically. “But the Duke…”
“This isn’t about the Duke!” Oshitari yelled.
“But he’s got his man set on me! He’s going to kill me!” Even as he uttered the words, Tezuka suddenly felt very, very pathetic. What kind of a man was he, to pick cowardice over his heart? What…
“Even that man - cold-blooded as he may be - won’t shoot you in front of a full audience. The Duke has more brains than that.” Oshitari pressed his lips, grabbed Tezuka by the lapels and pulled him closer.
“For God’s sake, just go out there. I’d long since have rooted for the Duke, but Fujiko-chan never stopped loving you. So please… if only for tonight. Everybody here wants nothing more than to see him happy…”
There were tears in the corners of Oshitari’s eyes, Tezuka realized. And icy spread through his veins, as the horrible revelation settled in. Even though he’d known of Fuji’s illness, known that he was running out of time - he thought his condition was that sever.
Than again, he hadn’t seen Fuji in almost half a month - but still… for a sickness to advance that rapidly…
“Now, GO!”
Oshitari violently shoved him forward, voice half-choked with unshed tears and Tezuka stumbled into motion. Almost on autopilot his feet carried him toward the stage, the music and the lights.
He could hear Fuji’s voice, strong and passionate, better than ever before; Choutarou working magic on the instruments and Inui bewitching the audience with smoke and lights. The tap-tap of high-heeled shoes hitting the wood betrayed the dancers; the ‘owws’ and ‘awws’ coming from the audience clearly indicated solo parts by either Kikumaru or Gakuto.
Clearly, tonight everybody was giving his very, very best.
And he’d intended to stay back. Pack his suitcase and return. So, drawing a very deep breath he steeled his nerves for the riskiest endeavour he’d ever undertaken in his entire life.
Then he stepped out into the limelight.
Fuji’s eyes flew open - for a split second, far to short to be picked up by an outsider - everybody on stage froze in surprise. Torn between happiness and anger Eiji only glanced at Tezuka before recalling his part, just as Gakuto did.
Blue eyes lingered maybe a second longer and Tezuka already felt his knees weaken, but then a small, private smile blossomed on Fuji’s lips. He hadn’t expected to see Tezuka ever again, thus having him here, tonight meant more than all the jewellery and fame in the world.
Having Tezuka by his side one more - one very last time - even if only in a play was the most he could hope for. Was more than he’d dared to wish for. And whatever turn of fate had brought the handsome writer here tonight, he’d be eternally grateful.
“How do you like the play so far?” Momoshirou asked, eyeing the Duke nervously. There was no way in all seven circles of hell that the man had missed Tezuka’s appearance on stage. And even if, for some reason, Momoshirou didn’t really care for the Duke’s opinion - their musical was a success, even before the last curtain had fallen - he couldn’t help but dimly worry about the future.
The Moulin Rouge was completely dependant on Atobe Keigo.
Those cool grey eyes glittered with a strange light; one that Momoshirou had never seen before. Atobe tugged a little at his impeccable suit - a shining icon of expensive tailoring even among the sea of wealthy gentlemen populating the audience.
“It is quite fetching.” Atobe smoothly replied and Momoshirou found it hard to read his face. “I’d very much like to congratulate Fuji.”
Pale lips quirked up in a small smile. “He looks rather pale as of late. Maybe he should rest for a while after the performance has been done.”
Atobe almost flinched at the cold glance Momoshirou rewarded his statement with. On the inside however, the corners of his lips drooped - his suspicions were confirmed; especially when Momoshirou heaved a deep sigh.
Halting in a shadowed corner out of the path of the extremely busy stage hands Momoshirou took one good, long look at the Duke; ignoring the dictations of social standing completely. The man, for all his ruthlessness, was most certainly no idiot. And he’d proven - more than once - that he cared neither for fashionable naïve idealism or stiff, unyielding social boundaries.
Maybe, just maybe, Atobe Keigo wasn’t so very different from them.
Just another human being; just another player in this game, even if he’d grown up with the literal silver spoon in his mouth. But observing him watch Fuji; seeing all those small affectionate gestures - he certainly was trying.
Those feelings weren’t affected. There was nothing to be gained for Atobe from an alliance with Fuji. Nothing material, and especially no social status.
“Let me be honest.” Momoshirou said, slowly; still wondering if he was making the right decision. But once more, he unconsciously recalled Oishi’s harsh prediction, Fuji’s carefree smile and the disconcerting sensation of responsibility - of being able to change this.
If a few, well-meant words could prolong Fuji’s life, then he would speak them. And even if it meant that Fuji was going to hate him for eternity - if the boy’s personal dream could come true, then he’d bear it.
Sober brown eyes met grey.
“Fuji is sick. Very sick. Has been for a long time.”
Atobe’s expression changed imperceptibly. A shadow seemed to sink over his eyes, but within the twilight Momoshirou couldn’t tell. For a moment the busy noises of changing backgrounds was the only sound filling the air.
Then Atobe nodded slowly. “It’s tuberculosis, isn’t it?”
Momoshirou blinked in surprise - but then he recalled that Atobe was as educated as world-wise; so the Duke might have guessed Fuji’s sickness long before he’d even started suspecting.
“He didn’t want to let anybody know.” Momoshirou added, looking away, “Fuji really wanted to …”
“He isn’t being treated now, right?” Atobe sharply interrupted, “We’ll make arrangements as soon as tonight’s show is finished. We’ll …”
“Director!” a sudden voice cut into their conversation and Momoshirou turned to fix the approaching stage hand with a deep frown. “Director, we have a problem! Please come along!”
Swallowing, Momoshirou nodded into Atobe’s direction. “I apologize. But you should find Fuji in the small room on the left just when you go off stage.”
“Tezuka… I…” Fuji gasped with tears glittering in his eyes. “No. You can’t …”
He started coughing then, small, wet coughs that he tried to stifle with a plain white cloth - that already bore more red stains then Tezuka felt comfortable seeing. Biting his lip the writer reached out a hand - why, oh why had he only realized so late? Why had he been so blind? - to touch Fuji’s shoulder.
The actor raised his head, blue eyes met brown. “You shouldn’t love me. Not after everything I said to you … not since…”
“I don’t care.” Tezuka replied, a gentle, sad smile playing on his lips. “I love you, no matter what.”
Outside thunderous claps echoed. The last act was about to begin.
Fuji’s red lips trembled in the twilight. “I’m sick. Tezuka, I’ll only bring you sadness. I’ll … I’m going to die soon.”
His heart was breaking, yet Tezuka couldn’t help but smile reassuringly. Every gesture, no matter how small, merely served to tell him just how much Fuji had cared all along. How all had been set up for his sake alone, how all this had been endured until now … And how painfully blind he’d been.
“I know.” He whispered huskily, “And I don’t care.”
Those blue eyes widened; their sparkled brighter and more beautiful than the diamonds around Fuji’s small neck.
“I wish I could change fate. I wish I could - but then I can’t even change my own words back then.” Tezuka stated. “All I can do is apologize.”
“Don’t.” Fuji ordered breathily, stepping closer to Tezuka, “Don’t start apologizing. Because there are so many things I’ve done I should apologize for - to you, to Atobe, to everybody. Call me selfish, but I don’t want to apologize.”
A bright, dazzling smile blossomed on the small, white face. “Not when there is something else I would much rather say.”
And with that Fuji closed the last of the remaining distance between them, wrapping his arms around Tezuka’s shoulders and - still reeling from those heart-breaking, sweet words - Tezuka returned the gesture.
“I love you, Tezuka.” Fuji said, “I shouldn’t, I know, much less even tell you so. I’ll die soon and there’s Atobe who’s done so much for me … But I guess in the end the heart doesn’t yield to any imperatives, social or rational . So, for what it still is worth, I love you Tezuka, I really do.”
Up on the balustrade Atobe sighed deeply.
Just for those few moments that his face was hidden completely by the darkness and with nobody there to watch him, his expression fell. A ghost of something usually unseen and never openly displayed crossed the young Duke’s face.
“So this is how the story ends.” He whispered, mostly to himself and downstairs Fuji and Tezuka embraced, lost in their own universe.
Tearing his eyes away Atobe bit his lip to suppress the unfamiliar pain welling up in his chest.
“Kabaji.”
“Us.”
“Let us act for a bit.”
The curtain rose for the final act and Fuji felt dizzy with all the lights directed at him. This sea of glittering eyes, sparkling jewels and most of all, this exhilarating atmosphere were leaving him breathless. Never before standing on stage had been so thrilling, never before he’d felt quite like this.
There was Eiji, already exuberantly happy with their success, Momoshirou’s wide, completely content smile, those thumbs-up Inui had flashed at him in passing, Oshitari’s amused smirk - and most of all Tezuka at his side.
Tezuka’s hand holding onto his, firmly, unwaveringly, even if the rest of the world was spinning. Lines passed without him even realizing it, and Fuji sang better than ever before, even if he could feel his strength draining.
Settling back down onto the cushions he took a deep breath - the last solo had taken far more out of him than expected. He had to blink twice to focus his vision again and there was nothing he could do about the pain in his lungs.
Only pray he wouldn’t start coughing before the performance was complete.
Then the Maharajah stepped in front of him, just as the script dictated. Fuji raised his eyes - and met cool grey instead of Momoshirou’s brown ones. At the very last moment he stifled a surprised gasp, though Tezuka couldn’t stop himself from shuddering.
Hidden underneath the Maharajah’s colourful costume was none other than Atobe Keigo. What was he …?
And then the Duke opened his mouth.
And sang.
The very lines the Maharajah ought to sing; delivering them with perfect timing and not one wrong note. Eiji’s eyes widened and even Momoshirou, on his new place in the front row, couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief.
Standing up there on stage Atobe Keigo didn’t even look the slightest bit out of place. Rather, he appeared completely at home in the limelight; every step oozing confidence - as if he’d practicing the part all his life.
It was wonderful, Tezuka had to admit. Atobe Keigo’s singing voice left nothing to be desired, and when Fuji joined him in the final duet, the world stopped moving for a moment. The gooseflesh on Inui’s arms was not caused by autumn temperatures or even anything physical.
But then came the end Momoshirou had dreaded all along. The sitar player was to be executed and on a wave from the Maharajah one of the guards stepped forward. Oishi’s head snapped up, and Momoshirou, too, recognized Kabaji.
Wide-eyed Tezuka stared into the barrel of a gun. The audience - still believing all was part of the play - waited with baited breath, while Fuji’s struggled to remain conscious. Tezuka’s arms were warm and the darkness tempting, but he knew...
With each shuddering breath he drew, he could feel his strength ebbing away and already even the bright stage lights were fading from his vision.
Cold black eyes looked down at Tezuka from underneath a guard’s costume. A click, those thick, dark fingers moved and Tezuka desperately clung onto his composure.
“That’s it.” Was all he thought, before a sudden, decisive movement caught his eye.
The evil Maharajah, just about to oversee the execution of his greatest enemy; Atobe Keigo himself descended from his throne. Exchanging dubious glances, Eiji and Gakuto hesitantly stepped aside, allowing Atobe to advance.
Kabaji turned his head to wait for orders. Tezuka held his breath and behind the stage Oishi and Oshitari were praying for the best.
A shadow fell across Tezuka’s face.
In shock he opened his eyes and witnessed the most breath-taking event he’d seen since encountering Fuji. Atobe Keigo stepped in between him and the gun - without any pompous gestures. Only one decisive step and then he stopped.
Didn’t even turn to look at Tezuka and Fuji. Instead, he fixed his eyes at Kabaji before turning to the audience.
“And in the end, I finally understand.” He proclaimed, acting absolutely true to his part - far better than Tezuka would ever have expected him to, “Love is a child of Liberty and won’t be forced - not by money nor by reason.”
Breathless, Momoshirou clung to a support beam backstage. Oishi’s eyes widened and Oshitari paled, but smirked. Tezuka however, felt all blood leaving his head and his grip on the shuddering figure in his arms tightened.
Those were his words. Those words that had been so dear to Tezuka, but had been taken out of the play.
“So if you truly love someone.” Atobe closed. “Set them free.”
Without knowing anymore why there were tears slipping down his face, Tezuka leaned forward, heart trembling the moment he found Fuji’s beautiful blue eyes meeting his. The actor practically flew in Tezuka’s arms - too dizzy to walk straight or even hold himself upright anymore.
Fuji’s face was horridly pale, even if the glow of the stage lights painted his cheeks a beautiful shade of gold. Tightening his arms around the smaller boy Tezuka let him slowly slide to the ground.
The smile on Fuji’s face was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in his entire life. And even if he could feel each laboured, shuddering breath the actor took, he couldn’t help but smile.
Those blue orbs were clouded, but still sparkling.
With all the tenderness he possessed, he leaned forward and kissed him. Fuji’s lips were everything he’d ever dream of, he knew at that moment. Soft and warm and he could taste sweetness underneath the metallic tang of blood.
A weak hand reached out, tangling in his hair even if it trembled from the effort.
If only this moment could last forever.
If only time could stop.
Atobe turned, blinking away the tears burning in his own voice. His heart ached, but this, he understood, had been the right decision. Regardless of what people would say - having seen the smile on Fuji’s face was justification enough.
Looking out proudly over the see of enchanted faces, he forced himself to smile and complete the play with a deep bow.
Slowly, almost hesitantly the audience started clapping. Eiji and Gakuto exchanged a glance, before bowing, too and the other actors followed.
Tears glittered in the dim lightening, as the clapping rose to a thunderstorm. Chairs were shoved backwards, as the first persons stood up - and faced with the standing ovation Momoshirou wiped at his eyes.
This was everything they’d ever dreamed of.
Everything they’d worked so hard for.
But Fuji, wrapped securely in Tezuka’s arms, wasn’t moving. A beautiful smile still lingered on blood-red lips, even if his chest had stopped rising and falling. The small white hand that had formerly been buried in Tezuka’s hair lied motionlessly on the cold floor.
Tezuka silently hid his face away, drawing the still body closer to him. Fuji’s skin was still warm and soft and somehow he didn’t want to believe that here, among golden spotlights and roaring applause, everything had come to an end.
And then, the curtain fell.
The End.
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Crossing the Rubicon - back when Cesar wasn’t yet supreme ruler, he crossed a river named Rubicon with his army and the act started a war which resulted in him becoming the big boss
Ladies of the water - the Norns (Skuld, Urd and Verdandi) that weave the threads of Fate
snakes and eagles - references to Nietzsche; animals heralding - broadly spoken - a change of the world
Gentlemen in Vienna - means Sigmund Freud and contemporaries referring to Kant’s categorical imperative