Chapter Text
"Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory!" Erik snarls from behind the mirror.
Christine, poor thing, looks around fearfully, eyes wide.
"Angel?" she asks, standing.
"Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!"
"Angel, whatever is the matter?"
Erik grits his teeth and forces himself to calm down.
"Go to sleep," he orders. "Rest well. You performed spectacularly."
She smiles and nods, hurrying behind her to finish changing into her night-clothes.
Someone rattles the door-knob of the dressing-room door.
It must be that insolent little prat who dared touch Christine.
And indeed it is, for he calls out for her.
"I'm very tired, Raoul," she responds, opening the door slightly to converse with him.
(It's remarkably relieving to note that he averts his eyes the second he sees she's in her night-clothes. So the young patron is not entirely disreputable, then.)
"Perhaps we may go for dinner tomorrow?"
"Of course, of course, Little Lotte," he laughs, hiding the bottle of champagne he carries behind his back.
Erik grimaces and begins to retreat slowly back down through the tunnels. What a ridiculous fop! Out of all the people to catch Christine's attention, it had to have been some prissy nobleman like him.
Wonderful, how wonderful.
It wasn't that he minded terribly. Probably the boy would do some good for Christine, help her socialize more, perhaps help her up in society should they continue what this... arrogance was.
Assuming that it continued, of course.
And, from what he’d seen of that little fop, it most likely would.
The sound of the dressing-room door closing again startles him, and he rushes back to the mirror, peering through.
Christine stretches and yawns, heading toward her bed in the corner.
Good. Sleep will do her well.
Erik smiles and slips back down into the tunnels, heading below the opera house towards his home.
A thought strikes him, and he stops.
Wait, what if- no. It would not be worth it.
But...
He reverses his steps and heads towards the grand entrance of the Opera Populaire instead.
Sure enough, the young Vicomte is climbing into a carriage.
With a hidden grin, Erik slips through the shadows and follows the carriage, tracking it through the busy streets of Paris.
His plan, really, is quite simple.
Be rid of the insolent new patron, once and for all.
Perhaps a threatening note would scare him off. Maybe it would take some physical threats.
And murder, as always, was never out of the question.
The Vicomte had come into his opera house, stolen the heart of his Christine, and had the pure audacity to act like he cared at all about anything other than his looks.
Erik had seen men like him before. Men who claimed to be brave and dashing and noble, but would rather spend their undeserved fortunes on their clothes and houses than on the poor who needed it.
They were all one of the same cut, anyway, all the nobility. They couldn’t care less about the good things in life, like music and art. Oh no, it was them and their damned high society.
He had never been wealthy, even with the fairly high salary he’d extorted from the managers. As a child in the streets and the circus, those who could have given him material comfort only paid to laugh.
And they were all like that, so this new little attempt at a patron must be like that too. Just a pretty face glued onto a head filled with air, weighed down by pockets full of gold.
The carriage pulls to a stop and the Vicomte climbs out.
So, Erik notes, this must be the Chagny estate.
Humph.
How ridiculous.
But matters more important than noting the numerous architectural faults in the manor await him, and he climbs the walls, scaling them easily.
Within a few minutes, he has found his target.
The vicomte’s room is easy to find, mainly because its occupant is relaxing on the balcony outside of it.
Erik stands silently in a shadowed corner and watches as the little fop takes a swallow of the champagne, gritting his teeth.
How typical.
Seconds pass as the insolent brat gazes out at the stars, champagne almost forgotten in his hand.
The wind is a soft, quiet breeze; it does no more than tousle the vicomte’s hair and tug at the night-shirt that he must’ve changed into.
Eventually, the bastard takes another gulp of the alcohol and retreats in, shutting the door behind him.
Nearly.
The door stays open ever so slightly, and Erik takes this odd chance, ducking inside before he can change his mind.
The vicomte blows the only candle out and settles into his bed, setting the bottle on his bedside table carelessly.
And within half of an hour, he is fast asleep, curled under his covers without a care in the world.
Under his cloak, Erik reaches for his lasso.
It would be so easy.
Be rid of the pain in the ass before it can become any worse! Just kill the damn boy and be done with it.
But as he stares down from his hiding-spot at the drooling vicomte, Erik cannot bring himself to actually do it.
His fingers wrap around the boy’s throat, but they are loose and refuse to tighten. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot steal the last breath from this irritating fop who lies completely defenseless before him.
With a sigh, he gives up and retreats back to his dark corner, glaring at the pathetic worm of a vicomte.
Erik grimaces and stalks around the bed, reaching for the bottle of champagne.
If he cannot, for whatever godforsaken reason, bring himself to be rid of the problem, he may as well deal with it this way.
It’s very fine, as the label claims. Nice and flavorful and perfectly bubbly.
It is far more expensive than Erik would’ve ever dreamed of purchasing for himself. Maybe if Christine had ever wanted it, but certainly not for him.
And the vicomte spent precious money on such idiocies as the now-empty champagne without a second thought.
How disgusting.
Erik reaches longingly for his lasso one more time, and curses himself when he still cannot dare to commit a simple murder.
Why, damn it? It wasn’t difficult. He easily could manage it, in less time than it had taken to form the damned plan.
He snarls silently and paces back and forth, swearing at himself hopelessly.
This internal battle lasts the entire night long. For hours, he paces and argues with himself, trying desperately to convince his mind to simply allow him to do the damn task.
It is dawn when he leaves the estate and flees back to the opera.