A Bohemian Tragedy
folder
Wei� Kreuz › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
10
Views:
1,945
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Wei� Kreuz › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
10
Views:
1,945
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Present
Present
Dust covers everything. The desk sits, piled high with stacks of fresh paper, the old Underwood typewriter that occupies the place of honor, the rows of bottles that clutter the desk. The room is filled with a sense of disuse, of tiredness. A single window opens onto the alley below, but no wind enters through the heavy drapes.
Youji sits in the corner of the room, clutching one of the bottles. The whiskey burns a fiery brand down his throat as he drinks. His eyes are bloodshot behind the familiar shades. He stares at the typewriter in trepidation.
He knows he should move. He should probably go take a shower, or get some sleep. He has been awake for the past two days, unable to rest because of the visions that haunt him. But he knows the only way his mind will ever be free is if he sits at his desk, daring to try and confine the visions to paper.
Finally he moves. His body aches in numerous places. His clothes are worn and wrinkled. But he is distant from it all. All he can feel is the need, driving him forward.
His fingers brush against the cold metal keys of the typewriter. The polished wood gleams. He takes a deep breath. First one letter, and then another. Words appear as his fingers pick up speed.
The Moulin Rouge…a nightclub, a dancehall and a bordello…ruled over by the inus Pus Persia. A kingdom of night-time pleasures where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld.
The most beautiful of all these was the man I loved. Aya. A courtesan, he sold her love to men. They called him “the sparkling diamond”, and he was the star of the Moulin Rouge.
A great gasp escapes Youji. His eyes close. His fingers pause, and then move on.
The man I loved is dead.
Tears escape from beneath his lashes and trickle down his cheeks.
I first came to Kyoto one year ago. I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge, Persia, or Aya.
The world had beweptwept up in bohemian revolution, and I had traveled from Tokyo to be a part of it.
On a hill near Kyoto was the village of Montmartre. It was not, as I had been told, a village of sin, but the center of the Bohemian world, with musicans, painters, and writers. They were known as the “children of the revolution.”
Yes, I had come to live a penniless existence…
Dust covers everything. The desk sits, piled high with stacks of fresh paper, the old Underwood typewriter that occupies the place of honor, the rows of bottles that clutter the desk. The room is filled with a sense of disuse, of tiredness. A single window opens onto the alley below, but no wind enters through the heavy drapes.
Youji sits in the corner of the room, clutching one of the bottles. The whiskey burns a fiery brand down his throat as he drinks. His eyes are bloodshot behind the familiar shades. He stares at the typewriter in trepidation.
He knows he should move. He should probably go take a shower, or get some sleep. He has been awake for the past two days, unable to rest because of the visions that haunt him. But he knows the only way his mind will ever be free is if he sits at his desk, daring to try and confine the visions to paper.
Finally he moves. His body aches in numerous places. His clothes are worn and wrinkled. But he is distant from it all. All he can feel is the need, driving him forward.
His fingers brush against the cold metal keys of the typewriter. The polished wood gleams. He takes a deep breath. First one letter, and then another. Words appear as his fingers pick up speed.
The Moulin Rouge…a nightclub, a dancehall and a bordello…ruled over by the inus Pus Persia. A kingdom of night-time pleasures where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld.
The most beautiful of all these was the man I loved. Aya. A courtesan, he sold her love to men. They called him “the sparkling diamond”, and he was the star of the Moulin Rouge.
A great gasp escapes Youji. His eyes close. His fingers pause, and then move on.
The man I loved is dead.
Tears escape from beneath his lashes and trickle down his cheeks.
I first came to Kyoto one year ago. I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge, Persia, or Aya.
The world had beweptwept up in bohemian revolution, and I had traveled from Tokyo to be a part of it.
On a hill near Kyoto was the village of Montmartre. It was not, as I had been told, a village of sin, but the center of the Bohemian world, with musicans, painters, and writers. They were known as the “children of the revolution.”
Yes, I had come to live a penniless existence…