A/N: Yay! Proper chapter finally out! I'm excited… are you? Now read!
The music from the dimly lit orchestral pit swelled and glided dramatically over the conductor's baton and into the waiting ears of the muttering audience, many of whom had only come thanks to the manager's carefully written tagline of "Come to the opening night or we put Carlotta back on next Tuesday."
There was more than one disapproving glare from the audience as they were assaulted by the unusual, almost improperly-passionate score, and more than a couple of pairs of eyebrows were raised when the chorus swooned onto the stage, dressed in black with fiery detail, makeup heavy and modesty non-existent. La Carlotta was almost unrecognisable, such was the intensity of the visual effect.
From behind the eaves, safety away from the eyes of both waiting cast, stagehands and audience members, Erik chuckled to himself as he recalled an amusing little piece of trouble the Opera Company had had when it was discovered that his magnificent outfit at the Masquerade had leeched all of the available red material from the theatre's stores. Andre and Firmin had been forced to buy costly new cloth for all the members of the chorus.
The monetary situation of the Opera House was growing more and more desperate, it seemed. Between Raoul's incessant wastage of money, be it from destroying priceless vases or buying out cosmetic stores on the theatre's budget, and paying the Phantom his monthly wages, Firmin was barely left with enough money to feed himself, let alone the endless appetites of Carlotta's dogs, and Piangi.
The expensive red material, or lack thereof, had been the last straw. Once they'd finally managed to oust the Opera Ghost, the managers had resignedly agreed that they would have to restart their scrap metal business, starting by cashing in the orchestra's entire brass section.
Monsieur Reyer had not been amused.
Perhaps it was for this reason, rather than what the score specifically requested, that the orchestra was playing so wildly, intensely, and bitterly irately.
Whatever the reason, the freedom of the music and the passion it revelled in pleased Erik greatly, and he closed his eyes, holding an imaginary baton in his hands, conducting his own orchestra.
When Piangi entered the stage from a door in the centre of the background, his black cloak swishing pathetically around his knees, Erik jutted his baton with particular emphasis. When Piangi, aka Don Juan, sang of his improper and lecherous plot to ensnare the young Aminta with his glorious dancing, Erik slowly began to build a crescendo. When Don Juan declared to the enraptured audience that he would not speak a word to the young Aminta, wooing her instead with all the cunning and seduction of a former matador, Erik's baton swept through the air so wildly that he accidentally ripped a heavy pole free from its curtain-supporting position and sent it falling from a height of three metres.
Erik cursed quietly to himself, and peeked out from his position above the stage but behind the curtain, and sighed with relief when he saw that the pole had been safely cushioned by the considerable bulk of Piangi, who had only just left the stage. Erik shrugged and put away his Punjab with a smidgeon of disappointment. It seemed that the most entertaining part of his plan had already inadvertently been carried out.
And so the Phantom leapt down onto the ground beside the unconscious Piangi, stole his swishy cloak and tight Spanish pants, leaving the poor baritone in his underwear and ruffled shirt. Erik had already procured a ruffled shirt from his own wardrobe, but the kilt he had matched with it might have caused a stir on the stage should he have left it on.
The sweet, dulcet voice of Christine's stage voice singing Aminta's innocent part wrenched at the Phantom's heart. How many times had he himself sang that part, deep within his underground lair, yearning for the day when his falsetto would be replaced with the young soprano's voice? He had had to wear some very tight pants on those occasions, much tighter than the nice black trousers he had stolen from Piangi.
As it were, Christine had even had to squeeze herself into a tiny corset for the part, so that she could reach the highest notes that her part dictated. All she had to do was attempt to breathe properly, and the resulting squeaks reached any level of high pitch.
Erik became so interested in Christine's faux see-through corset at this point that he almost missed the timing of his entrance, and it was with an extra, non-deliberate swish of the cloak that he burst onto the stage, imposing and seductive to a tee with his sexy Spanish costume, his slicked back hair and the blood red rose clenched between his teeth…
The audience noted, intrigued, that this highly original deviation of an opera where the main lead did not sing, but danced interpretively in a quasi-Spanish style, was considerably preferable to the ordinary business of long, quavering notes drawn out past their expiration points by fat, pompous little opera singers.
There was a collective gasp of appreciation from the audience at Erik's every daring hip rotation, and some of the older, more proper ladies even fainted. Their stormy husbands didn't bother to wake them, jealous of the seductive man on stage. The younger women in the audience didn't waste their time bothering to faint, too engrossed with the ruffles, the mask, the tight pants…
Christine herself was in no way immune to the heady seduction of Erik's Don Juan, and when it came time for her to sing her part in the strange 'duet', her voice was throaty and low with desire. She deliberately knocked her flimsy sleeves off her creamy shoulders, and would have continued pulling them down, it appeared to a few interested men in the audience (as well as Erik), had her stiff corset not been holding her dress resolutely up.
Erik sweated with the effort of his solitary samba as he whirled across the stage, jaw aching from clenching his teeth together, desperately stopping the rose from slipping, its thorns poking predatorily into the air just below his lips. But the effort was well worth it, watching Christine's face grow steadily redder with excitement, watching La Carlotta with great interest as she gazed open-mouthed at him, thinking that the ultimate seducer on stage was her own dear Piangi.
When the score finally neared the climax of the song, and Christine had bolted her way up the rickety iron staircase, Erik grinned cockily through a mouthful of rose as he contemplated his triumph.
He was indeed a genius. A sexy genius too.
The two of them, a lust-driven Christine and the swaggering Erik, met each other finally in the middle of the narrow platform hanging precariously above the stage, the chorus dancers competing fiercely for second-place in the sexy dancing category as they whirled and thrusted on the stage below, carefully avoiding the flimsy cardboard cut out 'flames' being jiggled by underpaid, overworked stagehands.
One final bar of building music, rising finally to the great crescendo, and Erik grabbed the more-than-willing Christine around the waist, pulling her firmly against him as she sang, and he posed.
The audience sighed approvingly as one.
It was all very dramatic, much more intense than even Erik had imagined, when the music from the enthusiastic orchestra finally died down, and he prepared himself for the make or break of his entire ambition in writing the opera all those months ago. With a final gratuitous whirl of his cloak, he reached behind him to where he had used all the extra pant material Piangi had required for his bulk, and pulled out his ultimate weapon in the war for Christine's heart.
Clasped gently within his cradled arms was the very last vase in the Opera House, the one Raoul had missed on his way to Box Five to watch this very performance.
Christine gasped admiringly and accepted the vase from Erik with tears in her eyes. Inside was a small pile of cigarette ash, a few threatening strands of long blonde hair (presumably belonging to Raoul) and…
A diamond engagement ring!
As Christine lovingly fingered the ornate carvings depicting a pair of angel wings coupled with a plastic halo around the outside of the ring, and read the little inscription within ('You musta fallen from Heaven, baby'), her tears threatened to spill over, and she looked up and into Erik's apprehensive, waiting face.
Ever a girl for tradition, she wanted to hear him speak the words. She had pictured this moment of proposal for months, and she was not going to let this glorious moment pass her by without hearing that all-important question, "Christine, will you marry me?"
It was with a steady hand that Christine reached up to Erik's face, not to rip off his mask or anything remotely so forbidding, but to remove the curious rose from between his teeth.
This small, innocent action surprised the expectant Erik to such an extent that he gasped deeply as she removed the flower. It was this that undid them all.
The pollen from the rose, till now stored discreetly within the velvety petals, was inhaled by the unsuspecting Erik, who immediately sneezed with amazing ferocity. It was such a violent sneeze that the Phantom's mask was forcibly dislodged by the miniature explosion, and when Erik threw up his hands, attempting to catch the falling mask in vain, he accidentally knocked off his wig.
Well, that just about did it, didn't it?
The audience, their emotions having been ripped to shreds by seeing such seductive beauty revert to a terrifying repulsiveness, broke into a fit of terrified screams. Rolling his eyes with extreme annoyance, Erik broke past the surprised Christine and released the chandelier from its secure position above the audience, sending it crashing down towards a suddenly athletic Monsieur Reyer (whom Erik had never really like much anyway.)
Stepping back and clasping a very acquiescent Christine to his side, Erik took the empty vase and chucked it away from the platform. Above them, watching the frenzied action with horrified anger, Raoul ignored the flying vase as it passed within an inch of his nose, possibly attempting to avenge all of its broken brothers and sisters, and didn't even glance down at the resounding smash.
Erik whipped out a knife and cut the rope holding the pair of them above the stage, and they went flying downwards, Christine's skirt whipping up spectacularly, giving all the remaining young men in the audience their money's worth for the excitable evening.
The two managers sat despondently in their little box opposite the effervescently pissed off Raoul.
"We're ruined, aren't we, Andre?" Firmin said sadly, watching as the orchestra pit was engulfed in flames.
"Yep," Andre answered, ducking slightly to avoid a falling audience member.
Even their scrap metal revitalisation idea disappeared in a puff of smoke as the last tuba was swallowed by the merciless flames below them.
A/N: Wow, and now the real fun begins! I mean, a scene is coming where Raoul very nearly died in the movie- imagine what I can do! ;)
I apologise for what I'm about to do, but I just wanted to get the chapter up, I'm excited. :) So anyway, I'm only going to answer reviews that specifically require answers, but know that I love you all (and that I take all suggestions and comments into mind)! You guys are just too kind.
Thanks to Dracina, HeidiHo, fopfighters, Faust, phantomette of the opera, Spruce Goose Mach 2, dancing beauty, river nymph, winnie 1955 (though I can't believe you're a R/C fan ;)), timeisfleeting, starwars-gerikluva (I LURVE your name, and second it), Goldenpuppies at heart, Janxspirit and Erik for President.
Mominator: Yes, you picked up on the tartan goodness! Well done! Lol. Maybe I need a spatula myself… And your suggestions of morse code was looked at with interest, but, well… I felt the need for sexy dancing. ;)
WanderingTeen: Wow! I now know how to make my face look deformed! Thank you! No seriously, you never know what you'll pick up on the web. ;) I apologise for insulting your moisturised beauty.
Thanks guys. Hope you enjoyed this climactic chapter, but there's still more to come…