Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Phantom of the Opera or Edward Scissorhands. Or William Shakespeare. And anything else I might mention.
Aren't the similarities between Edward Scissorhands and Erik, the Opera Ghost, a bit too identical?
It helps to have seen both the movies, though some reference may be made to the POTO book later.
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The fools.
And after Christine and that-that fop floated off in his boat, what was Erik to do?
The Phantom had smashed the mirrors and vacated his "lair" immediately, forgetting even to snatch his mask as he did so. Doubtless, that silly blonde girl, Madam Gire's daughter, had found it by now. He sighed quietly, dark eyes hooded by his bangs. Moving was always a trial, but a forced movement that was unplanned could cause more than it's fair share of disarray.
He'd simply have to find another place to occupy, preferably within the theatre. He would NOT leave and search the world outside for a dwelling, simply because one of the star singers had gone mad and drifted off with some silly vicomte. Perhaps then, since he had utilized the basement already...
His gaze turned upwards to the ceiling and he smirked faintly. Where once he had been housed beneath the feet of the ballet rats, now he would watch their heads like little spinning dolls from above.
Erik's footsteps turned, heading towards the staircase leading to the roof. There was a spacious attic leading from one of the doors going up; while he could return to the basement in time, he could live within that attic's confines. Sometimes it was used for props or scenes, but mostly for the storage of things the opera house rarely used. Not even the romantically-involved couples of the opera house ventured up there, rendering it fool-proof for his own use.
It was dark and quiet as he entered the room. A perfect setting for his temperament, the phantom mused as he glanced around. The roof was a bit beat up, shingles beaten enough to let lingering light filter into the attic, but otherwise dark and peaceful.
-scuffle-
Perhaps not so peaceful. The phantom's eyes darted to the noise and he strode forward, Punjab lasso already in his hands. This was unfortunate, but whoever it was had no right to be--
It was a thing.
No, no, that wasn't right, Erik corrected himself as he lowered himself tensely to it's level. Being seen as a 'thing' himself for so many years reminded him not to make quick judgments. But even so...
what WAS it? Only one eye peered up at him, it's pupil black as pitch.
Metallic glinting objects were held in front of the curled-up form. The phantom could not discover if they were knives or whatever, merely sharp, pointed objects. He drew back immediately.
"Who are you?"
It was silent, raising it's clinking hands in front of it's face again. Erik frowned at the oddity of the mechanisms, evidently not weapons. Were those... scissors?
What an strange creation.
"Get up." He found himself ordering tersely and the thing-person-did so, revealing itself to be a man. Or the image of a man, in any case. His unnaturally pale face was covered in scars, doubtless caused by his scissor-like hands. Erik stared at him, waiting for an answer, and the creature stared back, not supplying one.
Finally the phantom broke the gaze, whirling around, his black cape swirling with him with the hope of intimidation.
"I'm staying here."
"All right." It replied amiably, yet without any kind of emotion in it's tone except humility.
There was a long pause.
"I'm Erik." There was no reason not to tell the creature his name. It might come in handy later to know. There was a nervous clinking and then quiet words.
"They called me Edward."
Erik couldn't really see the point in this relationship, but as long as 'Edward' didn't cause trouble or drag the police up to the attic, they both achieved their ends of complete solitude.
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There was no organ.
The thought hit Erik like a lightning bolt the next morning, having spent the night in a coffin for some obscure opera, probably one by the silly Shakespeare fellow. How would he play without an organ? How would he write his masterpieces without his crafts? Those fools would still be in the basement, tearing it up, and he would have no way to preoccupy himself besides watching the comings and goings of those normal people below. He'd go slowly mad, much like his ever-mute companion. Either Edward was terribly insecure or couldn't think of anything worth mentioning. Erik suspected a little of both.
Not to mention neither had questioned the other's deformity. There was tension and curiosity, though neither was mentioned. Curiosity had killed Joseph Buquet, so the phantom was not about to be the first to pursue the line of questioning. It was obvious that Edward was not a completely typical human being. Erik knew there were people who attempted such things as creating humans, but the finished product was a shame.
To come so far and then curse the man with scissors for hands, forever cutting and destroying whatever he touched.
It was cruel.
"What are you thinking about?" Came the quiet voice at his side and he looked over at curious black eyes framed by a stark white face. Black. He would never get used to that, not if Erik had to reside in this attic for a thousand years. Black eyes simply were not normal.
He couldn't hate Edward. He was far too much like a child to hate.
"Shambled thoughts. I have no organ."
Edward blinked, processing this slowly.
"Your organ is like my ice?"
What Edward did with ice, Erik couldn't imagine, but he nodded, assuming some kind of semblance between the two. Edward nodded, looking faintly unhappy.
"Why is the organ important to you?" The pale-faced man asked, scissors clinking nervously. Ice reminded him of Kim, even though it had caused her pain while he was creating for her. Erik was in pain as well.
"Because of Christine. Because she made it alive again."
Christine, Christine... she'd been the pretty singer, with long curly hair. He had seen her only once, and she hadn't seen him, crouched up among the rafters. Edward remembered all the talk that filtered up to him about her. How she disappeared, how she loved Raoul, how she was haunted by a ghost... a monster.
"Erik is the phantom." Edward stated quietly, thought about the notion for a minute then amended it. "The phantom who loved Christine, the angel of music."
"Indeed." His companion replied bitterly.
"I loved someone. I made her an angel. But then... accidents..." He raised his 'hands' and clicked the scissors together delicately, as if cutting the fragile ties of the relationship he and Kim had enjoyed.
"I had to leave." He finished, by way of explanation. Erik's face was emotionless, yet he still seemed to be struggling with some emotion behind his poker face. Abruptly, the phantom stood.
"I'm going down. I left... something I need down there."
When he returned, one half of his face was covered by the solid white mask once again. Erik felt safe behind it; it was always easier behind the mask.
Edward said nothing, but Erik could tell that his companion looked a little sadder.
He wondered why.
(divider)
It is not yaoi. If you see that in here, you have issues, for there is none. It will not get yaoi. I don't even know where I'm going with it at the moment; I just thought it would make a cool crossover.
Any suggestions? They're a bit OOC, and any suggestions as to character changes would be appreciated. Edward's hard because... well, neither of them is the most talkative of people.
I really don't like my writing on this by the way. It's weird. Oh well.
So, review! Give ideas! And maybe I'll continue.
