Hello folks. Here it is, my very first fic. Nghhhh. I originally wrote this when I was… what? 15, I think? Something like that?
I remember reading Phantom for the first time in French and being so intrigued by the persistent, or - dare I make use of the literary device of personification - obstinate repetition of the phrase "blazing eyes" or "yeux de braise" during the entirety of the "Apollo's Lyre" chapter (which is my favourite chapter from the novel).
I steadily started imagining how things would be from Erik's perspective, and, in the end, this fic was born. I have altered some things from the book, as you'll undoubtedly notice, and I'm pretty sure I've wandered away from some Leroux canon as well, but alas, there's a reason it's called fanfiction.
On a sidenote, this is heavily edited - my first draft was around 800 words long, this is 2200-something.
You will get some mild anti-R/C vibes from this, but please don't hate me, I wrote this in my early Phandom days, it does not reflect my current feelings and stance on R/C, which is a pairing I've grown to love. To be honest, even back then, I didn't hate it. I just didn't love it as much as I loved E/C.
Anyway, enough ranting! I hope you will enjoy this. Leave a review, if you wish ^_^
Yeux De Braise
The blazing eyes, albeit not being discernible through the dark pits that hosted them, had seen so much - yes, they had witnessed numerous atrocities, deeds that would better be left unspoken, acts that were not for faint-hearted spectators, acts that would indubitably make even the toughest stomach clench in disgust, and the most dauntless of souls tremble.
Yes, those blazing eyes had borne witnesses to many horrors, in their day. Of course, they were compelled to witness the horror that was his face daily, and what ghastly, unspeakable sight could be more unbearable to look at than that?
Well, here it was, taking place in front of him, in all its cruel glory, the sight that put them all to shame. Under different circumstances, it would've undoubtedly been a convivial spectacle, and through different eyes, it would not have been even slightly repellent, rather, it would have been positively charming - but through his, he couldn't help but be disgusted.
You see, the blazing eyes, albeit having seen acts of pure and undeniable cruelty, could not bear to watch the humble act of love transpire before them. For the sight of the young lovers kissing on the rooftop of the Opera House, the relentless moonlight shining down and showering their pale faces in a brilliant glow, greatly complimenting the meeting of their lips, outlining every touch and and every movement, the cold only emphasising the mingling of their breaths, and the heavy silence of the usually buzzing Parisian streets, supplemented by the spectator's own advanced hearing, amplifying every subtle sound they produced - that was the one thing he had deemed intolerable to look at in a remarkably long time.
He had been creeping in the shadows, trying his best to stay hidden, hoping his presence would go unnoticed by the unsuspecting sweethearts - which was unlikely, considering that, in his current state, he wasn't exactly a paragon of subtlety, dressed in his flamboyant Red Death costume, as he was. He had remained silent, reducing his figure to a mere shadow, and, as it happens, he had heard everything as, seeking solace, she had unbosomed herself to the Vicomte about the events of the last months, about their relationship (if you could call it that), about the bonds that tied her to him, about his face.
"Blatant betrayal, shameless treachery in its most transparent form!" he thought, and his eyes blazed even more, newfound rage shining in them, a fury that had lain dormant in him for a long while now, having to tolerate one act of brazen disloyalty after another on her part. He removed his mask in a swift move, so as to be able to get a better glimpse of the two insolent youngsters that had challenged his temper on so many occasions in the past weeks. The cold night air grazed his face and he shivered, his skin unaccustomed to its stinging touch. Just as he was about to put it back on, he stopped dead.
Without giving as much as a warning in advance to neither him nor the Vicomte de Chagny, she did the unthinkable; his virtuous and pious Christine, who he had never thought capable of such perfidiousness, who would shy away from his touch whenever he dared to attempt placing his hand over hers, had leaned forward and kissed the young noble on the lips, catching them both off guard.
The breaths of both men hitched. Erik gaped at the show that was unwinding before him, his eyes unwittingly widening in disbelief, whereas the Vicomte closed his in sheer bliss. The former had frozen in place, the latter only grew more confident and steadily cupped Christine's cheek in his hand.
The sight was positively sickening.
And it was irony at its finest, God's perennial prank on him at its pinnacle; something as plain and innocent as his beautiful songbird, his Christine, kissing another man, was such a nauseating display to behold… for him, of all people! Him, who had witnessed and caused so much death, and torture, and pain, and destruction, with his very hands, and hadn't even blinked, him who could never escape his own grotesque visage, him who had to live with it and get used to it always being the only thing staring back at him everytime he mustered an adequate amount of witless courage to look at himself in a mirror! His Christine, kissing another man, and like a coward, he felt the urge to look away. His Christine…
In all his years of witnessing one barbarity after another, he had never felt such unquestionable need to avert his eyes from what lay in front of him. Not until now, now that the otherwise mundane act of his beloved and her inamorato's lips touching - an act that could not be compared, by no stretch of the imagination, to the brutalities he had seen and done, and not one of them had even come close to making him flinch - was inspiring a genuine dread inside him, one that was quite unlike any other he had experienced before.
The blazing eyes, albeit being doomed to remain constantly open, owing to the absence of eyelids (which had never really posed as a problem, as the beholder hardly ever slept), at that very moment, yearned for nothing more than to shut tight and shelter him from the nightmare taking solid form before them.
But, despite everything, the beholder knew his wishes for salvation were in vain. He wanted to avert his gaze, he wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't. Because, nature, the same nature that had shaped him and made him so awful to look at, was forcing him to watch. Every painful second, every negligible and insignificant move, every husky sigh and barely audible moan, he would have to watch. Time had started to move at a slower pace, and it seemed to him as if the moon had suddenly become brighter, brighter than before, and the clouds that typically adorned the night sky had made way for its light to shine through, down upon them, making every minuscule detail of their forms clearly visible for his viewing pleasure. A tiny voice was whispering in his ear, taunting him "Look! Look at them! Don't you dare turn away!" and his stare froze in place. What was in actuality a few seconds seemed like hours to him. There was no escaping this, now he knew.
Following them here after the gala was a mistake, he should have stayed in the cellars all along, he would have at least saved himself from this merciless assail to his senses! He felt the unparalleled urge to scream until his lungs gave up on him and his vision became blurry, anything to frighten them and make them stop. Except his lungs had given up on him already, he couldn't speak, his voice was stuck in his throat. A hoarse whisper of her name was all that managed to leave his lips, replacing the usual angelic lilt with which his voice beckoned to her, but he had once again sunk to complete silence by the time he had reached the last syllable.
He persisted, he tried to call out his beloved's name a second time. He failed. He took a harsh intake of breath in a third and desperate attempt to coax her away from the Vicomte. Before he could even speak, he realised that the deep inhalation of the chilly night air had come out louder than he had intended it to, and he saw her look up. His voice got caught in his mouth, he tried to hide, he couldn't have her see him like this, bare-faced! It was pitch-black at this hour, she wouldn't be able to discern his form in the darkness, would she?
His eyes betrayed him, glimmering in the night. Much to the horror of both, they locked with hers. She had spotted him. He saw her shiver and go rigid as her flushed face turned ashen in just a matter of seconds (whether that was due to the sight of his deformed face or his very presence, he couldn't tell), her delicate frame shrinking against the marble wall behind her, and she yanked at Raoul's sleeve, frantically withdrawing from his embrace, only to have him nestle her under his arm once again.
The Vicomte refused to leave yet, and she dared not move. Rather, she clung to his chest stiffly, trying her best to conceal the agitation that was starting to consume her, making every effort to employ his attention so that he wouldn't look up and notice the shadow peering down at them with its two glowing orbs.
For another ten minutes, they stayed there, Christine looking up every now and then. Sure enough, he was still hovering above them, resting behind the maiden that was seated to Apollo's left. Something in his gaze made her shudder. He was he staring at them with a stone-like guise plastered to his face, his features perfectly unreadable. How come he hadn't unleashed his wrath upon them yet, as was so typical of him?
How come, really? He would have been wondering the exact same thing, had his brain not turned into a vacant space, occupied only by fractal, unfocused thoughts.
He could hear them whispering, but their quiet voices fell on deaf ears. He had ceased to pay attention to everything they said; he just stared blankly into the void in a nebulous trance, a static in his head. Occasionally, his ear would pick up the Vicomte's voice silently cooing Christine's name, and each utterance of it felt like a stab to his chest. At one point, he actually heard him say something about killing him. Oh, how he wanted to lean forward and let him know that, at that very moment, he wished for nothing more.
After what seemed like centuries, the lovers got up to leave, their voices gradually growing louder as they walked away from the statue of Apollo, teasing his ears, deafening him, driving him crazy. Even if he wanted to, he could not ignore them. This was no dalliance, no fling, he could see it now. She loved the Vicomte, and he was a fool to test her fidelity. But oh, how he wished it had been him in the Vicomte's place, how he wished it had been him holding her, touching her, kissing her. Nevertheless, in his heart of hearts he knew, had always known, that this reality was one that belonged to his dreams alone.
She loved the Vicomte, and that was definite.
The night air touching his face did not bother him anymore. He could barely feel it.
To his surprise, he didn't feel like going into one of his usual paroxysms. He was too… what was that feeling, even?
Numbness.
He was too numb to move, too numb to scream. Too numb to even stand, he felt like his feet would give way under him at any moment. As he clung to the statue of Apollo for support, his eyes met his palms, which covered them, protecting him, ensuring that he would never have to face the agonizing sight that he had just witnessed ever again.
Sudden realisation settled in - he should be happy for her! He should be happy that a man who could offer her so much more than a life in a damp cellar and a short-lived marriage that would abruptly end with a funeral, a man of royal blood who could give her a life in prosperity, and wealth, and tranquility, and Elysian comfort, truly loved her. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to do that, he couldn't help but hate them both. For his impertinence, and her fickleness, and their combined audacity, and their idiocy, and… and their youthfulness… and their beauty.
And their love. And how flawlessly their lips locked. And how virginal they looked in the moonlight. And how breathtaking the artistic grace of it all was.
And how his eyes, the eyes that had seen so, so much, still couldn't bear to watch.
And the blazing eyes, albeit having always been fierce and smoldering, were now slowly, oh so painfully, outrageously slowly, starting to become damp. And in the silence of the rooftop of the Opera House, with the blinding city lights and the streets buzzing underneath once again, the blazing eyes were now being deprived of their blaze, as it was getting extinguished by a familiar bitter liquid, for the beholder had covered them with his hands and was silently weeping.