Fandom: Phantom of the Opera
: Please don't sue. I don't own *insert fandom name from above*... All I own is an overactive imagination.
Summary: Let's Rewrite Our History Assumption #7 revisited: A short companion piece to The Cost of Life, read that first. Erik POV.
Warning(s): slash, mentions of sexual encounters, prostitutes
: Erik/Raoul, Erik/Christine (it really is unavoidable, you know), Erik/OFC
Word Count: 1,465
Series: Let's Rewrite Our History (The series where anything is fair game, huge assumptions are made, and you simply have to accept them as fact.)

A/N: Sneaky of me right to add this random ficlet. Guess what? I was bored… Not really, the plotbunny for this really wouldn't stop bothering me and I ended up doing a skeleton outline of this story. DX
Story note: You need to read Cost of Life before reading this one for it to really make any sense. The premise remains the same; this is simply a short drabble on Erik's POV. Motivation… the most important thing to any story. This is his.


The Cost of Love
By: Lucifer Rosemaunt


His Christine had sung so beautifully today. It was as expected of a student of his, as expected of his angel of music. To see her stand center stage had inspired scores of melodies within his mind, each clamouring with one another in a struggle to be written first. Only her singing had kept him in his seat when he had so desperately needed to be in his home and seated before his organ to compose.

Despite the disparity between her unease upon the stage and her vocal prowess, the way she so easily commanded their attention left no doubt in anyone's mind that she belonged there. Erik was certain that she would quickly come into her own and forget her anxiety. Soon, so soon. He could hardly wait between one breath and the next to see the audience love her as he did, to hear his voice stream past her lips and soar above them all.

They would both stand upon that stage before hundreds who would stare at them in anticipation, in wonder. They would find themselves at least momentarily liberated from these physical forms into something more than simply flesh, blood, and deformity and finally escape this ugliness and find purer forms to exist within. Maybe they could exist in love, life, or freedom; maybe all of them at once.

Her voice had been transcendent. Her words had pierced his soul; her vibrato had shaken his vulgar body into awareness. His eyes had closed in ecstasy, pulse rising with each crescendo as his hand trailed further down his chest with each diminuendo. The pleasure had washed through him in waves of symphonic rapture. By the end of her song, his body trembled, muscles quaking with need for action overpowering even the impetus to compose. He needed release and the desire to touch her then, to take her was stronger than it had ever been before.

There had been no glass between them to stop him, only distance that he could easily cross. He would not do that though, not to his angel, his muse. She would remain pure despite the lust that raged through his veins. Even hours after she had retired for the eve did the lust seethe within his body, demanding an outlet. He had been wholly unable to pay her a visit in her room to congratulate her beyond sending a single rose with a black ribbon tied around its stem, not yet.

They were too close to obtaining their dreams to allow even a chance at a mishap to occur. He would do what he always did in circumstances such as this. He would be relieved through the only means available to him: whores, the only ones who would touch him as he was and only then for quite the sum of money. He knew he paid more than the others for the acts they performed for him. It was of little consequence however since he bitterly knew that he would not be touched otherwise. He paid for secrecy, for the fact that he wore a full mask throughout it all – he could not risk the chance of being recognized in the normal, porcelain half-mask and chose a rather ungainly, leather mask with the necessary slits for his eyes and one for his mouth.

Today had merely been her first rehearsal in place of La Carlotta. He could hardly imagine what it would be like opening night, if he would have enough self-control to keep from taking her right there on the stage. The moment night fell, he had hastened across dark streets to arrive at the unassuming, brick building with its women spilling forth out onto the streets, attempting to lure men in for the night. Erik had opted for his usual back-entrance instead.

Once inside the smoky, dim room, he inquired after his usual. He often gravitated towards one particular whore who was slim, had brunette, curly hair and brown eyes. She was even about the same height as Christine, but that was where the similarities ended. Her eyes were too shrewd, her smile lascivious. The way she spoke did little to ingratiate herself to him, and it was merely practice that kept him from wincing at the piercing wittering. He used her hair to cover her face when he had to, told her to silence herself but even the noises she unintentionally made often drove him to anger. She was too aggressive, too… used.

However, she cared not how forceful he was, what bruises or scratches he left. She cared little what name he muttered under his breath or whose body he really sought as he explored her body, as he finished inside her. She never asked him to remove his mask, knew better than to wonder what was beneath it, was paid enough not to care.

Yet, the mere sight of her this evening had immediately disgusted him and made him wonder how he had ever seen Christine in such an offensive wench. He had dismissed her immediately and was left to peruse the others. Still, he had not found any that caught his attention. It had taken him a moment before he discerned the reason for the newfound attitude and immediately left the way he had entered.

The whore currently within his grasp. It had been merely a moment's glance as he had passed him to enter the building, but it had been impossible not to notice his slicked back, blond hair and the lean, toned body barely covered in the clothes he wore. The shirt, now torn, revealed a thin body and one that was not unused to work in the factories. Erik briefly wondered what would drive a young man clearly capable to find honest work to this, but he supposed he had his answer in the company he sought.

Erik let his fingers drag across the smooth skin again, such youth, such innocence beneath his very touch. If it were truly innocence; he doubted it. The boy looked like sin itself and he clearly knew the streets, knew what to wear, where to stand and how to get the right attention. He knew what questions to ask despite the slight hesitance in his voice.

He wondered how many others had gone through this process with him, who else had bargained for this body. More importantly, he wondered who else had almost been fooled by the look of fear mixed with hope that was easily seen in his eyes when he stalled for more money. How many had been too distracted by his mouth, by the tongue that flicked out to wet his lips, to even realize how much they were offering. Probably too many.

This one was different than the other whores. The feigned innocence was the best that Erik had ever seen. The muscles under his fingers as he had trailed them down his stomach had even jumped slightly. He cowered so prettily, looked up at him from beneath long lashes. His grimace was so practiced the Erik almost believed that all he felt was pain even though he had been with others who had clearly enjoyed the pain. He could see why playing the victim would earn him more money, would earn him customers such as the one he had frightened away. Sending him away hadn't been a difficult decision. The man had, after all, run into him; he had forfeited any claim the moment he had angered him.

Erik's pulse already raced thinking of holding down this body, having his way with him. The boy was the complete opposite of his Christine. Blond to her brunette, blue eyes to her brown, the slight defiance in his demeanor, and of course, he was a boy. Still, he held some of the delicateness of her, his long neck and almost aristocratic nose. There was his slim build and smaller hands compared to his own. There was something so similar, something pure that unlike with her, Erik could touch. He could touch and would. He would ruin this whore in a way he could never imagine ruining Christine.

It could not be done here though. He had plans, plans that did not include semi-public alleyways. He could barely wait. There could be no other, no one else that would satisfy this hunger, and he knew the wait would be worth it.

He need only settle their deal. He had known the outcome of this bargaining before it had even come close to ending. Everyone had their price. Everything could be bought. Erik knew that, had learned that with the other women he'd bought in the building. The blond would say yes; it mattered little the cost, and he would make sure no one besides himself would touch him ever again.


End ficlet

A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!
Fic Review: It's actually longer than I expected. Oh, and I feel awful for what's definitely implied that's going to happen to Raoul. Erik thinks it's all an act. :( Poor Raoul, right?

I almost feel the need to explain myself with this. As previously stated, this was very much Englund!POTO inspired. Personally, I don't think Erik has any right to be that sexually active considering he's supposed to be a hermit of sorts, but the movie took it in that direction (changed his background too but that's beside the point) and I couldn't help but borrow the 'verse for a bit. So, for all intents and purposes Erik's quite the sexual creature in this story. Now this though, this chapter was… well, when I first watched the Englund version, there was one scene that stuck out for me (nope, not the prostitute one, although that is definitely what sparked this lroh, but the one) when he's watching Christine sing and he practically j's in his pants, which is really something that cannot be unseen or unthought. My immediate thought was, "Damn, well… okay. We can work with that."