Work Text:
“Stand by for curtain call!”
The confetti rained down on the stage as cheers, whistles, and applause erupted everywhere, from the audience to all the dancers. Everyone was smiling and laughing. They were happy. Jongseong was happier because he loved Chaeyoung, and she loved him back.
He kissed her once, and a wide smile broke across his face—it almost hurt. He began to lead her away to stand for the curtain call as other dancers moved into position, but then felt her not following him.
“Chaeyoung?”
He saw her a few steps behind him, standing with her head lolling back towards the sky, face contourted into unimaginable pain as she coughed and gasped; struggling her way out to breathe.
“Chaeyoung, what’s the matter?”
He embraced her as he pulled them lower on the floor. Panic sank within him in an immediate rush at the sound of her coughing and wheezing that felt like her lungs crushing.
Then, Jongseong saw red dripping from the corner of her full red lips. He wiped it gently, refusing to acknowledge that it was truly blood, only to be forced to face the harsh reality.
At the sound of her gasp, she said in a small voice, “I’m sorry, Jongseong. I-I-I’m dying.”
He shook his head. “It’s alright. You’ll be all right. I know you’ll be all right.”
He thought that death by a thousand cuts was ten times gentler than the dread that coursed through his veins at the moment. Because he just got her back, he can’t lose her again—and possibly forever.
“I’m cold. H-hold me.”
He quickly wrapped his arms around her, as if such physical contact would be able to tether her so that she wouldn’t go anywhere. Chaeyoung’s eyes started to close, but then opened as a smile tugged on her face.
“You’ve got to go on, Jongseong. You’ve got so much to give.”
His voice faltered, tears running down his cheeks. “I can’t go on without you.” Because it was the truth. He can’t imagine a life without her. He refused to live a life without her in it.
Her hand softly touched his face. Chaeyoung’s voice went into a whisper, her eyes half-lidded as she pleaded, “Tell our story, Jongseong. Promise me.” He told her no as he broke down into sobs. He only holds her tighter.
“That way, I’ll always be with you.”
When he finally nodded, she gently laughed. As he peppered kisses on her lips, he witnessed the last trace of life in her eyes fade.
Jongseong sobbed and sobbed until it grew louder, screaming his heartbreak and agony into the air. Faint sound of cheers and applause roaring from the audience, ringing like a background noise nobody paid mind to. The face of the crew of Moulin Rouge fell into grief as they mourned over the loss of their beloved Diamond.
He looked at her and rested his cheek on her face, and rocked his body as he held onto her lifeless limbs. There was a stain of her blood on his shirt, but he didn’t care. He had lost the woman he loved.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks morphed into months.
And then, one day, Jongseong—shirts crumpled, hair tousled, bottle of whiskey in his hand, tear marks over his cheeks—went to his typewriter and began writing a story.
He wrote a story about a time, a story about a place, a story about the people.
But above all things, a story about love.
A love that will live forever.
And that story will be his final act of love.