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A Meeting of the Minds	By : vernet Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Slash Views: 3267 -:- 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
- 1-A Meeting of the Minds
- 1
"A Meeting of the Minds"
Pairing: Erik/Raoul
Book: The Phantom of the Opera
Rating: NC 17, mostly in Chapter 2
Disclaimers: Ok, in addition to the disclaimers regarding copyright, etc., I would like to make the following disclaimers:
1) I have not read Leroux's book yet; my only references are the musical, and the 1925 Chaney film.
2) I dig PWP.
3) This is unbeta'd & unresearched.
So, if you are looking for high-quality historical fic & canonical accuracy, this may leave you disappointed. But, if you are merely looking for some smut, you may enjoy!
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Erik could hardly believe his luck.
I must have absolute privacy. That had been the Vicomte's instructions: No interruptions, no inquiries after my wants. Leave a good bottle of port and some cold chicken; I don't care, really. But just leave me in peace.
...And, above all, do not inform Miss Daae. It would - - embarrass her.
For all his hopeless plotting, at a time when things seemed utterly impossible, this snippet of conversation dropped the key into his lap. He'd been watching the young man, though it galled him to look at that perfect face. Erik had been the verge of giving up his patience was suddenly rewarded.
The Vicomte de Chagny was a wealthy patron. It was within his means, nay, his rights to take private rooms at the opera. An apartment where he might take his rest, or perhaps some other gentlemanly diversion which could be had among the tulle flitting through the galleries. His rank and his patriotism demanded it.
Erik seethed a the thought of this effulgent dandy taking one of the chorus rats to his bed. Soiling his Christine without even touching her. And right under her nose, too! This was surely his intent; Erik could hear the duplicity in the young man's voice, an unmistakable tremor his studied, casual tone could not hide. As if his secrecy was not damning enough...
Erik spat and hissed like an animal at the hypocrisy, the base injustice of it all. Was not his soul good and pure? Yet, this boy with a black canker of a heart wore the face of an angel. A sea of smug, bourgeois faces swam before his eyes as he recalled the ways of 'society'. Filthy, philandering pigs who walked in the sun, whilst he was consigned to the sewers.
The punjab lasso was tempting, but it would be a blunder which would send Christine from his arms beyond any hope. No, best to bide his time, and wait for Raoul to act upon his true nature.
And Erik would be there to strip him of his mask.
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Raoul dropped his gloves and hat on the console with a weary sigh. The sky was still in its golden hours, but pinking at the edges with the first hint of the coming night.
He had contrived to watch the rehearsals unseen, watching the graceful dancers practice the second act, then the chorus, and finally the solitary figure of Christine, her voice impossibly large and grand for her small frame. He could not help but feel a surge of pride, so strong it began to unravel the tight knot of his stomach.
He loved Christine. He loved her sweetness, her goodness. Most of all, he needed her. Her unblemished nature could be clean enough for both of them, she would protect him from himself.
I am only coming to these apartments to be close to her. That, and to take my rest. It's nice to be alone as well, not worrying about the servants. I just want some time to think, that's all. I just want to rest. No other purpose.
A vase of flowers decorated the table, the arrangement so massive its heavy blooms sagged over the edges. He absently took a petal between his fingers feeling its softness.
I haven't done anything wrong.
He would not do it. He would be strong.
His eyes drifted to the poster of the opera's dancer Jean Vuillard in Le Papillon.
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Erik was tired and irritable, trembling with impatience as he kept his watch from the back of the looking-glass. Finally, after many hours Raoul entered the room. Erik's eyes narrowed as he watched the dashing young man glide across the room and deposit his hat and gloves on the table before the mirror.
He peered at Raoul, closely studying the fine features. The young man actually looked rather despondent, with little agonies passing over his face. The idea that Raoul might be contrite only increased his ire. He wanted his hatred undiluted.
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Christine...
Raoul tried to press the image of her sweet face to the fore of his mind, to stay his hand. But the tickle was there in his belly; rising very slowly, but very insistently.
A flowered field, Christine in a white dress: these were the images he conjured, but he was too near the precipice. In desperation, he thought of naked, swollen breasts. A rouged tart smiling wickedly, her delicate hand wrapping at the base of his cock. But then, the tiny hand became a strong hand, calloused and sure.
"No, no..." he moaned miserably.
He remembered the rehearsals, the pretty coquettes twirling upon the stage. The male lead Jean Vuillard and his fine calves. He forced his eyes to follow the chorus, but invariably they stayed back to the shapely, powerful legs of Vuillard. His trembling hand moved to trace the same line over the poster, his breath quickening.
From behind the glass, Erik's mouth fell open.
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Raoul's hand strayed to his chest, brushing the stiffening peaks of his nipples under his crisp cotton shirt. He bit his lip as his hand moved lower, first over the trousers, then under, and finally he took himself fully in hand, trousers pooled around his feet.
This place, this wretched place was a beautiful prison. He was haunted by the faces of his friends in the audience, grinning and flushed with wine, their trim forms accentuated in their silk tailcoats, their white gloved hands caressing the small of a dancers back. Even the stagehands, with their powerful, muscular arms and barely concealed contempt for him were a torment. And at the center, stood Christine. Christine, who would be too pure and noble to even comprehend the meaning of his perverse visions.
Tears formed in his eyes even as he reached for a tallow candle.
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Erik watched the display, absolutely stunned. He had expected to see a libertine, cold and callous, taking delight in destruction and sensuality. Instead, he saw a soul trapped in a private hell, an unexpected kindred spirit. Thoughts of Christine melted away as he watched Raoul in awe. It was tragedy, beautiful tragedy, a living opera writhing before his eyes. It pulled at his heart. And there was something else, too...
Erik had not known much about the ways of physical love. True, he had caught from time to time images of debauchery from his secret places in the theater, but from these he had always turned quickly away in disgust.
His lids grew heavy as he watched the candle moving in and out of Raoul.
His universe was not one to follow along the mores of society, the society which he rejected, the society which had rejected him. The possibility had simply not occurred to him until now. So, he was not disturbed when he realized he found the sight of Raoul pleasuring himself incredibly arousing. A little surprised perhaps, but not disturbed. As he felt the dizzying rush of blood to his own prick, he was certainly alert to the possibilities.
He watched spellbound as Raoul reached his completion with a sob of pleasure and despair.
Raoul covered his face and lay convulsing with silent sobs, then stilled. After what seemed like an eternity, he opened his eyes and numbly began to clean himself. Wearily finishing his ablutions, he closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
Erik considered the capsules in his pocket, turning them in his moist hand...
- 1
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A Meeting of the Minds