I know I have another POTO fic pending, but writing things on the side keeps the creative juices flowing. On another note, I do ship Erik/the Persian, but NOT the way it's presented here. I just wanted to see if I could pull it off in a darker way. In a very dark way with two twisted people darker than their canon counterparts.

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

Warning: There is some non-explicit sex, mentions of drug use, implications of SM, and in the next chapter, there will be a lot of one-sided violence. I do not condone anyone's actions in this fic.

The former daroga of Mazenderan would like to believe the last he saw the last of poor, unhappy Erik that final day. And that is what he told the young journalist, for the Persian is not proud of their last meeting. I am not proud of it, Darius, no, far from it. My man, do not shy away- you know me too well, far too well. Your loyalty is enough to make tears come to my failing eyes. I know you wonder about that night and what I withheld from M. Leroux.

You are an understanding man, Darius. You always have been.

I know why you hated the magician. Do not look so shocked; I understand. The reasons go beyond his face, beyond his crimes, and if it were not for our history together, I know you would hate me too, Darius. In the rosy hours of Mazenderan, I was once an honest man, a pious man.

And I had been all to eager to help the boy, for that was what he was then, a boy. I felt in some way responsible for the troubles the befell him, for it was I that brought him to Tehran in the first place. That was to be both our downfalls.

It is not easy for me to speak of what we owe one another, so I have written it down instead. Promise me, my man, that you will burn my words, though I doubt anyone could read our language, now that Erik is gone. You have masked your disgust at us for far too long. You can let it out now. Burn my words with the rage you have kept pent up.

For here I present them to you, in all their hideous glory.

When I first met him, he was barely nineteen summers. For all I knew, the boy could have been fifteen. He had always been tall and he had always liked to conduct himself in a manner that made him seem ageless. Unlike me, he maintained all the friskiness of his youth, even in his last years. How we met is of no consequence to you- you already know the story of the Russian fair and the task our shah bestowed upon me.

He was a brilliant boy, one of the sharpest, wittiest, most ingenious human beings I had ever met. Perhaps it is hard for you to imagine, but picture him in his youth. Tall, wild, garbed in black, and the most vibrant pair of amber eyes you shall ever see. They were hopeful, filled to the brim with desire and dreams meant to be broken.

What tempted me was the mask. It was nothing extravagant, simply a dark face meant to blur out his own features. He kept several of them, of all colors, some obtained from the farthest corners of the eastern world.

Picture me in my youth. I was not yet thirty, perhaps little over twenty. You must remember me from back then, a man of fine stature, who bore his nose high, who always kept his beard neatly trimmed, who had the voice of command, who had an exotic jade to tint his irises.

I still do not know which of my features tempted him. Perhaps it was none at all.

His name was Erik. Ironic how much his name affects me when my own is all but lost to the world. Even your name makes it into M. Leroux's pages.

Erik was a fantastic magician, as you would know. He was an artist on fire- there seemed to be nothing he was incapable of. I never believed genius existed alongside madness, but he proved me wrong. For a time, the sultana was delighted by his tricks, for that was all they were- Erik was a regular man in the end, with no true magic about him.

You know of the horrors in court, the horrors that Erik helped contribute and create. Yes, the sultana was bored and he had complied with an eagerness I would not expect from someone with morals. He seemed to possess none.

"I like to see the sultana laugh," he had said to me, in that angelic voice.

I do not know what he felt for the sultana or the shah for that matter, but let me tell you, in spite of his claims that he served no one, Erik was pathetically loyal. Their wish was his command. If the sultana wished for him to eat his own head, I do believe he would have. He enjoyed their praise, their attention, their power.

The sin between us started the night he broke for me. I found him in the gardens, covered in sweat and blood, retching and sobbing terribly.

"D- daroga," he whispered, "daroga."

It was the first time I heard him stutter. I kept my eyes trained on his chest, heaving beneath his robes with each breath. Back then, I told myself it was because I could not stand his face. I knew what had happened.

"How many did you kill, Erik?"

He gave a great moan. "I don't know- I thought- I don't know!"

He crumpled at my feet and I bent beside him, a reassuring arm on his back. This was the first time, I believe, he had been asked to build a torture device, an executioner's toy, if you will. I believe I would have reacted the same if I were him. He shivered against me, clinging to the fabric of my clothing and making pleads to me in french.

My heart went out to him then. He was so helpless in my grasp, so frail, and all I wanted to do was hold him. I did that night. I whispered words of reassurance to him, I told him to trust me, I told him that I would be his friend. And yet in the back of my mind, I wondered- what kind of mind could devise such an object in the first place? Erik was a disturbed individual and he would not get better.

If there were women in my life, I have long forgotten them. I forgot their curves and their lashes and their scent. For a time, all I could think about was Erik in my arms, his bones poking me, his thin cold fingers running over me in an almost perverse fashion. After that night, he confided much in me. Bit by bit of his life would peek in through our conversations.

His mother, his fears, his childhood, gypsies- all of it entered my mind and never left, such was my fascination with him. My increasing protectiveness of him. I forgave him for every horror he created, every insult he delivered, every time I had to glance at his excuse for a face.

The sultana was determined to break him. Why, I do not know- it was a sadistic pleasure that I would soon come to understand. I believe she wanted to see him in that state of vulnerability, in that state reserved only for me.

I will not dwell on what else went on in court, but one way or another, Erik turned to morphine. I did not stop him because an illusion is something that will pass and the pain will be tenfold. Without the drug, he turned to... me.

I cannot count how many nights I spent holding his cold body, the smell of death worse each time, whether from the blood on his hands or the blood in my mind, I do not know. It was not long before we lay together. Yes, I admit it at last. In my chambers, your suspicions were correct from the start. He would tempt me with that wry innocence of his, with that childish laugh, with those sad broken gazes. He allowed me to take him.

My mouth would often trace his collarbone, my hands roaming that skull of a head in the dark, pushing myself against his jutting ribs, pushing myself into him. He would cry for me back then. He would moan my name, he would beg, he would sing almost. I lost myself over him.

I knew every scar on his form. He knew every part of body- every mark, every strand of hair, everything. When I was tired, he would beg me to take him. And there were times when he was pushing himself at me, when it was him forcing his kisses on me. We shared this sin evenly. I hope you can understand- what does bread mean when one has tasted meat? I no longer wanted women.

I once had standards, dreams of another wife, another child. Then, all I wanted was him.

It was impractical, impossible, but I was young. I wanted him, I believe I almost loved him. I allowed him to do horrible things to me in our revelries, things that would disgust you surely. I would often wake up covered in my own blood or with scratches on my throat, him laughing wildly beside me, for Erik rarely ever truly laughed. He preferred to cackle.

His real laugh was like the sound of bright bells, truly the loveliest thing you shall ever hear.

I suffered as he sunk into his madness, my back raked raw from his nails and my posterior a torturous ache. I put up with his violent tantrums and raging words. And still I wanted him. Still I was faithful in our secret pact. I kept my devotion- I tended his wounds, I nursed his fevers, I administered his morphine, I never failed to bring him raw pleasure. Sometimes in his haze, he would speak of a wife and sunlight and normal things that were much too mundane for my now wild taste. I did not believe him then. Even though I could detect his discontent with me, I foolishly fantasized about whisking him away. I even played with the notion that he disguise himself as my wife, that we leave for Turkey.

I was his faithful slave.

When the shah ordered his death, I was not bothered in the least. All I could do was thank the heavens for my luck- it was I who would bring him to court, so it was I would had the power to save him. You know what happened next- how we worked together to find the replacement body, how I bribed my other friends, friends whose faces I can no longer remember.

What you do not know is what words we exchanged the night he escaped. He had clapped those skeletal hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. How sincere he was! How caring! How adoring!

"I cannot possibly repay you," he said.

I merely smiled.

"Wait for me," I said, "Erik will wait for me, will he not?"

"Erik will."

I do not remember when he slipped into the habit of referring to himself in that manner- somewhere in the past years, his broken mind had developed it. If it helped him focus, I did not care.

"The daroga hopes so," I replied.

We bid farewell and he was gone. It was idiotic how I clung to two simple words, the words of a childish madman, no doubt. I suffered willingly when the shah-in-shah found out. I bore the beatings without a trace of regret. I counted the days in jail with a hopeful fervor. The sickening food meant nothing. My lost estate meant nothing. My reputation in shambles, my livelihood gone, my dignity stripped- it all meant nothing.

In the end, all I had was you. We left Persia for good when I was released, hardened and aged. I had lost my home and everything in it. I was simply a laughable foreigner in the world of the west, a caricature of an oriental. By the time we settled in Paris, for that was where Erik said he would go, I was only known as the Persian.

I did not even have my name left. Nothing of me was left. Erik had not waited. He had never waited. And perhaps he had never wanted to wait.

For the last decade or so, when we finally met, he would not let me into his home. He would not let me lie with him. He wanted nothing to do with me besides the occasional show together in his precious box five. He stopped inviting me altogether when the unfortunate chorus girl caught his eye.

Imagine how painful it was for me, to have held onto something that never existed in the first place, all that I cast aside for that one forbidden fruit. Erik was the reason I left Eden. I lost everything for him. And in the dead of night, yearning for his presence, his gaze, his laugh, I had to tell myself with raging sobs that they were all gone.

He had never wanted me. He had never loved me. He had never waited for me.

It was easier to betray his secrets when I came to terms with it all. The safety of Christine Daae and the Vicomte de Chagny were more important than my snubbed affections. At least, that was what I told myself. You know what transpired next.

Erik had let her go, and I delighted at the pain he must have felt- it was the same pain that plagues me every night. And yet the way he spoke of her, the way his eyes shone, the tears he shed, all of it pointed at what could only be love.

There may have been a time when he would brighten at the sight of me, but it was nothing compared to the look he reserved for Daae. I broke for the last time when he left our flat. You recall my glares at the gas lamp, my frantic pacing, my hands wringing. I had made my decision then.

Erik had not held up his side of the bargain. I would force it from him and he would break for me once more.

Thanks for reading! Please review if it's not too much a bother (critique, complaints, comments, etc. are all welcome)

This is a two-shot (I could have made it a one-shot but didn't want the scrolling button to annoy you), so next chapter, some serious abuse, noncon, and bad things like that.