A/N: My first attempt at Pharoga, written for Melancholy's Child on her birthday :)
"I am going to die, daroga."
The words did not sink in, not at first. The Persian's mind simply filtered them out. He had last seen Erik with the vicomte and the soprano, and now Erik was here in his flat and they were missing, and bile churned in his stomach as he demanded to know where they were.
Erik, clearly out of his wits, only repeated himself. "I am going to die."
It was all Nadir could do not to throttle him, if it meant rattling loose the answers that he needed. It was only with vehement repetition and a firm grip on Erik's arm that he finally wrested the truth from the lips beneath the mask. The young couple were alive, and safe, and he was suddenly so drowsy with relief that he sank into a chair, barely able to register Erik's tale, let alone distinguish between the fact and hyperbole contained therein.
Over the next few days, the conversation began to come back to him in fleeting scraps, each fuzzy around the edges. … dying … where she could find my body … will send you papers …
It finally hit him, four days after he watched that dark and rail-thin figure step into a cab on the street below his flat: his friend fully expected to die.
For all his years, Erik was inexperienced in matters of the heart. He had not been made to weather such rejection and heartbreak before, in his youth, as so many men did—and perhaps, then, he did not realize that time could heal such wounds.
Or perhaps he did realize. Perhaps he simply did not believe there was time enough to heal this wound, at this point.
Either way, the man expected to die of love, and though Nadir was not certain that such a feat was possible, he would not have put it past Erik to find a way. Thus it was that he found himself rushing to the Opera late at night and descending into its cellars, all the while praying that he was not too late.
It unnerved him, coming down here again. The dank chill conjured a barrage of recent memories and an accompanying wave of nausea. Further, he knew of Erik's propensity for setting traps and alarms. He comforted himself with the knowledge that, should he fall prey to one such trap, then at least Erik would have to fetch him.
That was, assuming Erik was alive.
But Nadir's journey downward went uninterrupted. It was too quick, too easy—almost as though the sinister devices had been disabled. And then he realized: it was for her. Erik had done everything to ensure that she would find his body.
His heart thudded faster, louder, and he picked up his pace.
Finally he reached the dreaded lake, with its unending silence and blueish light. The boat was moored at its edge. He had one foot firmly planted in the stern before he spotted the note affixed to the bow: it bore her name, written in Erik's spidery red pen, and it froze him.
It was a physical and gut-wrenching reminder that she was the one whom Erik wanted—no, expected—to come for him. She was the one whom Erik loved and trusted to execute his wishes. What a terrible burden to place on such a slight young thing! Especially after all that he had put her through—and during her honeymoon, no less!
And the Persian? Leave him to play the messenger, the facilitator, the custodian of papers and personal effects, for that was apparently all he had ever been to Erik.
Nadir withdrew his foot, delivering a swift kick to the side of the boat as he did so. He had half a mind to swamp the vessel and maroon that thoughtless corpse. How would the real Opera Ghost react, as he haunted the underground, to find that no one had come for him? Would he look upon his old comrade with more gratitude then?
Anger, sharp and searing, curled a fist around Nadir's heart and tightened its grasp. He clenched his jaw against the red-hot aching, balled his fists and squeezed his eyes shut, and then he found himself sinking to his knees, hunched over as his stomach threatened to void itself. His chest was much too tight, compressing his lungs so that he had to gasp for air. He felt the prick of tears against his eyes and he couldn't quite say why they were there, but he knew that he must fight them, must not give in to the lonely despair that lurked just outside his thoughts.
At length, he pulled himself up and dusted off his trousers, and then he assessed the boat again. He did not know what awaited him at the house, or how long he would stay, and he would have hated to strand the poor girl should she turn up unexpectedly—though whether she would turn up at all was still questionable.
In the end, he removed his jacket and hat and waded into the lake. It was not too deep, but his pace was sluggish, his legs tiring quickly. He dove forward into a steady breaststroke. For a moment he was almost a young man in Mazandaran again, sun-browned and athletic, slicing through the rugged waves of the Caspian. But there was no sun down here: only shadow. In the low lighting, the water appeared thick and opaque, like tar.
With clothes soaked through and dark hair plastered to his face, the Persian came upon a darkened home. There were no lamps on, and a distinct chill suggested that there had been no fire in the hearth for some time. He felt his way around for the gas lamps and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest, the growing tension in his muscles.
His hand was shaking violently when, at last, he found a light.
The room appeared vacant at first. But with the sofa so far away, at such an angle that he could only see it from the side, it had been easy to overlook on first glance what he spotted on the second: a pair of shoes, stiffly upright, at the far end of the sofa. And nearer to him, dangling off the edge: a gaunt hand, limp and motionless.
He found that he could not breathe. His head swam; his ribs were caving in. He smacked his palm against the cold stone wall and leaned on it for support.
A voice broke the silence and made him jump. "If you're going to stand around in wet clothes, daroga, you might at least have the decency to step off the carpet."
His voice. Oh, that voice: golden and lilting, the instrument of the divine. It was a thin, crackling shell of what it had once been, but was there. It had a pulse.
Nadir ignored the request and slowly circled around to the side of the sofa. Amid such somber quiet, the squelching of waterlogged stocking against shoe was almost offensive.
He had seen Erik in many a terrible state, had seen him streaked with blood—both his own and not his own—and wild-eyed, had seen him poisoned and devastated and half-mad. What he saw now, however, unsettled him the most: the very picture of surrender.
He had not thought it possible for a self-identified corpse to look even more like death, but here he was: wasting away, little more than pallid skin tented over a skeleton. He wore his black mask, with the cutout that showed his lips, which were ghost-white and chapped. His amber eyes were sunken into their sockets.
Nadir could not bring himself to address the horrors before him, and so he addressed the man instead. "So certain it was me?" he asked.
"Only a fool would swim the lake," Erik replied, "and you are the biggest fool I know." His eyes closed, and he folded his hands atop his chest. They sank slightly as he exhaled a shuddering breath.
The Persian lowered himself to one knee beside the sofa. "You have long kept the company of a fool, then. What does that make you?"
A sad smile tugged at the corner of those ghastly lips. "No need for insults, daroga. I am fully aware of how depraved a wretch I am."
"Why?" The word slipped out, little more than a hoarse whisper.
At this, Erik glanced up. "Surely you do not require a summary of recent events."
"No. Why have you kept the company of a man whom you have written off as a fool?"
The line of Erik's mouth tightened, and he did not respond, not for a long time. His gaze drifted from Nadir's face up to the stony ceiling. "It seems," he finally said, "that I have benefitted from your foolishness."
"Is that so?"
"Indeed."
"And what are these benefits that you have reaped?"
Erik exhaled; the air crackled in his lungs. "Dignity," he said. "Life." He emitted an amused grunt of sorts. "No sensible man would try to save a man already dead, and yet here you are, again and again. I daresay I briefly ascended from ghost to corporeal form, if only in your eyes."
There was truth to his statement, and that weighed heavy on Nadir's mind. He was a sensible man, in all other respects, and to repeatedly do the unsensible for the sake of only one person—that would be madness. Was madness.
He had the strangest feeling in his stomach now, one of equal parts thrill and terror.
"Good God, daroga. If you intend to lurk, then please do wring yourself out. You may borrow my dressing-gown; I will not be needing it."
The Persian sighed and rose from the floor. "Fine," he said, "but we are not finished here."
He headed for the bedroom, with Erik calling out weakly behind him. "I await your further reproach with bated breath!"
It had never occurred to him that Erik might even have a dressing-gown, but he found it in the wardrobe: maroon and gold, a rare and surprising splash of color among the darkness that pervaded the man's existence. He helped himself to a pair of slippers as well. In the bathroom, he peeled off the wet garments and hung them over the edge of the bathtub to dry—an exercise in futility, really, without any source of heat in this dank underground.
He made a detour to the little kitchen in order to fire up the stove and put the kettle on. From there, he moved straight to the sitting-room fireplace and set to stacking wood and kindling. "Right," he said. "This nonsense stops now."
Erik watched from where he still lay motionless on the sofa. "A wasted effort," he muttered, but Nadir ignored him. At the very least, he would dry his clothes.
The fire came to life, crackling and casting dramatic shadows across the room. Nadir let its heat thaw his fingers, and then he went back to the kitchen to make tea. He also checked the pantry: nearly bare. He would have to make do. He poured some tinned pears into a saucepan and left them to warm on the stove.
He returned to the sitting-room with the tea tray. "Can you sit up?"
"Leave a man to wither away in peace, daroga."
Nadir set down the tray. "Well, if you won't sit up for tea, then I shall fetch a blanket to cover you with instead."
"You will do no such thing." Slowly, wincing every few seconds, Erik began to lift his torso. Nadir moved in to assist him, one hand clasping Erik's to pull him up, while the other pressed gently between those bony shoulder blades. This close, he could see the redness around the edges of the black mask.
"How long since you took that off?" he asked, gesturing.
"I have not," said Erik. "I intend to die in it." His lips were drawn, and his eyes bore into Nadir's: a challenge.
The Persian regarded him for a moment. "I am going to take it off," he replied. Let the withered skeleton try to stop him!
But when he placed his fingertips on either side of the mask, Erik's hands flew up to cover his own, frail but firm. They felt more like ice than they did human, and Nadir shuddered. He waited, so as not to alarm his friend, and then he extracted his hands in order to grasp Erik's. He was gentle; the fingers were bone-thin, as though they might snap at the slightest provocation.
Erik's eyes blazed now, darting from the daroga's face down to where their hands overlapped, ashen skin against brown. "I have humored you long enough," he said, his voice edged with warning, "and I must insist that you leave now. This has nothing to do with you."
"On the contrary," Nadir replied, and in one swift movement he reached up and removed the mask.
Erik sucked in a breath, a hiss emerging from his lips. He reached for the mask, but Nadir tossed it onto the carpet and out of his reach. "It must stay on!" he ground out sharply. When Nadir did not budge, the anger left his eyes; in its place was a desperate plea. He spoke more quietly now. "If—when—she comes, daroga, the mask must be on."
The Persian's reply was calm, but firm. "If or when she comes, we will hear her approach." He retreated to the bathroom once more, taking the mask with him, and he left it there to return with ointment and a damp cloth.
The exposed skin was angry: pink and raw and moist. Nadir was careful with his movements and pressure, but still the muscles in Erik's jaw tensed at every touch. Erik visibly flinched at the application of the ointment but did not complain.
Only after Nadir had finished and was wiping his hands on the cloth did Erik speak. "What is all of this about, then?"
"I think…" A pause, to consider his response. "I think that you ought to reconsider this dying business. This heartache: it likely will pass, in time."
The reply was pointed. "Just as yours did, with your wife?"
The words tore at Nadir's insides even though he knew it to be an unfair comparison, knew that Erik was deflecting. He maintained his composure and hoped that his eyes did not betray him.
"Regardless," Erik continued, "you misunderstand. I am to die not of a broken heart, but of love. Do you not see, daroga? Do you not comprehend the utter futility of living after one has tasted all the happiness that life has to offer?" He cocked his head ever so slightly. "Truly, I expected better of you. As though I could be tempted by saccharine promises of the future!"
"I promise you nothing," said Nadir. "This is a purely selfish request, on my part."
Erik blinked at him then, as though only now registering the Persian's presence. He softened his reply. "Your conscience is clear, daroga. You need not feel guilt for letting me die."
Nadir could not hold back the anger that surged through him and forced him to his feet. He chucked the damp rag at the hearth and gritted his teeth and jammed one hand into his dark hair, where it clenched and pulled at the roots until his scalp stung. "Will you just listen for once?" he snapped. "I do not want you to die. It has nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with lo—." He stopped himself. His palms were sweating—shaking, even. He had not meant to let things go this far.
Those golden irises flitted back and forth, searching Nadir's face, but Erik's expression did not change. Finally, slowly, he straightened against the sofa back, his eye contact unwavering.
His reply, when it came, was quiet and even. "It has everything to do with what, daroga?"
Nadir's heartbeat had picked up, and he struggled to regain composure as he waved his earlier words away. "Is it so wrong, not to want my oldest friend to die?"
"Ah, but you always were so sentimental." A small smirk played at the corner of Erik's lips. "You flatter me, but we both know that I can never be sated now. Not when I have been shown love despite this face."
Nadir emitted a short, bitter laugh. "Ah, yes, she is certainly the first to overlook your countenance! If only I had thought of that, so many years ago."
"Point taken, daroga. But you know this is different."
"And how is that? What is so much more compelling than decades of tolerating your face and your insufferable personality? Her looks, perhaps? Her singing voice? Her womanly wiles?" Erik was looking at him strangely now, his lips gently parting, but he could not stop. Not now.
"No, no—it was the kiss, wasn't it? One kiss on the forehead is all it takes to weaken the most notorious assassin of Persia! One kiss to pledge your life and your dying breath to a girl who still barely knows who you truly are! And what of the daroga? Ah, yes, he can take care of the paperwork." He emitted another sarcastic laugh. "After all, what could be a more fitting end to our association than an unrequited favor?"
He was met with wide amber eyes, and a mouth that opened and closed several times before it spoke. "I…beg your pardon, my old friend," said Erik hoarsely. "I see, now, how it might appear that I have slighted you. But she touched my face with her lips, daroga. After I was so cruel to her! Can you not see how remarkable that is?"
Nadir's pulse raced. "Is that it, then? You simply cannot conceive of acceptance, of affection, manifesting itself in any other manner? Fine." He leaned forward to place a hand on either side of Erik's head, his fingers threading through those graying wisps of hair, and he pressed his wide lips to Erik's brow.
He lingered there for a moment, letting the heat of his mouth warm icy skin. When he pulled away, Erik was staring at him, slack-jawed and—for once—speechless.
Nadir's breathing was heavy, his voice gruff. "There is the proof that you apparently require," he said. He sat back on the sofa and gazed out at the hearth, feeling defeated and suddenly so very tired.
The only movement that followed was the flicker of the fire, the only sound its crackling and popping. It was one of the few times in the Persian's life that he had longed for a drink.
In his periphery, Erik's pale hand twitched where it lay on the sofa. Then it slid over, ever so slowly, until it just touched the dark skin of Nadir's wrist. His voice followed quietly. "Why?"
A sigh. "Who can say?"
"Back in Persia, I thought that perhaps you might—we might—" Erik stopped, shook his head. "But I had to flee. After that, so far removed, it seemed as though I had dreamed it all: a terrible, wonderful, feverish dream."
The flames burned lower now, licking at the undersides of the firewood. Erik's little finger crept onto Nadir's, and then their hands moved into each other, fingers twining, resting as one.
"Nadir."
"Hmm?"
"It would be an even greater happiness, I think, to feel"—here Erik paused, as his voice began to tremble—"to feel the touch of another on my lips."
Nadir turned to him then. Green eyes sought out gold, surprised and satisfied by what they found there. His broad palm found one side of that disfigured face, that beautiful death's-head. And when his soft mouth alighted on Erik's, it coaxed the smallest whimper from the other man's throat.
It was over as quickly as it began, little more than a gentle sweep of lip. Still Erik gasped.
Nadir grasped the lapel of his coat and held him steady, his face still perilously close. "Perhaps," he intoned, "there is still some happiness left to be tasted."
This time, it was Erik who leaned in.