For Cameron.
Thank you to my wonderful reviewers! You're my motivation.
Disclaimer: *double checks* nope, still don't own Phantom of the Opera.
Warning: Bit of a slow chapter. Sorry!
Okay, does anyone actually KNOW what Erik's mask is made of? Obviously it can't be plastic; it wasn't invented yet. I was thinking more along the lines of porcelain, or plaster, but the sites I checked say leather?¿? Well, if Leroux says leather...
"Goddamnthatnogoodsonofabitrjdgegkyteqnc," Meg seethed under her breath. She hoisted Christine from the floor; for such a tiny person, she was surprisingly heavy. Meg screamed in frustration. It was really dark and there were a lot of stairs and Erik was an asshole. Abandoning her like this! If Meg hadn't been there to help, what would have become of their beloved Christine? She'd have woken up all alone and in the dark and cold. Meg had never been more furious in her life. She grunted as she tried to drag Christine's motionless body toward the stairs.
"Let me," a gentle voice pleaded from behind.
Meg shrieked and dropped her friend, tripping backwards and hitting her head on the wall. Erik stood behind her, holding a lantern. Desperate eyes and parted lips peeked from behind his white mask.
He reached a hand to help her up, but Meg leapt up on her own and slapped him hard across the face with all the might she could muster.
Erik stumbled, stunned, then whirled on her, eyes flashing.
"You swine," Meg spat, unaware. "I saw the whole thing, you slontze, how you treated her, how you scared the living daylights out of her and just abandoned her here all alone!"
"Meg-"
"I AM HAVING NONE OF IT. Get out, you weak excuse for a human being, and never come back here again."
Rage boiled in Erik's throat. He spoke nearly through gritted teeth. "You don't understand how delicate-"
"Delicate?! You look at Christine and tell me that's not the definition of delicate! All the while I thought-"
"MEG," the Phantom roared. "Be still."
Meg quieted.
"Now listen to me," Erik whispered, and Meg could hear tears in his voice. She almost regretted snapping at him. Almost, but not quite. "I love Christine. I love her so. After knowing me so long, you can't doubt that, can you?"
Meg locked her jaw.
Erik continued. "We speak sometimes, of philosophical things. I asked her what she feared most..." Erik's gaze dropped to Christine's calm and beautiful face, peaceful on the floor where Meg had dropped her. Accidentally. "...And she said her greatest fear was losing me."
Meg looked up from Christine and into Erik's eyes, shrouded in the shadow of his white mask reflecting the lamplight. Tentatively, Meg reached up... And pulled the mask away.
Meg had seen him without his mask before, of course. But it had never been a source of fear, even as a child. All she ever felt... Was disgust. And pity. His face was twisted and gnarled horrifically out of proportion, skin stretched in some places and sagging in others, his malformed lips pinched up on the right, folds of skin drooping off his left eye. Faintly blue, it seemed to her, as if he lacked oxygen. Veins visible through wrinkles, a ghastly void where his mask had shaped a nose. Even now, Meg had to swallow her revulsion in order to see what she had questioned.
Yes, tears were streaming down his cheeks.
"She doesn't want to lose me, Meg," Erik whispered, touching her arms with bony hands. "Maybe... Maybe she could..." Meg had to look away. And no, not because of Erik's macabre face; because of the joy and hope in his eyes. Meg squeezed her own eyes shut, avoiding tears herself. She was setting both her friends up for misery. By aiding him, even encouraging him, she kindled Erik's hopes of a love story between himself and Christine. By pretending to be oblivious to Christine's secret life, she let her hope for a beautiful angel to carry her to heaven. Each of their hopes set up the other's disappointment. She buried her face in her hands, one still holding Erik's mask.
"I must remain something intangible to her," Erik explained. "Something beyond her reach. Then, that way... She will want me. Human psychology generally confirms the nature of wanting things you can't have..." His eyes flickered to Christine. "...And I can personally testify to that." He padded lightly to Christine's side and knelt by her still form, reaching out a hand as if to caress her face, but hovering just above, hesitating. Then he looked up at Meg, as if asking permission. She slowly crossed the room and handed him his mask. He took it gingerly, replacing it on his face expertly.
"Meg. I have to do everything in my power to win her heart."
"This consumes you, Erik. You can have a life outside of Christine Daaé."
For a moment the two simply stood staring at the frail object of their concerns, the ethereal soprano lying still and tranquil.
Erik sighed. "I must return her to the dormitories."
"Not on your life," Meg growled. She leaned to pick up her friend and tried her very hardest not to look like she was struggling. Handstand routines, don't fail me now, she prayed as she tread toward the stone stairs. Erik watched her go with a heavy heart.
It was the closest he'd ever come to touching Christine.
I am the Phantom of the Opera.
The words rang and thundered in Christine's ears, again and again, overlapping, chilling. She remembered nothing after that, not even how she'd arrived all the way back into her dormitory, which was all the way across the opera house from the chapel. Meg said she'd seen her walk back, but Meg had been a bit reclusive lately, and Christine wasn't sure what she believed.
Maybe it had all been a dream.
After all, how could her Angel of Music be the fearsome Opera Ghost? The concept seemed almost laughable. For certain he was beautiful and golden and loving, a knight in white armor, she imagined. Surreal. Rumors of the Opera Ghost told of his ferocity, his sick habit of killing without a thought, and most of all, his grotesque and nightmarish face.
But she didn't really believe those rumors. Even if her beloved Angel really was the Opera Phantom, she would still believe in him with all her heart. He had never failed her before, and questioning what she didn't know was frivolous. She nodded to herself; yes, frivolous. She rose from her perch at the edge of her bed and prepared for the day; rehearsals were underway for a new production of Chalumeau's Hannibal, an opera whose arias the Angel had drilled her on for weeks, despite the fact that she was only in the dance chorus.
His faith in me really is something, Christine thought with a blush as she dressed.
Meg tripped up to her lightly, wearing an almost too-bright smile, already in her costume. Christine smiled back easily, pulling her top over her head, glad to see Meg seeming to return back to normal.
"Shall we head to the dressing rooms?" Meg offered her hand.
"I get to do your makeup!" The two ran off, giggling.
Erik slipped between the walls, eyes darting through familiar shadows, listening to scraps of conversation barely discernible. The omniscient Opera Ghost must keep up his reputation; nothing was to pass through the Opera Populaire without Erik's knowledge.
The shatter of broken glass and a murmured curse turned Erik's head to the male dressing room, where, as Erik could see through the slats of wood lining, a boy of about nineteen had dropped a bottle of liquor on the floor. Rehearsal was to start in five minutes; why was this one still in the dressing room? Erik narrowed his eyes, studying him.
As he knelt to sweep up the broken glass onto a sheet of paper-hands noticeably trembling-his muscles pulled taut, evidence of a finely toned and well-taken-care-of body. Bleary-eyed and red-faced though he was, one would have to be blind not to notice the subtle attractiveness in his features, a square jaw and perfectly straight nose, prominent cheekbones, dark curls that had strayed from their previously neatly combed style. If he could give up his alcohol, he would have his choice of women from the Opera. Erik had to look away.
And yet, there was something familiar in those features, in a peculiar way that nagged at the corners of Erik's mind; something in the the straight nose, the shape of the lips... As Erik struggled, irritated, the boy stood up shakily with his sheet balancing a pile of broken glass and turned toward the door when his foot caught on his shoe and he fell, scattering the glass about the room and hitting the ground with a loud thud.
Hard to believe the boy was a dancer. His grace was nonexistent.
At that moment, another boy of about his age burst through the door and, without hesitation, wove between the shards of broken glass to help the other boy off the ground.
"Duront," he sighed, "you said you would stop..."
"Hey, Alexandre," Duront greeted his friend as if just recognizing his presence. "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at...?" He gestured with his hand toward the door.
"Yes," Alexandre answered in a chillingly patient voice, "and so should you."
Duront blinked, allowing his friend to support his weight. He looked around the room, seeming shocked by the dark green glass laying in sharp bits across the floor. Breathing heavy, Duront squeezed his eyes shut and curled the hand around Alexandre's shoulder into a fist.
"I did it again."
"I know."
"I can't stop."
"Yes, you can."
"What do I do?"
"Come on. I'll take you to rehearsal."
Alexandre took a careful step forward, guiding Duront through the glass.
As they opened the door, Duront looked up at his friend with pleading eyes.
"Please don't tell Father."
The door clicked shut.
His father. Of course. Erik took a step back. How could he have forgotten?
This boy, this drunkard with the lovely features and faltering step, was the son of Monsieur Reyer, head maestro for the Opera Populaire's orchestra.
"A franc for your thoughts?" Meg wrapped a red cord from her skirt around her finger as Christine braided her hair.
"Just thinking about life," Christine answered absently. "And music." She paused. "And angels."
"What about angels of music?" Meg asked tensely, pulling the cord a little too tight.
"What?" Christine sounded shocked.
"Nothing." She released the cord, leaving her finger striped white and red.
Madame Giry banged her cane on the stage floor where the ballerinas sat, effectively ending all conversation. "Ladies! We are working on scene four today! I want you stretched and ready to begin in five minutes!"
Every girl leapt to her feet, huddling in her own group of friends to warm up. Meg yawned and reached high above her head before touching her toes. Christine mimicked Meg's yawn, lowering herself into a split. The day was looking a little bleak. Christine held on to the promise of an hour-long break at 14:30, when the leading soprano Carlotta Giudicelli was to practice her arias for her character Elissa, the main female protagonist in Hannibal.
Christine frowned as she leaned to her side to touch her toes. This was the problem with the Paris Opera House. They didn't even let anyone try out for anything. Oh, you're in the chorus? Great! Stay in the chorus. Ugh. She'd never get a chance at a lead role; it was naturally expected that Carlotta would get the lead and her pompous husband would play her male counterpart. Christine had never been out of the chorus to be in anything but a small ensemble. How did her Angel of Music plan to take her where she longed to be? It seemed impossible to her.
"You're looking forlorn, Christine," Meg observed.
Christine's eyes shot from the ground to Meg's curious face. "Really? I didn't mean to."
"It's all right. Are you okay?"
She looks so sincere, Christine thought. "Yes," she answered with a smile, "I'm fine."
I'm so lucky to have a friend like Meg.
Erik swung nimbly onto the catwalk above the stage, watching practice take place below him. Luckily, Duront wasn't the only alcoholic employed; Joseph Buquet, the chief stagehand, was once again nowhere to be found. This allowed Erik to sprawl across the ledge, resting his chin in his hands, crossing his ankles in the air. He smirked, content with being a part of the shadows where light did not touch. His cloak hung over the edge of the catwalk, balancing his weight as he tapped to the beat of scene four with his fingernails. They made soft clicks on his fine leather mask.
The ballet portion of rehearsals lasted until noon, when they began the chorus practice. Despite the shrill voices of pretty much everyone else, the singing chorus was always Erik's favorite. I swear, I can pick out Christine's voice from a mile away, he thought absently, watching his favorite mess of brown curls fly as Christine danced.
Seeing Christine and Meg together was always an uncomfortable experience; like watching two completely different worlds collide. And in truth, they WERE two completely different worlds. Of his, at least. He never really forgot that they were BFFFFL's or whatever, but seeing his best friend and the love of his life interact and talk and giggle and touch was always a shock to Erik. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't the least bit jealous of Meg's friendship with Christine. What he wouldn't give to be so close to her...
"H-hey!" A shaky voice cried from Erik's left. A young male, obviously a new recruit, stood at the other end of the catwalk, hesitantly trying to walk across without taking his eyes off of the Opera Ghost perched over the stage. Erik leapt up fluidly and melted into the familiar shadows that cloaked him day and night, intending to spare this boy by never seeing him again.
"No!" The boy forgot his hesitant footing and charged across the catwalk, heading blindly for the shadows where Erik hid.
"Why?" Meg shoved a piece of parchment at Erik. On it was printed the likeness of a young male who had once been a new recruit, and the warrant for his killer's arrest.
"I panicked!" Erik cried, rising from his desk. "I didn't mean to kill him- he was freaking me out and he didn't have his hand at the level of his-"
"This is ridiculous. He never did anything wrong. Do you have any perception of good and bad?"
"Of course I do. But I also have reflexes and a Punjab lasso-"
"Which I am confiscating. No more killing people, okay?"
"But what if it's an emergency?!"
"Then do what normal people do and call the police!"
Erik drew back a step. "I am not a normal person, Meg."
His friend sighed and rubbed her temples. "Okay. You're right. I'm sorry. But let me tell you something. Christine deserves better than a monster. And this, this killing without a thought business, it's monstrous. You want to be worthy of Christine, don't you?" She paused to glance up.
Erik hung his head. "Yes. You know I do. But it's in my nature... She'll never know..."
"But you will."
"Personally, I see no problem."
"You just murdered an innocent man in cold blood. There are a couple of things that will put Christine beyond your grasp, and that, sir, is one of them."
Erik hefted a sigh, settling back into his chair. "I need to think."
"I'll say." Meg snatched the poster from Erik's grasp, smoothing out the crinkled edges. "Damn. He was cute."
Erik made a swipe at his best friend, who dodged easily and mussed his hair.
"Before I go, I'll have that noose of yours." Meg held one hand out to him, waiting, the other hand at her eyebrow.
Erik growled, but reached into his cloak. "I swear, you're worse than my mother."
"Didn't your mother neglect you for the entirety of your childhood and deny you affection while forcing you to wear a mask and never letting you outside or even have a proper education which ultimately drove you out of the house by the time you were eight?"
"Yes, but at least she never took my playthings."