Disclaimer: I do not in any way own the Phantom of the Opera, nor do I own the brilliant stories of Hans Christian Anderson. (No matter how much I wish I did.)

Reviews are very much appreciated.

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"What are you writing?"

"Nothing."

"It's never nothing."

"Trust me." The phantom glared at his lover.

It was no surprise that Raoul simply crossed his arms, refusing to back down. "Show me."

His eyes widened as he suddenly found his arms full of parchment.

"Fine," said the opera ghost. "But remember you asked."

Completely thrown by the phantom's quick compliance, Raoul only stared at him.

"Well if you're just going to stand there..."

Before the paper could be stolen from him, Raoul hastily dropped his eyes down to the erratic scribble that took him quite a while to decipher. The man was a genius, but he rarely slowed down long enough to neaten his handwriting.

"The Prince on the Pea." He said aloud as his brow furrowed. "Did you write a story?"

"Keep reading." The phantom commanded.

And so he did.

Once upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess.

Raoul was even more confused. This didn't seem like something Erik would write.

He searched far and wide for a real one, but constantly came up short. There were princesses enough, but he always felt that something was wrong. One particular princess, Christine, nearly caused him to abandon his search altogether. She was petty and spiteful, and always took several hours to fix her hair. If all princesses were like her, the prince thought, he'd rather live alone.

Raoul looked up at that. He'd thought that the man who shared his bed had gotten past his former obsession. Was this entire story a not-so-subtle way to complain about the great amount of hair Christine had been cursed with?

The phantom just looked pointedly at the parchment, and Raoul reluctantly looked down again.

One evening, a terrible storm shook Paris. There was thunder and lightening and buckets of rain: it was frightening! Then the prince heard a knock at his gate. He was greeted by the sight of a soaking man much more delicate than himself. Even though he looked like a mess, the man insisted he was a prince. So the handsome, chivalrous prince invited him into his castle to stay the night. He even let the delicate man sleep in his bed. When the stranger awoke, the prince politely asked how he had slept. Rather than being grateful, the stranger complained that he couldn't sleep a wink because he had lain on something uncomfortable. Try as he might, the stranger claimed, he could not settle down. The thing must have been ten inches long and was very, very hard. "I shall have bruises for weeks!" He exclaimed.

At this Raoul blushed, and glanced disapprovingly at the phantom, who only smirked. He sighed and continued reading.

At this strange accusation, the prince felt the need to investigate. He lifted the soft mattress to find a solitary pea beneath it: obviously left over from a supper he'd enjoyed in his chambers. Could this man really be so delicate as to be bruised by something so small? He must truly be a great prince. They were married at once and made passionate love every single day from then on. The pea now rests in a museum in Paris. This, my dear reader, is a true story.

Raoul didn't know what to say. He opened his mouth in the hopes that it would make up his mind for him, but no sound came out. Erik stood, and snatched the paper back.

"I warned you." He said.

"You... you..." Raoul's face felt as though it were on fire. "That never leaves this room! If people were to read it..."

Erik dropped the parchment and gently pushed Raoul onto the bed positioned nearby. It didn't take much effort as the man's body was still weak with disbelief.

"If people were to read that, they wouldn't give it a second thought. I'm hardly the Marquis de Sade." He captured Raoul's mouth with his own, sliding a silky tongue between the man's parted lips. Raoul made a muffled protest which quickly turned into a moan as the phantom ran a hand along his inner thigh.

"And in case you haven't noticed, I'm fairly certain the good people of France believe us to be dead."

Raoul's eyes narrowed and he flipped the phantom beneath him with practiced skill. And a little bit of luck.

"Fine. But I'm not delicate."

The phantom grinned. "Whatever you say, my prince."

And then there was little opportunity for talking.