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The Waiting Unknown	By : Shmlss Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 2438 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Disclaimer: Yoo-hoo. Yeah, over here. Guess what? You already knew this, but I’m going to tell you anyway, so that I do not get in trouble. The only things in this here story I composed that belong to me are Emilie and lyrics to “L’Attente Inconnue.” The title and lyrics to "Are We the Waiting" belong to Billie Joe Armstrong of Greenday and Phantom belongs to a whole bunch of people, this version namely to ALW and Joel Schumacher. “Are We the Waiting” has been altered to fit the story. So don’t sue me, eh?
Key: M/F, Het, light BDSM, Bi, D/s, MC, Minor, Oral, Solo, and Voy with possible F/F, M/F/F, and B-Mod later.
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A/N: This is my first fic here, so I’m relying on your responses to it to know if I should keep sharing my work. I’m a writer of many fandom’s, as well as original work, so you may be seeing a lot of me around the site. However, I would like a BETA, so if anyone would be so kind as to volunteer your services as connoisseurs of the English language and then some, I would love it.
This fic is for my friend Megs. It is fused and based on the events of the movie-version, ALW, and Gaston Leroux with, of course, Gerry Butler!Erik. Which, okay, essentially IS the movie itself. Whatever.
Just enjoy. J
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The year is 1926. The Opera Populaire has been restored to almost identical detail as it was in 1870. For seven years it has thrived, once more, with theatre, dance, and song. No interruptions; no mysterious noises, accidents, or deaths.
Despite the lack of excitement, deep below the Opera’s floors sits a man doomed to disfigurement and immortality. A tortured and lonely soul that bears no reason to live or die.
Above is a zealous academié of performing arts and the rehearsal of a new play to start off the season, “L’Attente Inconnue.” Thriving may not have given it justice.
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“That’s all rubbish! Honestly, I can’t believe you listen to all of that. It’s been 56 years. I know better…”
“Then what is the truth, Emilie?” Her friend hurried in front of her and came to a stop, placing impatient hands on defiant hips.
“I do not know, Gabrielle. And that’s just the point! No one knows for sure. Christine Daae is deceased, de Chagny is deceased, and this glorified Phantom, if he was near such an age at the time, is most assuredly deceased!” Her tone heightened as she ended her response, but something made her heart hurt as her mouth drew closed with the last word spoken. A queer look spread over her face and she started off in the opposite direction.
“I tire of this. I will talk to you later…” Her voice faded as she turned a corner.
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His eyes shot open and he sat straight up in his bed. Beads of sweat covered his bare face and torso.
There was no one there for comfort. Not a slender arm to slide around his shoulders and comfort him. Not the voice of an angel to tell him, “It was only a bad dream…”
This time, though, that wasn’t it. He realised as he came to that he had not dreamt at all. Instead, he felt an astounding emptiness sweep over him. It wasn’t a new feeling, but odd to feel it now and so suddenly. He felt almost as though he could look down and see himself deteriorating. It was really as if he were fading away…
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When night fell, Erik decided to take along overdue tour of the opera. He had been aware of its restoration, he even found time to watch some of it being rebuilt and refurbished, but he had yet to see its completion. It was easy to lose interest when his true dream would never be restored. Here the opera would be, mint and patronised by more people than the population of Paris itself over only a decade, perhaps. But Christine would never be restored. Not to life, not to the Opera, and not to him.
She had visited him twice after her marriage to the Vicomte de Chagny. Once, only six years after the destruction of the Opera, where she was shamefully unfaithful to the count (and drunk, Erik later realised). And the second time, only a few years before she passed away, apologising for her first visit and explaining that she truly had loved him in some form or another.
Her death came as a shock to him. He falsely believed that she would live forever, as he would. Or more, perhaps, he convinced himself she would.
~
The candles lit up with a flourish of his gloved hands as he entered the hall.
It was immaculate. He noticed only very small and scant differences and nothing that wasn’t to his liking. He neared the end of the tour, coming upon the star dressing room. In an instant he remembered the cause of the destruction of his… home. He, Erik- the infamous Phantom of the Opera, brought his own world to an end. Flashbacks raced through his mind and he began to sob as you would never expect a man to do. He leaned against the wall to brace himself before sliding down to a crumpled mess on the floor. It would have been a pitiful sight for anyone to come ‘cross.
He would have likely fallen asleep there, sobbing, if a voice hadn’t caught his undivided attention.
“If it is out there… And we aren’t here… It is lost and found… It is a general fear…” The voice sang beautifully, without fault, and in the key of C.
Erik felt as though he were unwillingly mesmerised. This voice- it was nothing like Christine’s, but somehow equally as breathtaking and sweet.
He choked back his tears, feeling shame for his open display of such emotion, remembering himself a bit. He got to his feet and made his way to the middle of the floor. Off and on the voice would sing songs that he hadn’t ever heard, but lovely songs, in fact. Finally he identified that the voice was coming from the dressing room.
He waited and listened for clearance before making his way to the door and opening it very slightly. He saw a figure, dressed in frills and robin’s egg blue, dart past it several times. She sang on and danced as she did. He wondered if she were apart of Corps de Ballet or the chorus. She was quite enough talented to do either.
After a bit more of this, she sat in a chair before the grand mirror, continuing to vocalise most solemnly. Erik pushed the door open a bit more to reveal a clearer look at the girl who possessed such flawless talent.
Long, full, dark auburn hair fell over her shoulders and down her back. From all he could clearly see, she had fair skin dotted with a plethora of deep brown freckles. In the mirror, he could see her reflection clear as day. She had bright green eyes that smiled even when her lips did not.
She was exquisite. A vision of perfection in her very own way. Neither too skinny, nor too large. There only happened to be one asset she was more than plentiful in and there was no complaint from his end.
Suddenly, something behind him feel to the ground with a clunk. He gasped, his eyes darting to the door.
The girl shot a curious and startled glance that same way. She was positive she had closed the door behind her.
Erik backed away slowly and into a dark corner close-by.
The door opened slowly and she peered out into the halls. An iron candleholder rolled in a lazy circle and she looked down at it. She raised her head and looked cautiously at the darkness, as though she could see through it clearly.
“Hello?”
Erik closed his eyes to the sound of her voice. He wanted so badly to speak to her- maybe even sing to her, but he couldn’t find his voice. And more importantly, he had himself to think of. People thought him dead, which was probably credit to why he was still living.
But… did he really want to live, anyway?
She had half a mind to go and turn on the lights, but she hadn’t heard anything else or seen anything, so she retreated back inside, shutting the door and locking it behind her.
“Damn!” He swore quietly in the dark. He had forgotten his keys.
But would they even still work?
‘Damnit!’ He thought again. If the locks had been changed, which they undoubtedly had been, he had no ounce of power left in this opera house. Everyone he knew was dead. He had nothing but lakeside property. And it wasn’t worth anything then. Perhaps in a century or two….
Perhaps it was time to take his place at the throne in the shadows once more, so to speak. Perhaps he had sat and withered for too long.
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The Waiting Unknown