rise with the dawn.

There’s an air of superiority about Aurelie, one that the rest of the girls don’t really possess. Maybe it has to do with the fact that she’s not a dancer anymore, she’s the singer, the only one. That, in his eyes, seems like an upgrade. She’s not wrong in believing herself above her peers, if she even does. Or perhaps it’s just her trying to appear bigger in front of him. That wouldn’t be strange, or the first time someone has done it. Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem to care. 

“Kilian is alright, of course. The fact that you say that makes me think you’re willing to be my friend, maybe?”. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I must let you know, I’m an excellent friend to have, and even a better ally. I offer a lot, and I don’t ask for much in return.” Kilian nods, the same plastic smile plastered on his face. “I believe it’s a well deserved promotion. Your voice is perfect for this place. Equally fantastical and enticing.”

Finally the conversation shifts to where he intended to in the first place. His grin becomes more genuine all of a sudden. “So you’re like sisters? I’m glad to hear that. It’s good to have a companion like that. The world is a rough place.” He lets us a breathy laugh. “Many things. First, I’m so curious about her reason to come back. Do you happen to know it? And second, I can’t really explain it, she seems so plucky, so eager to rebel.”

“Yes, I think we can be friends.” She mirrors his smile with just as much sincerity, and with that, she has struck a deal with the devil. “Oh, I don’t doubt that. You’re really very generous, aren’t you? Seeing that you’ve done so much for the club. For all of us. But I’m curious, truly. What sort of things do you ask for? I’d hate to disappoint.” Her tone may be deferential, but there is something sharp about her smile---there are lessons one learns when birthed under red lights. Benevolence does not always equal altruism. A favor for a favor may end up being two or three. She cares little for pleasing him for reasons other than self-preservation, and she’d like to know where her cards lie before playing another hand. 

With a sweet laugh and a murmured merci, merci, she takes his compliments for what they are. She does appreciate it, actually---everyone likes to hear praise, and who is she to disregard it? “Oui, I think closer than that. I’d hate to see anything happen to her.” What do you know of a rough world when you think you carry it in the palm of your hand? she wants to ask. ( Men like him are too common. ) “Oh, I know,” is what she says instead.

Too many concerns flit across the multitude of tracks within his mind; what had to be finished into the late hours of the night, what needs to be completed within the hour, what he should already have done that he has not. His thoughts are stars he cannot rope to earth, too many to string together into coherency. And so, it was only a matter of time before he slammed into someone.

Lady Luck deemed it should occur when he is carrying one too many cans of paint.

“Oh! – ” He catches himself from falling backwards, and somehow manages to keep any cans from jostling to the floor. But anxiety seizes his shoulders, and his gaze flits to unfortunate bystander to the mess of a moment.

“I deeply apologize, I hope nothing ruined your attire for the evening.”

It’s a habit she’s kept since childhood, hovering backstage while preparations for the night’s performances ensue. Never once was she allowed beyond the curtains of the Moulin Rouge, so the backrooms and hidden corners became her playground, and she still remembers all these spots to this day even with reconstruction. Besides, she cannot spend all the hours of the day rehearsing; how terrible it’d be for her voice to go hoarse before the show even started.

“Merde!” Someone runs into her as she turns, and she stumbles backwards before steadying herself again, letting out a laugh when it’s only Nirav. “Oh, c’est bien. The true tragedy would be ruining one of Vera’s creations.” She smooths out her evening dress spun from lace and chiffon the color of champagne, its intricate beading reminding her of constellations. It’s certainly different from the dancers’ attire, but she likes it all the same. “Are you thinking too much again? Your head, it’s always in the clouds,” she tuts, taking one of the paint cans into her arms. “Let me help you, I’ve got some time before I go on anyway.”

closed for @avrelies

and perhaps the girl is asleep at this time in the morning - or night - but lysander knows better, knows that white rabbits run from forest fires, knows that they fear getting caught in their burrows called home and get burned alive in the once place they once called safe.

aurelie is awake. this, he knows.

quick knocks on doors that are answered proves this, and while the man is hardly fazed by things burnt in fires, whether it be bodies or dreams - is more likely to be the one setting the spark than carrying dancers out - he still wanders the streets awake, feet finding their way to her place too easily.

“dark circles are quite unflattering the the lowlight of the stages, aurelie.” he says in greeting, bypassing pleasantries. “though i would imagine you would not be on stages too soon after the incident, no?”

a pause. his words are neither warm nor cold, statements, almost. he does not miss how fingers tremble at doorways, how knees shake.

“strange, is it not? how one can feel so cold even after being in a fire. should i have brought some tea?”

aurelie does not sleep as much as she should, for when her eyes close she is plagued by smoke and flame and something so heavy in her throat and lungs and chest she fears she may not wake up. but as there are exceptions to every rule, sometimes she is blessed by peaceful slumber---this is not one of these nights. 

perhaps she is meant to be nocturnal, anyway. her mother told her she was not born during the day when the sun bathed the world in golden rays, but at twilight, when the moon rose and stars winked and smiled. 

she sits on her bed in a white nightgown, drawing in a sketchbook, a box of macarons open next of her with two of them eaten. when she’s nearly filled the page with flowers, she hears a knock. who to find behind it but lysander? ( again, perhaps she is a daughter of the night, for she is not scared of the dark. )

letting him in and shutting the door, she perches back on her bed, throwing a pillow at him in retaliation for his remark. “hello to you, too,” she scoffs. “oh, you’re so rude! firstly, that’s what makeup is for, and secondly, i’m pretty either way.” her tone is both indignant and arch, laced with a friendliness that comes with accidental alliances and unspoken bonds. 

“you’d be right about that, i suppose. things like that, they take time, and singing is just as good.” she shrugs. “strange, indeed, but i’m fine. really. i’d never say no to tea, but if you want something to drink, there’s probably a bottle of wine somewhere.”

@avrelies

They were lucky, they knew, that they have so they could still count on, that there were so many within the Moulin Rouge who didn’t care for drama and gossip, those who would look at things more logically, the way that they wished desperately the likes of Netty’s closest friends might try their hand at. That was the only consolation, the fact that they weren’t alone, no matter how alone they suddenly felt, given how things had turned out with Esmeralda as well.

It wasn’t sympathy they were looking for. Quite the contrary, actually. Sterling was well aware of just how grandly they had complicated things, for no reason but blind selfishness, fear of truth. Guilt kept them awake at nights when clients did not, trying and failing to find a way for penance, to find a way to fix things for both the people they had hurt so deeply while trying to ignore how they felt.

When they saw Aurelie leaving the main room, heading backstage when the night was beginning to die down, Sterling followed, putting a hand on her shoulder when they caught up to stop her. “Aurelie, do you have a few minutes? I feel like we haven’t had a chance to talk in a few days…” they trailed off, implication clear enough, knowing full well she’d probably heard it all by now.

When Sterling pulls her aside, she puts up a hand to quiet him, offering a gentle smile. "Sterling, Sterling, mon cher, what sort of mess have you gotten into now? You can’t play with two hearts and expect to end up with both.” She shakes her head, her voice both chiding and sympathetic. Gossip among the staff isn’t exactly how she’d meant to hear of Sterling’s most recent development ( by all accounts, she’d thought their tryst with Esmeralda had been going well ), but there are too many secrets in the club for all of them to stay uncovered.

Aurelie does know much of love when it comes to herself ( for maybe she will not let herself, lest she repeat the path of her mother ), but she has seen enough in the Moulin to know it is not likely found within its walls, and if it is, pain is sure to follow. Are they not deserving of happy endings, or are those only reserved for fairytales? “But come on, let’s go somewhere quieter so you can tell me everything. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to say.”

No matter how long she spent in Paris, it was brand new each time she set off on another adventure. Especially with Aurelie, who had somehow never learned to say no when Charlotte proposed a new plan for how the pair would conquer the city. She is almost ready, putting the finishing touches on her makeup in the mirror as the younger woman settles on her bed. These moments felt more safe than most, and it was almost as if they could just be. Charlotte slipped into this role completely by accident, two sisters born out of necessity to care and be cared for. It was comfortable between them. “Oh mon cher, I thought we would go to the Louvre and pick out the most handsome men in each painting,” she giggles, “but then I figured we could instead go window shopping, with bottles of champagne tucked into our handbags. We will grab some from the bar before we go. Doesn’t that sound fun?” 

“Why not pick out the most handsome men in the museum while we’re at it? All those handsome artist types looking to be the next Degas and Pissarro. Maybe we’ll talk to one and be invited to one those artist salons Daphne mentions sometimes. Wouldn’t that be something?” She grins, fixing her hair in the reflection of Charlotte’s mirror. The conversation is sugary sweet and frivolous fun, but what is life without honey? Spending time with Charlotte is never boring, and Aurelie has become so accustomed to it that she doesn’t want to imagine the adventures ever stopping. Though she doesn’t have a sister by blood, the ones she chooses more than make up for that. “Oh, wait, yes, that also sounds fun! We can look at hats and point out the ones that are the most ridiculous. And everything is better with champagne!” 

Her return to the Moulin Rouge had provoked different and opposite reactions. There were those who had no idea who she was, and were curious about her reputation, those who only knew her mother; Lorena, Lulu, Sirena - her names followed Simone around. Then there was her old family, Aurelie, Baby, Vivienne, Valentina; the people who had raised her. Some of them were bitter, some of them were warm. She was so glad Aurelie was the latter. She was her sister, her soul mate, before they had even learned to walk or talked, they had been inseparable. She had no idea what she would have done if she had found rejection instead of her open arms. 

“What do you want to know? You know me, I’m an open book.” She’s not, not anymore, not after everything. “About the theatres? About the actors? The dresses, the jewellery?” The nights she cried alone, the pain she endured until she climbed where she wanted to be, Théo screaming at her every time another man dared to talk to her. Those weren’t the glamorous parts, those were the ones she wasn’t going to share. 

“What? Sterling seems nice, they’re your type too I’m sure. A bit too serious for my taste but who knows? I bet they’re wild in bed.” She rolled her eyes. “Everything blows up horribly. That’s the beauty of love. Everything happens so fast! Oh come on, there must be someone.” Mona leaned her head against her friend’s shoulder. “Don’t worry Auri. If everything fails, you can hook up with me.”

“Are you really, choupette? Truly, really? People change with time, you know,” she teases, though there is a thread of truth in her question, an unspoken plea to fill years of lost time with more than beautiful stories and memories made of roses without thorns. They are sisters long lost in more ways than one, and Aurelie can’t help but wonder what led Mona back to the Moulin. And there is, of course, an unshakable loyalty; Mona’s problems are Aurelie’s problems, whether that was lying to the new dancer whose costume they had stolen for playing dress-up when they were nine ( she had another one, anyway ) or whatever might be haunting her now.

“Oh, but please, do tell me all. I want to know everything. You know I’ve been told to audition for something like that. Maybe not acting, but I could go sing for the rest of Europe instead of just the Moulin. Imagine! I could be like Christine from Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, but minus the obsessed stalker bit.” She lets out a sigh, waving a hand as if to gesture at a grand stage. “But you, well---- You’ve done just that. Oh, are the dresses prettier than the ones here? I bet not. No one can rival Vera’s genius.”  

“If you’re so convinced they’ve got another side in bed, why don’t you sleep with them? Test your theory out,” she retorts with a scoff. “I don’t know, that sounds like the tragedy of it. What’s so beautiful about heartbreak?” A cheshire cat smile makes it way across her lips as she shrugs, waving her friend’s remark off. “Perhaps there is someone. I like a little mystery, don’t you?” Laughter escapes next, and she presses a kiss into Mona’s hair. “Who needs boys when I have you?”

OPEN TO ALL.

There’s a gentle crooning coming from the stage and a song that she already knows by heart drifting through the late night air. Where others sit languidly in the peaceful atmosphere, Esme shifts uncomfortably. Everything is too still, too calm. She wants to sink her teeth into something with substance, not watch time waste away and turn to sand in her palm. If there’s one thing she can make sense of, can use to her advantage, it’s a hint of chaos. Not enough to raise too many eyebrows, but enough to ensnare attention. To make people say things that maybe they ought not to. And rules are meaningless to a woman like her, already perfectly protected by those who employ her – she’s above all of that, she’s damn near untouchable.

“Bonsoir.” She moves into the periphery of someone placed so wonderfully in her path and studies them with a thoughtful look. Says nothing more as she swipes a box of matches left abandoned on the table, striking one until the red tip spits into life. “Curious, is it not, that people leave these things lying about, forgetting just how terrible it could be should they fall into the wrong hands.” Esme watches the flame flicker, holding it out for the other to extinguish. Then she lights another, the glow dancing through her eyes as she waves the lit match beneath the edge of the tablecloth, lets it lick dangerously at the material while she stares with an unreadable expression at her acquaintance. “Almost makes you wonder if this is how it happened last time.” 

When she’s stopped by one of the new dancers, she schools her face into a mask of pleasantry before irritation can flash across porcelain features. The re-opening of the Moulin has brought in old and new faces, and it is the strangers that stick out the most---but not always because of dazzling first impressions. If Grace is a butterfly, a delicate thing flitting just out of grasp, then Esme is a black widow, spinning webs of calculated chaos, lying in wait for her next victim.

----Or so Aurelie can only assume.

She can, at least, agree that the fire was not an accident. Speculation runs wild lately, rumors swirling with blame and paranoia; Aurelie just wants the culprit to be found. “Then we should be so glad they fell into your hands instead, oui? Saving us all from another terrible fate where we pray someone doesn’t burn down the Moulin for the third time.” She gives a lilting laugh, though her lofty gaze makes it clear Aurelie hasn’t trusted Esme since she walked in, took up the name of Cerise. “Careful, though, wouldn’t want a copycat to get any ideas.”

@avrelies

Fear.

It was the unspoken but palpable feeling shared between dancers and the staff as they began their efforts to open for the night. The dancers who were set to dance earlier in the evening could be heard faintly behind the curtain drawn to separate the hall that led to their dressing quarters, and as always Francis is standing at ease, hands crossed behind his back and eyes darting everywhere. 

The dressing rooms had once been a hub of life, loud and bustling, laughter erupting every so often as they traded gossip and tried to soothe any nerves. The silence that has since replaced the noise is nearly deafening, nearly forcing him to think back to a time that seemed much simpler than present, a time that felt like eons ago, though it had hardly been days. And as he stands, attention drawn every which way, it only takes one look towards a table near the stage for him to focus.

Her frame nearly blends in with the stage, and the look on her face practically pulls Francis towards her like a magnet, an effect she’s had on him for years. It was his natural inclination to go to her, just as he’d done the night of the fire, and so he does. 

“Any chance you’ll be making an appearance center stage this evening, mon étoile?” He asks, as innocently as he can muster, fully aware he was offering up a prospect she’ll turn down.

Months ago, Aurelie would have been getting ready with the other dancers, fixing pins and applying rouge and pulling up stockings, but perhaps they are braver than her. Switching to song is a position she must be content with for now, and she is content, she is happy, she is fine. Ask anyone and they’ll say how beautiful her singing is! She is an enchantress, a siren, weaving melodies with her voice, enticing patrons to stay a little longer, watch a little longer, drink a little longer. She does not need to dance with the rest of them to play her part.

But she wants to, sometimes. She watches the dancers don their glamour, equally wishing to do the same and praying for each and every one to come back safely. Perhaps these wants are written on her face more plainly than she wishes they were, or perhaps Francis knows her too well, and this is what brings him to her. Her head snaps towards the familiar voice, and she simply gives him a blank look. Why does he insist on asking a question he already knows the answer to? Her response was the same yesterday, it is the same tonight, and it will be the same tomorrow.

“Don’t you have unruly patrons to throw out or something?” She purses her lips, hand on her hip.  “Besides, I think this new role suits me. I’ve always been singing, but it’s about time more than just the staff heard me, don’t you think?”