Variations of Erik: ALW stage

Disclaimer: Phantom of the Opera and all characters belong to Gaston Leroux. This particular incarnation belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber. I make absolutely no profit from this.

At this point we all know about LND, right? I am emphatically against it. I'm against everyone randomly washing up in Coney Island, against Raoul becoming an abusive drunk, against gothic Lolita Meg, evil Mme Giry, the freaky love-bot automaton, and Erik having fathered Christine's child. Random little ficlets with E/C are one thing, but making it 'canon' just doesn't sit right with me. Especially since there's no damned good explaination of how/when they got it on! Therefore, poor ALW Erik kind of got the short end of the stick on this one. Sorry, kids.

Based on the ALW stage version


She was there. With him. Peacefully asleep in his bed. What the hell did he do now?
Erik sat on the organ bench, silently observing Christine's slumber. She had followed the sound of his voice eagerly through the mirror in her dressing room, so trusting and innocent. She had hesitated only momentarily when she had seen the stark white mask that concealed half of his face. He could only assume that she either was too entranced by his voice or too foolish to know that true Angels did not wear masks. It didn't matter. The important thing had been that she had followed him. He had even coaxed her to sing for him.
Once within his home he had used his voice to calm her, draw her still deeper into whatever dream she had concocted in her mind to explain away any danger. It was so terribly easy. He had been so tempted to kiss those sweet lips, to touch her soft form. But however close he had come to losing control, he had pulled back at the last second. Turning her face from his own so her lips would not tempt him. Ghosting his hands just above the fabric of her dress, close enough to feel the warmth of her body, but nothing else. It had been sweet torture.
He had shown her his devotion to her. The mannequin that he had so painstakingly crafted. He'd spoken to it for months, practising his manners and polite conversation, dreaming of the moment when it would be the real Christine he spoke to, and not a cunning facade of plaster and wax.
He'd realized how utterly mad he must have appeared, talking to such a lifeless avatar. Speaking sweet words of devotion, attempting to dance a waltz, even sitting with it at a table to dine with. But, the sad truth of everything was that he had never done such things with a companion. Even before he had taken up residence under the Opera Populaire no one had troubled to speak with him unless there was no alternative. His presence was shunned as though he were a leper. He knew he had no social skills and could contrive no better way to attain them but practise. Even if it was only with a mannequin.
Now the true Christine was here. So close to him that he could reach out and touch her, if he only dared. But he could not find it within himself to breach her innocence, even though his body ached with unfulfilled desire. He had done terrible things, largely with no regret. But he still had one or two limits. God, he couldn't even bring himself to lay hands on her likeness in such a manner.
So he burned.
Painfully so.
With a groan he turned his eyes away from the sleeping form of his beloved. He tried to think of something, anything, but the gentle rise and fall of her breast, or the way the cloak he had draped over her clung so enticingly to her full hips. He tried to concentrate on business, those two stubborn old goats who had replaced the mild, controllable Lefevre. The atrocious set design for the upcoming Il Muto. The opera he has been working so long and hard on. But every one of those thoughts invariably led him right back to Christine.
She had gotten her first taste of triumph at the gala to welcome the two new managers. He thought of how she had sparkled in the limelights, and also of the bare flesh of her shoulders in that costume, and the deliciously low-cut bodice that--
Sets! Il Muto was being done all in pastels. Most of which clashed, hideously. But who would notice when he got his way and Christine played the Countess? There was the most interesting aria for her about three quarters the way through that was filled with double entendres. Just thinking about it--
Don Juan Triumphant! He hung his head in agonized frustration. There was none of that he could even pretend was in the least appropriate.
He slunk from the main room of his home, burning with shame and lust that refused to abate. He followed the small passages that divided his home until he was as far from Christine as he could possibly get. He didn't wish her to wake and be aware of what he was about to do.
He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and unfastening his trousers. He breathed a small sigh of relief when his manhood was no longer so uncomfortably constricted.
Allowing his mind's eye to envision Christine he stroked his hand slowly along his length. He pictured her as she had been barely more than an hour ago. Completely entranced by him, willing and pliant. In his mind he kissed her tenderly as he had wanted, and she returned the gesture freely. He let his hands wander over the curves of her body, thought of how warm she would feel in his arms. He could envision slowly stripping her of her dressing gown and petticoats, her own delicate hands removing his own clothing.
He let out a hiss of breath as his grip firmed and his hand slid slightly faster over his length, imagining burying himself inside of Christine. As he thought of thrusting into her he matched the pace of his mind with his fingers, his body tensing at the combination of touch and fantasy.
In his mind she cried out his name in desire, urging him on. In his lonely reality he stroked himself harder, his breath coming short and shallow and punctuated with small grunts and moans that seemed to reverberate off of the stark walls of the nearly empty room.
She whispered that she loved him, sighed for him, arched her body against his. He gritted his teeth, furiously trying to gain his release and muttering incomprehensible words of desire and need to the empty air around him.
Finally he felt himself tense for a moment, and then that searing ecstacy was upon him. He continued to pump himself until the euphoria subsided and he opened his eyes, alone and burning with shame. He plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned himself up and tucked himself back into his trousers. He deposited the soiled bit of cloth into the garbage as he made his way back to the main room of his home. He was by no means satiated-- for he was sure that only the real touch of Christine could bring him true bliss-- but his baser needs were, at the very least, momentarily placated.
He returned to his seat at the magnificent organ and began to feverishly scribble notes into the manuscript of Don Juan, hoping that if he distracted himself sufficiently then, perhaps, he could ignore the empty feeling within him.