Disclaimer: I do not own anything except the plot and turns of phrase in this phic. Everything else is divided up (not so evenly) between Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, and others.
A/N: I want to thank the people who have-- thus far-- enjoyed and reviewed my other E/N phic, "Confessions". Trying to revive an endangered ship is never easy, but it's certainly rewarding when I have readers like you. This one is a bit of a different fare from my last E/N Phic; I hope you enjoy!
She takes his mask and it flutters to the ground almost soundlessly. She breathes his name once.
"Erik."
They have forgotten-- for the moment-- that I am here. But I am, watching. I should feel immensely guilty. I do. Yet I cannot pull my eyes away from the sight before me. The corpse and his bride. Erik and his living wife. My cheeks are hot and burn brighter with every exchanged touch between them. My breath quickens with each kiss. I groan with each caress. I can almost feel them.
Almost.
Most men standing where I am would take note of Christine Daae's dress falling to the ground, revealing her naked curves, but to me, it hardly registers. I cannot pull my eyes from him. I watch Erik standing there, with her in his arms, fully exposed as he never has been before. He never has been for m ein any case. No clothes, no mask... No pretenses, no barriers. The stirrings of jealousy rumble in my chest as I watch them move to the bed and see their single moment of hesitation before they lose themselves in the ultimate physical pleasure. My mouth is dry as I watch him gently—oh so gently—transition from bottom to top, instinct overcoming trepidation. He kisses every exposed inch of her skin and she responds with contended sighs and moans. Each kiss placed on her makes my heart twist in pain in my chest with jealousy. And though I do not shut my eyes, my mind wanders back to another pair, entwined thusly, as they are watched carefully. ..
She was not my wife. A concubine, I suppose, in almost every sense of the word, although she never shared more than my bed. She was young, lithe, sweet faced. Nothing special. A horrid thing to say, perhaps, but she was not—and never would be—the love of my life. Still, my body ached for her touch. No. Not her touch. My body ached to be touched. But it was never her hand I specifically desired. She knew it. I knew it.
The servants often said I was too in love with my dead wife to desire any woman but her.
Still, she faithfully came to my quarters several times over the course of the years. I was grateful to alleviate myself when I could no longer stand it. But that fateful night, as our bodies moved together in the silent dance of intimacy, I did not think of Rookheeya. Her beautiful face was not what greeted me when I closed my eyes to imagine.
Long, pale fingers, I imagined, gently caressing my face and moving to grip my hips. Thin, dry lips kissing my skin and making trails down my body. Each touch set my soul on fire. Each kiss lifted me higher to a place of sheer bliss. There was a rhythm, in my mind, to our movements. We fit. It felt so right, like I was truly making love properly for the first time in years. In the dark of my mind, I could not see my imagined partner's face, but two hauntingly familiar, mismatched eyes looked back up at me in the darkness. And suddenly, I knew. And at the apex of pleasure, I couldn't help myself.
"Oh, Erik."
My first and only intelligible moan the entire night. I suppose in the past I'd reached this climax and called out Rookheeya's name to the poor girl. But never Erik's. Never, until then. My eyes rolled ceiling ward and closed for a moment as we reached the end. But they flew open towards the door and I saw a shadow grimly waiting for me there. And those same mismatched eyes of my fantasy widened with shock. I had enough of my mental capabilities to know what I had done. I looked down at the girl, whose expression almost matched Erik's. Horrified, silent shock.
I felt so wretched to buy her silence for life, but I couldn't have her telling my household of my Freudian slip. It would, no doubt, reach my betters and lose me the estate and comfortable living necessary for my son's failing health. As for Erik, I knew he would never tell a soul. He pretended the next day and the next that he had not been there. That he didn't know. That he hadn't heard. But he knew. He'd seen and he'd heard. Just as I did now.
My ragged, excited breath caught in my chest as they reached their own crescendo in that coffin of a bed. It was like the final bit of a grand duet. Her cry of pleasure—and his—both rose into the night like music. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't look away.
And when it was all over, I heard two voices moan—mine and hers—quietly, passionately.
"Erik."
He looked up and ours eyes met, as they had all those years ago in Persia. I now knew why he'd never told me what he knew. I knew that he truly loved Christine Daae. And not me.
Never me.
Remember, reviews are wonderful things. Flames are not. So if you don't care for slash (or hate it, whichever one you'd prefer to say), don't review.