There was a boy. A very strange, enchanted boy. They say he wandered very far. Very far. Over land and sea.
In Paris there was a small, dingy village, called Monmarte. The gutters were filled with whores and addicts, and other creatures wallowing in their own misfortunes. It was in this village, in the top floor of an broken down building, there was a flat.
A little shy, and sad of eye. But very wise was he.
In that dark, barren apartment, a man sat. Sprawled across the floor and broken. Bottle in hand. Grimy locks of raven hair hung across his eyes. Trash and dirt cluttered the floor. A single candle was lit, casting a dusky light across the room.
And then one day... one magic day he passed my way.
Blaine looked up, seeing with clarity for the first time in months. He stood, letting the bottle slip from his finger and clatter to the floor, empty. He stumbled over to the desk, staring at a dust covered typewriter.
How many times had he done this? It seemed like yesterday he could just sit down and let the words flow out of his finger and onto paper. He shuffled back and forth. Touching the chair, touching another bottle, touching the chair again.
Finally, Blaine sank into the seat, gliding his fingers over the keys. No, it's time. He drew in a shaky breath, and began typing.
And while we spoke of many things – fools and kings – this, he said to me:
The tacking of the typewriter echoed through the empty apartment. "The greatest thing" he paused, heart thumping in his chest, "you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return."
He stopped, choking on a sob, staring at the tiny black letters. This was going to hurt. Blaine promised himself that once he started, he would stop until it was finished. He needed another drink.
Instead, he resumed typing.
"The Moulin Rouge. A night club." Images of windmills and women dressed in revealing gowns floated through his head.
"A dance hall on the bordello. Ruled over by Rachel Berry." Blaine hadn't seen her since the night his world had shattered, but her memory came to him vividly. Small and loud, decked out in a top hat and huge grin. No one but Rachel could have made the Moulin Rouge what it was.
"A kingdom of nighttime pleasures." There was never a night when Moulin Rouge wasn't packed with men. Men with deep pockets and grabbing hands. Hands Rachel was only too happy to shove girls and boys into. "Where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld."
Blaine's fingers steadily typed away, the images in his head replaying like he was living his life all over again.
"The most beautiful of these, was the man I loved. Kurt. A courtesan." He remember Kurt the first time he saw him: pale and beautiful. A knowing smile curling his lips. "He sold his love to men. They called him 'The Sparking Diamond'."
Kurt's face filled his mind. Eyes sparkling as he laughed, brushing a kiss against Blaine's lips.
Tears slipped down Blaine's face, but he ignored them. "The man I love is... dead."
He pushed the sound of Kurt's gasps away, pecking at the keys with a new found fervor.
"I first came to Paris one year ago."