I own nothing, really. Maybe some of the men mentioned. But Little Jammes, Christine, Erik, everyone with a familiar name belong to Leroux, Kay, and Webber. I just like playing with them.
This is my first POTO fanfic. Here's to hoping I don't screw it up too badly.
Haha(ish).
Men always insist on buying me diamonds.
They tell me that the stones resemble me, with their hard, pale exterior. They match the carets and sparkle to my smile, my wit, and my charms. They present me with velvet boxes, wrapped in gaily colored paper, looking like a little boy waiting to present a queen with flowers.
I give them a smile, maybe a kiss, and wrap the cold stones around my wrist or my finger, say how pleased I am, how lovely they are, how he shouldn't have bothered. I let them smile, their eyes warm, their chests puffed and swelled.
I have diamonds around my neck and a man's hand between my thighs and all I can think of is how I rather like sapphires.
It's dark, and I'm tired, and I'm hot, wrapped in silken sheets, cradled by a sweating man. I think he's a Comte, but I'm not entirely sure. I can't remember. But he was so nice, and said that my arabesque during the second act of the ballet made him think of a nymph, playing amongst the waves and sand of the ocean. He smelled like money. His voice rang with the sound of money. So I let him lead me to a hansom cab, to his flat. He's promised me more diamonds, and I know he'll give them to be, because I saw them while he was lifting out this necklace, this heavy, heavy necklace from it's cradle of blue velvet.
He handed me his mother's jewelry, and I gave him a kiss.
It's not a bad arrangement, it's just very tiring.
And he won't let me go to sleep.
I shall have puffy eyes in the morning, and no doubt will be late for my rehearsals. I don't have any clothes suitable to dance in; I'll have to make a detour to my own flat. I turn over onto my side, hearing his rough snores, and look out the window. The sky is gray, stuck in limbo between morning and night. Pamina, that selfish queen, Pamina won't let the sun wake up. In the gray darkness of the resounding night, everything looked gray and black. My skin, entwined in the white sheets, looks gray. His dark hair, his tanned body, looks gray. My costume from the ballet, a veritable explosion of gold fabric and cut-glass embellishments: gray. The world is gray, and waiting with bated breath for this hot, heavy man to stir from his drunken notsleep so I can go home and scrub his smell away from me.
Sweaty fingers touch my shoulder, a damp palm caresses my back. Hot lips skirt across my neck.
"Morning, lady-love," The possible Comte says. He sounds like he's in good humor; he should be, after his ministrations last night. I can't tell, though. His face is dark, shuttered away by shadows. I imagine an impish smile on his face, very much like the one he had when he told me I was beautiful, a prima donna in my own right.
"Morning," I say, turning. He pulls me towards him, holds me against his chest. But it appears his hunger has abated, since he lets me rest there, beside him. I watch him watch me as we wait for some sort of cue, some sort of bell or whistle that tells us where to go from here. We are both adept players in this game, this trade, this uneasy alliance between the two of us. This is hardly the first time for either of us. With a sigh, I break free from his embrace, and in the muggy half-light of the impending sunrise, scout along the floor for my chemise. He watches me, silent. I pull on my underclothes, my skirt, my cloak. And then I smile, press my lips against his, and tell him that this was all well and good, but I needed to be heading home now.
After all, they would be expecting me at the Garnier in a matter of hours.