Chapter Text
[Lights dim]
[Orchestra tunes]
[A spotlight hits center stage to illuminate a man sitting at his typewriter. He surveys the crowd, sips from a glass of wine, and then begins writing his story]
*****
I’ve heard it said that it is better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all.
The first thing I loved and lost was my mother, to death’s untimely call.
The second was my brother, whom I lost to a disagreement.
The third was the loss of all. One that I can’t seem to recover from. A loss of love, a loss of spirit. A loss of self.
The world of musicians, painters, and writers is not what Nai had said it would be. A village of sin full of useless, lost souls. A purposeless, unprofitable lifestyle meant only for sentimental fools and the poor.
After our mother’s death, I came to live a penniless existence in exchange for the chance to write, live, and love among the Children of the Revolution. The Bohemians of the New World. And I did love, with all my heart. Even if it cost me dearly…
Present Day:
All the lights in the Moulin Rouge are snuffed out at once, yet colors still pulse in Vash’s vision. The grand room is so dark, it’s as if he’s squeezed his eyes shut. Still, he can see the afterimage of fluttering skirts and kicking legs, imprints of color bright as butterfly wings and effervescent as ghosts.
Just when the crowd begins to stir in impatience, a blinding spotlight hits the stage. A broad man with brown hair and a thick mustache sits on his ass, feet hanging over the stage to dangle in the orchestra pit.
Despite being taller than nearly everyone in the crowd, Vash cranes his neck to see better, slipping his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger.
The drunken clamor dies down as the man onstage rummages through his pockets. He’s dressed almost like a ringmaster in trousers, a black and red jacket, and a gold vest. His collar has been left loose, and his shirt is opened low enough to reveal a hairy, barreled chest. It hints at the kind of debauchery this place is known for.
Eventually, the man finds a case of cigarettes, and with a flourish of his wrist, strikes a match on his boot and lights one.
“Get on with it, Roberto!” Someone shouts in the dark.
“Yeah, yeah…” the man grumbles, sounding sour. He might actually be drunk.
Roberto exhales a plume of smoke and it coils in the humid air, rising up and out of the spotlight. Anticipation, thicker than the smell of alcohol, perfume, and sweat, blankets the room with a low buzz. He gets to his feet and toes the ground with eyes cast down, taking another deep inhale.
“Well, I suppose you’ve waited long enough.”
Bodies press against Vash’s back, the entire room taking a collective step forward. Roberto lifts his head and suddenly he’s transformed from an old drunk to a commanding MC befitting his embroidered coat and tails.
“Ladies and Gentleman. Feast your eyes on a sight you will never forget! It’s without further ado that I deliver to you the man who needs no introduction—the most desired beauty in all of Paris, and the Shining Diamond of the Moulin Rouge, WOLFWOOD!”
The spotlight pans upwards and two hundred faces turn with it. Gasps ring through the room like a chorus of sighing lovers as a man is lowered over the crowd on a swing.
Dark skinned and long legged, he spills over the gem-encrusted corset he’s been poured into. He stretches upwards, holding the sides of the swing with arms dipped in full-length black satin gloves. The taper from his broad shoulders to his waist is meaner than sin.
A long, elegant cigarette holder hangs from his lips and a top hat sits off-balance on his shaggy, black hair. He surveys the crowd, proud and striking, with kohl-rimmed eyes that sparkle in the blue-tinted light. His gaze falls on Vash and his haughty expression melts into something softer—more flirtatious. White teeth flash as he swipes the hat off his head. Leaning over his seat so that dusty nipples peek over the cups of his bustier, he beckons to Vash.
The man known only as Wolfwood, the city’s most in-demand courtesan and the most beautiful person Vash has ever laid eyes on—the very man Vash is meant to ambush later tonight—reaches out and drops his top hat right onto Vash’s head. He winks, running his tongue over his teeth before the swing is pulled back and the music starts up.
The French are glad to die for love.
“Pick your jaw up, Poet,” Meryl whispers in his ears, lace-gloved fingers dancing across his collarbone with practiced flirtation. “I think he likes you.”
Vash peels his eyes off Wolfwood long enough to see Meryl wink at him over her shoulder and disappear into the tuxedoed crowd with a flourish of blue petticoats. He feels a little lost without her. After all, she’s the first person in their rag-tag group that he met. Meryl is the reason he met Milly, Livio, Elandria, and the rest of them. She’s the only reason he even made it through the door—he could have never covered the cost otherwise.
A large hand wraps around his arm just above the elbow and he spins around to look up at one of the few people Vash has ever known to be taller than he is. Gentle, golden eyes grab the light and his long white hair has been pulled back into a ponytail tied off with a black velvet bow.
“Come along, Vash. We’ve got to keep out of the way of Roberto. Millie found us a table.”
Vash nods, lost for words, and Livio drags him to the outskirts of the crowd and into a dark booth of blood-red velvet and black lace. Millie and Legato sit around with some of their other acquaintances and they beckon to him, guiding him into a seat on the very edge of the tufted settee. From here he has the perfect view of Wolfwood cutting his way through the crowd, performing his heart out with that famous, honey-dipped voice
Rich men and women fawn over him, thrusting gifts into his hands that get carried off by other performers. Vash swears one was actually an authentic diamond necklace. For their trouble, Wolfwood bestows on them his singled-out attention. Silken fingertips tracing under jaws or down sweaty cheeks. Smiles gifted with the promise of more. His shoulders shimmy by way of thanks, causing the gem-encrusted tassels on his bustier to flash and sparkle. Somehow, his eyes dazzle even brighter than that.
“Do you know what you’re going to say?” Millie asks him, laying a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve practiced.” Vash nods, rubbing his sweaty palms on his knees.
“Don’t show him your fear,” Livio adds, leaning in from across the table with an air of reverence in his tone. “He’ll be able to smell it.”
“Right, I’ll just bombard the most famously beautiful courtesan in the entire city to pitch our silly little production—”
“Hey, it’s not silly!” Millie pouts, disapproving green eyes catching the light.
More than once Vash thinks he sees Wolfwood glancing over his way, eyes bright with a hunger that makes Vash’s stomach flip and churn. And just like all the fools in this joint, he believes he’s something special. That’s Wolfwood’s charm. It’s beyond being a professional—it’s part of being a genius. An actor.
“E-Elandria!” Livio stutters, startling Vash as he jumps to his feet and disrupts the table. He winces and grabs his knee, gingerly hopping on the other foot. “H-hi. Hello.”
Vash turns to see a woman towering before them. How he managed to miss her approach is a testament to Wolfwood’s spell. Elandria is tall—even taller with her heels—and striking. She’s dressed in red and black with a thick plumage of merlot feathers attached to her cap, and loose s-curls in her long, glossy blonde hair.
“Hey, pup, watch the drool.” Her eyes flick up and down Livio before locking on Vash. She points at him, long fingernails painted crimson to match her lips. “You, follow me.”
She holds out a hand and Vash just stares at it dumbly for a beat before Milly elbows him in the back.
“Go,” she whispers, her pale blue eyes bright with mischief. “Elandria is going to take you to Wolfwood’s dressing room.”
“Right. Right, okay.”
“Break a leg!” Livio calls as Vash is dragged through the crowd.
*****
Woolfwood manages to make it four paces backstage before the evening catches up to him. A coughing fit big enough to make his ribs nearly crack wracks his chest. He desperately tries to pull in a breath through the fluid in his throat, but it only makes him cough harder. The corset isn’t helping either. He stumbles, bumping into a dancer on their way out to the floor. Blindly, he reaches for something to lean against, but when his fingertips brush the velvet of the drawn curtain he’s sure he’ll hit the floor. He’s fortunately saved from the embarrassment by a sturdy shoulder tucking underneath his arm, and a broad hand finding its way to his hip.
“Easy, boy.” Roberto’s words are low and steady, only for Wolfwood to hear. A handkerchief is pressed into his hand and he brings it to cover his mouth.
Roberto is warm against his side and smells like cigarettes, gin, and perfumed powder. To Wolfwood, the scent is like home.
“Don’t worry ducklings!” Roberto calls out to the small crowd that has started to gather. “The corset has just been tied a little too tight! Pain is beauty, is it not? Nothing to worry about, my dears.”
To Wolfwood he has another, urgent message, “You are expecting the Duke upstairs, are you well enough to receive him?”
“Yes, just tell him I need ten minutes.”
*****
Vash paces nervously, dress shoes snapping against the warped, hardwood floor in a pleasant melody.
Wolfood’s room is dressed in dark wood and the richest shades of red—velvets, silks, and brocade laced with shimmering, gold threads. The room exudes the opulence befitting one of Paris’ most famous courtesans. It’s easy to imagine the man sprawled out on the settee, bronzed skin on display. Or sitting proud in the tufted wingback, stockinged legs crossed enticingly in front of him.
Vash stills, gaze fixated on the chaise as he daydreams about the lines of poetry he could write about Wolfwood from imagination alone, when the man himself flies into the room.
“Oh, you’re here!”
Wolfwood looks surprised. Almost breathless. But a mask of flawlessly curated mystery is quick to slide into place. His eyes, having widened in surprise upon seeing Vash, soften into heavy-lidded seduction. Somehow his hair goes from disheveled and messy to tousled and suggestive. A pink tongue darts out to gloss thick lips darkened by wine, and a flash of pearlescent teeth makes Vash nearly swoon.
It doesn’t help that Wolfwood has changed into something… slinkier. A black silk slip that clings to his thighs, and over it, a chiffon and ostrich feather robe that would have cost the purchaser a small fortune.
“H-hello,” Vash stumbles, covering it with a smile. “I am so sor—”
“Please, I was expecting you.”
Vash tilts his head, brows pulling in at the center.
“Y-you were?”
“Of course! It’s not so often that I am blessed by the company of a Duke. Especially not one so handsome as yourself, Tongari .” The foreign word is almost purred, the sound pleasant enough to make Vash’s scalp tingle curiously.
How could he have known?
Wolfwood makes his way over to the bar cart and pours wine from a decanter into a beautiful glass goblet etched with poppy flowers. “Can I get you anything? Wine, or perhaps something… stronger?”
“No, no thank you. Liquor will only impede my performance. I get a little too airheaded on spirits, I’m afraid. It’s hard to keep it up.”
Wolfwood coughs into his wine glass. “ Well… we certainly wouldn’t want your performance to flag , now would we?”
“Right! I’d much rather you experience the full impact of my raw talent, uninhibited.”
“ Raw? ” Wolfwood chokes, eyes going wide once again. He seems to have inhaled his sip of wine and he spins around, dropping the pretty glass down onto the vanity with a heavy thump as he coughs into a black handkerchief pulled from his bosom.
Vash crosses the room to pat him on the back, humming softly. “Easy there, in through the nose.”
Slowly, the coughing subsides. Without thinking much of it, Vash keeps his place behind Wolfwood, feeling his ribs expand and contract under his palm, rubbing comforting circles into the center of his back. It reminds him briefly of his own mother, Rem, who had done this for him countless times as a child. And as he had done for her in the dwindling of her time on Earth.
“Excuse me,” Wolfwood says, rousing Vash with his low tone. He crumples the handkerchief in his fist and meets Vash’s eye in the mirror. It might just be the first genuine expression he's worn all night. “That wasn’t very dignified.”
“Please, that's alright. Your coughs are as noble as any.”
“You're sweet.” Wolfwood smiles. “I wasn’t expecting you to be sweet.”
“How were you expecting me to be?”
The corner of Wolfwood’s mouth pulls up on one side, an attempt at being wry, but his expression is too sad to be anything other than honest.
“Cruel, and arrogant.”
Wolfwood doesn’t give him time to answer. A smirk pulls at his pretty lips as he lengthens his spine and presses the round of his ass directly into Vash’s lap. “So, why don't you tell me more about your raw talent, Duke?”
All the blood rushes south from Vash’s head. It’s the only excuse for why he shoves down into the center of Wolfwood’s back, forcing his chest into the table and exaggerating the taper of his waist. The sight only makes Vash dizzier.
“OH! Oh, I’m so sorry!” Vash panics, grabbing Wolfwood thoughtlessly by the waist instead. “ Oh no , that is so much worse!” His face blazes as he realizes their compromising new position, voice straining to an embarrassing pitch.
“Really? I rather like this position.” Wolfwood remarks dryly, propping himself up on his elbows to stare at Vash in the mirror. From this angle, He can see right down the front of Wolfwood’s slip in the reflection and it does nothing to help his mental stability.
Finally dropping Wolfwood’s hips, Vash takes a few quick steps back, wiping his sweating palms on his vest.
“I am so sorry… I don’t know what came over me…”
“That’s alright,” Wolfwood interrupts, straightening and crowding into Vash’s space once again tugging playfully at his bowtie. “Perhaps I could help you get a little more comfortable? Let’s get rid of this, shall we?”
Before Vash can step away, Wolfwood’s hands are pulling the knot of satin loose before starting in on the buttons.
“Perhaps…” Vash echos back, swallowing hard. His hands come up to encircle Wolfwood’s wrists, not to stop him, but to feel his pulse beneath his fingertips. The courtesan stills for a moment, and then his hands are at Vash’s neck, circling around to the back of it as he leans in, swallowing up the distance between them and bringing their lips together.
The kiss tastes of wine, cigarettes, and lust. It is slow at first, exploratory, but Vash soon finds that he cannot keep his hands to himself. They slide down Wolfwood's sides, grabbing firm at the waist that was not so long ago laced and boned. If he let himself explore, could he feel the indents of a corset against that beautiful, tanned skin?
Vash steps into the kiss, one hand sliding low, and the other coming to cradle the back of Wolfwood’s head as it drops back, making room for Vash to take the lead.
If there was one thing Vash’s brother had always shamed him for, it was leading with his heart. It was in his nature to put it before all else—before logic, before reason, before wealth. Before his own family.
Pretty words are for fools and the destitute. You’ll never amount to anything that way.
His own brother’s voice rings in his head, reminding Vash why he’s here. To charm Wolfwood, yes, but not to sleep with him. He drops his hands back to that sinful waist and pushes Wolfwood gently away.
“W-wait, I—”
“Performance anxiety?”
“Yes.” Vash exhales with a smile, licking the taste of the courtesan off his lips.
“How can I help ease your mind?” Wolfwood asks, expression cunning. “Perhaps like this?” His hand slips in between them, palming the firmness against Vash’s belly. “Or maybe, rather with this?” Encircling Vash’s wrist, Wolfwood pulls his hand forward, making his own interest clear with the silken woodiness Vash now holds in his hand.
“Please,” Vash implores, voice breaking with the weight of his restrained want. “I would really like to show you what I can do.”
“And I would really like to see it.”
“Then I’d like to start with a poem.”
Wolfwood steps back, confusion clear in the set of his brow. His hands fall to his sides and Vash reluctantly drops his own. “You wish to woo me, Duke?”
“More than anything.”
“Alright,” Wolfwood nods, laying himself down on the settee and spreading his thighs suggestively. “Woo me.”
A hundred rehearsed lines run through Vash’s head at once, but after having met Wolfwood, none of them feel sufficient or impressive. This—Wolfwood and the Moulin Rouge—is their best bet. He has one chance, and he’s got to make it count. Vash is paralyzed as his mind races, the anxiety building to a crescendo. Then it goes silent. There’s only one answer: poetry. Perhaps the best way to convince Wolfwood to star in their play, is to show him what they are—what Vash is—capable of.
His heart knows what to do and the words burst out of him to a melody he once heard Livio play on his piano.
“ My gift is my song, and this one’s for you…”
With every word Vash gains confidence. Taking wolfwood by the hand, he spins him around the room doing his best to woo. Ostrich feathers swish and cobalt eyes glitter in the light. They’re smiling at Vash, and in them is truth. Vash’s arms are no longer holding Wolfwood the courtesan, and the shining diamond of the Moulin Rouge. In his arms is Wolfwood —Nicolas, if Vash dares. Just a man. Just another performer, artist, actor. Like any of them.
The song ends and Vash spins Wolfwood into his chest, dipping him low. Their chests are pressed together, heartbeat to heartbeat, and their mouths are just a breath apart—so close that their lips nearly brush when Wolfwood breaks into a slow smile.
“You’re very good.”
“Well, you’re very inspiring.”
There’s a heavy pounding at the door and Wolfwood is about to tell whoever it is to fuck right off when Roberto’s voice call out.
“My dear, precious diamond, The Duke is here to see you.”
Vash watches as Wolfwood’s expression morphs from confusion to understanding.
“I need just a minute, sir!” He calls, his light and sultry voice very at odds with the rising anger on his face.
“You’re not The Duke?” He asks, pushing away from Vash.
“Well… that’s not entirely true…”
“Who the hell are you and why were you in my dressing room?”
“I am, I mean I was… a Duke–”
“Oh my ASS!” Wolfwood hisses, stepping forward as if to hit Vash before thinking better of it and tugging at his own hair instead.
“No really, I swear it! I was a Duke. I was born a Duke, but I was disavowed by my brother after our late mother’s passing for wanting to be a—”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, don’t you say it!”
“A poet.”
Wolfwood levels him with a stare, nostrils flaring in what is clearly distaste.
“A fucking poet.”
“You despise them?”
“Quite the opposite.” There’s a bite to his words and the weight of history. He stares into Vash’s eyes from over his proud, handsome nose. It’s an expression Vash wouldn’t have expected from him; it belies a proud sort of hardness when one expects a courtesan to be soft. “But I haven’t the time for a poet.”
Vash is stung, but it’s the least he could feel in this situation. He’s bamboozled the handsome man before him. He ducks his head, chagrined, but pushes on with his explanation.
“I’m sorry, truly, for deceiving you. Milly and Meryl helped set up this rendezvous, and when you referred to me as The Duke, I foolishly assumed you knew who I was. I couldn’t be more sorry for the mistake, but I was— I am— here to ask if you’d star in our play. A show I’m writing about Truth and Love.”
“ Truth?!” Wolfwood nearly shouts. “Love?” He hisses, quieter but somehow with more anger.
“Duckling?” Roberto calls through the door.
“Just one more minute!”
Wolfwood rounds on him, bullying him backward towards the balcony. He reaches past Vash and turns the handle, ushering him out into the cold. “ You need to leave. Now.”
“I will. I swear. I’ll climb down from here even if I break my neck.”
“That’s an idea,” Wolfwood mumbles, crossing his arms but watching Vash with intense, attentive eyes.
“But please, I’m begging you to consider it. I know the Moulin Rouge is in a tough spot. This play could change everything. For both of us. A poet… and his muse.”
Maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but Vash swears Wolfwood's eyes soften, just a touch, around the corners.
The silence drags on and is as devoid of warmth as Wolfwood’s cold, smokey eyes. Until suddenly, they’re not.
Wolfwood chuffs, but his shoulders and the set of his mouth relax. His eyes roll, unamused, but convinced. “Noon tomorrow. Come back here and perform for Roberto—and you can bring those lousy traitors with you.”
And with that, Wolfwood turns on his heel and disappears into his room, slamming the balcony doors and closing the curtains without so much as another glance at the poet.
The night is cold, but Vash’s hopes are so high he can hardly feel it.
*****
As it turns out, Wolfwood would have to be blind to miss the resemblance between his Poet and The Duke. But, even if their countenances were cast from the same mold, down to the freckles under their eyes, there was a striking difference between them. Where The Poet was a child of summer, long and lean with warmth in his golden hair and Robin's egg eyes, his brother was frigid winter. The true Duke of Eden, Nai Savarem, was tall, stately, and so lacking in warmth, it was as if he were carved from ice.
Perhaps if Wolfwood had not encountered the one first, then accepting the shrewd, almost cruel, beauty of the second would have been possible. But, where the Poet brought light to Wolfwood's already bright world, warming him with just the gracious gift of his smile, The Duke seemed to absorb it. He drew in the energy of everything around him and channeled it into an intimidating haughtiness that Wolfwood had never encountered before. The Duke cut such a large figure, and he filled it all up with ego.
It seemed tremendously sad to Wolfwood that one brother could end up with walls so high, when the other seemed so utterly defenseless, heart bleeding on his sleeve.
Slipping out from under the sheets, Wolfwood can’t help but wonder if The Poet is as well endowed as his brother. Ignoring the sore protest from his lower back, he reaches for the robe by his bead and slips it around his shoulders. Wolfwood always needs a smoke after sex. He grabs his cigarette case, popping it open and leaning across the rumpled bed to offer one to The Duke. He nods, fingering one out of the case and holding it between his teeth for Wolfwood to light.
“Can I get The Duke anything else?” Wolfwood asks, dropping the case and the lighter against the sheets and settling across The Duke's taught belly, careful not to drop ash on him. “Another round, or a nightcap?”
Nai’s eyes are eviscerating in their evaluation, even despite the pink on his cheeks and the sweat still glistening on his forehead. “No, you can call Roberto, I’ve made a decision.”
“Of course.”
Wolfwood opens his door to find the manager already waiting in the hall. He would be embarrassed, maybe years ago he used to be, but Roberto has heard much worse from his room before. Roberto hastily stubbs out his cigar on the heel of his boot, dropping what’s left of it into his jacket pocket. He nods once at Wolfwood with tired eyes and then tucks the expression away.
The air of showmanship is plastered back on as he sweeps into the room. “So, how did you enjoy the ride?”
Wolfwood winces, his back turned to the men as he closes the door. There is no immediate answer, just the rustling of clothes as The Duke presumably dresses. Playing his part, Wolfwood saunters to the French doors and peeks into the night, drawing the curtains when he finds it empty.
“In exchange for the courtesan, I’ll invest in the Moulin Rouge. But he will be exclusively mine .”
“As I’m sure you can imagine, that is quite the sum! Wolfwood is our most precious Diamond and as such he carries a heavy price.”
“Are you questioning if I can afford it?”
Wolfwood doesn’t need to see The Duke’s face, he is instinctively cowed by the tone.
“No… Of course not. I meant no offense.”
“I have an idea,” Wolfwood announces, turning around and leaning against the doorframe with an air of practiced indifference. “Why don't we put on a play? There’s so much exciting talent in Paris. I was recently offered the lead role in a Bohemian production. Why don’t we put it on here, at the Moulin Rouge, if the Duke agrees to fund it…?”
“And why would I do that?” The Duke responds, turning his attention to Wolfwood as he does up the tiny pearl buttons on his dress shirt.
“Well,” Wolfwood says coyly, crossing the room and taking the tie from The Duke's hands. He focuses on tying it instead of on the eyes that watch him like a hawk. “You seem to me like a man who wants what others can only dream of attaining. Don’t you want your whore to be the envy of the town?” Wolfwood tugs on the tie, forming the knot with practiced hands as his teeth sink into his lower lip with a flirtatious smile.
“Plus, you’d be investing in the Moulin Rouge with a real return, setting it up to stand on its own. If the Moulin Rouge can become more than just a brothel… it could find a foothold in our new generation, and you would have yourself a profit.”
Wolfwood finishes off the tie, sliding his hands down the generous curve of The Duke’s chest and watching as he chews reluctantly on Wolfwood’s words.
“You don’t have to like something to make money from it…” he adds with quiet caution.
“I’ll think about it,” The Duke agrees with a frown. “But your exclusivity is still a requirement. You shall belong only to me.”
“Yes, Duke,” Wolfwood purrs, blowing out a plume of smoke and bowing his head.
“Then it’s settled!” Roberto cheers with a clap of his hands.
The Duke holds Wolfwood’s gaze for a few moments longer. Lust and power burn behind his pale eyes, frightening and beautiful. Wolfwood resents it.
Not three hours ago he would have been happy to fuck his way into a life of more comfort than a man of his station could dream of. What The Duke offers is more than a fair exchange for the use of Wolfwood’s body. He shouldn’t dare risk wanting anything different—to do so would be to fall victim to the kind of foolishness he’d been wilfully immune to all his life. But now…
Wolfwood steps out onto the balcony and leans his elbows against the railing, staring across the velvety blue night to the great, round moon. Even after all the night's events, he can still taste truth, hope, and the promise of love—all on the tongue of a penniless poet.
Across town, Vash stares out the window at the very same moon while his friends celebrate around him. Meryl sits in Millie’s lap, feeding her grapes from her mouth. Legato and Zazie sit close together beside them, sharing secrets, while Livio plays the Piano and Elandria entertains a group of musicians—a handsome and famous saxophonist among them.
The others are high on Vash’s success, on the promise of tomorrow, but he can’t stop thinking of bronze skin, dark blue eyes, and heat of lust in the palm of his hand.
We have a chance.