Chapter Text
Erik remembers the first time he heard the sound of a piano. He had been thrown in the closet because his mother was having a party and she didn’t want to chance someone seeing him. The piano began to play, and Erik pressed his ear to the crack under the door, wanting nothing more than to hear the beautiful music over and over again.
That night, when he believed everyone was asleep, he broke out of his closet and went to the piano. He had seen it many times before, but he never knew what it did. But in that moment, he looked at it like it was sacred… like it was the most treasured thing in all the world. His fingers brushed against the cold keys, and he felt pure joy when he pressed down, and it made a wonderful sound.
He was so happy, that he barely noticed the way his mother screeched when she found him and how she dragged him back with slaps to the head. Every chance he got after that, he would sneak out to play the piano, and every time his mother caught him, it was another beating, but he didn’t care.
She’d tie him up, but he would escape—there’s not a knot that anyone could do that will hold him—she’d lock the doors, but he would pick the locks—the only time he’d stay away from it was when she would starve him and he’d be too weak to walk. When that happened, he made himself a piano out of paper in his room and would press the fake keys, picturing in his mind the music they would make and composing simple yet elegant music.
But then someone always made her give in and feed him, one of the maids or his father on the rare times he was home, and Erik would find his strength and sneak right back out to the piano again. This went on for almost two years, until she finally got tired of moving it around the house and sold him off to the carnival.
When he was in the cage at the carnival, he would hear the piano from the tent across the way, and it was the only peace he ever felt in that hell.
Music has always been a light for him, a beacon of hope and a pleasure that allowed him to ignore the rest of the world and its cruelties.
But ever since she left… his Christine… music has left, too.
Since that night a year ago, he’s been trapped not only in darkness, but in silence.
Music… her music… it teases at his ear, every single day. But when he turns it fades away, and he’s just alone. Completely and utterly alone.
His fingers won’t move across the keys, the piano won’t play, and his mind won’t compose. It’s the cruelest of fates the universe has bestowed on him, even crueler than his wicked face, and yet… he can’t find it in himself to regret it.
She’s happy… she’s safe. That’s all he wants. If that means he must sacrifice his music, he will do it over and over again.
But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss it, doesn’t miss her. Oh, how he misses her. Despite how long it’s been, he still dreams of her coming through his door. He dreams of holding her close, of breathing in her scent.
That will never be.
Especially now that she’s the new Vicomtesse.
He had sworn he wouldn’t look and for a full year, he kept that promise. He let the world turn without him, refusing to know where she sang, and how she lived.
Then one night, strolling the dim streets in an attempt to quiet his mind, a newspaper headline caught his eye. He really didn’t mean to look, he truly didn’t, but the photograph on the front page made his blood run cold… it was a photo of that insolent boy and Christine… his Christine.
It wasn’t just her smile–brilliant and warm–no, it was his hand. Raoul’s hand resting against the small of her back, a casual, intimate touch. A touch Erik envied with a violence that nearly buckled his knees. He had never been able to touch her like that… he never would touch her like that.
‘Vicomte De Chagny to wed Opera Star Christine Daaé This Weekend!’
Erik would like to imagine he simply walked past, unaffected, that he was content that she found happiness, because her happiness is all that mattered. But… he was like a recovering addict that was just offered a hit. The headline made him physically ill right there on the pavement, and then because he finds new ways to torture himself all the time, he bought a copy and wept as he read every word.
On the morning of the wedding, he asked Nadir to stay with him while he drank himself senseless. It wasn’t that he was worried about how much he drank–alcohol poisoning would be a mercy–he was worried what he might do once he’d drowned enough reason to act on impulse. And, as it would turn out, to be a very wise instinct. He woke the next morning with a skull-splitting headache and a split lip. Nadir, as he was told, had been forced to strike him when he tried to stumble out and stop the wedding himself.
Since then, he’s done nothing but wallow. If he were a stronger man, he’d have ended it… but it appears after a life of torture, his instinct is to survive. Even if it was slowly killing him from the inside out.
Erik picks up his glass and swallows a mouthful, humming at the burn in the back of his throat. Some nights he wished that he wished they never met. That he never heard her beautiful voice singing… but just like with everything else, he’s a weak man, and the thought of never having her in his life hurts worse than losing her.
And so that’s how his life goes now… the day starts… the day ends… time crawls by. He spends more nights than he cares to admit pacing the floor… like a ghost.
Ironic.
Erik’s swallowing down another gulp when there’s a knock at his door and his brow furrows. There’s only two people that would be able to make it to his door without his alarms going off and Nadir wouldn’t knock, he’d open the door without an invitation. That could only leave…
“Antoinette,” Erik greets as he opens the door.
His oldest acquaintance—friend?—stands before him with her back straight and her hands clasp together in front of her stomach.
“Erik. May I come in?”
With a sigh, he steps back, motioning for her to enter and closes the door.
“It’s after dusk… shouldn’t you be a half a bottle of wine done by now?”
She smirks at him. “And shouldn’t you be three whiskeys’ deep cursing the world by now?”
Walking back over to his piano, he lifts his glass and throws her an amused grin.
“One and a half.”
Sometimes he wonders why he tolerates her–wonders why he even allows her to speak to him in such a way. Probably because she’s already seen him at his absolute worst.
He sits back down at the piano and flips a page on the composition that rests before him, he won’t play but that doesn’t mean he can’t pretend to do so. “Come to try and bring me to the light again?”
When they were younger, Antoinette tried relentlessly to get him to join normal society, she eventually gave up when he became the Opera Ghost. But it appears now that he’s secluded himself to his cottage in the woods, she’s felt the need to try again.
It never works.
When she doesn’t answer, he turns to her and sees her gaze moving around the room, almost like she’s looking for something.
“Are you alone?”
His brow pinches.
“Who else would be here?” A look of sorrow crosses her face, and he tilts his head. “What’s--”
“The Vicomte and Christine have been kidnapped.” Erik’s head snaps toward her, his eyes wide, and his mouth open. “They were taken the night before their wedding.”
He pushes himself away from the piano, rising so quickly that the bench topples backwards.
“TWO WEEKS?!”
Antoinette nods. “The family has kept it out of the press, as to not encourage the rebels. But the police have no leads, they’ve just vanished.”
“And you’re sure it’s a kidnapping?” She looks away and he steps forward with a growl. “Antoinette!”
“On the morning of what was to be their wedding, the Vicomte could not be found. I believed Christine to be…” Antoinette trails off then shakes her head. “They were both gone. Later that day, a note was found in the letter box demanding the De Chagny family to relinquish all their wealth to a man who calls himself L’Ombre if they wanted them back. Naturally, the family called the police. They were told to hold off, allow the police to do their investigation because surely, they weren’t dumb enough to hurt the Vicomte, that would mean no money.” His jaw clenched and he has a feeling he already knows what happened next. “Then yesterday another note came, it stated the family had one week to give into their demands… along with the note… was a lock of Christine’s hair soaked in blood.”
He’s moving before she can finish, his mind blinded with rage.
“No one can understand why they would take Christine, as well,” she continues as he rips open a trunk hidden behind a large armchair. “They weren’t married; she’s of no importance.”
Erik throws her a dirty look and a sneer, making Antoinette hold up her hand with a nod.
“I’m only repeating what the police have said.” He continues to take weapons out of the trunk, a lasso, some small daggers, a pair of knuckle-dusters. “Erik, they’ve not spoken it outright, but I can read between the lines. Their only concern is the Vicomte, it will not matter to them if Christine is tortured, I’m terrified for her.”
Though he doesn’t voice it, he’s terrified, too. Christine to people such as that was expendable. She was a means to show them what they were willing to do to the Vicomte if the family didn't comply. Shaking his head, he slams the lid on the trunk shut and turns to the old ballet instructor.
“Tell me everything.”