A/N: I've talked about wanting a fic that worked with Erik's morphine addiction with more accuracy. I didn't find one, so I am working on this. I am being as careful as I can with creating an accurate representation. Heavy trigger warning for drug abuse. Leroux-verse, inspired by Kay canon. Looking at 2 or 3 chapters. Please, feel free to review!

It had started with the piano. He was predictable at the bench; I'd seen him sit too many times to disregard a slip in his ritual- press his knuckles together until they produced a resounding crack, roll his narrow shoulders and raise his hands, fingers unfurled, over the slim rows of ivory. He'd inhale once, through his mouth, and lower his fingers to just barely touch the keys as he exhaled, looking down at the instrument with a relaxed fondness that was reserved solely for inanimate objects- he regarded the piano as a friend far closer than any living being would ever be.
That night had been much the same; it would have passed without event, had it not been for the shirt he was wearing.
It was new. I didn't know where he got his clothing from. I knew he ventured above ground for necessities every so often, but I couldn't imagine him allowing a tailor to come near him with a tape measure. Regardless, his clothes always seemed to fit perfectly, but the sleeves on this new shirt were too long, and it irritated him. He didn't comment on it, but he picked at them throughout the day. It was impossible not to notice, when he had been my only company for so many days. I watched him in the way that scientists watch animals- I found his habits and patterns, and any variable was enough to set me on edge. His irritation could make him short-tempered; I resolved to avoid anything that might provoke him. Most of the day was perfectly pleasant- until the break in his pattern at the piano bench. After cracking his knuckles, he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, and a gasp slipped through my lips before I could think. Angry purple bruises and open sores followed the protruding lines of his veins, and I knew- he was not the only man I'd seen with those marks. He wrenched his sleeve down again, tense with the realization that he'd made a mistake. There was a long silence. He sat frozen, hand still clutching his wrist.
"Erik?"
I heard my voice before I knew I had decided to speak. He remained still, staring straight ahead.
"Look at me, Erik."
After a moment's reluctance, he turned and met my eyes. He was sitting; for once, I was taller than him. I knelt next to the bench and guided his hand away from his wrist so I could roll his sleeve back up. The damaged skin was cold under my fingertips; I expected him to resist, but he only shuddered when my hand brushed the bare skin of his arm.
"Some of these look swollen, Erik," I said, forcing my voice to stay level. "You should bandage them- you know that. You know how to care for injuries."
I had learned to take talking to him like a game of logic. There was no margin for error- if I didn't look a few steps ahead, I'd lose. He'd fly into a temper, or shut down entirely- and he was a brutally difficult opponent. Conversations were more like matches, each of us moving our pawns in a carefully constructed dance, each working not to set the other off. It pains me to say so, but Erik's temper could draw out the worst in me, too. I had raised my voice to him before, and although he was larger than me, undoubtedly stronger than me, he seemed to shrink when I made my anger clear; it never lasted, but it was swift and caused unbelievable tension. I didn't know the extent of what he was capable of, but what I knew was enough to sufficiently convince me that his temper was something to avoid. When he frightened me, I could frighten myself. I learned to read him- his face was hidden, but the way he held himself told more than he seemed to think. He tilted his head at me, and I could see the slightest hint of his brow furrowing through the eye holes on his mask.
"That's your concern, then? Swollen cuts?"
"One of many," I answered carefully, rolling his sleeve back down and focusing on meeting his steady gaze. He studied me, and we lapsed into another uncomfortable silence. He wouldn't be the one to break it. "It seems- uncharacteristic."
"You dance around the subject," he said, his voice almost a taunt. I felt a flare of irritation.
"Fine, then. Why drugs? I can hardly see you enjoying dependence on anything. And you are, aren't you- dependent? Addicted?"
The teasing lilt of his voice vanished, and his eyes darkened. "And now you accuse without understanding."
"I'm not a child. I know what the bruises mean. You do it often. You've done it while I've been here- while I'm asleep? Or are you using it to function normally? I know it happens- I know people who use too much can't behave normally without it. So is that where you are?"
"All men have their vices," he said, breaking eye contact and looking back at the piano keys.
"Not all vices are like this. They don't eat you alive- they won't kill you." My voice wavered; it was out of my mouth before I processed the words. Kill him. It could- I hadn't thought that far. I let go of his wrist, moved a few paces away and sat on the edge of one of his chair. I felt dizzy. He still stared at his piano, and after a moment, shook his head.
"After everything- this will not be what kills me."
"It can kill anybody. Especially after everything." I hardly knew what I was referring to, but it was clear enough that he was unhealthy- emaciated and, despite his strength, almost brittle. Like he was balancing on the edge of deterioration.
"Erik is not anybody," he sneered, the muscles in his shoulders tightening- his temper was building, but my frustration only grew as he grew defensive. I leaned forward; even as I spoke, I could hear the edge to my voice, and a part of my mind screamed- stop!
"You are bound by the same human limits as anyone else- you know how you're killing yourself. Are you trying to fade away, Erik? Do you want it to take you away gently? Do you ever enjoy it?"
"There was a time. There was a time Erik enjoyed it- and now he needs it- what would you have him do, Christine? Would you have me stop?"
I fell silent, uncertain. He was looking at me again, fierce golden eyes narrow and accusing. He had asked so many questions in one! It was not whether I would have him stop- it was whether I would bear the consequences of him doing so- whether I was willing to see it. I had heard stories of how difficult it was; I'd never seen, but some part of me knew, and my stomach dropped. My throat closed; I couldn't answer him. The silence seemed hours long; I stared at the floor until a chord jarred me out of my own head, back into the room with him.
"Shall we proceed, then?"
The lesson was not productive. My mind was elsewhere; so was his. He sent me away early, choosing to play by himself while I retreated to my room. I was relieved. His company was not aggressive, but I read a hardly-concealed bitterness in every one of his movements. It wasn't until the evening, after eating in separate rooms (assuming he ate at all) that we sat in the parlor together again, as was our custom. He read a thick leather-bound book with intense interest, providing me with a rare opportunity to watch him without him noticing. I caught a tremor in his right hand and felt a pulling in my chest- concern for him. I could not fathom why. He clearly felt no concern for himself, and still. I knew his movements so well. My mind probed at the idea of it- a world where Erik did not tap his foot to the rhythms that doubtlessly played in his head. Where he didn't tilt his head and open subtly towards his object of interest, or incessantly crack his knuckles, or- sing. I shut my eyes briefly, only to open them and fix on him again.
"I would," I said. He looked up as though he'd forgotten that I was in the room, brow raised.
"Excuse me?"
"Have you stop. I would."
He set his book aside, attention full on me again. "You would…"
I hesitated, took a breath, and nodded. He stirred uneasily in his chair, and the silence between us spoke of a grim mutual understanding. He clasped his trembling hands together and leaned forward, staring straight ahead; I settled in my seat, tilted my head back, and shut my eyes, consumed with anxiety. It didn't matter. Our wordless agreement was binding; we both knew. Nobody stopped without help. Frightening as it was- for so many reasons- we would endure it together.