Ladies and gents, welcome to Watch It Burn! This is a story that has been lurking at the back of my mind for several years now. I pray that I can do the magnificent tale justice.
A few things to note before we begin: This story is rated M. I find Erik to be an intense character; to tone down his aggression and intensity would be a defamation to the complicated character that he is. There will be elements of violence, language, and sexuality. You have been warned.
The characters in this story are modeled after the 2004 film depiction (Gerry Butler as Erik, Emmy Rossum as Christine, etc etc . . .).
This story begins two years after the end of the 2004 film, also taking on a bit of Love Never Dies, assuming that Christine returned to Erik the night before her wedding to our lovely Raoul.
I love and respect Raoul and will do him justice in these chapters. Though I love Erik and Christine, I fully understand why she chose Raoul and his promise of stability. There will be no Raoul bashing here!
Without further ado, here it is. Please enjoy and let me know if I have made any mistakes. I am doing this solo.
The sound of shattered glass tore through the murky silence. The tinkling of tiny shards colliding with damp stone followed shortly, a cacophony of noise echoing emptily throughout the cavern. The reverberations died down slowly, leaving only the heaving breaths of the man who had hurled the empty bottle of whisky. A string of profanity soon escaped parted lips as his throbbing migraine worsened in response to the rash action. He stumbled backward, arm falling limply to his side, and collapsed onto the organ bench in defeat.
The whisky had been a welcome addition to Erik's wretched evening. The amber liquid had scorched down his throat, bringing with it a numbness that he so desperately needed. Though he would rather die than admit the fact, the alcohol had become a savior and a shield that guarded him from decidedly . . . painful memories. This evening had been particularly difficult. He had been plagued with never-ending thoughts of Christine. Her wide, innocent eyes shone with tears in his memory. She was walking towards him slowly . . . Reaching for his hand . . . Taking it tenderly, only to deposit the gleaming ring . . . backing away with pain in her gaze . . . And she was gone, escaping on his boat with the damned Vicomte . . .
Erik snarled in rage, shoving himself off the bench. Stumbling only slightly, he stormed to the cupboards and practically tore the grimy curtain from its rod in feverish haste. He scoured the shelves desperately, shoving bottle after empty bottle aside, fruitless in his efforts.
"DAMN you!" he fumed, slamming a clenched fist against the creaking wood. It splintered effortlessly against his violent hit. Before he could react, bottles toppled to the floor and the silence was once again mangled by the dreadful sound of breaking glass.
Though he was late to respond, Erik made a slurred attempt to catch a bottle. His vision swam, and before he knew it, he was falling directly into the mess of glass. In a moment of rare panic, he thought of his hands; they were all he had left. They were the only portion of his horrid body that he could stand. Twisting, he tucked his hands against his chest and landed heavily on his shoulder. Sweet pain, warm and stinging, slid up his arm drunkenly. A hiss escaped his cracked lips. Relishing in his momentary weakness, images of Christine made their way into his mind once again, and they were the most agonizing memories of them all . . .
Her lips were moving against his. Her fingers were clenched in fistfuls of his shirt. Erik's hands were pressed to the small of her back, pulling her close to his body . . . And then she was lying down, pale skin gleaming against the crushed velvet of the bed . . . And he was over her, descending to kiss her once more, fevered and anticipant –
"NO!" Erik erupted, staggering to his feet once again. Crimson blood pooled through his soiled shirt, small trickles dripping from the ends of his fingers. He embraced the slow burn as a welcome distraction from Christine's comparatively scalding presence in his thoughts. Teeth bared, Erik ignored his wounds and stormed for the entrance to the labyrinth that connected his elusive lair to the outside world. Seizing a large bag of coins and his cloak along the way, he pressed a white half mask to the disfigured side of his face and plunged into the darkness that he had once known as home . . . if having a home were a possibility for a monster.
He knew each twist and turn by memory and had no troubles navigating the tunnels. They were, however, rather complicated while one was drunk. Gritting his teeth as the tumultuous migraine reached a new peak, he tried to focus through the alcohol-induced haze and speed up his pace, winding through the familiar tunnels on pure instinct. All the while, Christine's ghost followed his every step.
The darkness had once been a friend and welcome companion. And now, all it held was the lurking demons of his past, ready to spring at the first chance they received, claws grasping at his throat and digging for his heart. Christine had once been all that Erik could think of, a sweet rose amidst the thorns of his life. The mere glimpse of her in his mind's eye was now enough to drive him positively mad with grief and unbearable agony.
It was an admitted relief for Erik when he finally stepped into the crisp evening air. He was met by an excited whicker from Cesar, who stamped his foot and pranced in greeting. Inhaling deeply, Erik approached the stallion and gave him a solid pat on the neck, haphazardly throwing the saddle and blanket onto his back. Too impatient and irritated to even think about the bridle, Erik swung into the saddle and dug his heels into Cesar's sides, winding knots of mane into his gloveless fingers. Cesar responded eagerly, rearing slightly and erupting with speed into the streets. A marvelous horse, indeed.
The whipping wind seemed to chisel away at Erik's inebriation, and soon sobriety began to gleam through the cracks. It was not a welcome thing.
A new stream of foul language slipped from his mouth, and Erik urged Cesar even faster. He needn't worry; the brilliant creature knew exactly where his master was guiding him. Soon enough, Cesar slid to a startling halt in front of the city's seediest tavern, shaking his head triumphantly. Erik leapt from the saddle and landed gracefully despite his haste. Throwing the reins over a hitching post out front, he strode to the front door and swung it open with more force than necessary.
The smell of the tavern was akin to a brick wall. Alcohol, the stench of body odor, and the perfume of whores greeted Erik's nostrils as he passed the entryway. The response was instantaneous; three prostitutes approached him swiftly, flashing their smiles gaily and adjusting their bodices to plump their breasts.
"Hello there, miseur," the first one purred. "Fancy a lady tonight? I've got a special offer, just for you."
Erik sneered, amused at the blatant suspicion in her eyes as she observed his half-mask, pitifully attempting to be secretive. On any normal night, he cloaked the right side of his face in hooded black as to avoid stares and unwanted attention. He was recklessly desperate this evening and had disregarded all precautions. This was no worrisome matter. The legend of the Phantom of the Opera was well known, but this common folk could never have afforded an evening at the opera. And so, the legend remained just that – a legend. Chuckling to himself, he glared in the woman's direction.
"Madame," he murmured, voice barely audible above the racket of the tavern, "if I ever fancied a lady . . ." he placed a finger under the woman's chin, pulling her gaze to meet his burning emerald eyes. "She certainly would never reduce herself to the shame of opening her legs to every man who entered this bar."
He caught her flying hand before it contacted his face. Making a disapproving "tssk" noise, he threw her arm to the side, causing her to stumble.
"Oi, oi, oi!" A voice issued from behind the bar, "Sir, do I need to ask you to leave?"
Erik became painfully aware that the eyes of every person in the tavern were now fixated on him. The three whores around him stared, disgust and fear written all over their faces. He straightened, throwing his cloak to the side. Smiling pleasantly, every word laced with poison, he explained.
"No, misieur, that will not be necessary. I was simply in the process of deterring your . . . women. I find their advancement and offering of services . . ." he glanced to the woman he had thrown. Lips curling, he threw the word in her direction: "Repulsive." Looking back at the bartender, he lowered himself into a bow. "I do apologize for the interruption. You can rest assured that it will not happen again."
The bartender's eyes lit with recognition. "Ah, forgive me. I did not realize it was you, sir. Normally you don a hood, see." He beckoned for Erik to sit at the counter, to which Erik obliged with a flick of his cloak. As soon as he sat, the ruckus resumed, and the incident was forgotten in seconds.
"You needn't act in such a manner with the ladies," the bartender sighed, pouring Erik a glass of choice whiskey. "They're just doing their job, after all."
"Ladies!" Erik scoffed, Christine's enchanting brown eyes flashing through his mind. "They are disgustingly far from the sorts." Glowering, he took a long drink from his glass, welcoming the burn.
The bartender, a man named Enzo, shook his head as he plucked up a glass and began to clean it. "Most of the men who come into my bar have no complaints."
"Because those men have never known a true lady."
"What do you expect, Bastien? They're men of labor and poverty! They know nothing else."
Erik's lips twitched at the use of his alias. "No," he whispered, bringing the glass to his lips, "I suppose they do not." Christine smiled in his memory, mouth pressing against his, tongue parting his lips . . .
The glass took the place of her mouth as Erik took a hearty gulp of whisky. Standing abruptly, he nodded at Enzo. "Please bring me another when I have emptied this glass, and do not stop there. I do not plan to feel anything by the time I leave tonight."
Enzo scowled. "You'll drink yourself to death one of these days, Bastien."
Erik turned quickly, gliding across the room. If only I were so lucky, he thought, sliding into his normal booth at the darkened back corner of the bar. He took another drink and pinched the skin of his forehead, teeth clenched against the barrage of memories and the pain they brought with them. He sat that way for several moments, his entire body tense, until the memories began to blur behind the curtain of alcohol once again. In his mind, Christine walked away from him, pulling all of his pain with her.
He couldn't stop the sigh of relief as he downed the rest of his glass. Enzo nodded in his direction and filled another drink dutifully. It was while the burly bartender was picking his way through the crowd that Erik's impeccable hearing snagged a piece of conversation that ran his blood cold.
" . . . de Chagny family . . . Yeah . . ."
His eyes blazed at the mention of the de Chagny name. His hands seized up, grasping the glass in raw fury. He darted his eyes back and forth, searching feverishly for the man who had mentioned the name.
"You look as if you've seen a ghost," Enzo interrupted, placing the fresh glass in front of Erik, who ignored him pointedly. Quickly realizing that he would get no response from the brooding man, Enzo sighed and returned to the bar, glancing over his shoulder.
Erik had finally found the one who had spoken, and now he was fully focused on the conversation.
"You joking me, Victor? That's gotta be a rumor."
The man called Victor raised his glass, beer sloshing over his fist. "I'm telling you, I saw it with my own two eyes! There were flames everywhere, you could see them for miles! Not to mention the smoke made my bloody eyes water all night . . ." He took a large swallow from his glass, wiping his moustache on a filthy sleeve. "There were workers rescuing maids an' butlers an' whatnot through the night. The mansion had a lot innit to burn!" He looked around pointedly at his drinking friends. "They lost a lot of people, including the Vicomte himself, and I hear they still haven't located the Vicomtess."
Erik was on his feet before he could even think. Blind horror driving his every move, he stormed across the room and grabbed the man by the collar, raising him out of his chair with inhuman strength.
"You LIE!" He roared, causing a blanket of deafening silence to fall on the room.
Victor choked in bewilderment, dropping his beer. The glass broke against the cobblestone, the fermented liquid sloshing against Erik's shoes. Clawing at the iron grip around his collar, Victor cried out, "It's the truth, I swear it!" Gasping for breath, he added, "My boss an' I had a job to do out that way! We seen it! I promise!"
"And Christine?" Erik snarled, shaking the man.
"The Vicomtess?! Lady de Chagny hasn't been found! Not even a trace of her body! I'm telling you – I –,"
The crowd seemed to come to their senses at that moment, leaping to their feet and converging on Erik with angry shouts. However, before they could lay so much as a finger on him, he had released Victor and was flying for the exit. Tossing the entire bag of coins onto the counter, he slammed the door open with enough force to rattle the building. The customers heard the piercing neigh of a horse, and as soon as he came, he was gone.
Christine was at the forefront of Erik's mind, and he now allowed her to stay. Victor's words rang in his head over and over:
"Lady de Chagny hasn't been found - not even a trace of her body!"
Squeezing Cesar's sides with his knees, he guided him furiously through the streets.
He had lost her twice . . . three times was unbearable. Unthinkable. He would surely have no reason left to dwell on this tortuous earth.
"Christine," he whispered, her name caressing over his tongue. He had not spoken it since he had left her . . . until this night.
She must be alive.
Angst. So much Erik angst.
There you have it, folks. A setup for a grand story! Please review and let me know what you think. I thrive on constructive criticism.
Just so you all know, this story has a plan and is outlined to completion. I have no intention of abandoning it.