Note: This is really dark and I'm not sure why I wrote this. Please R&R, thanks!
Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge.
But above all things, a story about love. A love that will live forever. The end.
Christian sighed and grabbed his pipe. He took a pinch of the doughy brown substance he kept hidden in his cupboards and rolled it into a ball before dropping it into his pipe. "Damn.." His hands were shaking so violently he had dropped the match he was trying to light, singing his pants in the process. Finally, it began to smoke. He slowly puffed on his pipe as he went to pour himself some Absinthe. His novel was done. His story was written, what was he supposed to do now. He stared blankly out the window, smoking and drinking himself into a stupor. After several more drinks Christian stood back up. He began to gather the pages of his novel, trying to get it in the proper order. He could barely concentrate, his head swimming with thoughts of the past. The Moulin Rouge dominated his thoughts, he thought of Satine, the Argentinian, Ziddler, all of his friends that had left him. It took him close to an hour, but he finally succeeded in piling the papers together and tied together with a piece of twine. He was alone now, not even the clack of his typewriter to keep him company. He sat, hoping that an idea would come to him, but all he could think of was the opening passage of his book. He began to type again. The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return...
They found him slumped over his typewriter, as if he was still typing when he had died.
The Narcoleptic Argentinian shook his head as he walked away from Christian's funeral. He put his arm around Chocolat's shoulder, turning to him. "Never fall in love with a woman who sells herself, it always ends bad..."