A/N—Not canon by any means, merely an amusing thought. I can just see Erik's horrified expression…and hear Christine giggling.

TMoaM update is coming...the writing muse just isn't being cooperative, but I promise I've not forgotten or abandoned it!

A Little Romance

2018, Riene

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The Persian had been looking terribly pleased with himself in recent weeks, and it gnawed at Erik's subconscious.

He'd made inquires, as was his wont. The man didn't seem to have acquired any new property or riches. His business dealings were the same. No unknown visitors came to the flat on the Rue de Rivoli, but something had changed.

Not that he would ever be so gauche as to ask. It would never do to imply that he was curious, or heaven forbid, that he was concerned. No, it was simply duty. He was the Persian's oldest acquaintance in Paris. He had somewhat of a responsibility to look after the man, did he not?

Erik found himself employing all of his powers of observation and deduction. Purely as an intellectual stimulus; he didn't actually care, of course, it was simply an academic exercise to be certain that his hard-won skills were not slipping.

There was a certain jaunty air about the Persian, an extra fillip to his step that shouldn't be present in a man of his age. To Erik's sharp and discerning eye, Khan appeared to have had a recent haircut. Polish on his shoes. Cufflinks? Surely not. Even his coat and hat appeared to have undergone a recent brushing. Perhaps his manservant had received a reprimand and was now being extra zealous in his duties?

Rehearsal demanded Erik attend to duties at the Opera House, and thus he need take other measures. The street urchin the Opera Ghost employed reported that Khan had been seen purchasing flowers, of all things. He gave the boy a coin and turned away with a sour expression. What nonsense. He would not pay for more bad information.

Skulking through the Opera House brought him nearer to the backstage, where he watched the petit rats going about their exercises and lessons. A word with Adele Giry would have to be postponed; the ballet mistress was supervising the lesson, to the terror of the jeune filles and their nervous teacher. He'd have to leave a note on her desk instead. The prior evening's performance had left much to be desired.

While he approved of that austere lady's rigid posture and personal equanimity, her office was a deplorable mess. Notes, old programmes, Meg's first pointe shoes, a vase of flowers, lists of costume materials to be purchased, scribbles of ideas for future choreography…all was chaos. Still, he left a sharply-worded note where she would find it. His black-bordered stationery and spiky red ink were hard to miss.

Oddly, there was no response from Madame Giry. He attended the evening performance as was his duty, keeping to the shadows of Box Five, tapping one long finger impatiently, watching and noting which of his orders had been obeyed. Moncharmin might be an adequate business manager, but the man had no artistic sense. The Opera had been steadily losing money, its subscribers trickling away to the more coarse and gaudy entertainment of the dance halls before he, Erik, had taken an active hand.

From this angle he could see somewhat into the wings, where Madame Giry stood watching the dancers. She glanced up toward the box seats and nodded once, her stern face softening into a smile. Unusual, normally the imperturbable ballet mistress did not acknowledge his presence.

One box over a flash of white caught his eye. Ah, the Persian was attending the performance as well. Perhaps he'd have a chance to gain an insight into the man's odd behavior.

Yet Khan had inexplicably disappeared by the end of the performance! Irritated, the Opera Ghost slipped into the dusty passages between the walls, arriving minutes later behind the panel in the manager's office. Moncharmin was receiving guests and pouring glasses of champagne, modestly accepting compliments for the splendid changes to the programme. Insightful! Daring! Original! Erik scowled. The suggestions had been his own, for the blocking, the direction, the lighting. How his blood seethed that the pompous popinjay took the credit.

Well, perhaps a rise in his salary was in order, then. The man would be receiving a pointed missive in the morning.

The long corridors were mostly deserted, the patrons, guests, principals, and dancers entertaining each other in the Salons or the Rotunde, or preening themselves at being seen on the Grand Staircase. Erik swept along the hidden passages, wrapped in his cloak like a great and irritated bat. Ahead, the costume room was mercifully dark. He could pass through unseen.

Except for the couple, embracing between the racks of attire. Oh, sacre bleu, could these people not find some other corner in which to have an assignation? He rolled his eyes. There was no way to proceed without being noticed, and listening to murmured endearments, faithless promises, and worst of all, passion, was anathema to the cold-hearted man who had never been touched.

Impatient, he edged carefully around a costume so wide it could only belong to Piangi, and took a quick, careful look, and then stopped, dumbfounded. Those broad shoulders in the astrakhan coat…the salt and pepper hair…Khan? Of all people? Here? Well, that explained many things. Erik smirked. How he would rib the Persian on their next encounter!

Unseen, he slipped away into the darkness.

The Persian accepted his invitation to tea and chess, pleasantly surprised at his old friend's sudden bonhomie. Once settled by the fire, small glasses of Kir in hand, Erik leaned back and waved one airy hand. "My dear Khan, I have discovered your secret. You have an amour!"

Khan's jade–green eyes had narrowed with suspicion, then suddenly widened, twinkling with delight. "Ah, my friend, I am glad you approve! For the longest time I thought…you and she…but we are men of the world, no? And I had felt…after all these years…that it was never to be again." He sipped his drink, smiling with mawkish sentimentally. "She is indeed a jewel, a jewel among women."

Erik blinked. This was not at all the reaction he had anticipated.

Khan continued. "I have not been enamored of your European women, as you know. Too cold. But her! Such fire! Such spirit! Hair like a raven's wing, and eyes that…I cannot believe you have never noticed! And her right under your very, erm, nose! You are getting old, my friend," the Persian said jovially, waggling one finger.

"Of whom do you speak?" Erik said blankly.

"Why, Adele! Adele Giry!" he exclaimed, and Erik choked on the drink he'd just taken. Nadir and...Adele? His two oldest acquaintances, united in their interference, busily discussing his past, his life, wandering down amidst his traps, visiting his house, intent upon being social…

Khan patted him on the back as Erik wheezed and sputtered, and stared at his friend, worried. The man seemed unwell. Allah willing, he and Adele could keep a closer eye on Erik. As the man's oldest acquaintance, it was surely his duty.

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