In response to guest reviewer Penwearer: thank you so much for the kind words! I never seriously considered posting any of my work before Angels came along. It feels tremendous, putting your work out there for literally anyone to see, and I'm somewhat of a self-conscious perfectionist so I feel you very much. This past quarantine saw me shake things up - I've always written in a bubble, but I got excited enough about Phantom of the Opera and about all the amazing, emotional phanfics I'd read during quarantine to really, really WANT to leave that bubble and get more involved. Even if my writing never feels fully polished or complete (because let's face it, it never will). I haven't regretted it. The fandom has been so receptive and lovely and I'm very grateful for everyone's encouragement, including yours. You've got a supporter and/or a soundboard in me, if you do ever decide to take that leap, in phanfic or otherwise!


Now, Erik, four years later...

May 2021

It's just about ten minutes to midnight, Saturday night in the central hub of Manhattan nightlife, and Erik is busy losing his mind.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

His hands are on someone's hips and he's currently licking a path from sharp collarbone to jaw, leaning down severely to do so; he can taste sweat and perfume, heady and bitter with the faint tang of salt, and any other time, any other place and he'd recoil from the sensation, grab a drink to wash the unpleasant taste away.

Right now, he's too far gone to care.

The warm, now wet skin shudders and vibrates against the flat of his roving tongue as a groan, heady and helpless, floats into his ear; his skin is on fire and the music is pounding in his bloodstream along with the last vestiges of the crack he'd snorted maybe ten, twenty, thirty minutes ago? Shit, had it already been so long? He doesn't have any with him, not right now, but perhaps it doesn't matter, not when he's touching the woman he'd locked eyes with from across the bar, the woman now grinding against him in the heated crush of the dance floor as the lights whirl over them in a flickering frenzy. He doesn't know her, nor her him, but that's the point, isn't it?

He looks down at her through half-lidded eyes, his head pounding in time with the music. It's shit music, nothing more than a loud, generic layering of electronic effects over a thudding bass beat, but it's serving the purpose nicely right now; it's chasing everything from his brain but the familiar want thrumming under his skin and the presence of the woman in front of him, swaying her hips to the beat as he follows, gyrating, mindless, her black-rimmed eyes wandering over his mask and flicking down to his lips as manicured hands rise to tangle in his thick, black hair, longer than he's ever kept it before.

It's not my music but it'll do, he thinks absently as he leans down to kiss her again.

She has no idea who he is, couldn't possibly; she has no idea that less than an hour ago he'd been swaying and singing and screaming on a stage in front of thousands, euphoric, the music surrounding him, burning him, bursting out of him and the cocaine coursing through his veins making him feel so utterly, blissfully alive. It's his last concert for the next few months – he won't be performing live again until August, giving him an entire summer to whip up the next hit album that he absolutely isn't thinking about tonight because he's now at a club, high off the thrill of his performance as much as he is drunk on the sensation of soft, smooth skin under his palms and the scent of smoke and sweat and arousal heavy in the air, living entirely in the here and everlasting now.

It's not an unpleasant feeling, the anonymity that comes with the mask.

The full mask, of course, not the half; she can't possibly know who he is because everyone knows that The Phantom has a full skull mask for a face, eye holes set deep enough that his eyes – rather distinctive in proper lighting, Erik's personally been told – are more often than not in shadow; a thin opening between the immobile, grinning teeth, rusty black and tarnished silver, allows his voice to escape and travel freely. It's a heavy thing, the mask, but such is The Phantom's burden - as is the task of meticulously washing it after each performance, cleansing it of the residue of an hour or more's rampaging upon a hot lit stage as he sheds the all-black ensemble and gloves in favor of something lighter, looser, something that nevertheless is sticking to his skin now in the oppressive heat of the nightclub. But when he's performing, when he's singing, when he is The Phantom – the heavy restrictiveness of the mask falls away until there's nothing but the music and the incessant roar of the crowd feeding his personal frenzy, his exhilaration, his favorite high in the entire world.

One of his favorite highs in the entire world.

But it doesn't matter right now – The Phantom, his performance, his highs and his demons - not for the next few hours, not tonight, not with the woman currently palming the front of his pants, almost as high and certainly as aroused as he is judging by her blown-wide pupils and the heavy pants from her lush-lipped mouth.

He can feel her hot breath on his skin and savors it like a mantra.

Heat – skin sticking on skin, strobe lights and blacklight, loud music in his ears and in his pulse, pounding as he chases that mindless abandon. Laughter all around, raucous voices and more raucous music; there's sweat on his back and under his mask, sweat leaking from seemingly every pore in his body, and even though the chemical high's starting to wear off, a different sort of desire continues seeping erratically into his bloodstream. It's invigorating and familiar, and he welcomes it with a groan.

Suddenly, a vibration against his leg – and but fuckif it doesn't send a wicked jolt through him in his overstimulated haze – and it happens again. Twice, three times.

He ignores it, but the woman pressed up against him doesn't.

"You wanna take that?" she asks, patting the side of his pants, voice deliriously sultry, and he blows out a frustrated breath as he slides the phone from his pocket and turns it on, vision momentarily swimming in a colorful LCD blur.

It's Nate - because of course it is - in the form of three text messages, back to back.

Where the hell are you?

Are you alright?

You disappeared after the concert pretty quick. You good?

The nosy little shit…

Erik quickly types out a one-handed response, getting it in one shot - rather impressive, if he does say so himself, given how well and truly hammered he is.

Palais. Don't wait up.

With that he powers off his phone and shoves it into his back pocket, capturing his companion's waiting, pouting lips in a sloppy kiss, reaching up to knead one perfectly rounded breast as she shudders and keens into his mouth, wanton and ready -

She sounds like Lucy, he thinks hazily, and the thought doesn't jar him like it used to. Lucy was ages ago, and like a true narcissist he likes to think that in the past few years he's somewhat perfected the art of the meaningless fuck. No repeats, no attachments. No more "accidents". Merely a distraction, like the pharmaceuticals lining his bathroom cabinets, like those drug-fueled composing sprees that end only when he inevitably passes out days later or when Nate shows up – good, responsible Nate, a good friend, the little fucker – and forces him under the shower or into bed, or into the kitchen for some legitimate sustenance, as the case may be.

Nate. The guy's still a flirt, but he's a reformed flirt. These days he accompanies Erik to the club maybe once a week, twice a week, tops. They'd discovered the Palais together about a year ago, the hottest new club in New York at the time (still is), and Erik's been back far more frequently than his manager has been able to keep up with. Especially now that Nate's been seeing someone steadily for longer than two weeks - a miracle, really, a girl named Rachel that he'd met at Box 5.

Erik hasn't been to Box 5 in more than four years.

He doesn't think about it anymore, not at all - except in the dreams that still haunt him once in a while, dreams of a perfect voice and an euphoria he can feel deep in his soul, dreams that still twist themselves around him like a silver web, strange amalgamations of rhapsody and bone-deep peacethat make him want to sink down and never wake again, panicking when the voice begins to fade and the darkness creeps up to overwhelm him, prickling along his spine as consciousness, hateful awareness invades his private heaven -

Waking, breathless and alone and silent, so silent, is a nightmare – his nightmare – but he won't think about that, not right now, hopefully never again. Not if he can help it; not that it makes a difference.

But what had he been thinking about in the first place?

Ah yes. Lucy. The young woman currently touching him - mid-twenties by the look of her, around his age, with large eyes and red lips and light brown hair streaked through with blazes of highlighted gold - is not Lucy. But she's hot, and she's willing, and he's going to combust-

"Mask stays on," he growls into her ear, grinding his hips against hers for good measure as she nods breathlessly, perfect red lips forming an O in a soundless gasp. Fuck.

Strobe lights streak wildly across his eyelids as his heart pounds into his ears, blood rushing south. Her hand is on the flat plane of his torso, creeping downward once again and he slides a hand up her thigh in response, overstimulated nerves registering the silky smooth skin under his palm as another shot of desire pools deep in his groin. Someone jostles him from behind and he steps forward involuntarily, crushing the woman's hand between their hips, and an unholy groan leaves his mouth as he wrenches for control, leaning downward.

"Let's take this somewhere more private, hm?" he mutters into her ear, and a breathy "Yes" is all he needs before he's maneuvering her, nudging her in front of him as he guides them out of the press of the crowd and in the direction of the back hallways that he knows are usually populated by those in search of either a quick fix or a quick fuck. Nameless, faceless people, drunk on the repetitive beat of the electronic dance music sets that blur together like an endless dream, drunk on the thrill of the mindless, senseless pleasure that hangs in the thick, smoky air of the Palais like a promise.

It's hard work getting them through the crowd, and the hot, unyielding crush of numerous bodies is absolutely not what Erik needs. Release is what he needs, those plush red lips around his dick or a fuck against the gritty back wall; he hates this, hates the claustrophobic surge of people around him, hates the pretty girl in front of him, hates the raging emptiness and the voice in his head telling him yet again that he can fill it up, that all he needs is just that – release, and it'll stave off the craving inside, twisting, writhing enough to make him nauseous if he thinks about it too much. And now thinking too much is messing with his pounding head, and he's seeing stars every time he blinks, and his dick is still hard, and the woman is reaching back to place her hand in his and pull him forward, flashing him a lust-dazed glance that momentarily silences the part of him that is screaming for another line of crack and the rush of euphoria that makes everything alright.

If only for another night.

"Fucking dammit," he exhales, feeling antsy and aroused and murderous all at once, casting looks of pure disdain at the hordes of human scum in their way. A giggle from the person now leading him tells him she's heard him and he surges forward to press his lips to the back of her neck in a sloppy mimicry of a kiss; it only prolongs her laughter, somehow tinkly and sexy all at once, driving him nuts. "Hurry up," he growls.

A tightened grip on his hand, and she's firmly in charge now; they weave through the somewhat-thinning crowd, crossing the invisible boundary between the dance floor and the littering of tables and couches reserved for large parties and larger bank accounts. There's a group in their way, occupying the largest couch and the surrounding floor, crowding around a table littered with a truly obscene amount of bottle service and Erik glares his frustration even as he digs his crotch against the small of his companion's back, earning a surge of white-hot pleasure as they make their way around the dancing, swaying party.

Someone stumbles right into him, severing his grasp on her hand; seething curses on his tongue Erik turns to murder the culprit, but the guy's already recovered and returned to the boisterous drinking game that's evidently going on.

"Fucking bastard," Erik snarls, but it's swallowed up by the beat reshaping the very molecules in the air, relentless, mercilessly pounding, on and on and on…

His gaze sweeps over the other apparent members of the party as he turns back around, looking for the woman he really, really needs to fuck, right now – he doesn't even know her name, does he? There's a girl in a tiny golden dress that seems to be the center of attention, platinum blond hair slicked up into a tight, neat bun that shimmers under the rotating lights; a brunette is standing precariously on the couch, shaking a perfect ass in someone's face as she tips back a shot someone else has just handed her; a split second later there's a pair of lips on his neck and a hand palming his still-hard dick through his pants, and he almost comes right then and there, recovering enough to shoot a glance down at the woman grinning at him through half-lidded eyes of her own, messy waves of dirty blond hair framing her wildly flushed cheeks.

"Come on, I believe you have something to show me?" she teases, rubbing steadily now, and Erik smirks, hands landing on her lush hips as he propels her in the direction of the back hall, eyes scanning the crowd for a clear path forward -

- and he stops short, stunned, at the sight of long chocolate brown waves and a face a million highs haven't been able to numb from his brain.

XXXXXX

March 2017

Erik doesn't know what actually happens to make his brain finally register that she's gone and her voice with her, that he's lost her without ever discovering her grief, without ever having said a word.

He doesn't know when exactly he'd given up discovering that grief that had cut him to the core, when exactly he'd decided to slink home to his apartment, turning his back on a city swarming with life and people and a million myriad voices that he doesn't give a shit about because they've swallowed up the only voice that matters at all to him. He only becomes aware that it's happened, that reality, bleak and sickening has finally permeated the anxious haze of his search when he finds himself slumped on the bathroom floor one night, used needles by his feet and hydromorphone in his veins, her voice - lovely, holy, haunting - floating through his head and into his ears - faint, only a memory - not enough -

Her voice begins to fade and he's not thinking when he tears through his apartment for his hidden stashes, the ones Nate never suspected and he himself had all but forgotten about, the flickering cityscape beyond his high-rise windows taunting him with its uncaring beauty…

He injects poison into his veins over and over again in intervals, not caring how much time is slipping by, not caring enough to pick up his cell phone, eventually smashing it against the tile because it's distracting him from her voice - not caring that it's not real, that it's only a hallucination, because he doesn't give a shit about relapsing as long as he can hear her voice, his angel's voice, his Christine and when he's out of drugs some indeterminate amount of time later and the deathly silence is mocking him as much as his uncovered face is in the mirror he simply smashes it, breaking the silence, not caring about anything anymore because he's lost her, lost lost lost…

He's not conscious enough to care when Nate eventually finds him on the bathroom floor, unresponsive, with bloodied glass sticking out of his lacerated hands.

He doesn't care when the Khans, father and son - they'd left Liya at home, a small relief - stand by his bedside with twinning looks of concern and sorrow and anger, so damn near identical, it's almost funny as the doctor lists the ingredients in the cocktail of drugs they flushed out of his system, close enough to an overdose for them to put him on suicide watch with two weeks of mandatory counseling to look forward to.

"How could you do that, Erik? How fucking dare you!" It's Nate, and he's frightened and angry, and he wants answers.

Erik simply lies there on the crisp hospital sheets, needles pumping fluids into his veins, and closes his eyes; he doesn't have one.

He doesn't care when Nate shows up at his door lugging a futon behind him and moves into his apartment indefinitely, braving Erik's angry annoyance like the selfless friend that Nate is just to make sure Erik stays clean, stays alive.

He can't bring himself to give a flying fuck that he's betraying his best friend when he only begins doing it more discreetly, managing it clumsily with his bandaged hands; tiny doses of heaven when Nate's out of the apartment or when he can't sleep at night, either transporting himself into a dream where he can hear her voice again… snippets of song, losing its potency, hazy but there or else numbing himself into a mindless peace where there are no Christines and nothing left to lose.

Nothing left but a name and a voice to haunt his dreams…

XXXXXX

May 2021

She's standing right in front of him, body and name and her, her, her, and Erik doesn't know what to do.

"Christine," he whispers, shellshocked.

Yay! I'm back! And Erik's a certified mess!

Four years have passed, and Erik has spiraled down the wholly problematic rabbit hole of drug use and physical gratification and self-loathing glossed over with the magnificent veneer of hubris… all driven, in a way, by obsession. Obsession with music, with self-abuse, with the voice of an angel he's now half-convinced was his one shot at any sort of salvation. He's continued his rise to stardom, sure; he's churning out music by the album and he performs to sold-out stadiums packed with screaming fans. But this pretty much means that he's the picture of an unhealthy, obsessive rock star, and even when he's off-duty and wearing the half-mask rather than the full, that's the persona he continues to feed.

And Christine… well, Christine's all grown up, and she's got her own fair share of baggage. Next chapter's gonna be a doozy hehe

P.S. For the sake of simplicity and my own sanity, let's just assume that COVID-19 is not a thing in this universe. I think we can all use a break from that. On a separate and maybe equally stressful note, if you're in the US, hope everyone's staying sane with election week!