Hi, this is my first PotO fic, based on the musical productions with some slight Susan Kay influences; I am aware that Love Never dies isn't exactly 'liked' among the fandom, believe me, I don't like it much myself, I've been a fan of the original production and indeed the original story for a long time and the sequel annoys me as much as the next person.
That said, I did want to write something continuing on from where it ends, I think the situation of Erik suddenly becoming a father is worth exploring. If I get a lot of people just complaining that I'm using Love never dies as a jumping-off point then I'll take this down right away. All I ask is that you give it a fair chance.
If anyone wants to have a discussion about characterisation or anything I may be slightly off on then feel free to message me.
All characters belong to their original creators.
Chapter One
The boy had wept himself into sleep, they'd both attempted to comfort him but both had failed, it was to be expected, neither man was in a much better state himself. The boy refused to go to his room despite their cajoling and so had been tucked onto the sofa of the hotel room.
Erik leant over the boy, tucking his cloak over the tear-stained face of his son. God, how beautiful he was, so perfect, how lucky to have somehow avoided inheriting his malformed face. The Phantom leant a little closer and kissed his poor grief-exhausted son's forehead.
"Is he sleeping?"
Erik glanced over one shoulder, an expression of slight disgust painting his features. Raoul was at the dining table, his head resting heavily in one hand. A picture of the mourning husband, Erik thought bitterly.
Erik had to give him credit for his actions though. He hated the vicomte, yes, but at least when Gustave had run to him in tears over the revelation that this frightening and imposing Phantom was his true father and witnessing his mother's death in a matter of seconds…
Raoul had brought the child back. Erik would never understand that, though he fully intended to question it later. Raoul had gathered the boy in his arms and brought him back to where Christine lay, to where the Phantom clasped her poor, lifeless shape to his chest in one last embrace of love.
'Yes, he's your real father.' That's what the French nobleman had said, when the boy twisted and turned between the two men with an expression of confusion. When the shock began to ease enough for him to speak.
Then… then this beautiful, remarkable boy, as Raoul had turned to leave to get back to the boat that was leaving that night, Gustave had begun to weep more furiously and begged him not to leave, 'Don't leave me, don't either of you leave me too!'
He was hysterical, of course, but neither man knew what to do to stop those frightening cries coming from the child, they had no clue how to help him to simply breathe again. They hadn't known how to stop the child's weeping, his endless shrieking cries until Erik had whispered that they would both stay with him. That had settled Gustave enough for him to collapse in grief-stricken sobs on Erik's shoulder.
Raoul had carried the boy back. Erik took the far heavier burden of the woman they had both loved. She was laid in state in the hotel bedroom, Erik had wanted better for her but for now this would have to suffice. Tomorrow, he would begin funeral arrangements; tomorrow he would find Meg Giry and deal with her, tomorrow he would begin to sort this terrible mess of a night out.
"He sleeps." Erik replied to the vicomte's earlier question.
Raoul might have nodded, it was hard to tell. He kept his head in his hand, until he heard the faint clink of ice in a glass. His head lifted then, veteran alcoholic that he fully admitted he was. It was in time to see the Phantom place a glass of cool whiskey on the table before him, another in the imposing man's hand.
When the vicomte only stared, fish-eyed at the glass Erik sighed, frustrated, growled lowly, "Come now boy, you won't tell me now you don't drink."
They both threw back the alcohol in quick gulps, the burn of it doing something to bring horrible reality into sharp focus.
"What's to be done with him now?" Raoul asked, nodding to where Gustave slept.
Erik sighed and took the other chair at the table. Allowing his mind a flight of fancy he recalled the way the boy had adored his world, the glitz and glamour and trickery of it, a brilliant and willing protégé at last; "I will teach him, he will be a composer, a musician, he will go to the finest conservatoire in-"
Raoul granted himself the luxury of a sad smile, "I meant to raise him, Monsieur Phantom… or is it Mister Y now?" he shrugged, not really caring what the answer was. "True enough he's your son. I always suspected…" he trailed off a moment, recalling all the times that had come before, the way his son had more fascination with music and mechanics than any other child his age. How the dear boy had begged his papa to show him how to build model planes and trains and all manner of things.
He'd never been one hundred per cent sure. Always that tiny grain of suspicion; but dear, kind little Gustave looked so much like his mother, enough for Raoul to push back suspicion behind… ha! Behind a mask of overwhelming love for the boy.
Seeing them that close together though, Gustave and The Phantom, then he could see it. Yes his son looked like Christine plentifully, he had her full cheeks and soft complexion, her brown hair which grew into ringlets when left unchecked, but everything else about the boy was The Phantom, or at least the uncovered side of his face. Same strong bone structure, same slightly silken lips, even the same damned eyes, light brown, easily mistaken for gold in a bad light.
How had he not known? How had Christine ever managed to hide it from both of them until now?
"I always suspected there was something else about him altogether." Raoul clarified, becoming aware that the masked man was eyeing him with impatience. "How do you propose to raise the child?"
Erik paused, and allowed a touch of rage coming to his voice as he replied, "He's my son." As if fatherhood were as simple as blood.
"He's mine too." Raoul replied evenly, strengthened by the alcohol and the thought that now Christine was gone, what was there to live for? What would it matter now if this man took it into his head to kill him?
He continued to explain in his alcohol-dulled tones; "Not in blood maybe, but I have been his father for ten years. I haven't always been a good one, but I've not been as bad as some."
Erik scowled; bit couldn't deny the truth in this. The boy was his son, but Raoul had been the boy's father for ten long years. Which one of them was the man this beautiful child had called Papa his whole life?
Erik sat in silence, staring out of the window to the starlit night, the mist rising from the ocean. So much to consider, the boy's future at stake. What would Christine want for her son? For their son?
"I… have a suggestion." He voiced. "…The boy has lost one parent tonight; I won't take another from him without any good reason. There are worse things in this world than two fathers and no mother."
Raoul snorted, standing to move across to the drinks cabinet, "You suggest we raise Gustave together? Put aside our mutual hatred for his sake, for the son she left behind…" He reached for the decanter. "Good lord, how very bohemian, I'll just insist right now that you be the one whom wears pretty frocks and does the cooking."
Erik's hand was on his wrist in seconds, the grip tight enough to threaten breaking the thin bones.
"You dare to make jokes at a time like this! If it is to be that way then I can place aside my wish not to take another parent from him."
Raoul winced and tried to twist his arm free. It didn't move. Just how strong was this apparently frail-looking man?
"I'm merely suggesting the child does not have to lose more family members, not for one moment am I suggesting that you are anything other than the scum of the earth as far as my mind is set." He paused, twisting the younger man's hand from the crystal bottle, "We'll put aside that for the child. That, I believe, is what parenting is, is it not? To put aside one's own desires for the sake of a helpless child?"
Raoul nodded, anything to get the grip from his wrist, his hand was turning pale from blood constriction.
"The drink I just gave you will be the last. In addition; there will be no further gambling, I won't have you waste away Gustave's inheritance. You will, Raoul, be a father to him. You will do this because I am giving you no other choice."
Raoul, winced, but wanting one more shot at this man who had stolen his bride away, and reasonably sure the man would not kill him in the same room as their sleeping son, he replied, "Or you will add my life to the number you have claimed?"
"Or I will knock you out, throw you onto the next boat going anywhere far away and you will never see Gustave or me again. I don't believe you would live long anyway, debtors would come calling eventually." Erik shrugged easily, releasing the man's hand, "I would not have to lift a finger, Raoul. Not one single finger, you've sealed your own fate one way or the other."
Raoul paled, rubbing his bruised wrist and staring, angry and bewildered, at the dark man. "I suppose I have, Monsieur Phantom. You drive an exceptional bargain, I don't wonder at your wealth."
Erik made no comment at the backhanded compliment, if that was what it was supposed to be, merely replied; "It's ridiculous for you to continue calling me by these aliases I am forced to wear. My name is Erik."
"Erik." Raoul repeated, sinking back into his chair at the table. "I had almost believed your name really was Phantom."
Erik shrugged once more, his eyes were fixed on his sleeping son "I have learnt it pays to wear names lightly, to gather and shed titles as need demands."
"Is there a last name to go with Erik?" Raoul persisted, despite the older man's obvious discomfort with this topic. Why shouldn't he know the last name of the man whose son he'd been fathering?
Erik opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the whimper from the sofa. Both men's heads turned as if on magnets to where their son lay, clearly in the midst of some terrible nightmare, he shifted uneasily on the makeshift bed and let out a keening wail; "Mother!"
He woke himself with his own cry, sitting bolt upright and staring at the room around him in mixed horror and confusion. The events of the night appeared to wash up over his small, pale face all at once. He did not cry any further though, Erik suspected he'd run out of tears.
"F-f-father…" he stammered. "I had a terrible nightmare!"
Erik turned away, glaring at the table-top and hating the polished surface for reflecting his mask back to him. He'd replaced it, out of habit more than fear or shame when he'd carried Christine here. No wonder the boy was having nightmares, he'd looked on the face of death itself.
Raoul spoke as soothingly as he could, rising from his chair and walking to the boy's side. "Now, now, Gustave, it was just a nightmare, nothing more. Papa is here, see?"
Gustave nodded meekly, "But there was fire and stars falling and so, so much noise…" he whimpered again and then turned his bright gold eyes from Raoul, directly onto Erik as his high, sweet voice wept out, "Father, the whole sky fell and shattered! And there was a forest of silver trees that… they wanted to hurt me and…"
The boy leapt from the sofa and crossed the small space between sofa and dining area in seconds, his small arms flew around Erik's neck and the small, perfect face buried itself in his shoulder.
Had it been any other night, Raoul would have laughed at the Phantom—Erik's expression. Shock, mostly, still unused to anyone touching him willingly. Even more unused to having to comfort a clearly distraught child.
Raoul was not at heart an unkind man; he mouthed the words 'Hug him'.
Erik did just that, it looked unpractised but that much didn't bother Gustave. He sniffled quietly still though. Erik tried lifting the small child onto his knee, the child was nearly weightless. That seemed to stop the crying.
The child drew back slowly, staring up at Erik with those wide, curious and tear-stained eyes. One hand went up and touched the white mask with his whole palm. Erik stopped breathing.
"It feels like a plate." Gustave muttered.
"Porcelain," Erik corrected, his eyes went to Raoul, "Odd thing, noticing the detail like that."
"Wouldn't cloth be better?" Gustave asked, though it didn't seem as if he wanted an answer, more that he was thinking aloud. It was probably preferable to thinking about other things. "Linen, maybe, only you looked so sore. But I suppose that wouldn't offer much protection against the elements, it's so windy here, and the salt in the air too…"
Erik barely smiled; it was charming to see anyone thinking this much of him, caring about his comfort at all. Normally the touch of anyone's hand on his face or mask would have him in a panic or a rage, but his dear little son was just so… innocently curious about the whole thing.
"It does not bother me, Gustave." He paused a moment, then added, "Thank you though, for asking."
"Does it hurt?"
Erik shook his head, "Not very much. It's like…" he paused, trying to think of an analogy the boy would understand. "Have you ever tripped and cut your knee very badly?"
Gustave was silent for a moment, "I fell from my swing once and hurt my hand, didn't I Papa?" he turned slightly to look to Raoul for confirmation. The man nodded.
"Well, when it healed, did you notice the time when the cut healed over and went hard? That's what it feels like."
Gustave looked fascinated. Raoul felt a twinge of jealousy; he'd never managed to make his son look so interested in an idea.
Maybe Erik sensed this jealousy and felt the need to return the kindness of earlier, or perhaps he was just growing unnerved by the attention the child was giving him, but whatever the reason he took the tiny hand and removed it from his mask.
"It's long gone your bedtime, Gustave." He remarked, "Go on, to bed. If you have another nightmare we will not be far away."
The boy nodded, sliding from his father's lap, "Goodnight Father…"
He walked to his bedroom door slowly, hair like an unruly halo around his head, mussed from the nightmare. He hesitated at the door, glancing back into the living room, "Papa, will you come and tuck me in?"
Raoul answered automatically with; "Of course," then stopped with the realisation that Gustave might not have meant him at all. He glanced to the Phantom—Erik (he would have to get used to that) and added, "ah… who did you want, Gustave?"
Gustave appeared surprised at the question, "You, Papa. I just said goodnight to Father."
As Raoul followed the child, Erik sighed to himself, and wondered at how easily the child adapted. He sensed it would be a much harder process for himself, and Raoul, come to that.