Modern AUs for Phantom are always a sort of hit-or-miss phenomenon. They either get a bullseye worth many praises or they lose the target entirely. For this fic, I too am going to attempt to let an arrow fly and try my luck to see where mine lands.
This fic was heavily inspired by many neo-noir action films, plenty of pointless MacGuffin plot bunnies, and the fic Volée by the fantastic VeroniqueClaire, which is one of those fics that gets better and better with age. Go give it a read, if you haven't already.
The canon I'm following here is actually an amalgamation of every Phantom preference I tend to have, but follows the themes and plot of the novel more than it does the musical. I take little tidbits from everywhere (like Christine here is blonde, I use Erik's half mask, stuff like that) and glue them together in a sort of weird blender remix, as you do.
Before I begin this properly, I'd like to give credit where it's due and bring my friend Pam, whose many angsty hurt/comfort plottings actually became most of the E/C moments in this fic and who also did the best job of beta reading it, into the spotlight for these few words. Hey, you. First of all, thank you for allowing me to plagarise you, but in all seriousness, this is your fic as it is mine, solely on the amount of ideas you bring to this ship. Your passion for Phantom goes unmatched and so does your skill for understanding its themes, complications, nuances, and—dare I say it—its hidden beauty. You're a great writer and an even better friend and don't let anything tell you otherwise.
This first chapter is going to be relatively shorter than most of the other chapters to follow, and Christine doesn't show up here but will in the next one. I just need this first now as a springboard.
The first thing he notes upon arriving at Perros-Guirec is how perfect it is. Almost too perfect, as if a place like this shouldn't exist. The ambiance, the seaside smell of the air that always lingers no matter what time of day, the sound of the waves like a song that echoes throughout the narrow streets: something from an idyllic dream that has no place on this dreadful earth. Where the shore crashed upon the rocks and the days were as cold and tranquil as the evenings, it was too beautiful to be real, a white sheet for smears of blood to taint.
That day, a sleek black car that no one seems to pay mind to arrives without warning. It pulls up in front of a tall, narrow building: an old thing of brick and cement appearing far older than it claims to be. A figure cloaked in black emerges from the vehicle, pulling from the trunk a large overnight bag in one gloved hand and a violin case in the other. He locks the car with a press of a button, filling the rural air with the unwelcome dissonance of a loud beep, piercing through the quiet as if his mere presence alone is disruptive to the environment.
Though there's some difficulty in the act, he inhales. God, it's no wonder they asked him to take something of a short vacation; it could be an admission of weakness, but even breathing in the salty air as he approaches the inn's door awakens a need for relaxation he'd rather not relent to.
The lobby is humble, rather small, and appears to be focused more on how to adorn the space with the seaside aesthetic Perros-Guirec is known for than to be practical. The walls are painted in the faint traces of an almost-white blue, with wicker chairs and driftwood coffee table pieces distributed bleakly throughout the remaining space. A photo of the shore above the empty concierge desk is caged in a frame with seashells that looks too sophisticated for the simple furnishing.
A change in scenery also calls for a change in taste, apparently.
Thankfully, the clerk at the check-in desk is a distracted adolescent who looks perpetually bored with her job, the sort that would rather be reading magazines or stay holed up in their rooms. Once the door opens, she spares a bored glance at the newcomer, does a double take with wide eyes (as one does), then leans back on her swivel chair tentatively when he approaches, as if waiting to press the panic button beneath the desk.
"I have a reservation booked."
Her eyes widen even more, then blink incredulously, as if the words that leave his mouth aren't his own. Ah, he forgets, his voice tends to have that effect on people: the low, smooth baritone and the unnaturally precise manner of his diction, an accent which can't be pinned down but could be described as attractive without disagreement. It had always been a voice that didn't quite fit his face.
Well, half his face, in any case.
"I-I'm sorry?" the girl manages to bleat out.
He sighs, fragments of a larger exhaustion released in a breath. "Mademoiselle, I drove five and a half hours to get here. It wouldn't be appropriate for you to be inept in attending to your establishment's customers."
She audibly gulps, her face burning. "Right, sorry." As if to make up for the lost time she spent gaping, she stands rather abruptly from her chair, bringing up a ledger book between them and scanning through the entries. "What name is your reservation under?"
He hesitates for a moment as he places down his bags. "Séraphin."
She blinks again, pausing almost as if in thought before leafing through the ledger, which he notices isn't arranged by date, as most hotels are, but alphabetically. As he tries to think of any sort of reason as to how that could be efficient, she taps a name with her finger and there, written in some abhorrent cursive, is the last name. She turns the ledger around, while he takes a pen from the stand and signs in the cell next to it.
"So," she says, as if to fill in the uncomfortable silence, "you're M. Séraphin?"
He finishes the signature and puts the pen back. "What of it?"
She shrugs, taking the ledger back. "Nothing, I just thought you'd be… I don't know, shorter?"
He takes a moment to absorb that, but can't exactly describe how it makes him feel if it isn't uncomfortable, in an odd way.
She configures something on the desk below, then procures a small keycard and a slip of paper, which she gives to him. "Uh… here's your key."
He takes both items from her, the feeling of her skin grazing the leather of his gloves unnerving. Written on the paper is a series of numbers following the name of the inn. "What's this?"
She looks at him as if he's stupid, like all her prior fear has vanished simply with the apparent obliviousness of his question. "The Wi-Fi password."
He regrets asking. "Ah."
"Your room is 386, third floor." She leans forward and stretches her hand out to gesture to the corridor. "Elevator's along that hallway there, Monsieur."
He picks up his bag and his violin, then proceeds to make his way to the elevator.
"Hey."
He stops, and a small shot of fear lances through his chest.
He's suddenly aware of how heavy the violin is in his hands, and how his legs ache from standing abruptly after sitting for five hours driving to this godforsaken paradise town. Turning his head seems like a mistake, the weight of the right side of his face clearly visible in the light. And perhaps that's the reason she looks positively nervous, curling her fingers into her palms tentatively to release tension, her body posture horribly erect.
"I… uh…" she starts.
His heartbeat is loud in his ears.
Don't ask about the mask. Please, don't ask about the mask.
To his surprise, her voice nearly drops to a whisper, sounding laden with guilt. "I like the concerto in the latest album you made. The one in C minor."
Relief flows through him. A small smile makes his way to what's visible of his lips, a bit of sorrow staining it, that this girl probably feels utterly embarrassed that she finds joy in music, when that should never be the case. "That one is my favourite as well."
She returns his grin and allows him to disappear into the corridor. Once he presses the button, the yawning gates of the elevator open and close behind him, bringing him to the third floor, while a loud, long sigh of relief echoes through the empty chamber on the ride there. It doesn't take him long to find his room: a cosy, quaint-looking thing furnished simply with a single bed, an armchair, a desk, a single bathroom (sans mirror, as he requested), and a wide balcony that also serves as the only window.
Setting down his luggage to free his hands, he slides the glass door open to allow more of the tangy saltwater breeze to flow into the room and ruffle the sheer curtains, attempting to invigorate his dormant want of a getaway.
He locks the door, takes a few deep breaths, then the clockwork begins to churn.
His large black coat rolls off his shoulders first, then the leather gloves come off. After that, the waistcoat is unbuttoned and shrugged off as well, but the tie is only slightly loosened. He rolls up his sleeves to the elbows, creasing the crisp fabric of his dress shirt and causing folds that run all the way to his shoulders. He still cringes at the sight of the black ink on his skin of his right arm, a series of triangles, swirls, and musical notes spiraling from his wrist, up his arm and disappearing into his cuffs. Oh, the foolish acts of a younger man.
He steels himself for the repeat of this damn ritual. Ritual, he thinks, some cursed word that sounds and feels like a repeated, disliked, but necessary gesture of something unholy. He takes slow breaths, as his eyes close and he tries to dull whatever sensation he can from his body. His fingers move to find the edges of the mask eclipsing half of his face, and he peels it off and sets it down on the nearest available surface.
The cold smooth porcelain on his fingertips, the sharp yet sleek edges that pretend so pathetically be something he lost so long ago; rarely does he ever see the mask in his hands within walls that aren't his own. The thought is disturbing, but the cool air on the skin of all his face is a welcome sensation, as much as it dismays him.
Carefully, he props the violin case on the desk and unlatches it, lifting the Stradivarius and its bow from their velvet lining, bringing the chin rest to his neck. The stance grounds him, a picture of graceful, perfect asymmetry of a human figure. He absorbs the sensation of the metal strings underneath his fingers, and skims the bow quickly in miniscule movements to start the Bach prelude.
No. He stops on the first few notes through the partita.
He pauses, takes a thin breath, and plays the beginning of the prelude once more. However, instead of continuing through Bach in E major, he runs past the major notes and down the chromatic scale of Ysaÿe, and lets the quickening notes carry themselves across the cold sea wind.
Perhaps he should be grateful for convenience store chains and their absurdly isolating business hours. Of course, there are always questions, but the employees during these dark morning hours are usually too groggy to prod or judge the late night clientele. But he miscalculated when expended his limited water supply of his hotel room faster than expected, and as much as he loathes going outside, even for dire necessities, it always seems like some inconsequential chore meant to be procrastinated. And it isn't as if he could ask the front desk for water either; no, that would require an unfortunate, sleep-deprived employee to walk up to his room and talk to him which, frankly, would be a situation unpleasant for both parties involved.
The digital bedside clock reads eleven in the evening as he refitts himself with his many dark layers, which now included the addition of a wide-brimmed fedora and a scarf to cover the lower half of his face. He tucks ten euros into an inner pocket of his long coat, fixing the creases of his outfit where they need adjustment. He needs no mirror to rectify the erroneous logistics of his physicality, as the years without one have taught him. The mask, as always, remains a constant, one both imperative and scorned.
The convenience store is directly across the street from the inn, which spares him the trouble of driving to the other edge of town in search of bottled water (and how odd, that now in its scarcity and need, does it seem to be a luxury). The garish colours of the store's logo are the only bright beacon against the dark town, long asleep. At this hour, in Paris, the streets would still be teeming with light and movement, until the rising sun would wake a sleepless city.
God, he's been in Paris for too long. Any stranger would think that the city knows him more than anyone, when it's always been the other way around.
The chime sound that plays over the speakers once he opens the creaking glass door is enough to make his skin crawl—a horrid single measure playing a sorry excuse of a major pentatonic scale. A brief glance at the cashier counter reveals a young man scrolling lazily through his phone as he downs what one can only assume to be a caffeinated beverage. He finds the convex mirror hanging on one of the upper corners of the ceiling, overlooking all the aisles, and releases a sigh of relief upon learning that other than the cashier, the store is empty.
Careful.
He tears his glance away from the faraway reflection, in fear that he'll start looking for his own visage there. Fright bristles his nerves as he makes his way through the store.
Mirrors. Beware of mirrors.
To ask that exhausted cashier boy where the water is would necessitate a certain degree of courage and patience he doesn't have, and thus he's better off left to his own devices, in what ought to amount to a trivial task; it would be, for a normal man. The refrigerators against the rear wall of the establishment store beverages, so it must be there. He paces through the small maze of shelves and scans through the freezers' contents to find the cheapest alternative when the unthinkable happens.
Or at least, what he supposes the unthinkable should be.
That horrible chime sound plays again, accompanied by the scraping of the door against the carpet.
Someone's just entered the store. His blood goes cold.
Why is that enough to give him pause? Why is that enough to send a chill up his spine when he's cloaked in multiple layers, from head to foot? Why does dread still paralyse him? An old mannerism causes his hand to flinch and reach up to tilt the rim of his fedora down, at an angle to the right, to better conceal the mask. Just as a failsafe, he tugs his scarf higher and stands incredibly still, willing the new stranger away or himself invisible.
Once he gains his bearings, he quickly opens the fridge, the cold mist curling from within it as he takes two bottles without a second thought and attempts to briskly walk back to the counter. His eyes are averted to the ground, and luckily his attention would have him skid to a halt before he bumped into the man at the checkstand in front of him.
Against his better judgment, his eyes are quick to read him with the mere seconds of a furtive glance. From the back, he's dressed plainly, in an olive green windbreaker and trousers, not an uncommon choice given the usual weather. The most striking thing about him, however, is his hair: a mop of golden curls and a silk-like sheen that still manage to look luxurious even under the most dreary of convenience store lighting, a sort of sunlight colour fading into grey near his temples. The blond man speaks to the cashier in French, but the way his r's seem to harden instead of being inhaled through the throat cavity creates an audible dent in his accent. It's not something a normal person at a convenience store late into the evening would have noticed, but it's enough to catch his curiosity; a foreigner, then. But suddenly, an old fear strikes an unlocking chain of instincts within him—how to disarm, where a gun could be tucked into his belt, the fastest way to knock him out, if his coat would allow him ample enough room to move. Then he curses his own worries and attempts to rebury the past he had dug up again, a torrent of unwelcome memories pushed back into the recesses of his mind. Hopefully. they'll be forgotten for the night.
"That'll be 1.75," the cashier says sleepily.
"Ah, yes," the blond man says, flustered as he digs through the contents of his pockets; but it appears that the more pockets he digs through, the more rattled he gets, and the longer he takes holding up the short line, barring his exit. "Hold on… it should be in this one, let me—"
Damn it. "Here."
He digs into his pocket and fishing out the ten euro bill, his gloved hand slamming it down on the counter. Both the clerk and the other man look up at him, as his height or voice would demand, and he gives a tight-lipped smile to the cashier, who gawks dumbly at the right side of his face.
Stop staring.
"Thank you," the foreigner says, diverting his attention from the impertinent cashier and meeting him at eye level, as if the mask and the scarf attempting to cover it aren't even there, as if his menacing figure didn't matter in the slightest; perhaps he could never believe in human kindness, but the smile this man gives is enough to make him reconsider his cynicism, even for a moment.
"Thank you so much, Monsieur. I'll pay you back."
"No need," he replies, as the cashier gives the other man his receipt and proceeds to bag his groceries: a box of pancake mix and a carton of milk.
He forgets that he's staring, until the foreigner finds it necessary to justify himself. "Breakfast. Must have slipped my mind this afternoon."
"Pancakes," the word leaves him rather stupidly before he stops himself from rambling on. Don't continue to invite conversation.
"My daughter, she loves pancakes," the blond man says, much to the other's chagrin, as he takes the bag from the cashier. "Once again, thank you, Monsieur. I really do intend to pay you back."
He places the bottles of water on the counter as the foreigner moves to the side. "Again, there's no need."
Suddenly, the blond man lurches forward, as if his legs ceased to function, and tries to resist what came over him before gripping the counter for support. It's enough to make even the cashier grow alert and divert his attention from the half mask.
"Are you alright, sir?" the cashier asks, now concerned.
The blond man waves it off, distributing his weight over a shoulder-width stance. He should know that such a position is used to hide swaying and combat dizziness. (Or in his case, one that accompanies drunken episodes.)
"I'm fine," the blond man nearly burps out. "Don't worry about me."
"You don't seem fine," he adds now, berating his speech mentally for involving himself in a situation he never wanted to be in.
"I'm okay, honestly," the foreigner smiles again, waving his hand as he turns around to walk out the door. "Goodnight, Monsieurs."
The door closes with a shift and a click into place. He now directs his attention fully to the cashier scanning his items. It's obvious from the way the boy turns his gaze away that he wants a chance to look at his face (or what should be his face), and is trying to catch him at a moment where he thinks he's unaware. He can try his luck.
"So," the cashier boy starts, which he shouldn't. "You know each other?"
Shut up, you stupid boy. "No."
Another moment of silence passes as the shuffling of plastic fills the silence of the store. The boy opens his mouth as if to ask something else when a noise is heard outside,something heavy dropping on the pavement. Then a painful choking breaks over in its wake.
"What was that?" the cashier asks, nervousness cracking through his voice.
Not a second is wasted. He rushes out and finds the foreigner on his stomach against the pavement, groaning loudly and clutching his chest. The carton of milk in his bag had been crushed, its contents spilling out onto the street. He kneels and turns the blond man over, and it appalls him that he doesn't grimace at the sight of blood dripping from the latter's lips, with his skin cold, and his pallor deathly.
"Call an ambulance," he says urgently to the cashier hovering uselessly by the door.
The boy, however, has grown as pale as the fallen, his legs shaking at the sight of blood on the pavement.
The voice now is no longer simply urgent, but angry. "Now!"
The idiot obeys this time scurries back inside. He removes his hat and kneels, adjusting the blond man's body over him to make sure he doesn't choke on blood. The scarf goes too, crumbled to be used as a makeshift pillow upon his knee.
It sickens him, how the closing in of death is nothing to shock him, but this one feels odd, almost like a pitiful deprivation of mercy. He questions why he cares so much, but the answer comes as quickly as the query does. This man, who felt like both a stranger to this town and someone who had lived here all his life, wasn't anyone entangled in the evils of the world, good or bad; he was simply someone living in a peaceful beachside town, and he looked into his eyes and saw him. Not the mask, or the voice, but him.
The injured man, through his quivering lips, whispers something too soft for him to hear.
"Don't speak," he looks back at the store, and through the glass, cashier speaks frantically on the phone.
"You…" the blond man says weakly, but in a tone cloaked in comfort he didn't have earlier, "you're an angel."
He pretends to hide his surprise. That wasn't French that he spoke; it was Swedish.
"I simply paid for your groceries, sir," comes the clipped yet almost uncomprehending reply, matching the other's foreign tongue, and the man's eyes widen in amazement. "Say nothing. Conserve your strength."
"You… you are an angel."
He couldn't ever be one; not now, not ever. "Sir, please—"
"What is your name?"
He goes still, the cold air tasting vaguely of salt whips around them. Don't tell him anything. He mustn't know anything. Nobody can know anything.
He sighs softly. "Erik."
"Erik…" the Swedish lilt of the name sounds better on his choking tongue than it ever did on anyone else's. His hand trembles as it latches onto Erik's gloved wrist.
He makes no effort to hide his instinctive recoil, but this dying man doesn't seem to mind.
"My name is Gustave," the blond man splutters the syllables of his name, and Erik is halfway through shutting him up again for his own sake when Gustave speaks first. "Will… you do me one last favour, and listen to what I have to say?"
Erik says nothing, but Gustave can somehow sense the dormant agreement within him.
With what seems to be the last of his breaths, Gustave tells him what he can: they know that he has it, and now they'll go after his daughter because they'll think she knows that he had it too. She must be protected, and it must be hers.
There's only enough time and energy to answer what 'it' is: a 1744 Guarneri Cantabile, the rarest violin in the world, the first and the last of its kind. Valuable, expensive, to kill for.
But before Erik can ask any more questions or protest further, the sirens of the incoming ambulance cut him short, and Gustave falls unconscious.
He still doesn't know what sort of humanity remains within his heart that prompted him to follow the old man into the hospital, and wait for eight hours outside a cold, sterilised building he's been repulsed by since the moment he was born in one, pondering the promise he made to a Swedish man on his deathbed: a man he barely knew but felt understood him the way the world never did. That sort of interpersonal mystery, however, is now the least of his concerns.
He has a promise to fulfill, no matter how badly the question of 'why' pervades his sense of thought. But two questions hinder him from accomplishing the task.
He doesn't know who 'they' are.
He doesn't know who Gustave's daughter is.
Both of these inquisitions go unanswered. Gustave doesn't make pancakes for his daughter the following morning, and that day marks the first of the rest she will spend waking up in their home alone.