you're too young & eager to love

Moulin Rouge-centric. Not really a full unit of a piece, but a bunch of mini-bits.

My tone bounces around a bunch (I think), because I started two hours ago and worked progressively while watching the movie.

Nicole Kidman should have to warn the audience ahead of time about how pretty she is. It's distracting. Don't even get me started on Ewan McGregor.

--





The shadows are so dark; it’s hard to imagine how anyone can find glamour here. Even the lamps burn low.

Christian looks at her with new eyes, a vision full of beauty rather than hunger, and she wants to burn for him. He undresses her with a vulnerability in his fingers, exposing more than the skin she readily reveals; untangles her hair, unchains the diamonds around her neck, slips the emeralds from her fingers until she is lain bare.

The blood comes, and oh she is lucky, oh it could be worse, it could be the pox.

--

They speak in riddles, in script talk and hurried glances, the soft whisper of Satine’s hand on his passing sleeve.

The smell of absinthe on his breath when they kiss, the rushed manor of their love, the taste of secrets. He is talented in many ways, she finds.

Christian’s voice like a spell around her heart, a murmur down her spine, pressing and filling a void so deep that it felt boundless. He doesn’t know her emptiness – how before the plush red carpets of the Elephant, she’d frantically powdered over the shape of knuckles in bruises, that her knees were dirty from being forced onto them in an alley, that her very skeleton felt exhausted. They met later, with her snow-white skin and red, red lips, a perfect pink flower between her legs and so many costumes to dazzle with. There are no rips in her stockings now.

He never questions how she’s the better pretender, wrapping lies in silk.

-

Christian has her pressed against a rack of colorful petticoats, and Marie quietly finds a reason to leave the hall.

She tastes like talcum and rouge and copper. His hands in her hair, and Satine tries not to laugh at the clumsy way he fusses with the strappings of her corset. He has broken pearl buttons and torn taffeta and she cannot think to complain.

-

“You don’t have to lie to me, darling.”

She catches herself, her automatic responses when he asks for her opinion, ink-stained over a new scene. The latest one is dripping wet with clichés, and she chewed her bottom lip raw trying not to say it. He smiles though, young and teasing, his hair still mused from the bed. Satine feels something sharp starting in her ribs.

“You’re lying.” There’s a bit of hardness to his voice, but his eyes are ever the child; he pours another glass of wine.

She laughs – it’s the only response she can think of making, so startled at being unbridled.

-

Marie brushes her hair, her wrinkled hands smelling faintly of lavender and dust. She holds the ivory brush expertly, working the tangles from all of Satine’s russet curls. In front of the large mirror, the birds chirping in their iron cage, she is a doll – placid faced and her blue eyes distant.

Marie had a daughter once, lively like Satine. They do not talk about it, and she fills her hours by mending dresses and sharing secrets.

When Satine’s laughter turns into coughing, Marie hands her water wordlessly, her eyes heavy.

-

The Duke becomes refreshing.

Satine knows these steps here, relishes in the simplicity of a well-placed turn, a deflected compliment. She smiles and simmers and wears leather gloves up to her elbows, covering the skin he might covet.

It’s hard to play; she’s not sure which of her is winning, what part of her is the worthy woman.

-

In the dressing rooms, Nini is dark coal and crucial strokes. Babydoll flutters around with her oiled curls and whimpers over how quickly the polish has chipped on her nails. Tarot’s eyes are sly, and she smirks hard. They tend to move whenever Satine joins them, and she knows she isn’t truly welcome, knows they disapprove of her private quarters and the refinement of her placing.

She tries though, playing with China Doll’s perfumed hair. “What do you think, about the writer? Handsome, isn’t he?”

Satine catches Nini glance in the mirror’s reflection, her fingers still stroking the other girl. “I haven’t thought about it.” A regal declaration, but she dips her head down softly, whispering into China Doll’s studded ear. “Almost as handsome as the Argentinian, yes?”

The girls titter, laughing behind their teeth.