Chapter Text
"Spectacular, spectacular
No words in the vernacular
Can describe this great event
You'll be dumb with wonderment" - Spectacular Spectacular, Moulin Rouge
Husk groaned as he heaved his trunk down from the train. The whistle blew loudly, heavy grey smoke billowing out and filling the station. The platform was busy around him, with people from all over shouting and calling out to one another over the rhythmic chugging and hissing that filled the background. Husk wiped his brow with his arm. Rivulets of sweat slipped down his cheek as he moved further down the platform, weaving between reunited families and lone souls. A beggar held out a cap towards him but Husk continued walking. He did feel bad, but every cent was worth something to him. His parents had told him moving so far was a bad idea, especially with his inexperience, and Husk was determined to prove them wrong.
He pulled his cap down in an effort to block the bright light that seemed intent on blinding him as he hurried along the street. He needed to find a place to stay, before the sun dipped too low on the horizon. As brave as he was feeling, he wasn't brave enough to have any desire to face the streets of Paris at night alone. Husk turned a corner into a small alleyway, the tall buildings looming into his personal space, shadows gripping at his ankles. He hurried onwards and the alley suddenly opened up into a bustling square. Horse-drawn and horseless carriages alike trundled past, and music drifted around him from various shopfronts. Husk breathed in deeply as he spun on his heel, drinking in the atmosphere surrounding him. The scent of fresh bread drifted over and Husk closed his eyes. His mom used to bake, when he was younger. She’d had to stop when his dad became unwell, but the smell never failed to take him back to those early days. Husk heard a shout to his left and his eyes snapped open. He quickly twisted out of the way as a horse and carriage shot past, an angry Frenchman shouting and gesturing at him loudly. He moved out of the street, suddenly very aware that he had to find a place to stay once again. His eyes followed the glow of a sign, leading to a smaller building on the street labelled chambre d’hôte . It didn’t look too run down, although the light of the sign did flicker intermittently. And the sign was hand-painted. And hanging off the wall. Husk sighed, placed a hand on his cap, and hurried towards the building, pushing open the door with a bit more force than necessary.
A bell tinkled, and the woman at the front desk looked up disinterestedly. She ran her eyes over Husk and muttered to herself, sighing and opening a large manila folder. Husk walked over cautiously. Her hair was long, dark, and thick - much akin to Husk’s own locs, minus the curls. Her nose was elegantly pointed downwards, and her dark eyes seemed unamused at Husk’s staring. He withdrew his eyes and cleared his throat.
“Hello.” he began. His voice sounded rough after the long hours on the train from Calais, and his French being rusty was not helping his favour. The woman’s face soured, distaste evident in her expression.
“What room do you want, and how long will you be staying with us?” the woman shot back, her voice clipped. Husk noticed her name tag had the name “Vaggie” on it, with a crudely drawn smiley face next to it.
“Your cheapest room,” Husk answered. “Staying for at least a week.”
Vaggie rolled her eyes and dug around in the folder, before bending down to pick out a set of keys from under the desk. “Room 374. Take the elevator, third floor, left hallway. Room share with some other people. Crank the lift handle properly before using it to make sure the gates are closed.”
“Thank you.” Husk said, but Vaggie had already turned away. Husk picked up the keys and walked towards the aforementioned elevator. He entered and found the handle, making sure to turn it enough just as Vaggie had said. When he was fairly sure it was safe, he pressed the button for the third floor. The elevator shuddered heavily, before slowly groaning and starting to rise. Husk leaned against the wall, the cool mahogany wood providing relief against his sticky shirt.
The ride up to the third floor was uneventful, and Husk found himself dozing off during the slow climb. He needed to find work, he knew, but he didn't have a clue where to start nor many of the skills required. Growing up in the ass crack of nowhere in Nevada would do that to a kid. He supposed he could try to find work in a bar somewhere - his family owned a tavern and Husk had practically been raised learning how to pour drinks, and doing so was second nature by now. If that failed, perhaps he could find some more manual work - clearing up after horses in the street, or loading cargo onto trains. Neither idea particularly spoke to him, and Husk frowned as the elevator jolted to a stop. He spun the handle to open the gate and stepped out, pulling his trunk with him.
The hallway before him was a patchy yellow, with paint peeling off the walls. The once-red carpet was now a bland brownish colour, with several darker spots encrusted in corners. Small lamps illuminated the corridors on either side of Husk in regular intervals. The lamps in the corridor to his left flickered ominously, and he started to trek down the long passageway. The corridor twisted and bent in ways Husk couldn't have imagined, and he wondered if he'd be able to find his way out of the goddamn place again.
Room 374 had a “Quiet! Rehearsal in Progress!” sign on the front, alongside various flyers and drawings. Husk contemplated waiting, but decided that he really needed to put his suitcase down. He raised a hand to knock on the door but paused, a small red leaflet catching his eye. Pulling it off the door, Husk turned it over.
Come and See the Performance of a Lifetime!
Moulin Rouge Cabaret
STARRING ANGEL DUST
Performances on Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays at 11pm
The Moulin Rouge, 82 Boulevard de Clichy
Husk hummed noncommittally, mentally noting the location. The Moulin Rouge seemed to be a theatre of sorts, if the cabaret performance was anything to go by. If not a theatre, then a dive bar, which for Husk meant employment. He could put his bags down, greet whoever was already inside, and head down to Boulevard de Clichy to find the establishment. If he was lucky, they'd need a barkeep or two, and he could offer his experience. Who knows, maybe they'd be interested if he told them he was from Vegas or something.
The door in front of Husk flew open abruptly, a short, tanned man walking angrily out of it.
“And don't you think you'll get away with this!” he said, waving a finger at whoever was in the room. He slammed the door and paused, taking a deep breath. Cheering sounded from the other side of the door and the short man grinned, clearly pleased. It was only as he looked up to open the door once more that he noticed Husk, and he jumped.
“Who are you?!”
Husk held up the keys weakly. “New roommate.”
The short man narrowed his eyes before opening the door. “Fine. Come in.”
Husk ducked under the doorway and entered the room. The bright, sprawling space he was presented with was quite the opposite of his expectations. Large glass windows filled the back wall, with a small door to the left which appeared to lead out to a patio or balcony of some sort. Bright fabrics were draped over ceiling beams, bringing a burst of colour to the otherwise plain room. Beds had been pushed against the furthermost wall to make space in the centre for what appeared to be a performance area. Three other people were sat on the floor - another rather short and stout man, a small older woman with dark hair cut into a bob, and a tall and athletic-looking teenager. The man who had run into the corridor shut the door behind him.
“I'm Blitz. This here is Moxxie,” Blitz pointed towards the stout man with blonde, slicked-back hair, who waved at Husk amicably. “That's Millie, and that's Lunie.”
“It's Luna, dad, you need to stop introducing me to strangers with the stupid fuckin nickname you gave me.” The athletic girl said. Her brown hair had streaks of silver in it, which confused Husk, although he was fairly confident in his assessment of her being a teen. Especially after hearing her talk.
“Ah whatever,” Blitzø waved a hand at her and turned to face Husk. “What about you?”
Husk blinked. “Uh, Husk.”
“That your real name?” Millie asked him. “Pretty odd name.”
“I could ask the same of you guys,” Husk replied dryly.
“No need to fight, sit down,” Blitz turned away and clicked his fingers. “Moxxie, you need to give the scene more oomph ! It feels like I'm acting with a brick wall!”
Moxxie wilted under the criticism, eyes downcast. “Sorry Blitz.”
“See that's what I'm looking for!! Why can't you do that during rehearsal?!” Blitz asked. Moxxie shrugged, shying away from the intense gaze. “Millie, you were awesome as always!”
Millie grinned and held onto Moxxie’s arm. “Thank you!!”
Luna rolled her eyes at the three. “Yeah yeah, we get it, you guys want to act. It would help if you had a halfway decent plot.”
“Excuse me!” Blitz said. “What's wrong with my story!”
“Dad, just because you wrote seven pages doesn't mean it's a good story,” Luna answered. “To be honest, I'm impressed you could write that much.”
Luna's French was slightly more annunciated than Blitz, Millie and Moxxie's, making it harder for Husk to understand what she was saying when she spoke at the standard Parisian speed. If Husk had to guess, she wasn't from around here; or she wasn't related to the trio. Either way it wasn't his business, but he was curious to figure out the dynamic. He walked over to a bed that didn't seem to be disturbed and placed his trunk on the floor next to it. He flipped the locks on the trunk and popped the top open. Husk shifted, looking down at his meagre possessions. A few cotton shirts, some slacks, underwear and his countless stacks of writing and papers. He gingerly removed his shirts, searching for the treasure he kept buried beneath. Grasping the cool, pyramidal object, Husk breathed a sigh of relief and withdrew his hand. In it was a small pot of deep blue ink. Husk rooted around some more for his fountain pen, placing it on the bed next to the ink and papers he pulled out in the process. Husk sat back, cross-legged, and pulled a stack of blank paper towards him. He unscrewed his ink, dipped the pen in, and began to write.
“Woah, you write?!” Millie's bright, sing-song voice (that Husk could only presume was from Marseille) spoke loudly from Husk's left shoulder, and he started. He bit his lip to stifle the groan of frustration as he looked down to see a huge ink blot across his page.
“Yes, I write.”
“What sorta things?!” she asked, none the wiser to Husk’s irritation.
“Romances, adventures and suchlike,” Husk replied, trying to stay as vague as possible. His current work was a guilty pleasure, and he didn’t want to give away his ideas for free. Millie’s eyes lit up.
“Oh my Moxxie absolutely loves romance! And Blitz loves adventures!” Millie grabbed at his arm. “We wanted to take our play to the Moulin Rouge!! I don’t think we’ll ever get there, but a girl can dream.”
Millie sighed and stared off into the distance dreamily. Husk gently removed his arm from her grip and turned away, hearing her shuffle off a few seconds later. He dipped his pen in ink, and began to write again.
17th June, 1895
I have arrived in Montmatre. My travels have led me to meet the most unconventional of groups, and though I am not quite sure whether they live in these quarters or are just here temporarily, they’re alright enough company.
I plan to go to the Moulin Rouge to work, and hopefully to save up money for writing utensils. If I write enough, perhaps I could even offer my work to the owner of the establishment for their show.
Husk wiped his pen and carefully screwed the lid onto his ink jar. He then tucked the paper and utensils into the bottom of his trunk again, before pushing the trunk under his bed. Standing, Husk straightened his ascot tie and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.
“I’m going to go out, but I’ll be back later,” he said to the room. “Is there any sort of curfew I should be abiding by?”
“Nah, come back whenever,” Blitz had his feet kicked back on a bed, eyes closed and hands behind his head. “We’ll probably be getting drunk anyway. Except Moxxie, he’s a lightweight. Moxxie will be drunk.”
“Hey!” Moxie called out, but there was no real bite behind it. Husk shrugged and grabbed his keys, before leaving the room.
***
Boulevard de Clichy was as bustling as it had been earlier in the day when Husk had wandered through it. In his hurry, he hadn’t noted the admittedly large red windmill that marked the Moulin Rouge. Now, Husk found himself aimlessly wandering around outside the front of it, trying not to seem suspicious whilst he worked up the courage to enter. There were enough people milling about restaurants in the evening light that Husk thought he blended in quite well. His plan was simple: he’d go inside, ask to speak to the owner of the establishment and offer his skills as a barkeep. There were no advertisements about hiring staff, so Husk had his fingers crossed and was praying to God above that he would look kindly upon him today. Husk didn’t even believe in God.
He noticed the busboy eyeing him, and decided that he should probably stop creeping around the front of the theatre. He walked towards the Moulin Rouge, putting effort into seeming casual. He approached the busboy, who eyed him with concern.
“May I help you, monsieur?” he asked, his voice gently concerned but firm. His waistcoat was a garish red, and he wore black trousers and a black tie alongside it. He had dark hair but fair skin, and he looked up at Husk through almond-shaped eyes. Husk noticed he had a small birthmark underneath his left eye, cleverly hidden by the shadow from the busboy’s hat.
“Yes,” Husk cleared his throat. “I was looking for the owner of the theatre?”
“That would be Monsieur Gautreau.” The busboy answered, voice remaining firm. “He does not do unplanned meetings.”
Husk closed his eyes and took a deep breath, running his hand over his face. Of course he didn’t.
“May I make an appointment with him?” Husk bit out. The busboy frowned, clearly not liking Husk’s tone and Husk fought the urge to laugh. This kid really thought he could take Husk on? Husk was easily twice his size and definitely taller than him. Husk’s eyes darted around, mentally mapping paths out to escape if he needed to.
“You can. I would have to get his secretary.” The busboy’s clipped French interrupted Husk’s thoughts.
“That’s fine,” Husk replied. “I can wait.”
The busboy disappeared into the Rouge, keeping an eye on Husk the entire time. Husk tapped his foot impatiently, the sun beating down on his back. He could feel the thin cotton of his shirt begin to stick to his torso again and he prayed it wasn’t going translucent. Showing up in front of a potential employer, nearly naked due to a stupid shirt? Husk didn’t think he’d even take the job of scooping up horse manure at that point. He heard voices and looked up to see a tall, silver-haired woman in a deep purple satin dress walking alongside the busboy. Her lips were painted a deep red and her eyes were upturned in a friendly smile as she walked alongside the busboy, chatting to him. She was more tanned than the busboy, though not too much so, and Husk found himself thinking she was rather beautiful. He supposed that was typical of Parisian ladies though, from what he had been told. The busboy pointed at Husk, and the woman looked at him before hurrying over.
“Good evening! My name is Rosie - and don’t worry dear, everyone uses my name, no need for formalities with me. I’m Monsieur Gautreau’s secretary,” she winked at Husk. “I also manage many other performance-related issues, if you catch my drift.”
Husk did not.
“So, what can I help you with today!” Rosie unexpectedly linked her arm around Husk’s and walked him over to sit on the steps to the Rouge under the cover of the ornamental awning.
They were out of the blistering heat here, and Husk immediately felt himself cool. The busboy hovered a few feet away, as if he didn’t trust Husk to have a normal conversation with Rosie. Husk turned towards Rosie, trying to ignore the inky eyes boring holes into his back.
“I was hoping I could book a meeting with Monsieur Gautreau, actually,” Husk began. “I was looking for some work as a barkeep, and I heard remarkable recommendations about this place. All good things. I used to live in Las Vegas.”
It wasn’t an outright lie. He had lived in Nevada. Just…not quite near enough Vegas to call it home. If he was honest, he was closer to Salt Lake City than Las Vegas, but Rosie didn’t need to know that. All she needed to know was that he was from Vegas, and he could barkeep.
“Oh? That’s wonderful!” Rosie’s face lit up. “Your French is so good, I couldn’t tell…when could you start?!”
“Thank you,” Husk chuckled. “I really need some money, so I can start today if you need. Do you not need to ask Monsieur Gautreau first though? Should I not be interviewed?”
“Oh, that man wouldn’t know a good investment if it stabbed him in the chest. You can definitely start tonight?” Rosie glanced at him. “We have a show at 11 pm. Our sold-out cabaret with our Diamond Dancer.”
“I saw,” Husk thought back to the red flyer. Angel Dust - whoever she may be - must be the girl Rosie was talking about. “Yes, I can, I’m sure.”
Rosie clapped excitedly, smiling brightly. “Las Vegas. Wonderful! Oh come, you have to meet Niffty so she can take your measurements for your uniform! Welcome to the Moulin Rouge family, um…”
“Husker,” Husk said, holding out a hand for her to shake. “My name’s Husker.”
The inside of the Rouge was decorated in red and gold, with little hearts adorning nearly every surface. Whoever owned this place must really like the colour red. The carpet was plush (if worn in some places) and gentle yellow gaslamps lit up the lobby, the reflection causing the ornate golden railings and decor to glimmer back. Rosie led Husk down a smaller hall to the right of the lobby. It was more bare, with exposed brick and concrete floors, and was lit instead by some more sturdy oil lamps. She pushed on a door labelled “costuming” and opened her arms wide as she entered. Husk ducked behind her, shutting the door.
“Niffty!! I have someone here who needs measuring for a uniform!” Rosie called out. Husk glanced around the room. Loose fabrics were strewn everywhere, and rolls of brand-new fabrics were propped up against cupboards and wardrobes. A lone sewing machine stood in one corner, with an unlit candle nearby. Some fabrics shifted, and a small, dainty woman popped out from between the piles.
“Hi!!” she hurried over, grabbing at Husk’s hand. “Oooh are you the person Miss Rosie brought to me?! You have big arms! I’m Niffty, I do the sewing!”
Husk blinked. Niftty breathed heavily and looked up at Husk with wide eyes.
“I’m Husker,” he said, trying to fill the silence.
“Husker. Husker. I like it!” Niffty dropped his hand and ran to her sewing table, picking up a tape measure, pencil and some paper. “Hold still! I need to get some measurements!”
Niffty pulled over a small, three-legged stool and whipped around Husk, drawing her tape measure. Rosie smiled and perched herself on the arm of a couch, just across from where Husk stood as Niffty worked.
“Our friend Husker will be working behind the bar this evening Niffty. He’ll need a new shirt, tie and suspenders. Make sure it matches the rest of the waitstaff uniforms. Can you manage that before the show?”
Niffty nodded eagerly, before hopping down from the stool and running around the room. “I was making Angel’s new outfit but that’s not needed for a week! I can make it!”
“Perfect,” Rosie turned to Husk now. “I think she has all the measurements she needs, so we can go. I’ll show you where you’ll be stationed tonight, and you can acquaint yourself.”
They left Niffty and walked back into the lobby. Rosie pushed open the heart-shaped doors just past the reception desk and led Husk into what he assumed was the auditorium. It was a large, gaping room, with raked areas leading to the stage. Each level had an elaborate golden heart-shaped railing that separated it from the other levels. There were numerous long tables on each level, with three chairs on either side of every one, and very little space to move. They were currently bare, and Rosie weaved her way through them and up towards the bar area. Husk followed, taking care to not jostle the table too much. Waitstaff were milling around, discussing something and pointing at tables. No one seemed to pay him and Rosie much mind as they approached the top of the auditorium. Rosie opened the partition and headed in, leaving it open for Husk to follow. Large white canvas sheets covered behind the bar, keeping dust away from all the glasses. Rosie quickly pulled these off, bundling them in a corner out of the way. Husk trailed his hand over the wooden surface. It was sturdy, and would be fairly easy to clean. There was plenty of room to move, and they seemed to have most (if not all) of the equipment he’d need. It was certainly fancier than the bar he had been raised in back in Nevada.
“It’s not much compared to Las Vegas, I’m sure,” Rosie said sheepishly. “We haven’t had a barkeep in a long time. People usually are content with simple wine and champagne. It’ll be good to have someone experienced.”
“It’s perfect,” Husk reassured her. “Really, thank you for giving me this opportunity.”
Rosie smiled widely. “Well of course! Alastor - that’s Monsieur Gautreau - has been grumping at me about it for a while. I did intend to put advertisements out but we’ve been so busy, what with Angel Dust becoming so popular.”
“She sounds like she must be one hell of a dancer,” Husk commented. He walked over to the front of the bar, looking out over the auditorium. From here, he had a pretty good view of the stage. Not enough to see faces, perhaps, but enough to see what was going on. Rosie didn’t reply to him, and he turned to see her covering her mouth, eyes glittering with mirth.
“What?”
“Oh nothing, nothing,” Rosie giggled. “You’re very much going to enjoy the show later, I think.”
“I’m sure I will,” Husk said slowly. “When will I be paid?”
“Payday is every Sunday,” Rosie said. “You’re paid in cash after your last shift on a Sunday, so it’s up to you to go and find a bank. The pay isn’t amazing, I’m afraid, as most of the dancers earn their money from tips during the show. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement if your first pay isn’t sufficient.”
Husk nodded. Rosie slipped out through the partition and closed it.
“Well if that’s all your questions, I’ll leave you to become acquainted with the bar. The first show is at 11 pm today, so be ready to start around one hour before.” She looked at Husk. “You’re free to leave before then if you like, Andreas should recognise you now. I’d recommend you get back at least two hours before though, as Niffty will have your uniform.”
Husk gave her a thumbs up and turned to look at the alcohol. Her footsteps faded away, and he sighed. Fuck. He was really out of practice with mixing. Husk reached for the measures and liquor. The clock mounted on the wall above the bar informed him that it was 7 pm, which gave him exactly two hours. Enough time to practice, he thought, and then he would meet Niffty to collect his uniform for the evening. Husk uncorked a bottle of whiskey and poured it. It was going to be a slow evening for him.