I was inspired. I have never, ever, written one of these. I did write this for two people who inspired me, much love to you both. Enjoy everyone!

'Damn it,' he muttered, lifting up his shoe and inspecting it. The torch in his hand cast an orange glow upon the leather and the fabric of his pant leg, both completely soaked. With a sigh, he lowered his foot back down and cast the torch over the rest of the tunnel. It went on for ages, quite how he remembered it. Though, less damp and a bit more easily navigated (with the help of the Persian).

He was unafraid and welcomed the sight of the Death Head roaming about. Of course, at one time, he thought nothing of returning to the hell beneath the Garnier. But, since the death of Christine, he wanted nothing more than to join her. What better way than by the hands of the man who wanted nothing more to kill him?

Was he here, prowling about, watching him navigate through his tunnels? Laughing at him, delighted he was outside his element? He was sure of it, which is possibly why Erik had not made his appearance. This was his world, this was his game.

Soon enough, the glow of the torch revealed a boat. So, was he expecting him? Or, did the little bit in the paper tell the truth, that Erik was dead? He decided to test it by climbing into the boat. Opening the tiny lantern at the bow of the boat, he lit the wick of the candle. Not as strong as the torch, but it would allow him to navigate the water. Tossing the torch into the water, he picked up the stick and pushed off into the inky blackness.

The Persian once spoke of a siren in the water, the siren being Erik. Raoul kept an eye out around him, checking for anything out of the ordinary. He was sure that no matter how hard he looked, Erik would be far too clever to reveal himself and far too clever to allow himself to be caught. You want to die, he thought, why should it matter where he appears? It may just be quick and painless.

He continued on, and soon enough, when he could see the small house on the lake, he knew that he was not going to die... this way, at least. Docking the boat, he picked up the lantern and made his way to the door of the house. He put his ear up to the door, listening. Not a sound from inside. Perhaps the monster was dead and all what remained was a haunting memory of what transpired there years ago. Putting his hand to the doorknob, he twisted it. Locked! Pressing his body against the door, he tried again, and this time the door gave way. He stumbled into the house, nearly landing on his face.

'Why,' a voice with unremarkable precision and clarity cut through the silence, 'you are early, Vicomte!' Raoul looked up to a peculiar sight. There, the man of darkness, the ghost, the voice from the walls, was seated in a large armchair. He looked as gaunt as ever, the same mask (black, like the rest of his attire) stretched over his face. 'Please, join me,' he said, waving a thin, bony hand over the table on his right. Tea was prepared and it was still hot, evident by the curling of the steam in the air.

Raoul moved into the house and closed the door. The house was exactly how he remembered it in the split seconds that he and the Persian were in it. Was this real? Or had Erik finally become what he always rumored to be: a ghost?

'I am,' Erik said as almost reading his thoughts, 'indeed alive. Not dead, no, not yet. Erik has not been claimed by that sweet mistress. Once in a while, I feel her cold fingertips on my neck,' he said, taking a hand and pressing it against his collar, 'but nothing. However,' he said, lowering his hand and bringing his hand to the cup of tea beside him, 'I know who has been, and who wishes to be.' Directed at Raoul, he offered the cup to him.

Erik knew everything, as if he was some sort of a detective that analyzed his every move, every thought, and every reason that brought him here. He was at a loss for words as he moved across the room and took the offered cup. Erik did not smile but a glance into his eyes seemed to flicker a look of pleasure.

It was his turn to speak, but what to say? 'Nothing can escape you,' he said finally. Erik collected this reply thoughtfully. He relaxed into the chair, his fingers splayed upon the armrests. 'Not quite true', was his reply. He was content, almost too content. No lasso sprung from the darkness, no laughter, no mocking. Could it be he had resigned? Or… was the means of his demise more subtle than that? It has to be the tea…

'Indeed,' he congratulated Erik by raising the tea cup to salute him and then to his lips, he took a sip. The tea was rich, a blend of spices and lemon. He waited, setting the cup back down into the saucer. After a few seconds, nothing had happened. Was he wrong, then? Where was his death? Where was his demise? Where was the laughter he expected to ring out around the room? A minute passed and still nothing.

'Was the tea not to your liking? You look awfully disturbed,' which caused Raoul to collect his thoughts and focus on his host. Erik was staring at him, a hint of a smile on his lips. 'Using me as your demise, tut-tut, I expected better of you! Once again, you fail to understand: I do not deliver death, I instigate it. Erik does not kill out of the goodness of his heart! Erik has no heart.'

'Lies,' Raoul cried, 'you had a heart, once, which is why you let us go! My wife, my Christine, she proved to us all, to you!' Erik let his words wash over him, as if he never heard them at all. Until the mention of Christine did his eyes close. 'Give me death,' Raoul begged.

Erik opened his eyes. 'Do you really want death? Or do you want something else? Why ask for Erik to take your life? I must admit,' he said, bridging his hands beneath his chin, a thoughtful look in his eyes, 'I am honored that I would be so highly regarded in your thoughts.' He then clutched at his chest with mock sympathy.

Raoul took another sip of the tea. 'Perhaps the two go hand in hand,' he replied, getting up and placing the cup on the tray beside Erik. 'Death,' he said, glancing at Erik, 'and wanting'. A bony hand clasped on his own hand, causing him to remain still. He didn't even breathe. The touch was so unlike that he was used to, the warmth of a woman.

Erik slowly slid his fingers underneath the cuff of Raoul's coat, brushing against the thin skin of his wrist. 'How quick your pulse is,' Erik mused, tracing slow circles on his skin. Raoul closed his eyes along with a sharp intake of breath. 'Like a little bird, wings beating against the bars of a cage'. He glanced towards Raoul, eying him suspiciously. 'Perhaps, the little bird wants to be set free?' Raoul said nothing as Erik then directed him to stand before him. Grabbing his other wrist, Erik began to do the same thing.

These feelings were not new exactly, but akin to something he had experienced before. He felt warmer, lightheaded. 'Is this the torture you intended on, Vicomte? The death you wanted?' Erik asked, watching Raoul intently. Erik stilled his fingers and removed them from Raoul's wrists.

Raoul opened his eyes. The warm feeling remained, only not as strong as before. The glare Erik gave him was grave. 'I am not Christine,' he replied. He finally said her name, though it came out empty and hollow. Raoul was stunned and he felt his voice return to him in that moment: 'I know'.

Erik stood now, his eyes at level with Raoul's. He slowly made his way around Raoul, whispering in his ear. 'Is it something in the tea that makes you act so brazen?'

'Brazen?' Raoul replied, wetting his lips. He could sense Erik farther away from him now. He turned and saw Erik over on the far side of the hall. 'No…' Erik said nothing but with an unfurling of his hand he gestured down the hall. 'Come Vicomte, you wished for Death. I shall certainly not disappoint you.'

The room was furnished and exquisite. It had to be Christine's room, the one she spoke of when she stayed here with him. He turned to glance at the man that stood beside him but was surprised to see he was no longer there, as well as the door. Was he now locked inside?

'I remember when she spoke to you about this room,' Erik's voice came from the wall on the left side of the room. He saw him standing there, his arms crossed and a foot propped up against the wall. His eyes locked upon the bed. 'I carried her into the room, laid her down on that very bed. She was exquisite, a perfect piece to an unfinished picture.' His eyes roamed over to Raoul. 'And now, you will lay in it as well.'

'What?' Raoul asked, realizing what he said. Erik simply gestured with one of his hands. Raoul knew now as he slowly started to remove his coat, cufflinks, and shirt. When his torso was naked, Erik held up a hand and then gestured to the bed. Raoul did as he was told, moving over to the great ornate furniture that was covered in silk. He sat down upon it, his eyes glancing to his instructor. Erik moved from the wall and stood before him.

Erik raised his hands, holding them in the air like a marionette. It was almost as if he was unsure of what to do with them. Raoul reached out to grasp them but Erik hissed and in a loud voice he said: 'Do not touch me! No one must touch me!' With that, his hands thrust forward and into Raoul's hair. He moved his fingers through and over Raoul's scalp, marveling on how rich the feeling was. His hands then made their way down over his cheeks, pressing the contours of his cheekbones and then across his lips. It was almost as if he was marveling over the face that he longed to have, the face he longed to touch… to perhaps, once long ago, to have Christine touch.

Erik's hands slid slower, down his neck, along his collarbone, then across his chest. His fingers dusted through the fine hair and over the flat discs of his nipples. Raoul moaned slightly and Erik flicked a gaze back up to Raoul and the back down to his hands. Raoul slowly scooted back across the bed as Erik's hands went lower, along his sides and then to the waistband of his trousers. Very slowly, he undid a button, and then another. 'Remove them,' was a command uttered by the man who stood over him. Raoul did as he was told, stripping the fabric from his skin.

Erik gazed over Raoul's body as if he was dissecting an insect. Had he always wanted to see him like this? Or was he this curious to look upon the body of a male that was not his own? To look upon a man who was his rival for Christine? 'Did she love you for your pretty looks', he asked, his finger following the patch of hair that led down to his swollen member, 'or…?' His finger roamed over the entire length of his erection, resting at the tip. Raoul lifted his hips off the bed slightly. 'Erik is not as endowed as you are, nor is he as fine, but… he would have cherished Christine, body and soul.' His fingers closed around Raoul's cock, squeezing it once, twice.

'You are so compliant,' Erik said, pumping Raoul's cock in a steady motion. 'Yes, I am sure this is exactly why you came to me. You did not want to die, no; you wanted to feel the touch of Death.'

'Yes,' Raoul replied, his fingers gripping the silk sheets.

'You wanted to feel its lips,' Erik said, swiftly lowering himself to his knees before him. He raised Raoul's cock to his mouth and began to suck. Raoul cried out, pleasure overcoming him. He felt Erik's hands come down around his balls, cupping them and fondling them with each languorous suck. He could feel the warm release slowly building up in his groin. He resisted, but he felt Erik's tongue probe him. It was that moment when he spent himself into the mouth of Death. Erik greedily took it all and when he was finished, his lips left his cock. Raoul looked up from the bed to see Erik dab the side of his mouth with one of his long fingers.

The gaze that was shared between them was different now. Erik slowly began to remove his clothes, elegantly and determinedly. Raoul scooted up farther on the bed, waiting as the lithe specter was now naked and standing before him. With quick strides, Erik was now crawling across the bed until he was looking upon Raoul with a new-found curiosity and hunger. Raoul reached out and went to Erik's mask, hesitant to remove it. 'Remove it, so you may look upon Death in this moment.' So he did.

The face was the same, but age had crept into the places where some skin was left intact. How old was he? Fifty? It did not matter. The longer he stared, marveling over the hideousness, he felt a strange twinge of pity for the man. It was as if, in this intimate moment, he understood what his wife had said so many years ago on the top of the Garnier. Erik seemed to be waiting for a reply, a jest, a joke. 'Is this the face you wanted to see? Is this how you imagined Death, Vicomte?' Raoul shook his head.

The thin man moved past him, settling himself against the headboard of the bed. Raoul looked down to his penis, which rested between his bony hips. Raoul fisted Erik's cock within his own hand, in return making him moan. The sound that came forth from him was wicked and jubilant. Raoul continued, in the same manner that Erik had done to his own cock. In time, copious amounts of seed issued forth and Raoul had to bend down to taste it. When he finished, he looked back up at Erik whose face was gleefully triumphant. 'You have just tasted Death, Vicomte', he said, a hand running through Raoul's hair. 'You are dead now.'

'No,' Raoul replied, 'I am alive'.