When The Phrog Was Still A Frog
'Twas the night way, way, way, way, way after Christmas Eve.
And all through the house, not a creature was stirring...
Except for Raoul, whose (tiny) brain was a-whirring…
In the De Chagny house, one night way, way, way, way after Christmas Eve, the night before the tenth day of the second month of the year, to be exact, all was darkened and locked in the stillness of midnight, save the hallway leading to the chambers of a certain viscount. Here, the torches hanging from the ceiling cast a dusky glow across the high, curtained windows and the heavy door on which an upside-down "do not disturb" sign had been taped. The room itself was eerily black and white, which, in this situation, was good. No one could see the shade of pinkish peach paint on the walls.
A disheveled young man sat hunched over some unseen object on his desk, viciously attacking it with a paintbrush. His fair hair was streaked with odd veins of red and green, while his blue eyes were bloodshot and shadowed. He showed no sign of relinquishing himself to Sleep just yet.
"Perfect…" he muttered to no one in particular. "It has to be perfect…"
After a few more frenzied movements with the brush, Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny paused to survey his work. A little ceramic frog looked up at him from its place on the desk. It was, strangely enough, striped with red and green, and gleaming with a fresh coat of varnish. A manic expression crossed his face.
"How pretty my precious is… Now for the final test…"
And with that, the little frog went tumbling off the desk, to crack into pieces on the floor.
"Nooooo!!!" Raoul shrieked.
Stalking over to the remains of his creation, he picked up what was left of the head, glowering into the little black-painted eyes. "You're not strong enough! You are unworthyyyy…" And with that, the pieces were tossed into a now overflowing trashcan of similarly broken pieces of what used to be a frog.
For some odd reason, perhaps because creepy sounds carry well and quickly on a quiet night, the sounds issuing from the room reached the sleeping ears of his brother, Philippe. The Comte tensed beneath his silk sheets, suddenly wide awake. He shuddered. A bump here, a crash there, every once in a while a stream of very colorful language.
It reminded him greatly and disturbingly of their parents' second honeymoon.
The very thought made him twitch, and he couldn't help wondering if their parents had anything to do with Raoul turning out the way he did.
Crash.
"Aaaah dammit!"
"As long as that racket continues, I won't be getting any sleep," he thought decidedly. Shoving his feet into a pair of slippers, Philippe rose from his bed and began to traverse the hallway that separated his room from his brother's and was now filling with ungodly music.
A shrill voice assailed him as he neared the door. "Mary had a mutant lamb, mutant lamb, mutant lamb! Mary had a mutant lamb and it ate her in one go! Mary had a mutant lamb, mutant lamb, mutant lamb! Mary had a mutant lamb and it ate her in one gooooooo!"
He promptly winced, but raised his hand to knock anyway. "Raoul? Raoul, just because our parents' second honeymoon scarred you for life doesn't mean you can keep everyone up-"
"You are still unworthyyyy...!" echoed in counterpoint as something crashed to the floor.
"Raoul de Chagny, are you listening to me?!"
"No, I'm too busy ridding the world of this... icky, icky thing... DIE!!!"
Philippe groaned. "Then if you're not listening, how were you able to respond to my query? Hmmm?" He smirked. But unfortunately, Philippe's old-fashioned style of wit wouldn't get to the viscount this time. No, he was too busy screaming of something's unworth, consequently dropping that thing of unworth.
Philippe groaned. "Do you even know what 'unworthy' means, brother?!?!" he yelled in exasperation.
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!" Then a crack. "And to you? Yessssssssssssssss!!! Unworthy is this thing!" exclaimed Raoul, holding up the frog, though Philippe was on the other side of the wall. Raoul shrugged. At least it added to the theatrical effect of the whole thing. As a child, Raoul was called a 'drama queen', and he had the full intention of fulfilling it.
"What thing?!"
"This! You don't deserve to live, you pathetic excuse for a... pathetic excuse!"
Outside, Philippe blinked, remembering Raoul's tendency to refer to himself in the third person. But it just wasn't possible. No matter what happened, he wouldn't-
Crash. "Wahahaha!"
(Note From ½ Of The Authors: Raoul has such an ego, referring to himself in the third person. Madame Butterfly is appalled.)
"Raoul, whatever may have provoked you into a suicide attempt, you know it's not worth it-" The music grew louder. Philippe, suddenly taken by panic, began to pound on the door.
"It's not worth it, brother! It's nooot!"
"It's still not ready! It's nooot!"
"Think of Christiiiiine!"
"You are still unworthyyyy!!!"
"Raoooouuul!"
"Unworthyyyyy!!!"
"Raooooooouuuul!"
"Unwooooooooooooorthyyyyyy!!!"
"Raaaaaaaaaaaouuuuul!!!"
The count slumped against the door in despair. Why did his brother refuse to listen to reason? But he immediately answered with his question with another. When had Raoul ever listened to reason?
There was only one course of action to take. The way was clear. He knew what he had to do, though God above knew it wouldn't be pretty.
Build a pillow fort.Down the marble steps Philippe de Chagny went, almost running into their butler who had obviously been awakened by the din. Just the person he wanted to see.
He cleared his throat. "Pierre... I'd like some pillows. Lots and lots of pillows." The butler, still lightheaded, regarded him with confusion. "Need I elaborate?! I want mountains of pillows, Pierre! Thousands! Hordes! All superlatives!!!"
"Uh... Monsieur, it's Jacques."
It was now the Comte's turn for confusion. "Jacques? Where's Pierre?"
"Gone, monsieur."
"...Why?"
"I'm sure I don't know, monsieur, but news on the wind is that your esteemed brother Monsieur le Vicomte had something to do with it."
"Damn... Get me my pillows! I need my pillow fort!"
"Certainly, sir. The ones with the ponies, or the ones with the doggies?"
"ALL of them, man! Even my mother's old pink ones, for heaven's sake... I MUST HAVE MY PILLOW FORT!"
"Right away, sir! Will get right on it, sir!" As Jacques turned on his heel, he looked back. "Uh, monsieur? Would you like your Victoria's Secret catalogue as well?"
The count rubbed his temples in a pitiful attempt to calm himself. "You do that..." The butler then left to look for said catalogue, leaving Philippe to return to his brother's room. He intended to hold position there for as long as was necessary.
A few minutes later, he sat amid pillows of different sizes and patterns, elaborately put together into something that resembled a fort. His experienced team of paramedics along with their assistants and gear stood by calmly... Too calmly, in fact. Their faces were blank and staring; no one moved. Mister Teddy and Mrs. Bear stood a few inches behind Philippe, silently waiting for his next move, and the dolls held the tea set close by, just in case. Inside the room, the hellish noises continued.
"All right, everyone," the count addressed his silent troops. "Stand by for now, but stay alert. Keep your equipment at the ready. My brother is in there. Doing what exactly? We don't know. But we do know that it's dangerous, and if that door opens we have to be ready for anything. Is that clear?"
Silence...
"Good."
And so, the lone commander and his men sat waiting in their palisade, the ungodly music still resounding from behind the door. Occasionally, Raoul would pause in between screams of unworth to break into a brief stretch of song
"Somewheeeere over the rainboooow, bluuuuebiiiirds diiiiieee!!!"
The pillow fort trembled as if assailed by an evil presence.
"Stand fast, men," Philippe would mutter in between clenched teeth. "Stand fast..."
The rest silently obeyed, and a few more agonizing minutes passed.
Then...
...Silence.
The comte relaxed enough to half-breathe a sigh of relief.
However, this respite was short-lived. The hall was suddenly alive with the crackle and boom of thunder; inside the room, a voice cried out in triumph.
"IT'S ALIIIIIIVE!!!"
A light scratching sound followed this statement; the thunder came to a halt as abruptly as it began, replaced by little childrens' voices.
"Raindrops keep pouring on my head..." they sang.
There was a thud, which was presumably Raoul hitting the record player, and the thunder begain again.
"...IT'S ALIIIIIIIVE!!!"
The door then flew open, sending the Philippe's pillow fort crashing down. A horrified look appeared on his face, though whether it was because of the fact that his beloved pillow fort was no more or the state his brother was in, no one was certain.
Raoul stood in the doorway, the ruins of the once-great fort strewn at his bunny-slippered feet. There was a manic expression on his face, and his cloud-printed pj's were stained with what looked suspiciously like...
"You're bleeding!" Philippe exclaimed, aghast. "Raoul! What's happened?!"
"It's only paint, brother," Raoul giggled. "I'm all right! Ahihihi!"
"No you're not!"
"Oh, but I am. My masterpiece is complete!" The young man plopped down to the floor. He waved a red frog in Philippe's face. "Isn't it pretty...?"
"It's a frog... And it's red."
"Shush! It adds to the effect! And it's not a frog, it's a phrog!"
"...Isn't that the same?"
"No, my ignorant brother, it is most certainly not! But no matter... It lives! Ahahaha... haha... hahahaha!!!" And Raoul collapsed into his brother's arms, finally succumbing to sleep.
"Raoul...?" Philippe hazarded. He poked the immobile form, but received no response. "Raoul? Raoul!!! Nooooo!!!"
With no one left to blame, he rounded on his companions. Particularly, Mister Teddy.
"You!" he snarled. "You couldn't save him, you useless piece of cow excrement! Whyyyy?!"
Poor, blameless Mister Teddy went hurtling through the air, hitting the wall with a squeak. Philippe dropped to the floor, exhausted.
"I have no reason to live..."
For what was left of the night, the de Chagny house enjoyed some real quiet. As soon as the pale sunlight began to filter through the windows, however...
"RED! RED! It's RED! Why is it RED?!"
"You said it added to the effect, Raoul..."
"No I didn't!"
"Yes, you did..."
"I did not! It can't be red! Frogs aren't red, whether they're used for Valentine gifts or not!" he cried indignantly.
"You're giving someone a frog for a Valentine's Day gift??? Honestly..." The overflowing trashcan suddenly caught his eye. "And just how many frogs did you use...?"
"Umm..." the viscount paused, adding the numbers in his head. "...Twenty...? At least...?"
"Wonderful..." Philippe rubbed his temples in exasperation. "And how much paint? And varnish? Well?"
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them instantly. Too late.
"Three bottles of green, five bottles of red..." Raoul told him dutifully, looking a little too innocent. "And... one, two, three... a lot of patina!"
A vein popped then. The poor Comte had reached the end of his rope.
"Look, brother…" he said in a tone that was painfully slow. "I know. We're De Chagny. We're quite well off, I know, yes we are… But… DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH MONEY YOU'VE WASTED?"
"...No... Are you going to hurt me...?"
Philippe de Chagny would have exploded then, but collected himself at the last minute. "All right, all right..." he muttered, turning away and beginning to take deep breaths to calm himself. "And no, Raoul, I'm not going to hurt you..."
Tears, be they crocodile or real, filled the vicomte's eyes. "Brother doesn't love me anymore...?"
"No, no, Raoul, it's not that-" Philippe sighed, and held out his arms to his brother. "Come here."
Raoul did so. Unfortunately, he just had to bump into the table in the process.
Both brothers watched in horror as the little red frog fell to the floor.
"NOOOOO!!"
CRACK.
Raoul blinked. "...Am I in trouble...?"
Philippe had surrendered the battle long ago. He sighed. "No, no, you'll just have to make your little froggy all over again..." Philippe turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. "All over again... All over again... Making a frog all over again... Dammit dammit dammit..."
Meanwhile, in her part of town, a young opera singer by the name of Christine Daae blew carefully on the little plaster bear she had just painted, humming cheerily to herself.
Fin
A/N: Please R&R, and we will remain your humble servants. :p
And just for the heck… Disclaimer: POTO and its characters, not ours, sadly. The parody of "Mary Had A Little Lamb" was written by Lifebane-san, sempai to Sadazen. Everything else is ours.