Paris, 1900

Inside of his musty, broken-down bedroom overlooking the gloomy city of Montmartre, Blaine Anderson sat in front of a typewriter and wept; his red-rimmed eyes standing out against sickly pale skin.  His only wish now was to leave Paris and never look back, to learn to forget all the painful memories that constantly plagued his mind nowadays.  Unfortunately; fleeing was no longer an option.  He had made a promise to a very special person and he never backed away from a promise, especially one as important as this.  Inhaling deeply, Blaine reminded himself again why he could not waste any more time moping.  Courage.  Remember, courage.  Tears continued to roll down his face into the beard he had neglected to trim for the past few days as his fingers began to move and type a single sentence onto a clean sheet of paper.

The greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return.

Blaine had always believed the first sentence of a story was the hardest to write, but once it was written the rest came easily.

The Moulin Rouge.  A nightclub, a dance hall, and a bordello.  Ruled over by William Schuester.  A kingdom of nighttime pleasures and atrocities where the rich and powerful men of society came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld.  The most beautiful of all was the man I love, Kurt.  A courtesan.  He sold his love to men.  They called him “the sparkling diamond”, and he was the star of the Moulin Rouge.

Sniffling and pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts, Blaine finally wrote the one thing he’d been dreaded to acknowledge for the past few weeks, as the acceptance of this next indisputable fact would surely drive him mad.  Remember, you made a promise to him.  Courage.

The man I love is dead.

Blaine stared blankly at the words, turning away to look out the window when the pain became too much to handle.  The dark and cold city streets devoid of the people who used to thrive there brought back memories of the once colorful, life-filled village Blaine remembered from his arrival in Paris not so long ago.  Haunted by unpleasant memories of the past and the uncertainty of his future, he began instead to write of a happier time in his life.

I first came to Paris one year ago.  It was 1899, the summer of love.  I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge, Will Schuester, or Kurt.  At this time, the world had been swept up in the bohemian revolution, and I had traveled from London in order to be a part of it.  On a hill near Paris was the village of Montmartre.  It was not, as my father had said, “a village of sin”, but the center of the bohemian world.  There was singing in the streets, music, dancing, unending life and joy everywhere.  Musicians, painters, and writers from all over came to create and share their ideas with one another. They were known as “the children of the revolution”.  I had come to live a penniless existence; to write about truth, beauty, freedom, and that which I believed in above all things: love.  There was only one problem; I had never been in love.  I had known from a young age I was attracted to men and not women, a fact my father detested and refused to acknowledge.  I had not yet found the right one for me, but I hoped in a city full of young, talented, and accepting revolutionaries I might find the person I dreamt of every night as I slept alone.  Unfortunately by now, all I could hear in my head was my father ranting about my “ridiculous obsession with love” and my inability to settle down with a nice woman and start a family.  These swirling thoughts began to plague and torture my mind when, right at that moment, an unconscious young man fell through the roof of my new apartment.

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The crash startled Blaine from his stupor and caused him to jump out of his desk chair.  He was about to check on the man now lying on top of the pile of rubble on his floor when a short young man ran in through his door dressed as a nun.

“Oh, how do you do!” the man exclaimed.  “My name is Wesley Montgomery, but you may call me Wes if you like.  I’m so sorry about my friend David here.  We were just upstairs rehearsing a play.”

“Wait, what?” Blaine asked, furrowing his slightly bushy eyebrows in confusion.  Blaine had not had a single drop of liquor this morning, so either he was seeing things or there were actually two men in his room right now: one unconscious and the other dressed in a nun costume.  At this point, Blaine honestly wasn’t sure which scenario worried him more.

Wes replied excitedly, “Oh yes, it’s our new modern show ‘Spectacular, Spectacular’.  It’s set in Switzerland.  Sadly, David suffers from quite severe narcolepsy.  During our rehearsals he’ll be perfectly fine one minute and suddenly unconscious the next.”  After explaining, Wes began to giggle and Blaine supposed he must be either a little drunk or slightly disturbed.  Either way, he was becoming more perplexed with every second that passed by in the presence of these two strange men.

“How is he?” a young lady’s voice called from up above.

Blaine looked towards the gaping hole in his ceiling and saw two other faces staring down at him.  There was a woman with wavy brown hair and glaring brown eyes as well as a young brunette gentleman with a pair of glasses balanced on his nose leaning down to look into his room.  Had he really chosen the building inhabited by unusual, noisy neighbors out of all the places to live in all of Paris?  Great job, Blaine.

“Well, wonderful!” the woman yelled.  “Now the narcoleptic African man is unconscious and, therefore, the scenario will not be finished in time to present to the financier tomorrow.”

“She’s right, Wes.  I mean, I still need to finish writing the music.” the young man from upstairs added.

Wes rolled his eyes lazily.  “We’ll just find someone to read the part.  No big deal!”

The young lady upstairs looked even more frustrated than before.  “Oh really?!” she exclaimed.  “Do tell me, where are we going to find someone to read the part of a young, sensitive Swiss poet-goathearder on such short notice?”

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Before I knew it I was upstairs standing in for the unconscious young man named David.  There seemed to be a few artistic difference over Rachel’s lyrics and Thad’s song.  And that caused quite a few problems.

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“The hills animate, with the euphonious symphonies of descant,” Wes sang out in an unusually shrill tone, attempting to imitate a woman’s voice, while Blaine stood on a platform in front of a painted mountain scenery, watching the people around him direct and play unusual background tones to accompany Wes’s singing.  He saw Rachel’s growing impatience as she rolled her eyes and tapped her foot.  Blaine prepared for Rachel’s outburst similarly to that of a man observing a volcanic eruption from a distance: stepping away slightly but eyes still fixed on the argument about to unfurl in front of him.

“STOP!  Stop, right now!” Rachel screamed.  “Thad, that insufferable droning you call music is drowning out my words.  Can we please just stick to a little decorative piano?”

“Well, I don’t really think a nun would sing about a hill,” Thad replied, “but what if he sings ‘The hills are vital intoning the descant’?  That might fit better.”

Rachel frowned angrily at Thad’s suggestion while Wes said, “No, no.  How about ‘The hills quake and shake’?”

Rachel, Thad, and Wes began a three-way yelling match and continued their dispute when David, who had been lying unconscious on a bed in the rehearsal area upstairs, suddenly sat straight up and screamed, “The hills are incarnate with symphonic melodies!” before passing out yet again.  The group went silent for a moment before shaking their heads and continuing to argue more.

By now, Blaine was developing a bit of a headache and was struggling to think of a way to shut everyone up.  Think, think.  What could a nun possibly say about a hill?  He nearly gave up his search for a solution to the group’s lyrical problems when a brilliant set of words popped into his head.  He knew they would fit perfectly and he stepped forward to voice his opinion.  After trying and failing to call everyone’s attention over the racket of the heated argument, he simply opened his mouth and sang for the first time since he was a child.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music.”

All noise in the crowded room died out and every set of eyes in the room stared at the young writer, astounded at Blaine’s brilliance as well as his breathtaking voice, which still rang through the room and bounced of the hollow walls.  David again awakened with a start, jumped off the bed, and strode over to Blaine.

“‘The hills are alive with the sound of music,’” he repeated.  “I love it!”

“And it fits my music perfectly.” Thad remarked, astounded at the young writer’s talent.

Blaine began to sing again, smiling slightly at their praise.  “With songs they have sung for a thousand years.”

Everyone but Rachel gasped, Wes remarking, “Incandiferous!  Rachel, you and Blaine should write the show together.”

“I beg your pardon?!” Rachel replied.  “No, I will not be working on any project with some young, inexperienced Englishman.  In fact, I won’t be working with any of you anymore if that’s your only suggestion to me!”

Rachel hastily grabbed her lyrics and scene pages scattered around the room and left with a huffy “Goodbye!”, slamming the door behind her on the way out.

Bewildered by the events of the past hour and Rachel’s dramatic exit, Blaine slowly stepped down the ladder and off of the platform to stand with everyone left in the room.

“Here’s to your first job in Paris.” Wes toasted, downing his second glass of absinthe since Blaine had come upstairs.

“Wes,” Thad warned, “Schuester may not agree to us changing authors on him.  No offense Blaine, but have you ever written anything like this before?”

“No.” Blaine stated.  He had never written much in his life other than pieces of writing for schoolwork when he was younger since his father disapproved of artistic expression, considering it to be a waste of time and money.  Before he could explain himself, David enthusiastically interrupted, insisting “Oh, come on!  The boy has talent.  I like him!” and wrapped his arm over Blaine’s shoulders, patting him on the back.

Wes gathered his friends around him in a huddle.  “Don’t you see Thad.  With Blaine, we can write the first truly bohemian revolutionary production we’ve always dreamt of!”

“But Wes, how will we convince Schuester?” Thad asked.

“Kurt.” Wes replied, a small smile playing across his features.

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Wes had a plan of attack already laid out.  They would dress me in David’s nicest suit, and pass me off as a famous English writer.  Once Kurt heard my modern poetry, he would be astounded and insist to Schuester that I write “Spectacular, Spectacular”.  My only problem was I kept hearing my father’s voice in my head warning me that I would “end up wasting my life at the Moulin Rouge with a cancan dancer.”

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“I’m very sorry, but I can’t write the show for you.” Blaine stated as he rushed towards the stairs.  All he wanted to do was go back to his room, collect his things, and go straight home.  His father was right; he was ignorant and foolish to think he could possibly survive in a place like Montmartre.  All the doubts and fears Blaine had carried with him his entire life began bubbling to the surface, and he knew he was not ready to become part of this unusual group of bohemian revolutionaries, no matter how much he longed to join them.  Just as he began climbing down to his room, Wes grabbed his arm roughly.

“Wait,” he shouted, “why not?  You’ve got the talent!”

Blaine thought for a moment and responded “I’m not even sure if I am a true bohemian revolutionary.”

His statement was greeted by a chorus of gasps.

“Do you believe in beauty?” Wes asked.

“Well, yes.”

“Freedom?” David asked, placing his hand to his chest, as if pledging his own dedication to the bohemian ideal as one would to a monarch.

“Yes, of course.”

“Truth?” asked Thad, leaning towards Blaine as he did so.

“Yes.”

“Love?” Wes asked, already anticipating Blaine’s answer.

“Love?” Blaine repeated.

The three men surrounding him nodded enthusiastically and expectantly, awaiting his response.  Blaine recalled his childhood: the bland and uncreative people suffocating his talent, his father’s reprimands and disappointment, the loneliness.  But most of all, Blaine remembered the one thing he always held onto: hope.  Hope for a better life, better people who understood him and, most of all, the hope that he would find the man for him even if he had to wait a thousand years.

“Above all things I believe in love.  Love is like oxygen.  Love is a many splendid thing.  Love lifts us up where we belong.  All you need is love.” Blaine rambled, a full-on smile finally gracing his handsome face for the first time in many years.

Wes’s face split into a wide grin and he giggled again.  “See, you can’t fool us.  You’re the voice of the children of the revolution!”

“We can’t be fooled!” Thad and David exclaimed in unison, pulling him back up to the rehearsal to celebrate the beginning of the first bohemian revolutionary show.

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The plan was perfect.  We set off for the Moulin Rouge, where I was to perform my poetry for Kurt.