Disclaimers:

- This is very, very Kay based. However, I took a couple of liberties for this fan-fiction, as outlined below.

- If you're familiar with Kay's work, you will remember that Erik pours all of his money into helping to build the Opera House, built (officially) by Charles Garnier, but I am changing this detail for plot purposes; instead, Erik keeps his fortune and only contributes his artistry and mental labor.

- Erik and the Garniers have an even better relationship in this fic than in Kay's novel. Erik is their upstairs neighbor. Jules Bernard is a character in this as well - I love that character. If you don't know who he is, you will if you read this story.

- Finally, as Christine and Raoul have just been born in the novel in 1862, the Christine and Raoul in this fic are an alternate Christine and Raoul. I've altered their personalities a bit (Christine is not as easily frightened, and Raoul is not as upstanding; not attempting to "Raoul-bash" but I have given him a bit more complexity.)

Hope you enjoy!


Paris, France

November 9, 1862

Erik

The only reason - and I do mean the only reason - that I was tolerating La Couronne Bleue, the half-full hole-in-the-wall bar, was because Charles Garnier had turned thirty-seven recently and invited me to drink with him. I liked his company, was pleased that he considered me a friend, and really...what was one night? I'd already been through Hell several times; putting up with a few drunken men in a bar wouldn't kill me.

To his credit, as well, he made sure that the very thing that made me uncomfortable was immediately taken care of. The gawking look of strangers who stared at my too-tall, too-thin body and the white porcelain mask covering nearly my entire face. Even my eyes, mismatched green and brown, drew stares.

"It is rude to gawk, Monsieur!" Charles proclaimed, his large nose still red from the cold outside, as we sat down at the bar. The blonde young man tending the bar, as expected, watched me with focused, narrow brown eyes. "Are you going to continue to squint at my friend here, or are you going to ask me what I want for my birthday drink?"

It was entirely, unnecessarily excessive, of course. The poor bartender had done nothing wrong but stare, and I felt almost sorry for him as he nodded, apologized, and took Charles's order of two hard ciders, one for both of us. However, in my thirty-one years of life, I'd become so accustomed to no one ensuring that I was comfortable, that his rude behavior to the wait staff here was a devilish delight.

Within two minutes, identical mugs of golden, foaming apple cider were placed before us. Charles lifted his glass for a toast. "To..." He grinned. "Me?"

I smiled despite myself. Though my upper lip was covered, my teeth, lower lip, and chin were visible - they were the only normal aspects of my face. "To you." I wrapped my black-gloved hand over the hilt of the mug and clinked it against his drink. "To another year of Charles Garnier."

"And-" He clinked my glass again. "To the Opera Garnier as well!" He drank deeply.

I nodded. "To our creation." I drank as well.

We were both the architects of the Paris Opera House, currently in its crude skeleton stages, all beams and wood and stone. He'd won a contest from the emperor of France to design the theatre. When I found out about the contest, it had been too late. But that hadn't stopped me from tracking down the winner and persuading him to let me assist.

I'd shown him my plans for the intricate art within the theatre; the sculptures, paintings, and other scenery, as the actual design of the building's facade was already approved. I admit, I'd found the outside ugly, but I could ensure that it would be beautiful on the inside.

I wanted no credit. And I wanted no money - I had enough of that. Charles Garnier had agreed to let me help. He was impressed by my work, and though he had been reluctant at first, he ultimately accepted my artistry.

I only wanted to work on something I loved. Art. Music. Design. Charles could have his fame and fortune.

"How was your party last night?" I asked him.

"Dull," he said, lowering his mug to the table and raising a bushy eyebrow at me. "It could have used a masked magician."

"I regret ever showing any magic tricks to you."

"And you still haven't shown me how you pulled that feather out of thin air."

"That's because a magician never reveals his secrets, Monsieur Garnier."

"A magician apparently also never attends his supposed friend's birthday parties, despite receiving an invitation and at least three reminders."

I sighed. "Charles..."

He waved my words away. "Yes, yes, I know. You don't like to mingle." He sat back in his chair. "I should be grateful that you came out here tonight at all. To this seedy bar. Even though there are plenty of upscale pubs and lounges closer to where we live."

I looked away. As good of a friend as he was, he simply didn't understand. The closer to society I was, the further I felt from humanity. My appearance just wasn't gentlemanly. It was rude to cover one's face, and it was apparently also rude to appear spider-like. In the poorer parts of Paris, people were used to seeing oddities and ugliness. Their reaction to me in the slums was not perfect, they still gave me looks, but it wasn't quite so hateful and humiliating.

I continued to sip my drink while Charles downed his. I was halfway through one mug when he had started on another. He dropped the subject of my absence from his party and the conversation turned to a more comfortable topic. Namely, how our Opera House was progressing.

His opinion was that it was progressing splendidly.

My opinion was that his opinion was, for a fact, wrong.

"These builders that we've hired," I explained, "are not taking their job seriously enough."

"Oh, Lord, Erik." He rolled his brown eyes. "They're working from dawn until dusk."

"They're taking their time. You've seen it - the amount of breaks they award themselves. It's ridiculous-"

"It's human." Charles crossed his arms. "They're humans, Erik. They can't be working nonstop for hours on end. Just because you can-"

"I'm human, too, Charles."

I'd let my voice drop, so low and threatening that several people around us turned to look. I didn't entirely care.

Charles sat up a bit straighter. He met my gaze steadily. "I never said you were not."

I didn't respond.

"All that I meant," he continued, "was that although you seem to be able to pour limitless energy into projects - an admirable trait - most people can't."

"Because I am not like most people, is it?"

"You know that you are putting words into my mouth for me, my friend." He tapped his half-empty mug. "I don't think of you any less than I thinks of others."

I crossed my hands on the bar before me. Yes, I was being unreasonable. I knew I was. It was difficult to remember that Charles truly didn't think of me differently. And if he did, he at least didn't think of me as inferior. Or superior, for that matter. He was one of the few people in my entire life that I could count on one hand who saw me as an equal.

To me, defensiveness was a habit. And habits don't perish overnight.

We moved on to what our plans were for the Opera House for the following months, what we could reasonably expect to get done. The men staring had since looked away and went back to their own table-talk. As he continued to drink, I watched as the conversation went from the loveliness that was the theatre to the loveliness that was his wife, Louise. A twenty-six year old woman with dark hair and dark eyes, I'd met her once and she was indeed pretty. I'd also briefly met his son, four year old Anton. His wife was polite to me, though I wasn't sure if it was from genuine friendliness or because I worked with Louise's husband. Either way, it was appreciated.

"She's as lovely as a shiny red apple!" exclaimed Charles, his face now flushed and his voice a bit too loud after his third mug. I was only on my second by now, barely touched, and he picked it up and began drinking.

"Yes, you may have mine, Charles." I smirked. "Thank you for asking first."

"You know what Louise said to me this morning?" he continued. "She kissed me for a long time and said, 'Darling, you're creating something immortal! And that means you're going to be immortal too!' And she kissed me again. I'm a lucky man, my friend."

He was lucky; that was absolutely true. I had a fortune's worth of francs in the bank, some earned and some inherited from a father I'd never met. There was reasonably nothing I wanted for in possessions. There was no skill out of my reach, no language or knowledge I couldn't learn. But I would never be loved by a woman. I would never have a family of my own.

The poorest, stupidest man in Paris with a loving wife was luckier than me. Tenfold.

After Charles had finished all of his ciders and mine as well, I made the judgement call that I should return him home to his wife. Luckily, we lived in the same building; I lived on the highest floor and he lived one flat below me. I escorted him outside, one of his arms over my shoulders, and we walked until we were in a nice enough part of the city to hail a cab. Charles continued to babble on about his wife and children, and I only half-listened. When the cab reached the correct building, I paid the driver, nodded to the horse, and helped Charles up the flight of his stairs to his home. Louise thanked me, grinning at Charles's drunken enthusiasm at seeing her, and closed the door after bidding me goodnight.

My home was only a staircase away, the third floor. I went up, unlocked my flat door, and went inside only for a moment. Only to grab a lantern.

This was a walk I took every night, no matter the weather or time.

I always, always said goodnight to the Paris Opera House. The love of my life.


The walk to the construction site was perhaps twenty minutes at a good pace.

The sight of her always made my breath stop short in my throat.

She was nothing yet, really. Merely a sketch of what she would be. But I could picture clearly how she would look in only a few years. The beauty of her, filled with gorgeous art and lovely singing. And I was bringing her, the Paris Opera House, to life.

I walked up to the theatre, to the wooden beams, and caressed it as if the material were a lover. Gentle, slowly, and full of care. This. This is what I was living for. This was my purpose.

My one and only purpose.

The more love I put into this theatre, the more I was given back - more than I could say of nearly every human being I'd ever come across. The more work I put in, the more she grew, and the more promising she became.

I made my way into the construction site, now fully inside the theatre. I moved within her, touching the crude walls as I went, wishing that I could live inside of this place.

I smiled.

Living inside the Opera House.

What an idea.

As I made my way through, a sound like rustling cloth caught my ears to my left, and I whirled.

I froze.

In the lanternlight, I found a young woman sitting up against the wooden wall, three meters away from me. She was staring right back into my eyes, and as I watched her, two glaring realizations came to my mind.

She was pregnant.

She was ill.

Her stomach was enormous against her tiny frame. She couldn't have been more than twenty years old, though she looked younger. Waist-length chestnut-brown hair was lightly tangled, and her forehead was slick with sweat. Her blue eyes, though looking right at me, appeared absent. Her face was pale and her eyes sunken.

I couldn't move.

What in God's name was she doing here in the middle of the night? What was she doing here at all?

Finally, she opened her mouth. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse and cracked pitifully.

"Monsieur." She took a breath, and wheezed when she did so. "Please help me."