Alright you guys. I have no time, spotty commitment, but what I do have is a passion for Cherik and a half-baked idea for a sequel to the 1990's miniseries.

I also figured that, since Cherik Appreciation Day is coming up (March 18), I'll post this prologue and launch right into the thick of things.

Readers can also keep of this story by following my tumblr: smokeyloki. I can't post links here, but there's a link to it on my profile page. You can also search for my username and you'll probably find me.

Disclaimer: I in no way, shape, or form own any part of the 1990's Phantom of the Opera miniseries. All I'm trying to do is transform that horribly sad ending into a...bearable ending.

Proscenium (Noun): The frame (often golden) around the stage of most opera houses. It separates the audience from the stage and the performance.

When Erik was a small child, he used to play amongst the rocks of the Underground, building fortresses and whole villages out of broken bits of stone. Sometimes, during his scurrying from one place to another, his foot would catch on a piece of rubble and he'd dive to the ground. There he would lie and set up such a wailing that his distraught father was soon to be found at his side. A pair of strong arms, covered in a fine layer of dust, calloused and rougher than most fathers', would wrap around the child whilst reassurances were whispered into Erik's ear. Father and son would sit in the darkness this way, the child sniffling and whimpering, the father trying to shush each sound. Sometimes little Erik asked for his mother, to hear her comforting songs once more and to rest his cheek against her own soft complexion. Then the silence became like that of a tomb, and the father's tears mingled with that of his son. In those moments, most precious and intimate, there was no consolation; there was naught but that solitude which is known only by the outcasts.

Aloneness was a defining characteristic of each lingering memory. From as far back as he could remember, the father and his son had been alone, and the father suspected that this solitude would cling like a shadow even until their last moments. No matter how he pictured it, Erik's final breath would be witnessed by himself…or by no one at all.

He had never once considered her.

Erik – how he had grown! Had he really been that little boy with the tousled red mane, unable to be tamed by his father's copious usage of comb and lake water? This couldn't be the child who had mimicked his father's prayers at night, kneeling on hard stone with his masked face turned dutifully to the bits of light that managed to pierce the catacombs' gloom. He certainly was a sight to behold now, with his well-pressed suits, slicked hair, and a supple stature that had surpassed his father's some time ago – his Erik was too still. He made no protest to his father's closeness, nor did he flinch when his father so-gently adjusted himself so Erik's head rested against his chest. He thought, for a brief moment, that perhaps Erik said something to him, a "thank you", or his name, "Gerard", or even that of his mother. But the ringing of the bullet still sung in Gerard's ear, so he couldn't be sure of what he heard. All that was real to the father was the warmth of his son's body, and of the redness which stained his vision: red tousled locks of hair which his fingers itched to smooth, a patch of crimson which colored Erik's otherwise-spotless raiment.

He was also aware of her.

She with the gold hair and the voice of an angel…never once in his imaginings had Gerard conjured such a person to be present at that moment. He could guess that Erik had never once considered it either, if his unblinking stare as she approached was any indication. It was as if he were afraid lest he blink and have her vanish into thin air.

She was crying, her face distorted by sorrow. It seemed a lifetime ago that those same tears had been for joy as her beauteous voice – one blessed by God and sent straight from the Heavens! – had mixed with Erik's own. If Erik had possessed the strength, he would be wiping those tears from her cheeks, whispering to her the way Gerard had done with him. All Erik could do was stare, and he had breath only for a single word:

"Christine…"

The rasping tremor of Erik's voice pierced Gerard through, but it did not ward off the angel. Rather, Christine drew nearer, so that the distance between herself and Erik was all but nonexistent. Never had Gerard seen anyone so close to his son, save himself and his mother. Erik followed her every movement, his eyes trying to communicate all the words which could not be spoken. Her name was the only thing on his lips.

When Christine moved to the mask, Gerard felt himself stiffen. He could do nothing to stop her, yet his heart clenched when he heard his son's piteous moans. The red stain had grown larger; surely every breath and sound was torment to Erik!

Then Christine – sweet, innocent, loving Christine! – removed the mask, and Gerard was certain that neither he nor Erik breathed. But instead of fainting, or screaming, or turning away, she held his gaze. In fact, she leaned forward and, with a feather-light touch, placed a kiss on Erik's forehead. Her tears fell on his cheeks and mingled with his.

When she drew back, Erik's eyes shone with new light. Never had Gerard seen an expression so peaceful, so bewildered, nor so enchanted. He cradled his son's body, but he could have been a million miles away for all that Christine and Erik knew. Their worlds consisted only of each other, and their gentle gazes remained fixed until Erik's eyes closed. He sighed, a soft, trite sound, and his head lolled against his father's chest.

Only once Erik's eyes had shut did Christine look to Gerard. Her watery gaze met the father's, whose own eyes sparkled with unshed tears. She smiled at him, though it trembled, and a moment later she was lifted into Philippe's arms. The young man, hardly more than a boy, yet so stoic, so weary-looking behind his speckled eyes, tucked Christine against his side, and she nestled protectively into the fabric of his vest. Gerard watched them go.

There were so many things he wished he could say! Apologies, exclamations, well-wishes…but a gust of chill wind racked him and snatched the words from his lips. He could only watch the couple vanish behind a crest of decorated roof, a silent blessing in his heart. They would be happy.

Gerard rested against Erik's head. One hand moved to support Erik's chest – still warm – and he considered the body draped across his lap. How still, how solemn he was compared to Christine and Philippe!

The policemen moved about, murmuring as they glanced towards Gerard and Erik. Gerard would hear their suppositions and suspicious rumors soon enough. Before the night was over, the opera would be abuzz with a new story: one of a man who'd finally lived up to his title of 'the Phantom of the Opera'.

"Come now, Gerard," one of the policemen said. He was dressed more nicely than the others, and despite the gentle tone, there was a commanding bite to his words which suggested a high rank. "It's late. And after what happened…" he gestured wildly in the air, at a loss to explain either to Gerard or to himself what, exactly, had just taken place. "It's time we all went home."

Gerard didn't deign to answer. He pulled his son closer to his chest.

Underneath his father's steady clasp, Erik's heart fluttered.