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Okay, next one up. Please review and hope you like it.
Chapter Three
Over the next few days, he still hadn't decided which it was. All that he knew was that there was something about the way the writer wasn't afraid of him that spurred some kind of – activity to him.
For reasons even Erik didn't know, the day after Christian had rattled on the door of Box Five, he found himself watching the Opera Populaire's doors until the young man – who had finally shaved – walked through. Erik had barely known he was doing it – he knew Christine's schedule after all and he had nothing else to do with his time except listen to Carlotta's terrible attempts at her part.
He watched as the writer turned a circle with a slight wary expression on his face, as if looking out for the managers perhaps. But as soon as he realised the coast was clear, his expression startled the ghost.
The young man was smiling – not just that but he looked genuinely happy. The lost pained look in his eyes had died down until it had almost fully disappeared.
Erik stared at him in wonder – how could anything have changed this man from the shabby looking corpse to a similar Christian to the one Erik had seen in Spectacular, Spectacular?
Yes, he had been hiding in the roof, and therefore had not seen much but a dwarf running past him, yelling out some barely incoherent sentence, but he still suspected this must've been close to what the writer looked like.
He was fairly amazed. He looked so – happy. Like the woman he loved hadn't died.
He watched as Christian walked quietly up the staircase and disappeared. Barely without thinking, Erik turned and sprinted down one of his passageways.
--
He'd made it; he was standing high above the stage, watching for Christian to appear. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the wood – surely walking didn't take this long. Where was he?
He glanced down at the stage and saw Christine singing her soprano, raising her arms high and smiling widely at the empty room. Wondering whether the writer was here yet, he turned and –
And caught himself quite suddenly. Christine was his amazing pupil – he'd turned away from her like that. Without a second thought, he turned back and watched her perform for the next few minutes. Though it was good – very good – he couldn't help but wonder every couple of moments whether this was long enough to look at her.
After what seemed like a very long amount of time, surely enough so that the writer would be here, he turned away from Christine and searched the floor in vain.
What the hell was taking so long?
Erik was not a patient man; that and he could get incredibly angry incredibly quickly. Why was the writer so happy? He was so interested it was irritating.
He was just about to find some reason to let something fall onto the chorus girls when he heard a loud breaking noise – it sounded like someone had jumped back suddenly, tripped over something and landed hard on the floor; he looked in the direction of –
Box Five. He felt his grip tighten on the railing.
'Hold on, hold on!' Andre's voice sailed through, 'now, what was that?'
'It's the opera ghost!' a chorus girl shrieked, losing her head completely.
'Ah, no, actually,' a British voice called down, sounding very awkward. 'Just me, sorry.'
'Monsieur Christian?' asked Meg Giry; Erik didn't need to hear more. He nearly fell off the catwalk trying to get a good look at whether the writer was still in Box Five. He pulled himself back onto solid ground then impatiently stayed there – he could not yell out 'Do you mind telling me what the hell you just destroyed?!'
'Um, nothing particularly bad happened,' he heard the writer say, as if he could read the ghost's mind. 'Um.'
'Are you in Box Five?' called out Firmin's voice from the darkness beyond the stage.
'Um, no – I'm –'
'You're in Box Five?!' Firmin, Andre and Erik yelled at the same time.
Everyone on stage jumped – they could've sworn they'd heard the strong voice of the Phantom.
'Um, yes,' the writer called out after a pause – Erik hoped the man had heard him too. He also hoped he was the reason the levels of awkwardness had increased in the young man's voice. 'I – was in the box and I was watching the performance and –'
'Which box? Box Five, you mean?' yelled Andre.
'Erm, yes.'
'Oh, God,' moaned Andre and Erik felt a surge of triumph for some reason; he loved tearing the managers apart. 'Don't you know that's the box that belongs to –?'
'Is anything broken?' Firmin's voice was sharp.
'Er... no. No, nothing's broken,' Christian's voice rang out, sounding braver and Erik smirked.
'Well, come down and tell us what happened then,' the managers said in unison.
Erik drummed his fingers again, gritting his teeth – this really did take too long.
After what felt like a year but was really only six or seven minutes, in which the whole opera house held its breath, footsteps were heard and Christian came into view as he climbed onto the stage, ready to explain all that had happened.
Erik leaned over the railing, all the questions bursting everywhere.
'Tell us what happened –'
'Why were you in Box Five –?'
'What crashed –?'
'Writer, are you okay –?'
'Monsieur Christian,' Madame Giry said calmly yet loudly and Erik watched her tense face, 'do you mind telling us what you were doing in Box Five?'
'Yes what where you doing in Box Five –?' hissed Andre but Firmin clamped a hand over the other man's mouth, nodding at the writer to continue.
Christian glanced around at everyone, standing up straighter. Though he did not realise it, Erik was dangerously leaning over the railing, trying to be as close as possible. He wanted to hear whatever poor excuse came out of this man's mouth.
'I was looking for the Ghost,' said Christian firmly.
A tidal wave of surprise flew over Erik – the gasp from everyone in the room was loud enough to cover the scrambling and the thud high above their heads.
'The Ghost,' screamed Carlotta, glittering fingernails in front of her eyes in dramatic disbelief. She wondered if anyone was watching.
'Yes,' said Christian, looking firmly at his feet.
Erik, who was currently staring up at the ceiling, let one hand fly up and grasp the railing, pulling himself to his feet and staring down at the writer – he noticed Christine was acting just as dramatic as Carlotta. He felt a stab of annoyance and easily decided it was aimed at Carlotta.
'You went looking for him?' Madame Giry's tone was stern.
'Yes,' Erik heard the writer say, still firmly staring at his feet. He finally looked up at everyone. He was really sick of being the centre of attention. 'Everyone keeps telling me he's a composer – or something, I'm not sure, I –'
'Monsieur, he does not mix well with other people,' Madame Giry cut in and everyone else nodded their heads. Erik felt like hitting all of them and he scowled down at them. 'Now tell us,' Madame Giry continued, 'what was the crash?'
'I was watching the performance –'
'Was I-a good?' snapped Carlotta.
'Oh, yes,' Christian said, smiling easily at her; the phantom wondered how he did that. 'Anyway, I was watching it – and I thought I saw something white moving up in the roof –'
Erik lunged out of the way to avoid the millions of heads now craning up towards the roof. He waited for a few minutes, almost ready to strangle someone for cutting off the writer's story for so long.
'Erm.' Christian had obviously noticed the sudden interest. 'And I just jumped back, tripped over something and hit the floor.'
Erik grinned to himself; hadn't he thought that was the explanation?
Still, he was surprised to hear the writer had come looking for him: now Erik knew Christian wasn't afraid of him. Either that or he didn't know what he was getting himself into.
The ghost glanced over at the innocent, awkward writer and smirked.
--
Christian looked up as a young man sat down next to him – he'd been sitting in the seats, close to the stage, barely watching the performance, but staring up at the roof – he'd seen something.
Something small and white. Not Ghost size, but perhaps, up close, maybe half of someone's face?
He jumped when the man next to him cleared his throat. Christian glanced over at the other – the first thing he noticed was the long, sun-blond hair. He smiled at the man, who smiled back – though a little forcibly.
'Evening,' said the man.
'Hi,' said Christian, extending his hand. 'I'm Christian.'
'The writer, yes,' said the other, shaking his hand and grinning. 'Raoul de Chagny.'
'Patron of the opera house?'
'That would be me.'
'Christine's husband?' As soon as he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing to say – Raoul, face still smiling, laughed perhaps a fraction too late. 'Right again.'
The writer wondered what he could've said to make the Vicomte's eyes glare like that.
'Erm –'
'I heard you had a bit of a fall in Box Five a few days ago.'
'Oh. Yes. I was watching the performance.' He wasn't sure whether to add if he thought Christine was good. He glanced back up at the roof.
Something had been following him the last few days. Perhaps not following, but he could definitely feel a presence – the only time being when he left the opera house. He wasn't sure who – or what – it was, but he'd often glance over at something that might have moved a second too late out of sight. It was becoming more and more frequent – even when he had been alone in the storage room, looking over his play – his play about Satine.
Even when he'd been going over the songs, singing bits of them out loud – then he had felt sure someone was around.
And even one time, he'd woken up and thought he saw something move out of the room. That had been slightly terrifying as he'd just woken up.
Was it the Ghost?
Raoul was still saying something. Christian forced himself to pay attention, looking as interested as he could, but the Vicomte had finished his sentence and didn't rather expect the writer to answer.
They sat in silence for a moment, Christian glancing up at the roof every now and then.
'What do you think of Christine?' Raoul asked suddenly.
'Erm, she's nice,' said the writer, barely thinking.
Raoul glanced at him. 'Monsieur –'
Christian looked back at the Vicomte.
'If I find you flirting with her again –'
'Flirting? I'm sorry, sir, you have the wrong man – I don't –!' Since when had he ever flirted with Christine?! She'd kissed him!
'Then I will break off both your arms and make you carry them home in your teeth,' finished Raoul, looking as calm as though they were talking about the orchestra.
'But –' Was the patron that insecure? He wouldn't dare try adultery.
What about Satine?
No, she didn't love anyone else. She had loved Christian.
He tried again, 'Vicomte, I didn't –'
'Just stay away from her,' Raoul interrupted, smiling coldly at the writer, then standing up and shifting out of the row of seats, his footsteps fading away into the darkness.
Stay away from Christine? That would be easy.
He looked up at the stage and saw Christine gliding and singing. She smiled at him and he felt his stomach drop; would she stay away from him?
--
That night was the last performance.
Christine had been talking non-stop to the writer as the theatre filled up, bragging about how she had the most parts, the most lines, the most songs – the writer had looked barely interested, as if his mind were somewhere else, but she just needed to say it out loud.
The writer had been watching for two men – either the ghost or Raoul de Chagny – the one he saw was definitely the worst. Before he knew it, the Vicomte was walking towards them; Christian swallowed. He'd stayed away from Christine – but if he walked away from her when she walked straight up to him and greeted him, it would be too obvious he was avoiding her.
Raoul gave Christine a charming smile. She gave him a loving look and hugged him; the smile vanished and Raoul glared at Christian, who shook his head and tried somehow to tell Raoul that nothing had happened and that this wasn't his fault.
The universe was against him though – it was not the first time. Christine turned around, still obviously happy from Raoul's hug and gave one to the writer too.
Christian needed to die right now. He stared firmly at the floor, not hugging her back – she didn't even notice.
As soon as she let go, getting ready to talk about how she was on stage in two minutes, Christian turned and left quickly; he didn't want to be alone with the patron after Christine had hugged him. Of course, a hug usually means nothing – but the writer guessed Raoul's nerves were on edge.
The performance went stunningly, everyone completely amazing. Christian barely noticed – he had, in fact, run back to the door of Box Five.
He was sure the Ghost knew he had been looking for him. It was impossible for anyone not to hear he had been in Box Five a few days ago.
He inhaled and burst through the door – he stopped suddenly. The door was unlocked.
He looked around the box but absolutely no one was there. He swore and his eye caught something on the seat.
It was a note.
He picked it up and looked at it, frowning.
Decided not to come tonight – better luck next time.
Christian threw the note on the floor, annoyed. Damn that ghost and whatever god created sarcasm.
--
After the performance, Christian realised he had not wanted to go anywhere near the entrance; Raoul was there, thanking everyone for coming. Or perhaps the patron was just waiting for him.
Christian pretended he'd left something backstage and forced his way back through the crowds of people exiting.
The stage completely empty was quite amazing. Christian almost felt overwhelmed as he looked up and saw complete darkness hanging above him and –
A flash of something white moving away.
Christian felt suddenly very excited – the ghost was here.
He grinned but looked down very quickly, assuming a confused expression. He walked around the back of the stage, pretending to look for something. He waited patiently.
But it still seemed to take forever. Perhaps the Ghost had decided to leave. Christian sighed. Yes, he must have. Surely Christian wasn't lucky enough.
He gave the entire stage – above it too – one last look. No one was there. He turned to leave, just about to walk out from behind the curtain –
'My gift is my song...'
Christian stopped – for a second he thought it was Satine. No one else knew that song.
He stood there, paralysed, waiting for more. Everything seemed to jumble in his mind for a moment – how this couldn't be Satine, she was dead, and the sound was different; for one thing, it was a man, and for the second, Satine's voice, though excellent, could not practically fill up a room with so much strength.
But whoever was singing seemed to have stopped. Christian looked around, half amazed and angry that the singer had actually stopped singing. He looked straight up, nearly falling over with the effort of craning his neck so high.
'Hello?' he called out and waited.
He was met with silence. But somehow, Christian could tell, it was amused silence.
The writer started to grin, not noticing the footsteps. 'Going to keep hiding?' he asked, but quietly.
'Monsieur,' said a voice behind him. Christian turned to the darkness and was immediately punched across the face.
He stumbled back onto the stage, hitting the floor, his face burning, too confused and surprised – the opera ghost? He squinted and hurriedly tried to get to his feet.
'Vicomte de Chagny –'
This was responded with by another punch – Christian fell over again, blood collecting in his mouth. He spat it out and held up his hands. He tried again, 'Vicomte de Chagny, I don't –'
'I told you to stay away from Christine.'
Christian had to fight not to yell out 'She came near me!' He knew he was incredibly close to getting the life throttled out of him. Instead he said calmly, climbing to his feet, 'I did nothing –'
'You did nothing,' Raoul repeated dubiously and Christian was pushed back to the ground again. 'I see.'
The writer was not a fighting man. He struggled to stand again and scarcely dodged Raoul's next punch – he was incredibly off balanced as he ran off behind stage again, tripping over quite easily to his knees, then smashing straight into the floor. His face hurt like hell. He crawled behind some kind of... big, cube-like object used for the sets.
He could hear Raoul running after him – he was in an easy place – he was so disorientated he could barely think – brilliant, he'd be dead by morning, that seemed like a completely normal sentence.
Was Raoul that insecure?
The only thing really awake was his eyes – they were all seeing but not really sending the messages to his brain. He saw Raoul stride into view, look around and lock eyes with him. Christian grabbed onto the cube-like object, pulling himself to his feet – everything felt a little foggy, and his face hurt, but besides that he felt okay. He could stand up and probably walk without feeling dizzy.
No, wait – he was wrong. The set object was supporting him.
Raoul was getting closer. Christian found no point in running; he stood up a little straighter and waited for the Vicomte.
But the Vicomte never came. Something lunged out of the darkness and was suddenly between Raoul and Christian – the writer blinked, it was a man – and he was facing the patron.
Raoul stopped too close and Christian saw some kind of movement that didn't properly register with his brain – but suddenly Raoul was lying on the floor, half conscious and the writer suddenly felt like falling over. He saw the other man turn to face him and he slumped forwards.
The man caught his shoulder and righted him. Christian saw a flash of white where the man's face should be. He tried to say something but instead he just looked at Raoul –
The Vicomte was going to black out. The hit from Erik had been enough to send him into unconsciousness. But all he could see was the darkness and a faint outline that looked like Christian's face...
Christian watched as Raoul's eyes rolled back into his head and waited to see if he would stop breathing – he didn't – good. He looked down at his feet, feeling the ghost move.
Then there wasn't ground underneath them anymore and they fell through some kind of... hole.
Christian yelled and slipped out of the man's grasp, hitting the ground fairly off-balance and stumbling sideways onto the other man, whom he noted, with jealousy, had managed to land completely upright. He heard whatever had opened above them close.
Still...
The writer had just been attacked by the patron, saved by this masked man, and was now somewhere underground.
This was too odd. He sunk into unconsciousness.