Variations of Erik: LErik!

Aaaand I'm still dragging my heels on Claude Rains. I assure you there are very good reasons in my brain. But it's ok! Because there are still a whole bunch of other versions I haven't drug out of the mothballs yet. This round is going back to it's roots. Oh yeah, Gaston Leroux. Sept 23rd is the kickoff for the 100th anniversary of the original work. It ran from Sept 23 to Jan 10 in a Parisian newspaper as a serial. So there's your tidbit of knowledge for the day.
I also would like to dedicate this chunk of smut to RipperBlackstaff for spiking my brain with some verrah sexeh artwork. Here is your coffin!sex, sweeting.

Phantom of the Opera and all of it's characters and base are belong to Gaston Leroux. I own no part of Erik or Christine. I make absolutely no profit from this nonsense.

So what started as PWP turned into PHYP (plot? Hell Yes Plot. It's a little strained but it's there!)

based on Le Fantome de l'Opera. LErik!

Two and a half weeks. Seventeen days. That was the last time I saw her, the moment I knew I could not keep her. The moment I knew I was going to die for her.
Christine had allowed me one brief kiss, placed ever so gently against her snow white forehead. She had offered me this gesture freely and innocently, believing that I had already released her young man back to the world above. She was willing to keep her promise even as I had broken mine.
The agreement had been quite simple. If I spared her boyish vicomte and the Persian she would remain with me as my living wife. She swore it on her pure little soul. She would not run or try to kill herself to escape my touch. She would be mine in the eyes of man and God.
The Persian I had deposited on his own doorstep to be cared for by his manservant. I had very little to fear of him. He was not a stupid man and would by now have realized that seeking entrance to my home without my consent was tantamount to suicide. Neither would the authorities believe any wild tale he chose to sell them. He was known backstage to be quite eccentric and I was quite confident that the particulars of the events were sufficiently incredible that no right minded mundane officer would regard them as anything more than a fool's ramblings. There was more than enough commonplace scandal involving Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny, his brother, and La Carlotta that all of their very rational minds would be taken up with fitting those players into the sequence of unusual events.
But the boy posed a threat. Not immediately to me, mind you. From what I'd heard of his rantings in the torture chamber I would be quite surprised indeed if his mind had not turned slightly from the experience. If he went running to the authorities in a state of half shock and lingering heat stroke they would surely cart him off to a madhouse. That would suit my purposes quite fine, but my concern was the other scenario that might have come to play out. Where the boy attempted a second rescue of his charming damsel in distress. That would put me in a very dicey situation where Christine was concerned. So it was far safer to simply give the lad a heavy dose of laudnam and secure him in one of the old Commundard dungeons that lay near the foundations of the Palais Garnier. No one ever bothered with those horrible places anymore and he could shout himself hoarse without the remotest possibility of being heard. He could stay there for a day or two before I finally decided what should be done with him on a more permanent basis.
But Christine knew none of this. She chidishly believed without question that I had kept my end of the bargain, and her Raoul was safely home and out of my grasp.
When I kissed her I could hear her weeping softly. I thought at first that it was for her sad situation, which wounded me deeply, for a I knew I had put her in a hellish position. But when she whispered so softly "Poor, unhappy Erik." I felt absolutely wretched.
She was crying for me! No one had ever cared enough to weep for me before. Not my mother, who refused to even lay eyes upon me. Not the fairs full of outcasts I spent my youth travelling with. Not even the good daroga, who had spared me in Persia. I could do no more than fall to my knees before her and beg her forgiveness.
I knew that I could not make her stay with me. She would have. I truly believe that she would have. She would have stayed as my wife and lived out her natural life chained to a monster. But it would not have been by her own choice. It would have been from a sense of obligation. And eventually she would come to hate me. And I could not bear to hear the slow transition from "poor Erik" to "cursed Erik" in her voice.
She asked me why I should be asking her forgiveness, and I told her the whole sorry truth. But, also, that I now would take her to her vicomte and then she could find her happiness.
"I do not understand, Erik. I have promised myself to you. Do you no longer wish me to stay?"
It was a horrible effort to speak without my voice breaking from the pain. "My wish is no longer what matters, Christine. I only hope and pray for your happiness. And that from time to time you might remember your poor Erik. But only that he loved you, and no matter how much pain he brought to you, it was unintentional. I know you love your young man. You don't have to cry anymore." She went to remove the gold ring on her hand, but I stopped her. "I have no use for it. I would rather you kept it. Something of me to keep with you. Promise me one thing, though. Promise that you will come back one last time to say a prayer over my body. For I do not think that I will survive losing you."
She continued to weep and denied that I would die so easily. But I knew better. Without her everything seemed so very pointless, it was only a matter of time. A month perhaps. And I told her as much.
I did not wait to see her blissful reunion with the vicomte. That was a twist of the knife I knew I could not bear. So I only took her to the edge of the corridor where he was and gave her the key and instructions on how to get out. I waited nearby for nearly a half hour, though, just in case she forgot my instructions and became lost. But I never heard her call out and I will assume that she and her lover left without difficulty.
There were very few affairs to put in order. A few notes left for the management and the ever faithful Mme Giry. A visit several days later to the Persian to ease his mind that all was well for all but myself. I entrusted a few cherished possetions to his care. A small gesture of gratitude for being the closest thing I had ever known to a friend.
And then I went home to wait.
The process was slower than I had hoped. I did not eat, I barely slept, and still somehow I clung to this wretched existance, growing steadily weaker. It is all I can do now to lift the pen to the inkwell to write this last confessional. Though why I bother I shall never know.
Please dear God do not let Christine forget her last promise. I fear with all of my wretchedness only the prayer of an angel will afford me any hope of seeing heaven.
Christine, forgive me.
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Christine had had the devil's own time sneaking away from her fiancee. It was not as though she could blame him for being so protective after what had happened, but she needed to fulfill a promise. A promise he could know nothing about.
Raoul had managed to get into contact with his valet after they had left the opera house. The man was insanely loyal and had apparently attended Raoul for quite some time and could be trusted implicitly. He arranged for the transfer of funds into an anonymous account for he and Christine to have access to while arrangements were made for them to leave Paris behind forever.
The comte de Chagny had been found the morning after the horrible evening with the scorpion and grasshopper. There were some murmers of foul play involving either Raoul or the Opera Ghost, but by and large it was considered accidental. However, that did not stop the rumour mill from spinning ever more fantastical tales of what had become of the young singer and her beau. Raoul had decided very quickly that it would be in their best interest to leave and make a fresh start elsewhere. He would not speak of Erik or anything concerning what had transpired over the last few months. She assumed he did so to try and begin the process of helping her forget, but there were times when she would have given anything to discuss it with him. It had been a difficult experience for both of them, and yet she found that she could not bring herself to pity herself or even Raoul so much as she pitied Erik. What he had done to her was horrible and wrong. He had lied to her, kidnapped her, killed and terrorized God only knew how many people, nearly killed her fiancee. But as much as she tried she could not find it in her heart to hate him. Somewhere deep down he was still her Angel. Sometimes she wondered if it really would have been so awful to stay with him. Raoul cherished her, that she had no doubt of. He would protect her from now until eternity. But Erik needed her. In a way that no other person on earth could.
She had tried very hard to delay Raoul's plans for travel. Begging to have time to rest and compose herself. But he had finally put his foot down, insisting that the sooner they left the sooner she would be back in good spirits. Erik had told her one month. It had barely been half of that. But she would not break her final promise to him. And so she had slipped from her room late in the evening and made her way back to the Rue Scibe gate and down into the vast dark cellars of the great theater.
She paused on the edge of the lake and called out for Erik, knowing that if he still lived he would appear before her. But several minutes went by with no response. She called again, but no answer. She could feel the familiar sting of tears at the back of her eyes and a substantial and unexplainable heaviness. She had half expected him to come to her immediately. As well as ever. She hadn't the faintest idea what she would do after she saw him, but his absence was shocking to her and pained her in a way that she did not wish to think about.
With some effort she made her way across the lake, thinking how silent and cold the cellars seemed without him there. She entered his home and looked about. All of the beautiful flowers that seemed to be crammed anywhere there was a space had wilted and died, and their brown ruined petals blanketed the floor. Walking through the chilly parlour she noted that a thin blanket of dust had already settled over the fine harp and piano which sat idly in the corner, as well as the large bookshelf filled with tomes in all manner of languages. Christine made her way into Erik's chambers and that was where she found him, slumped ingloriously over his workdesk, clasping a pen in his hand.
She approached him slowly, almost afraid to touch him. She wondered how long he had lain like this, and if his grotesque visage was even more twisted in death or if some cruel joke of nature had caused him to live with the face of a corpse but find beauty and peace in true death. She crept forward and placed her hand on his. He was still cold, but no colder than she recalled him being. She slid the paper from under his hand and read his confessional, the tears that had been threatening since she arrived finally wetting her pale cheeks.
She sat the paper down, unsure of what to do now. Curiosity gnawed at her, for he still wore the black mask over his face. She reached out her hand once more and stripped it away in a quick gesture. He looked exactly the same as she recalled. No more handsome or more monsterous. She felt a bit foolish for even thinking there might have been a change.
She set the mask on the desk beside him and startled greatly when she heard a soft groan. She glanced over and saw his fingers grasping for something. His strange eyes were attempting to focus on her form as he reached for the mask she had stolen. "One would have thought you'd have learned to control your curiosity, Christine. It only serves to bring you trouble." He feebly replaced the mask, his voice so soft she could scarely make it out. "You're early." He announced with irritation.
"I am to leave Paris tomorrow. I did not wish to go without keeping my promise to you." She did not know whether she was greatful or terrified for him to be alive. But oh, how weak he seemed!
He closed his eyes briefly, gathering his strength before sitting up and replacing his mask. "Do not think it is not appreciated. But I doubt very much that your fiancee would have allowed you to come if he even suspected I were not dead."
Christine looked at the floor, ashamed. "Raoul doesn't know I came here. I thought it would be best to not worry him. He's been unwell of late." It was the truth, he had had dreadful nightmares and slept with a revolver next to his pillow, convinced that Erik would swoop down at any moment.
"I am sure it is my own fault. I am sorry."
"You do not look well either."
He repressed the urge to laugh at her. "I am dying. It is difficult to look well when doing that. Although, I suppose I never truly look well, do I, my dear?"
Christine began to cry again. She felt it was her fault. It wasn't, she knew that logically. It wasn't as though she had asked him to love her like that. But it didn't change the fact that she knew she was the cause.
Erik looked at her most piteously. "Please do not cry, Christine. I might have been dead for years for all the difference it will make to the world. Being dead cannot be any worse than being alive."
"But I don't want you to die..."
"You don't need to feel guilty--"
She shook her head. "It isn't that. I don't know what exactly it is, but I don't want you to die. Promise me that you won't!" It was a childish outburst. Born of the fear of being left alone all too often. She had lost her mother before she'd ever had the chance to know her, and watching her father waste away from consumption had been almost too much for her to bear. Even Professor valerius was gone now. She couldn't bear to lose anyone else so dear to her.
"I cannot promise that. You know I cannot."
"What if I stayed? Just for a little while! If I gave you a month, would that be enough?"
Erik regarded her oddly. "I do not understand. You went a fortnight ago after I told you that I would die without you. What changes anything now? If you go now you will not have to watch my last hours, if that will spare your sensibilities. Just go back to your boy and let me die in peace! Do not torment me with false hopes and pretty lies!" He slumped slightly, the energy of shouting at her was far more draining than he could have imagined.
Regarding him sadly she answered, "I didn't think you would really die."
He almost felt insulted, but found he could not muster the strength. Didn't she know that she was the only thing in his world worth anything? Without her everything was like a mouth full of dust to a starved palette. Disappointing, lacklustre, worthless. Even his music had become only a dull mockery to his senses.
"Well, now you can see that I did not exaggerate. Even if you did stay it may be too late. And I am sure the vicomte would not care for your good intentions! I know I certainly wouldn't if I were in his place."
She hadn't stopped to consider Raoul. She blushed, shamed that she had spoken so rashly. She couldn't explain this to him. There was no possible way that she could convince him that it would be all right. But perhaps if she told him a tiny white lie. Just to buy herself a few days. If she were able to care for Erik just briefly she could assure herself in her mind that he would be all right. She would simply take great care not to dwell on worrying about him after she left.
"If I could arrange it, to stay, would you promise to try?"
He felt fairly certain that she could not. As soon as she returned to Raoul he would surely forbid her from ever coming near the opera again. She would have the peace of mind in knowing that she had tried to be there for him for whatever reason she had that seemed to trouble her so, and he would be left in peace knowing that for once in his miserable life he had done the right thing. "Very well. I will concede to whatever terms you name, my dear."
She smiled. "When was the last time you ate, Erik?"
What on earth kind of a question was that. "A while ago, I suppose. I can't quite recall."
"I want you to eat something before I leave tonight. And I will be back in the morning."
No, she wouldn't. But if it would please her. "As you wish."
She wandered into his small kitchen and was absolutely appalled at the lack of food he kept in the house. No wonder he was so very thin. Apparenly the food he had prepared for her when she had stayed with him had been bought specifically for her, for she could find no more than some mouldy bread, some very questionable looking cheese, a bit of rotted fruit, and some dried herbs and noodles. She opted for the noodles as they appeared to be the only things remotely edible. As with everything else in his home, the kitchen was set up very cleverly and effectively. There was running water, just as in her bathroom, and he had apparently applied whatever heating mechanism he had used for the torture chamber on a smaller scale as a cooking surface. She would need to remember to ask about that, because it was remarkably useful.
When she decided the noodles were cooked well enough she presented them to him and stood over his shoulder like a mother hen to make sure he actually ate them. He did not eat as much as she had hoped he would, but she supposed that it was sufficient. For now. After some protesting from him, she finally convinced her to allow her to help him to his...coffin. She'd almost forgotten about that. Once he was settled she made him promise to try and sleep for her and in the morning she swore on her life that she would return. He didn't believe her for an instant, but was none the less touched by her genuine concern.
However, the next morning she was indeed there. He heard her enter and call out for him. He had absolutely no idea how she'd talked her fiancee into such madness, and had an absurd urge to box Raoul's ears for being so utterly foolish to let her return to an obviously dangerous man's company.
"How on earth did you convince him to let you come back?" He demanded when she offered him a hand out of his coffin.
"I think that I'm allowed my own little secrets." She hadn't told Raoul. Not even remotely. She had said that she wished to stay with Mama Valerius for a short time, as the old woman was very dear to her and was too frail to travel with them, as he had known from the start. She would be fine with the older woman and he could go on ahead and make all the arrangements for her arrival in a few weeks time. He had argued. Quite vehemiantly, in fact, against it. But she pouted and entreated and finally got her way, on the condition that she write him each and every day and that if anything inordinate should happen that she would take the very next train to be with him, or, failing that, seek refuge with the Persian who seemed a good and brave man and would help her. She had promised with a heavy heart and kissed him goodbye, feeling guilt gnaw at her soul for her deception. But she told herself it was all to save a life and that God would forgive her for her transgression.
Mama had been delighted when she told her that she would be staying in the city with her a bit longer. Fortunately the old woman was prone to retiring quite early in the evening so it would be very simple for Christine to slip out without being missed. As for that morning she had convinced Mama that she needed some fresh air after being cooped up for the past too weeks and watched over night and day.
"I brought a bit of food with me, since you seem to not have many of your own supplies. I'll make breakfast while you bathe."
Erik regarded her with the same curious look as before. After everything she'd been put through she was behaving as though she were tending to a dear sick friend rather than dragging a spurned lover from the brink of death.
He ran himself a hot bath and tried to relax, considering that perhaps this little twist of fate could work in his favour. Obviously she was less fearful of him now that she held the upper hand. He doubted in his current state if he could overpower even slightl little Christine if he tried. The trick would be to play possum for as long as possible. Let her become comfortable with him without fear, and perhaps he could earn her affection, if not her heart. He also promised himself that whatever transpired between now and when she left him again he would not make a scene. He would release her with quiet dignity and let her live her life believing that she had saved not only his poor soul, but his body as well.

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And so ends Ch 1. I swear I did not think this nonsense would get so epic, but the plot bunnies, they came a-callin'! And I find I'm ok with it because it's Leroux. Yeah. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it!
Anyhow, smut, next chapter. Probably. Sorry to leave you hanging on that....