[fanfiction] come what may

[comptine]

Title: Come What May
Author/Artist: twilightrose2

Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/France (fem~?) and numerous others
Rating: T

Genre:Romance/Drama
Warnings: Lulz, abrupt angst and fem!francis?
Summary: AU-1899. During Arthur's first day in Paris, he managed to piss off the most sought after woman in the entire country and condemn himself to living the rest of his life in a broken-down apartment with an Italian. Not bad for a day.
Author’s Notes: Contest entry... MUST FINISH IN NEXT TWO HOURS



there was a boy. a very strange, enchanted boy

1899 - The Summer of Love

The man climbing off the train did not look as though he wanted an adventure. No, Arthur Kirkland looked as though he wanted anything but adventure with his upheld chin, cool spring green eyes and a disapproving look about his that seemed able to stave off even the slightest hint of when he asked the ticket guard for directions to Montmartre - the heart of the Bohemian Revolution - the man laughed heartily, only stopping when he realized that the Englishman was not enough fact joking and quickly gave him instructions.

Arriving at the falling apart, decrepit old building, Arthur managed a key off an angry, drunk old landlady and climbed up the stairs to his room. After accessing the small and cramped space he delicately put his suitcase on a table near the window, opening it and revealing a sparkling new typewriter.

Arthur Kirkland was here to write about… well, whatever happened to strike his fancy, but being the kind of proper British gentleman that he was, Arthur never really had time to absorb the world, to find things to write about. He had yet to live his life and this proved to be a much bigger writing block than anticipated.

Luckily, at that exact moment, an unconscious Spaniard fell through his roof, only to be quickly joined by an Italian dressed as a maid. “Ve~!” the Italian said, a curl bouncing as he hurried over to the comatose man while a tall blond with stern blue eyes also walked into the room, glaring at Arthur, “I’m so sorry! He usually is much better than this but when he misses his siesta, well...” He gestured vaguely at the Spaniard who was now being hoisted over the blond’s shoulder, “Name is Feliciano Vargas, that’s Ludwig Beilschmidt and the sleepy one is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo.”

“Oy! What are you lazy asses doing down there?!” Arthur looked up, seeing an albino; a mushroom cut blond woman and a young man with shaggy brown hair poking their heads through the hole. The white-haired one was talking, his tone demanding, expectant and above all else German. “We’ve got a play to prepare! And I doubt Sadiq wants to see a production of a lazy Spaniard falling asleep while singing about the Swiss Alps!”

Feliciano just grinned, looking up. “Don’t worry Gilly! We’ll find a replacement!”

“Where in, like, the world are we going to, like, find someone to play the role of a totally sensitive, caring and, like, musically inclined Swiss poet!?” The blond piped up and Arthur realized with a start that it was in fact a man, not a woman despite the feminine clothes and hair.

Too focused on the blond to realize what was going on, Arthur found himself whisked upstairs, thrown into lederhosen and placed on top a ladder sitting in front of some poorly painted mountains. Brushing the stupid feather out of his face from his hat, Arthur looked around the madness that seemed to have engulfed the room. The brunette - Toris - was trying to organize everything while Feliciano was trying to coach Arthur through singing. His weedy and high voice was accompanied by bangs and small ‘dings’ issuing from the Ludwig and his brother - Gilbert, the albino - who were in charge of music and effects and music. The sad thing was, Arthur couldn’t tell which brother the lighting and which was musics.

At the very front of the madness was Feliks, smirking and flicking his hair every so often. “Sing Arthur! Like, sing!” He coached unhelpfully.

“I am singing!” Arthur called back, “The hills animate with the euphonious symphonies of decant!” But his words were drowned out as a concoction near Ludwig belched and exploded slightly.

“This is terrible! Can we not stick to, like, piano? I mean, like, you’re leaving out my totally, like, brilliant lyrics!”

The albino snorted. “You can’t write worth shit!”

Soon the room exploded and Arthur had to cling to his ladder for a fear of falling off from the pure explosion of outrage and noise. Everyone seemed to have an idea for what the hill could be doing, and for someone who did not like adventure, Arthur seemed to be getting more than his fair share. Intent on finishing this once and for all, the Englishman tried to speak above the uproar, but every time be got a word in, it was only to be cut off by a shout from Gilbert, a squeal from Feliks or a sigh from Toris.

Finally fed up, Arthur cleared his throat and sang perhaps the most beautiful line ever heard by man, beast or God himself. “The hills are alive, with the sound of music…” At least, that’s how he saw it, and only his opinion mattered in the end because his song had managed to shut up everyone in the room. Soon his words were whispered through the small group and it was almost as if the creativity had been synchronized between all of them. Not bad for a first day’s work, Arthur thought to himself, as his crotch was felt up by Antonio, who claimed that he thought Arthur had talent.

Feliciano approached Feliks once the ruckus had died down. “Perhaps… you and Arthur can write the play?” He asked hopefully, tugging at the Pole’s sleeve. This was clearly not what the cross dresser wanted to hear. Five minutes later, he was gone, slamming the door on his way out, Toris following meekly behind him, muttering apologies while dragging suitcases with him.

“What happens now?” Arthur asked hesitantly as Feliciano poured them all glasses of a suspicious-look green spirit. Taking hold of the glass, he didn’t drink right away, still waiting for an answer.

Downing the drink in one go, Feliciano’s eyes seemed to haze over immediately. “Don’t worry, we’ve got a plan. We are going to have your show play at the Moulin Rouge!”

“The whorehouse?” Arthur asked, watching the Italian ignore the glass and take a hearty swig from the bottle, “What exactly are you planning? I haven’t even agreed to anything yet.”

“The Rose. We’ll use the Rose.” Ludwig said quietly, nursing his drink slowly and meditatively, though his blue eyes were also turning slightly indistinct, “You dress up with one of Antonio’s suits and we’ll, I mean, Gilbert will pass you off as a famous English writer. You get in with the Rose, convince her to get Sadiq - the owner - to host our show and we’ll be in.”

Arthur placed his glass down, shaking his head. Had there ever been a plan where more things could’ve gone wrong? On top of playing the part of a famous English writer, he would have to seduce the Rose of Paris? Her reputation was well known, even in the depths of the King’s countryside and Arthur was certainly no master at seduction unless it involved a lot of alcohol and dark rooms. Men didn’t like being hit on by other men and Arthur had found this out the hard way.

“Sorry, I really can’t do this.” He said, bolting away. The was halfway down the ladder that connected his room to the troupe’s but stopped as four heads poked over top of the hole. “I can’t write a show!”

Feliciano gasped. “But you’re the voice of our revolution!” He said as if it were the obvious thing in the world, because when you say Arthur anyone would immediately think, ‘that man right there is going to turn this world onto its head’. “You have to Arthur! Do you believe in beauty?”

“No! Not as a moral! That’s vain!”

“Freedom?” Antonio asked.

“Only to a certain degree.”

“Truth?” Ludwig asked.

“Well, no, the truth has screwed me over more than enough times.”

“Love?” Gilbert asked.

“Love?” Arthur stared up at the four men. Did he believe in love? “Love. I… I suppose love is something I cou-” Before he could utter any other word, he was hoisted back into the room and practically force-fed the emerald spirit. Within minutes, he was rendered almost incompetent.

With an arm thrown around the Brit’s shoulder, Feliciano grinned weakly, the green faerie tickling his nose. “Then we head to the Moulin tonight!”

Arthur Kirkland really couldn’t think of a less appealing way to spend his night, but in his inebriated state, scantily clad woman dancing around sounded spectacular.

they say he wandered very far. very far, over land and sea.

The Moulin Rouge was everything Arthur had heard whispered of in the dank and dark pubs of London. Bright and colourful, where refined tastes met dark desires and utterly intoxicating in its forbidden and immoral air. Mixed with the swirl of his own vision and the trip in his step, Arthur could not tell man from beast and whore from angel.

Watching the swirling skirts and burst and hint of skin, Arthur was dragged into a booth, his suit making him blend perfectly with the young gentlemen of Paris come to play with the underworld, but making his stand out among the men of Feliciano’s troupe. Grinning and laughing along with them as the girls did their dance and seduction, there was a sudden silence as the lights dimmed.

In the hush that followed Arthur’s world was quite promptly turned inside out.

His eye couldn’t help but be drawn to the woman deciding from the ceiling, her blond curls bouncing around her much-too exposed shoulders. Here she was, the Rose. Dazzling smile, sparkling eyes and graceful movement aside, there was something about her that made the Brit flush horribly and take another drink of absinthe. The dance began, made of glittering jewels and elaborate routines.

As Arthur watched, completely enthralled with the dancer, Feliciano was gesturing excitedly, but in his enthusiasm, he knocked over a few drinks on a few unimpressed-looking nobleman. “Oh, I am sorry!” He grabbed his handkerchief, trying to clean the stained shirt while the aristocrat tried to push the Italian away.

The Rose’s eyes were travelling over the crowd, trying to find the Duke, her next target. Sadiq had told her that Feliciano - the annoying little Italian that insisted every other week that he had a new play, was assaulting the man with a napkin.

“I’m borrowing this.” Feliciano whispered to Arthur, pulling out the silk handkerchief from the Brit’s breast pocket, waving it in an all-too flamboyant fashion.

As the dance ended, the assembled men burst into cheers as the music dissolved into something a little less exciting dance. The Rose was making her way through the crows, ignoring everyone but the Duke. And there he was, soft sandy blond hair and stunningly green eyes.

“Bonjour Duc~ ‘ow are you this evening?” The Brit looked up from his drink, choking slightly as he was treated to the well-endowed chest of the Rose shaking and sparkling mere centimetres from his face.

“F-fine thank you.” He said, noticing how light and joking her accent sounded compared to his, which sounded barbarian now, “You danced well…” Seduce?! He glared at Feliciano, who was currently trying to coax Ludwig into another drink. How was he supposed to seduce a woman of such… ample assets? “I mean you looked beautiful up there.”

The woman giggled, blushing lightly. “Merci. I am glad you enjoyed yourself.” She seemed pleased and leaned a little closer, whispering in the Englishman’s ear so that her blond hair brushed the side of his burning cheek, “Per’aps I can make this evening even more… enjoyable for you?”

Wondering if there was enough blood left in his body that wasn’t concentrated around his cheeks to deal with the slight arousal at the woman’s words. “A-ah…” The Italian had mentioned something about a private poetry reading in the Rose’s special room, this had to be what she was talking about. “Yes, but we can move to your room? I’d like to keep my work… private.”

The Rose curtsied. “Oui, of course monsieur.” Offering her hand delicately, Arthur took it, giving a weak smile as he was led through the crowd of people, guided upstairs into the elaborately decorated room. As the woman changed into something lacy and revealing, Arthur attempted to smooth his bushy eyebrows in reflection, feeling beyond nervous, “So, your work then?” She asked, motioning towards the bed.

“I prefer to do it standing…” Arthur said weakly, avoiding looking at the bed, his months of working on poems suddenly abandoning him, “I-If that’s alright with you.”

“Standing?” The blue eyes blinked, “But Duc, my bed is so soft and comfortable.” Arthur turned around just in time to be tackled to the large heart-shaped bed, “Don’t you agree?”

As the woman’s hands roamed over his chest, Arthur couldn’t help but breath in, catching the heavy perfume on her skin and feel his eyes roll back slightly. “Yes, it’s very comfortable!” He squeaked, trying to worm out from under her - she was rather burdensome - “B-But this is a little unorthodox don’t you think?”

Already working on Arthur’s pants, Rose just grinned down at him. “Non! I need your… work.” The woman gasped slightly as she looked down, “Oh, le p’tit gaston, est grand, non?”

Arthur, more confused than ever, threw his hands over his pants, pulling them up and rolling off the bed. Panting slightly as he struggled to his feet. “I-It’s a little bit funny, th-the f-feeling ins-inside!” He said, dredging up some of his words.

“What?”

“I-I’m not one of those who can easily hide!” Arthur said, watching the woman pant. This was far from business, what did Feliciano expect from him!? To take the poor woman to bed? That was immoral on too many levels! “I-Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Oh! Poetry! Oui, oui!” The woman smirked and dragged herself to the edge of the bed, “Dirty words~” She purred.

Staggering backwards, towards the open balcony, Arthur swallowed. “I don’t- I don’t…” The Rose was thrashing on the bed and it was very unsettling and, though he hated to admit it, very raunchy. “I don’t have much money, but if I did I’d buy us a big house and.”

The Rose crawled off the bed, crawling towards the poet, wrapping herself in one of the numerous furry blankets covering the floor. “Do not stop! More! More!” She begged, clearly having too much fun playing with the poor Englishman, “Don’t stop!”

"W-we could both live in it! And if I were a sculptor," By now he was just pulling things out of the air, hoping against hope that this whole situation would somehow reveal itself to be some kind of weird initiation into the world of Bohemia, "But then again no. Or a man who makes potions in a travelling show! I-I know it's not much..."

The woman was still moaning on the floor, keeping the blanket tight around her shoulders, allowing a small hint of her bodice to be pulled down, revealing even more pale skin and make Arthur swallow horribly. Clutching his fists at his side, Arthur closed his side, this madness driving him to do something he was probably going to regret later.

"My gift is my song." The Moulin Rouge he could handle. The overenthusiastic cancan dancer he could handle. But this... this was too much even for him. He covered his face in his hands, still singing for some unknown reason, "and this one's for you..."

Rose stopped, staring at Arthur and sitting up, the blanket falling around her shoulders though some of her blond curls clung to the fur.

"And you can tell everybody that this is your song," Arthur swallowed, looking back into the enraptured blue eyes. "It may be quite simple but now that it's done... I-I'm sorry..." He muttered, bowing his head, "This isn't poetry... but." He pulled at the collar of his shirt, blushing furiously.

Arthur, still feeling the blue eyes on him, knowing that he was probably stuck now, continued singing, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. "Hope you don't mind, hope you don't..." He straight slightly, still looking at the crimson carpet, "That I put down in words, how wonderful life is now you're in the world."

Casting a quick look at the Rose, Arthur noticed the red lips were parted slight in amazement. Feeling a little more confident, he sang a little louder, "Sat on the roof, and I kicked off the moss. Well some of these verses, well they've, they've got me quite cross." Arthur looked closely at the woman, frowning slightly. Her face wasn't very softly built at this close range and her neck was rather... thick, "But the sun's been kind, while I wrote this song. It's for people like you that... keep it turned on." Was that... stubble?

“You are talented monsieur.” The Rose suddenly said, taking a few steps so that she was dangerously close to him. “Truly amazing.”

Arthur leaned away, trying to free his hand. "Thank you... but your praise isn't... going to help you, I'm not into... persons of your lot." He bowed his head, "But you are very beautiful and I didn't mind singing to you at all. Maybe you can convince Sadiq to consider Feliciano's show?"

The woman quickly lost her smile. “My lot? And… Feliciano? Zat Italian? Just who are you?” Elegant eyebrows furrowed, her arms folded across her chest.

"Your lot being of the female kind." Arthur spoke the words quickly, "And I'm a writer, well, a poet, but a writer! Feliciano found me this morning and is making me write him a play. My name is Arthur Kirkland." He quirked his head, still frowning.

“O-of the…female…?” The woman trailed off, shaking her head, “And you allowed me to think you were the Duke when you’re just a poet!”

Taking a step back, the Brit held up his hands defensively. "Hold on a bloody second! I'm not a duke! I never said I was!" This was absolutely insane... it was only his first day in Paris and already he had insulted the Rose of the Moulin Rouge and perhaps condemned himself to a life of living with Feliciano in a broken-down old apartment complex. Was there a worse fate?

Rose let out a frustrated sigh, turning on the British man and pinning her hair back into a ponytail. "You never said you were not either! When I clearly thought you were! And if you’re here then where is the real Duke?”

The door opened and a very unimpressed brunette was standing in the doorway, violet eyes hidden behind glasses as they travelled first over the courtesan and then the sweat and panting British man. “Oh.” He said darkly, “Then I suppose I am not your only customer tonight as Sadiq promised me? And to think, I was rather excited to help proud that idiot of an Italian was talking about.”

“He’s not my customer!”

“I’m not her customer!”

The Englishman and the Frenchwoman glared at each other. Rose spoke first and quickly, “We were just re’earsing the play!” she said, “This is the writer, Arthur.”

“And you expect me to believe that you were just rehearsing insufficiently dressed with a young penniless writer inside of your private room, alone no less?” The Duke snorted, hefting his coat a little higher on his arm, “I am not an idiot. Let us depart Elizaveta.” As he said the name a woman in a suit appeared, hulking despite her small stature, glaring at Arthur and Rose.

At that exact moment, bursting from hiding places located all over the room, Feliciano, Gilbert, Ludwig and Antonio all appeared, quickly running around and talking as if they had been there the whole time. “And how is the rehearsal going?” Feliciano questioning, fitting himself between Rose and Arthur, grinning at the Duke and holding out a hand, “Feliciano Vargas, I’m directing the play!”

“Roderich.” The Duke said, not taking the hand, “And really? Then where is Sadiq? He said he was going to be at ever rehearsal and yet I don’t see him here.”

Exploding through the door appeared two men, one tall his face hidden by a mask wearing an extravagant turban while behind him trailed a tired-looking man with curly hair clinging a cat to his chest. “My dear Duke!” He boomed, “I am so sorry, I-”

“Sadiq!” Rose cried, hurrying over to her boss, “You’re here! We were just starting re’earsal. Roderich is already expressed an interest to invest.”

“Invest…” A moment of contemplation and then realization in the eyes behind the mask, “Invest! Perfect! Then we should discuss the money!”

The Duke held up a hand. “What is it about?”

“What?” The room stopped moving.

“The play, what is it about?”

Sadiq turned to Feliciano. “Well…” who turned to Arthur. “Let Arthur explain it!”

All eyes focused on the British man and Arthur tried to sink as low as he could into his suit. Did Feliciano really expect him to come up with an entire play in the next five seconds? Just as he opened his mouth, ready to deny everything and announce his return to England, someone else spoke, “This is our famous English writer!” Gilbert said, throwing an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, “And he’s even from England to boot! How awesome is that? So go ahead Artie! Tell ‘em what it’s about!”

“Well…”

One spontaneous music scene later, Feliciano and his troupe, Arthur, the Rose and Sadiq all stood in front of Roderich, panting. “So?” The woman asked, wiping her sweaty brow on the back of her hand, “What do you think?”

“I like it. When can we assume a show date?”

a little shy. and sad of eye. But very wise, was he.

Soon, everyone had left, Sadiq to go discuss to financial plans with Roderich, Feliciano to go get more drinks with Ludwig and Gilbert while Antonio muttered something about visiting a dancer named Romina. This left Arthur and Rose alone again, but this time they were not talking to each other, Arthur enjoying the beautiful of Paris from the room’s balcony while the Rose was undressing herself behind a screen.

“I am sorry.” He called, looking over his shoulder at the silhouetted form. “I really did think you were kidding about the whole Duke thing. It's not like I was thinking about correcting you when you were dragging me to this room! I mean... I was more focused on the fact that the most sought after woman in all of Paris was actually considering my writing." He folded his arms over his chest pouting slightly and muttered, "You're not even that womanly..."

"Your writing wasn't zat bad actually..." The Rose muttered as she moved to the mirror, draped in a form fitting dressing gown,” And who are you to insult me like zat?! Shouldn't zat be a 'turn on' for you?" She scoffed the last part, her reflection glaring at the Englishman.

"Y-you liked it? T-Thank you." Arthur's arms fell to his side and he couldn't help but let his face soften a bit, "I'm no one to insult you like that... I'm just commenting on the fact that the Moulin Rouge's best cancan dancer looks like a man at close quarters."

Arthur turned in time to be shoved by the woman. "And? Does one 'ave to be female to be a good dancer? To be ze most sought after person in Paris?" She hissed, flushing slightly. At this point, Arthur had decided that his life was now only going to be made of adventure. He took a closer look at the woman and then with a start realized that a key feature was missing. No jiggling jewels.

Seizing the dancer's shoulders, Arthur stared at the blue eyes. "You're not a-a..." He whispered the next word, "woman?" Scratch that. First day in Paris and he managed to insult Paris' most sought after cross-dresser - well, both of them if Feliks was considered, but Arthur doubted any out sought that crazed lunatic out. "How does that work!?" He demanded, suddenly thinking of the implications, "How d-do you sleep with men who think you're a woman!?"

The Frenchman’s cheeks flushed and the blue eyes looked away from the green gaze boring into him. "Men are 'appy if they are pleased. They do not need to sleep with someone to be pleased, oui?" he mumbled quietly, unconsciously licking his lips.

Arthur placed a hand on his hip, stalking away from the dancer laughing slightly madly as he clutched at his hair with his other hand. "This is just great." He wheeled around and glared at the Frenchman, "At least tell me your name... I want to know the name of the man I serenaded and almost defiled by."

"Francis- Francis Bonnefoy. Just- Do not tell anyone, s'il vous plaît? My boss is going to 'ave my head..." Francis sighed and sat down on the bed, his voice no longer high and quirky, but low and slightly gravelling, however both his female and male voice had the joking tone, which only disquieted Arthur further.

"Who am I going to tell?!" Arthur demanded, taking a seat beside Francis, sighing and laying back on the bed, grabbing a pillow and burying his face into it. "No one would believe me! It's just crazy! 'Hey Feliciano, you'll never guess! The Rose is actually a man! How weird and fucked up is that?' " he chuckled humourlessly. “I can’t believe I sang to you… half-drunk as well, I bet I was terrible… I’m sorry, I haven’t sung since I was choirboy.”

“Do not apologize- I adored it!" Francis pulled the pillow away from Arthur, grinning "You do 'ave a way with words as well- I would take a bet against your papa any day."

Arthur, lunging for the pillow, overshot slightly and hit Francis full on, tackling him and whacking their heads together. "Ouch..." He muttered, closing his eyes, laying on the pillow and, by extent, Francis. "Sorry..."

Slightly stunned, the Frenchman looked up at the poet on top of him."It-its quite alright..."

Not moving for fear of heaving all over the Frenchman, Arthur groaned, clutching his forehead. "Are you sure?" He asked, opening a single eye, "I hit you pretty hard."

This was awkward, though Arthur seemed completely oblivious to this fact, "I'm fine... Are you ok?" Francis brought up one hand and put it over Arthur's, moving away one of his hands and caressing the red skin gently.

"Don't worry... my thick English skull is fine." After a moment Arthur realized the position they were in and the way Francis was touching him. And somehow, he couldn't make himself move.

After a moment of silence, "Y-you're not moving..." Francis muttered.

Arthur blinked, lifting himself up slightly, half-getting off the Frenchman, half-staying on him. "Am I... heavy?" He whispered, shifting slightly, glad for the pillow between them so Francis couldn't feel his pounding chest.

"You are a twig of an Englishman..." Francis murmured, hesitatingly taking his hand away from Arthur's face and clutching the pillow on top of him. There was fear in his eyes, fear of being caught.

Leaning his face close to Francis' Arthur stared down at him. It was getting harder to resist and Arthur couldn’t even figure out why. Was this what they called…love? "You're getting married, to Roderich, I know you are, for the play and for the Moulin." He said, as it was some kind of excuse. "Sadiq mentioned it. This... could get you kicked out of the Moulin.”

"Y-you're right!" Seeming to pull himself together, Francis pushed Arthur off him, darting off the bed. "What was I thinking-" he went over to his bathroom and turned on the water- splashing his face in hopes to cool down the heat there.

Arthur picked up the pillow, laying back down on the bed, hoping his face would stop burning. "I-I'm sorry Francis." He said, "I just th-thought..."

Walking back into the room, wiping his face off with a towel, Francis sat on the bed, facing away from Arthur. "Do not be sorry mon ami," he sighed, "But what did you think?"

"You know... I thought there was something... there." Arthur slid off the bed, carefully putting the pillow down, "But I was wrong. I'll... see you tomorrow Francis." Starting towards the door, Arthur hesitated slightly, looking over his shoulder.

The Frenchman scoffed quietly, his head hanging and blond hair spilling over his shoulder. "I-I can't fall in love with anyone Arthur..." he spoke quietly.

Fist clenching on the brass, Arthur slowly turned. "You plan on living your life without finding someone to love?" He asked disbelievingly. Even that sounded a little farfetched to the Englishman. Who goes their life without falling in love? And when did he suddenly care so much?

"I cannot afford to- It is part of living in ze moulin- A man has to eat..." Francis muttered.

"You'd choose food over love?" Arthur said quietly, stepping towards Francis, "A life without love... that's a curse I wouldn't wish on anyone!" he made a quiet note to never drink absinthe ever again for fear be may be stuck spurting this romantic nonsense for the rest of his life.

Sighing, Francis held himself. "A life on ze street is worse- Like I said- I cannot afford to love, it is part of living in here..."

Throwing caution to the wind, Arthur reached out, touching Francis' chin, making him look into his eyes. "No... Love is like oxygen! You don't need anything else besides love! It's all you need!" He hated his more poet-side but now seemed an appropriate time to let it shine.

"Oh s'il vous plaît don't start saying zat..." Francis shook his head and took a step back, watching the Englishman. "Love is just a game..."

"All you need is love," Arthur sang quietly, letting his hand hang in the air, flushing horribly. Singing? Again? Had he completely lost his mind? "I swear... I will sing until you understand Francis. I can't ignore this feeling... Either we are together or not..." Oh yes, his mind was far gone by now, or he just couldn’t hear it over the pounding in his chest.

The Frenchman turned away from Arthur, walking towards the balcony. "I-I can't..." Music still issued from the main hall as the Moulin’s night continued, as it would until dawn would chase the men back to their wives and the women to their dressing rooms.

Stalking after the Frenchman, Arthur stood behind him and sung into his ear. "I was made for loving you, you were made for loving me." He touched the smooth arm carefully, "Even you can't deny it Francis... I know you feel something, it's not just me."

"The only way of loving me is to pay a lov~ely fee..." Francis sung back quietly he walked out on his balcony. Arthur frowned as the scarlet man turned to him, grinning uncontrollably.

Taking a step after Francis, Arthur leaned against the doors leading to the balcony. "You're not near as good as I am." Arthur said, "Just one night... give me just one night. And then... I'll leave forever! Please Francis, just one night! We won't hurt anyone."

Huffing, the Frenchman leaned against the railing, staring out at the Parisian skyline. "I'm a dancer- Not a singer- But there is no way... You cannot pay!" he insisted, looking earnestly at the Eiffel Tower.

"Even in the name of love?" Arthur asked, slowly following after him, feeling utterly frustrated but determined to have himself heard. "One night in the name of love? Think about it Francis, do you really want that duke to be the first to take you? In an arranged marriage no less! Now, with the poor penniless English poet... now there's some adventure."

There was that word again. Adventure.

Turning slightly to look back at the Brit, Francis' brows were knit. "Just for one night?" he questioned softly.

Arthur grinned, reaching Francis and taking his hand, pulling him away from the metal railing. "Just one night." He said quietly, knowing he was lying and not caring in the slightly. "Now that I've met you... I don't know if I really want anyone else."

Clearly hesitant to follow the Brit, Francis held back, staring into his eyes. Arthur continued to stare at the Frenchman, gripping his hand tightly. "...Just... one night..." Francis murmured putting one hand on Arthur's chest lightly.

"Hold on..." Rubbing his thumb over the ruby red lips, Arthur tried to wipe some of the lipstick away while his other hand rubbed at the rosy cheeks, smearing the powder. “I don't want to be with Rose." He said quietly.

Watering eyes and a grateful sigh. "Y-you really like me- For me..." Francis whispered.

Kissing the flushed cheek, Arthur hummed into Francis' ear. "Of course... Rose is a witch. Now Francis... there's someone I can at least deal with."

Francis took Arthur's other hand, glancing down. "You’re going to be bad for business, I can tell.” He muttered, smiling, holding the Brit’s hands.

Arthur gently kissed Francis, wrapping his arms around his hips, leading him towards the bed and lowering him onto the silk covers. That night, Arthur can only remember the sheen of Francis’ body in the moonlight, the delicate fingers curled into sheets and the whisper of his name on swollen lips.

and then one day. a magic day he passed my way

The next few weeks are lost preparing for the play, Arthur spending his time with the Rose practicing her lines, writing the play going scene by scene - basing it entirely on his own story, adventure turning out to be one of the best muses - and long nights with Francis used for exploring each other and escaping from their daily charade.

However there was one left out of this blissful meeting. Roderich was seeing less and less of his future wife and awkwardly finding himself watching the Englishman and the Rose sing to each other while he was stuck beside a very angry Prussian.

After being shafted for the third night in a row, Roderich finally had enough, he stalked through the Moulin’s shifting and rebuilt stage, attempting to find the Rose. Cursing himself for not bringing Elizaveta as he tripped over yet another sandbag, he froze, hearing hushed voices.

“C’mon Lovino… just one kiss.” Came the lightly accented voice of Spaniard that always seemed to find the most inconvenient of times to fall asleep, like when he was saying one of the many lines that came with being the lead actor. Quietly, the Duke snuck closer, listening.

“Don’t call me that, bastard!” The voice was distinctly male, but there was something familiar about it. Peeking around the corner, he saw that the Spaniard had the young dancer - that seemed to have taken a particular fancy to Roderich - against the wall. “My name is Romina!”

Choking slightly as he realized that the woman was actually a man, the Austrian paid even more attention, already planning the talk he was going to have to Sadiq. Male dancers. What was this? Egypt? “Lovi…” The Spaniard’s head fell slightly, “Please?”

The young Italian shook his head, quickly peaking Antonio on the cheek. “There.” He said, folding his arms against his chest, “Now tell me what you saw Rose and Arthur doing.”

“Well, I accidentally walked in on them ki-”

Roderich felt a sudden presence and turned around to see Gilbert grinning at him, leaning on the ropes supporting the theatre. “Well, well,” He purred, running a gloved hand through his ruffled here, “Now what’s a high and mighty aristocrat doing listening at walls?”

Quickly pushing the Prussian away from the Spaniard and the Italian, not keen on being seen with the albino, the Duke glared at him. “I was doing nothing of the sort,” He snapped, “I was just trying to find my future wife.”

Grinning at him, Gilbert rolling his eyes. “C’mon, you really think Rose wants to be found? Are you really that much of a snobby idiot?”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard.” Gilbert said easily, touching Roderich’s face and examining the cheeks flushed in shame. The duke jerked his head away, purple eyes narrowed, “Don’t deny it. The Rose finds her roots in more than her promised bed, as one with a more refined tongue would say. If I was saying it; she’s sleeping with the writer.”

Sighing, the Duke rubbed the bridge of his nose, head starting to pound. He didn’t want to believe, but it made too much sense. All the times he had walked in on the two, Rose’s lipstick oddly smeared, or Arthur’s collar a little too loose. “I can’t believe it.”

A hand slipped into Gilbert’s breast pocket and he pulled out four photos. “I just love proving you wrong,” he said quietly, “I approve of their relationship, but just to see your face when you look at the way Arthur’s hand touches her leg-” His words were cut-off as Roderich seized the pictures.

The Prussian was right. Saying nothing, Roderich passed the pictures back, glaring at the red eyes. “There.” He said, not allowing his face to betray the emotions rolling and heaving in his chest, “Happy?”

“As always my little Duke.” Gilbert said, winking before casually walking back towards Antonio and Lovino. The Austrian watched him disappear around the corner and heard the squeal, shout and cackle.

Sliding his glasses further up his nose, Roderich straightened his cravat, mind made up. The ending - where the courtesan chooses the Maharaja - was obviously a sign that Roderich was supposed to lose, to not get the girl in the end. As he stalked towards Sadiq’s office, Roderich smiled grimly to himself; he would not let himself be outplayed by a rude English writer.

The show would be changed. Roderich would have his ending.

and while we spoke of many things, fools and kings. this he said to me

You can’t.

I have to Arthur.

You can’t! You can’t go to him!

I have to do it… for everyone.

I don’t fucking care about everyone! I care about you Francis! What will you do when he finds out you’re not a woman!? Just say “Whoops! My mistake!” that won’t work Francis!

Arthur, please…

No! You can’t go, I won’t let you! You can’t!

Arthur!

We’ll run away and-

Arthur, please just-

I’ll take you back to England! We can start over!

Just listen-

It will be wonderful Francis! We’ll escape from all of thi-

Shut up! Just shut up!

I…

Don’t say a word! I do want to do this Arthur.

W-What? You want to sleep with Roderich!?

I want to save the Moulin and your show.

Francis… please, don’t. Just stay here… with me.

Tomorrow Arthur.

No! I won’t let you! I will tell everyone you are a man!

You won’t Arthur. I know you better than that. Just… imagine that the Rose is visiting the Duke. Not me. Francis would never leave your side Arthur, never.

…O-Oh Fr-Francis…

Don’t cry Arthur… please mon amour don’t cry.

I-I hate you.

You don’t hate me.

I do.

Then kiss me.

Arthur sat in the main hall of the theatre, head in his hands. The entire company, the musicians, the dancers and the actors, were all gathered around. No one spoke and the hall was devoid of the energy of that usually kept the hall alive with sound of voices. The Englishman had started the night off pacing and only Feliciano had tried to approach the young writer, whispering oddly quiet and comforting words, making him sit down.

“We have a dance.” Everyone jumped, looking around at the voice that echoed like a thunderclap in the deathly silent hall. Antonio was taking the centre of the stage, speaking to the entire group, snapping his fingers - Gilbert was already at the piano, setting a low and ominous pulse. A violin tentatively joined and Antonio grinned slightly, “That tells the story of a prostitute, and the man that falls in love with her.”

“Ah, Rose, how good to see you.” Roderich whispered as the woman strode into his room, her dark dress bathed in clouded moonlight.

A spotlight burst into life. “First there is desire.” The light fell upon Lovino who shakes his head as the assembled cast chuckled and whistled echoed along with the sighing and breath of the violin. Carefully making his way towards Antonio, the Italian pulled his gloves off, casting them aside. The two met, clasping hands, pulling their bodies close. Feliciano gripped Ludwig’s arm, looking worried at the hungry and slightly mad look in Antonio’s normally happy eyes.

“Then passion.” Legs intertwined. Cheeks brushed. Violins began to find the rhythm, playing with the quick footsteps Antonio makes, pulling Lovino with him. His tanned hands travelled over the Italian’s body and Arthur finally looked up from his palm, unable to wonder what Rose is doing.

“Then, suspicion.” The Italian is shoved away, only to be brought back into a brutal embrace. Antonio’s breath was too close to his ear, his grip too strong and his voice too angry. By now the entire show is on their feet, surrounding the Spaniard and his prey, watching with hungry eyes, falling into the seductive tones of the violin.

The blond curls shine as she bows her head. “My dear Duc… I am sorry I ‘ave been so absent, this production that you have funded means the world to me.”

“Jealousy!”

A sharp turn. The grip grew tighter and Arthur stands, looking away from the scene. Another man approached from the crowd, his eyes catching Antonio’s dark ones before roaming over Lovino’s quivering body.

“Anger!”

Lovino tried to fight himself out of the Spaniard’s tight embrace, shoving at his chest and walking in time with the quick and violent music. It is too seamless that Arthur couldn’t tell if it was for the dance or on purpose.

“Betrayal!”

And the dance stopped. Antonio fell from Lovino with the rest of the men advance on the young dancer like hungry wolves.

Roderich smiled at the woman, pulling her to a couch. When this production succeeds, you will no longer be a cancan dancer, but an actress. I will make you a star.”

Arthur couldn’t help but watch the madness unfold in front of him. Lovino’s body seemed thin and frail as it was passed from man to man, like a doll between greedy children. All the while the violins grew more wild and reckless.

A pale hand reached out for Antonio and brown eyes plead. Arthur realized that this is no longer a dance.

“Where love is for the highest bidder, there can be no trust.” The Spaniard glared at the hand, turning his head. “Without trust, there is no love!” His voice roared, louder than the squealing violins and dull throb of the piano.

Feliciano buried his face into Ludwig’s coat. Arthur started to walk out of the hall, ignoring the bodies touching, caressing and rubbing all around him. His mind was lost between the scene in the Duke’s room and the quiet cries issuing from Lovino.

“And the ending?” She whispered as her shoulders were pressed into the soft fabric of the couch.

“Jealousy.” Arthur froze. “Yes, jealousy.”

Antonio was looking directly at him. In one hand he held Lovino’s arm, the rest of the Italian slumped against his legs, shaking horribly. The Spaniard’s smile was as disturbed as the quiet swell of the violins and the one that sang out harsh and furious against its brothers.

“Jealousy will drive you mad.” Tossing the dancer aside, the green eyes met Arthur’s and a quiet chuckle rang through the suddenly quiet hall.

“Let Arthur keep his fairytale ending.” The Duke whispered against her neck.

the greatest thing. you'll ever learn

Sadiq watched Francis pull on the sombre dress. “Then… Roderich knows about your…?”

“No, of course not.” The Frenchman said, checking his fake chest before sitting down at his dressed, staring at his reflection in the mirror. It was too perfect, “But… he will know soon and I-”

“There’s no turning back Francis.” The Turkish man said, placing a large hand on Rose’s shoulder, “We have the money, but the Duke will take the Moulin if you see Arthur again. You have to let him go.”

The veil fell over blue eyes and the courtesan got to her feet. “I know.”

Jealousy.

Arthur paced his room. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t stand still, he couldn’t be bothered with anything. His mind was only focused on one thing. A plate of food lay uneaten on his bed, a gift from recovering Antonio who only locked Arthur’s gaze for a moment before hurrying away.

His door opened and he rounded quickly, almost sighing with the relief when he was Francis standing there. He didn’t question why he was wearing a dress, or why he looked so serious, too busy rubbing his sleep-deprived eyes. “Francis… thank god.” He stepped quickly towards the Frenchman.

“We have to end it.”

Anger.

Arthur stopped, outstretched arms ready to hold his lover tight falling to his side. “Francis?” He asked weakly, trying to see past the dark lace covering the sapphire eyes. “You’re… not Francis.”

“I am leaving tomorrow, after the show, to Vienna with Roderich.” Rose said, keeping her head proud, condescendingly glaring at the Englishman. “I have come to say goodbye and to thank you for writing a play.” Her voice was calm and it Arthur wasn’t stumbling away, he might have noticed the waver behind her words.

“Get out.” Arthur said, turning his back on the Rose, “You liar. You said you would never leave. Tell Francis goodbye for me, I’m moving back to England.” Hugging himself, he held his tears back until he heard the quiet click of the door closing.

It was the first night in Paris that Feliciano did not visit the Englishman.

is just to love.

Opening night.

People from every district of Paris, every corner of life and every outlook arrived at the Moulin Rouge, the sparkling and hypnotic lights replaced with sensible and brilliant spotlights, lining the way into the grand hall. Heavy curtains hid the stage as the crowd took their seats.

Arthur stood out in the crowd, his ragged clothes and unkempt appearance causing people to whisper and point, but he didn’t care. Making his way backstage, he ignored the questioning looks and headed straight for Rose’s dressing room, money clutching in his hand. He needed to pay his whore.

Turning a corner, he stopped dead, tilting his head to the side, trying to figure out the scene in front of his. It was easy to figure out that it was Gilbert from the white hair, but the brunet against the wall seemed somehow familiar. The brunet mewled slightly and the Prussian pulled back. “Shush you aristocrat bastard.”

Mouth agape, Arthur watched as Roderich grabbed the front of Gilbert’s shirt, pulling him down into another kiss. Quickly stepping away, Arthur hurried through the backstage, desperately looking for the Rose. Finding her dressing room, The Englishman threw the door open, not bothering to knock.

The Rose turned around, her body wrapped in elegant gold and rich jewel tones. “A-Arthur!?” She squeaked, getting to her feet and stalking to him, “What are you doing here? I said to leave me alone!” Pushing by him, the courtesan started towards the main stage.

Arthur stalked after her, grabbing her wrist. “I am here to pay you.” He said, lifting his hand, showing the fistful of money. The blue eyes glistened for a moment, “I don’t want to owe a whore in Paris. It’s a debt I’m going to repay.”

“Please,” Rose begged, trying to wrestle her hand from Arthur’s grip, “Leave Arthur! You don’t owe me anything!”

Keeping his hold on the Frenchwoman’s wrist, Arthur followed her to the main stage. “I owe you! Let me pay you back Rose.”

They were on the main stage by now; the Brit threw the dancer to the ground. She stared up at him and for a moment, Arthur saw Francis. “There.” He dropped the money at her feet, “I have paid my dues. Goodbye.”

“No! Arthur, wait!” Francis was on his feet, makeup smearing from the tears running down his cheeks, “Don’t leave! I kept my promise! I never left you! I swear! Rose left you, but I never did mon amour!”

Sorting, Arthur turned to Francis, taking the front of his dress and shaking him just as the curtain was rising. “You lied.” He muttered, fists clenching the delicate material, “And I will never forgive you.” The fabric suddenly ripped and just as the lights illuminated the stage, Francis’ dress fell about him, revealing his fake chest.

The two men stared at each other, Arthur panting, looking furious while Francis looked torn between sobbing and slapping the Englishman. There was a pregnant silence as the audience began to murmur to each other. Arthur watched Francis’ cheeks burn with shame and he reached out a hand-

“You bastard!” Behind them, Antonio suddenly tripped from the side stage, quickly followed by an irate Lovino, “You goddamn bastard! I am never going to forgive you!” The Spaniard’s cheek was red and he was hurrying away from the Italian whose hand was raised, obviously prepared for another hit.

Meanwhile, from another side of the stage, Gilbert and Roderich suddenly appeared, obviously too engrossed with each other to notice they had just stumbled onto the stage. In the crowd, the Duke’s bodyguard was on her feet, scrambling up on stage and tearing Gilbert off before punching him in the jaw.

“Ludwig! Catch me!” A giggling Feliciano was being lowered from catwalk upside down, trying to hold his skirt over his vitals with one hand, while the other was holding a bottle of absinthe. “Hurry!” The German, completely scarlet appeared, standing under Feliciano, waiting to catch him while looking everywhere but the crowd, all of whom were currently falling each other, laughing hysterically.

Arthur grabbed Francis’ arm and pulled him out of the spotlight. “I can’t be angry at you.” He confessed when they were back in the dressing room, “That was the most humiliating thing I’ve ever seen”

Francis slapped the Englishman. “Salaud!” he shouted, letting the remains of his dress fall away.

Holding his cheek, Arthur watched as Francis flit about the room, pulling things down and placing them in a bag. “W-Where are you going?” He asked, fearing the worst.

Pulling on a coat, Francis turned back to Arthur, taking three steps to close the distance between them and kissed the Englishman. “I hate you Arthur.” He muttered against the kiss, “and I’m not letting out of my sight again until I repay you for the utter humiliation I have just been forced through. It should only take me one night if I work extra hard.”

“Just one night?” Arthur breathed.

“Just one night.” Francis lied, kissing him again.

and be loved in return.

Author's Note

I wrote this in the last two days it's about 1/5 of NaNoWriMo, permit me to go die in a hole now. For the what_the_fruk livejournal comm contest.

yes, it's blatant "Moulin Rouge" parody, bite me. oh, and sorry for the lack of updates, midterms kind of murdered me, I promise we'll be back to our usual two-three day updates soon ^__^