A Bohemian Tragedy

Past: The Hills...

Before Youji could think, the bohemians have him upstairs, dressed in Ken’s costume, standing in front of a small, fake mountain and holding a script.

“Man these things are tight,”ji sji says, pulling at the crouch of the shorts he has been forced into. “I think this outfit is a little too small. I mean I’m used to tight clothes, but this is ridiculous.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Omi pulled his hand away. “You look fine.”

Youji raised an eyebrow at the blush that covered the young teenager’s cheeks.

Omi ignored it and motioned for Botan to start the music. With a cloud of smoke he did, and Omi began to sing, still dressed in the habit.

“The hills animate with the euphonious symphonies of descant!”

Ouka shook her head, crying out over the loud disruption of noises coming from Botan’s end of the room. “Oh stop stop stop stop stop stop stop!”

Both Botan and Omi froze in spot, and the room suddenly fell silent.

Ouka stamped one foot. “Stop that insufferable droning! It’s drowning out my words! Can we please just stick to a little decorative piano?”

Youji looked between the awake members of the cast, noting the tension and glares that everyone threw Ouka’s way
.
The old man, known only as the Doctor, spoke up, filling the silence. “I don’t think a nun would say that about a hill.”

Botan raised one finger into the air. “What if he sings ‘the hills are vital, intoning the descant’?”

Omi shook his head, blond hair flying. “No, no. The h qua quake and shake…”

The doctor disagreed. “No, no, no, no. The hills…”

Ken sat up suddenly, startling everybody in the room. There was a wild expression on his face, and he held up a soccer ball like a trophy. “The hills are incarnate with symphonic melodies!”

Everyone watched in silence as he collapsed again, curling around the soccer ball and continuing to mumble in his sleep.

The Doctor sighed. “No.”

Youji, from the back of the room where he has been watching the entire conversation in disbelief, shook his head and tried to speak. “The hills…” No one seemed to hear him.

Omi stood facing the Doctor, both of them arguing. “No, the hills…”

Youji tried again, speaking louder. “The hills…”

“The hills are chanting the eternal mantra…” the Doctor said.

Youji sighed. They’ve given him no choice really. All he could do then was sing, and so he did, as loud as he could to be heard over the argument of the three bohemians trying to piece the lyrics together.

“The hills are alive, with the sound of music!”

Dead silence fell and again Youji found himself pinned as all the bohemians turned to stare at him.

Ken broke the silence by leaping up from the bed again. “ ‘The hills are alive with the sound of music!’ I love it!”

Encouraged, Youji continued to sing.

“With songs they have sung for a thousand years!”

All the bohemians gasped, causing Youji to grin.

Omi ran over and threw his arms around Youji, hugging him tight. “Incandiferous! Ouka, you two should write the show together!”

Ouka looked furious, and, Youji noted, a good bit jealous as the petite blond continued to hug him.

“What!?”

“You two would be perfect together! He’s exactly what this play needs.”

Tears welled up in Ouka’s eyes, but once she say that Omi wasn’t paying attention to her she spun and stalked to the door. “Goodbye!” She left, slamming the door shut behind her.

Ken shrugged. “Good riddance. I never liked her much anyway.” He sent a jealous look Youji’s way as well, and to the blonde hanging onto Youji’s arm.

Omi stepped back, running for a small table near the bed Ken had been sleeping on. He grabbed a small tumbler and held it up in Youji’s direction. “Here’s to your first job in Kyoto!” He downed the drink in one gulp.

Botan watched, wringing his hands. “Omi, Pe wil will never agree.” He turned to Youji. “No offence, but have you ever written anything like this before?”

Youji shrugged one shoulder. “No.”

An odd look entered Ken’s eyes and he walked over to where Youji stood on the raised platform. “Ah, the boy has talent!” He reached out with one hand and grabbed Youji’s crotch. Youji took a deep breath, staring down into Ken’s brown eyes in disbelief. “I like him!”

Across the room Omi gasped and there was the sound of shattered glass as he dropped his tumbler. Ken quickly removed his hand and turned a sheepish look on Omi. “Nothing funny, I just like talent.”

After Omi recovered from his crying spell he pulled the bohemians aside, trying to talk them into letting Youji write the play. He came up with a plan, and whispered it to the others, excluding Youji from the conversation. Youji jumped down from the platform and tried to listen in, but he could only hear Omi whisper one word.

“Aya.”

Youji pulled back, frowning. Aya. For some reason the name was familiar, and an odd sensation crept down his spine.

Finally Omi left the huddle and grabbed Youji’s hand, holding it as he explained his plan. “We will dress you in Ken’s best suit, and pass you off as a famous English writer! Once Aya hears your poetry, he will be astounded, and will insist to Persia that you write Spectacular Spectacular!”

At hearing the plan, and hearing that Aya was a male ant a t a female as the name implied, fear and uneasiness worked its way into him, causing him to violently shake his head and pull away from Omi’s grasp, ignoring it when the younger man stumbled forward.

“No, I can’t write the show for the Moulin Rouge!”

Youji made a mad dash for the hole in the ceiling and the ladder there, and was trying to climb down when the three bohemians grabbed him.

Omi stared down at him, his bottom lip trembling. “Why not?”

Youji didn’t want to see the kid cry again, but he couldn’t think of a way to get out of the situation. All he wanted to do was go find a cigarette, a drink, and a good person to spend the night with. And not necessarily in that order. He said the first thing that came to mind, trying to get the kid off his back and let him go.

“I—I don’t even know if I am a true Bohemian revolutionary.”

“What?”

“Do you believe in beauty?” Omi asked.

“Yes,” Youji said, not wanting to lie to the poor boy.

“Freedom?” Ken’s eyes were almost as large as Omi’s.

“Yes, of course.”

Botan reached out and gripped the front of Youji’s costume. “Truth?”

“Yes.”

The creaky old man spoke next. “Love?”

Youji took a deep breath, thinking. “Love? Love. Above all things I believe in love. Love is like oxygen. Love is a many-splendoured thing, love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love!” Either the air was getting to him or he had just gone mad. Where in the hell had that come from? He wasn’t give very much time to ponder that as the bohemians reached through the floor and yanked him out of the hole.

“You can’t fool us!” Omi cried. “You’re the voice of the children of the revolution!”

The other three began dancing around Youji, shouting. “We can’t be fooled!”

Omi grabbed another cup and held it up to Youji. He could see that it was full of a thick, green liquid. “Let’s drink to the new writer of the world’s first bohemian revolutionary show!”

Present

Youji stops typing long enough to pull out the finished sheet and place a fresh one in the typewriter. He stops for a moment, shaking his head and smiling a bit at the memories before typing once more.

It was the perfect plan. I was to audition for Satine, and I would taste my first glass of Absinthe.
We were off to the Moulin Rouge, and I was to perform my poetry for Satine.

Again Youji stops, remembering his first glimpse of the Moulin Rouge. The lights, the girls, the music. How they had all danced beneath the sparkling light, Persia watching from his perch at the end of the floor. It had been a magical moment, and one of his last, truly innocent ones. He sighs.

Persia and his infamous girls. They called them his “Diamond Dogs.”…