Erik never let the daroga into his house. That would have been foolish. The daroga was a snoop and a meddler, and frankly it was a bad deal that he had followed Erik to Paris in the first place. Erik didn't need him getting too close. Letting him into Erik's house…it would give him ideas.
He already had enough ideas, the way he always ranted about having saved Erik's life from the sultana, always ranted about how he and Erik ought to start a new life here together. As if they were a pair, as if they were truly travelling together as companions and not cast together by fate. He acted as if Erik owed him something, as if he wanted something from Erik. And Erik didn't like that at all.
Because, truth be told, he did want to start a new life here, something of his own. And that new life didn't involve the daroga.
Or it wasn't supposed to, only he kept on showing up or causing trouble. And then Erik had to come down and talk to him and hope that maybe he would finally settle down.
Tonight, for example. Erik hadn't done anything particularly bad lately. He'd sabotaged one of the sets, sure—and it had collapsed very noticeably during a rehearsal, causing one ballerina to get a concussion. But that was nothing much, certainly not worth censure after the horrors he had committed in the rosy hours of Mazendaran. And it shouldn't have called itself to the daroga's attention, but apparently it had for Erik had seen the daroga asking everyone involved in the incident for details. And he hadn't liked the look on the daroga's face.
And so he was forced to leave the Opera Populaire (much as he hated to venture forth) and head out to the daroga's cozy flat, to speak to him in person.
He very politely knocked.
The daroga answered. On seeing Erik's mask (a conservative one this time, a plain white), his own face turned pale, but he beckoned Erik in, and Erik came in. The daroga closed and locked the door behind them.
"Erik," he said. He smiled foolishly. "I haven't seen you in a great while. You must be very busy."
"Very busy, you great moron. Why have you been meddling in my affairs?"
"I have not been down to see you again," the daroga said indignantly. "I have left your house alone as you asked—although to be honest you could be more friendly, considering…"
"You saved my life."
"Well, yes."
Erik shook his head. "You were asking around about me today. I would prefer you not to do that."
"Ah, so you were responsible for that incident. Erik, you must settle down and stop causing trouble. I say this as your friend…"
"You draw more attention to me than I draw to myself, you idiot. You and your imbecilic questions…would it kill you to go and live your own life, and allow me to live mine?"
The daroga turned around and muttered something.
"What?" Erik said, crossing his arms.
The daroga shook his head, still not turning around. But he said, "To live without you in Paris, after the life we've lived together…It feels pointless, Erik. Why can I not come and live with you in your little house? Admit that I am no less an outcast than you—there's not a man in France who doesn't see me as a foreigner and shake his head at me."
Ah.
The daroga had not been this bold before. He had asked to see Erik's house. He had asked Erik if he would rather share the flat with him ("it's much nicer than living underground and perfectly suited for two"). But he had not asked to stay with Erik before.
Pitiful, almost. Like asking to be Erik's pet. Erik's lips curled, but behind the mask of course all was hidden.
"My dear daroga," he said consolingly. "You belong in the world of humans, and I in the world of darkness. That is how it is—and it would be better for you to remember it."
"I have not lived in the world of humans in these many years," the daroga said quietly. "I have lived among them, that is all. And all the while my soul has belonged to you. You know this."
Erik shook his head.
This, he thought. This was why you did not allow people to get too close to you. He was courting Christine now but very carefully, very slowly. That was fine because he wanted to keep her. He had never intended to keep the daroga. No. He had thought, when the daroga had asked, all those years ago, to share his bed, that it had been a passing fancy—that the daroga, always a curious man, had wondered what it might be like to fuck a monster, nothing more. That had been fine; equally, Erik had wondered what it might be like to sleep with a human. If it gained him the daroga's affections, so much the better. He did not doubt that in the end it had saved his life. But he had not intended for it to turn into something that would drag on and on, that would leave the daroga grasping for every little shred of interest Erik would grant him…
"I never accepted your soul," he said.
"You did not argue when I offered you my love. As long as it suited you to use me."
"That time has passed. You should find yourself another lover. Someone more human," Erik said, waving a dismissive hand. "My word, man. You are not bad looking. There are plenty of pretty young things in the city—"
"Like Christine Daae?"
Erik had the daroga's throat in his hands in less time than it took the daroga to take a breath. "Staying out of my business, are you?" he growled. "You fucking meddler."
The daroga's eyes were bright. There was less fear in them than anger.
But Erik was probably squeezing too hard. Contemptuously, he let go, shoving the daroga away. The daroga, coughing, stumbled over to the wall before straightening.
"Christine Daae is none of your business," Erik said.
"So I don't belong in the world of darkness but she does?" the daroga asked. "A mere ballet girl."
"She will become a diva soon enough."
"Because you choose to involve yourself."
"I am simply teaching her how to sing. But in any case she does not concern you."
The daroga put a hand on Erik's shoulder. Leaning in, he said, "You know I am only thinking of your own good. You should not delude yourself, my friend. An innocent girl like her is not a good match for you. Not a good match at all."
"And you are a better one."
The daroga laughed. In a light tone he asked, "Has she seen your face?"
"…She will."
"Ah. But not yet."
"She will!"
"Well, I would be glad to hear from you when that occurs," the daroga said. "But I have already seen your face, Erik. I know you already."
That he did.
The daroga had never been bold enough to kiss or make love to Erik's face. Either Erik wore a mask or the daroga wore a blindfold—that had always been the way between them when it came to sex. But he had seen Erik's face without flinching, though it always made him turn a little pale. And he had never complained about it or insulted Erik.
He had also seen Erik commit murder, torture, executions…Yes, he knew the depth of Erik's sins, atrocities which might turn any other aside. But the daroga could hardly complain about such things without being a hypocrite. After all, he worked for the sultana too…and when it came to horrors, he had played his own part.
Another reason Erik did not want his new life to contain him.
"She does not need to know me," he said brusquely. "I have my mask, do I not?" And certainly she need never know about the rosy hours of Mazendaran. "In any case, she is a good girl, and I can treat her well. We used to talk about being normal, didn't we? Well, normal people marry pretty women and live quiet lives. Perhaps you ought to put some effort into it as well."
"I doubt you can ever live quietly."
"We will see, won't we?"
"I suppose we will," the daroga said. "Only you must remember when it fails to come to me. I would not expect too much out of a ballet girl."
Erik turned away from him. "Find yourself a wife, daroga. Live your own life. And for God's sake leave me alone."
The daroga muttered something else Erik couldn't hear, but this time Erik didn't bother asking for clarification. He stalked to the door and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
It wouldn't make any difference to the daroga, of course. He would keep being a nuisance.
Erik only wished that the thought of that didn't make him feel slightly warm inside, in a way that Christine Daae never had. The daroga was not a warm person, or at least he hadn't been back in Persia, back in the old days.
But it was a very cozy flat.
Scowling, he headed back towards the Opera Populaire. He had arranged to meet Christine later that night and he couldn't be late.