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tamingthemuseFandom: Phantom of the Opera (1989)
Title: As Regular as Clockwork
Characters: Erik Destler
Prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
50_darkfics 036 never, tamingthemuse 137 bleach
Word Count: 1119
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Erik's point of view from the day that he and Christine meet again in 1989. Written for the March challenge attamingthemuse. WARNINGS: talk of murder (not graphic), mention of skinning victims
Erik Destler didn’t want to be here. His back ached from sitting in the same uncomfortable position for hours, and the pounding in his head was only growing more intense with each passing minute. Most of the girls he’d listened to this afternoon had been absolutely dreadful; he’d scowled down at them from the balcony like an ill-tempered bird of prey, entertaining himself by thinking of the ways that he would kill them, if he was so inclined.
He’d quickly dispatch the bleached blonde with the frizzy curls; Erik had barely been able to stand her squawking, and he’d rid the world of that as swiftly as possible. He’d take his time with the brunette with the dark eyes, the one who had reminded him of Christine for a brief, painful moment. Her voice had been all wrong, but he could easily remedy that with a few neat slices to her vocal cords. Then he could enjoy himself.
Erik imagined removing swathes of her pale skin with the surgical precision that he had developed over the past two centuries of his life. It’d been years since he’d worn a real skin mask; he’d been reduced to using synthetic masks because they were easier to obtain and lasted much longer. Rubbing his chin as he considered the possibilities, Erik realized that he missed the thrill of the chase, the sound of the flesh being removed from his latest plaything’s body, the feel of real skin camouflaging his decaying features. Perhaps it was time for him to indulge once again.
He scribbled the girl’s first name on the back of a napkin; maybe he’d ask for her contact information from the casting director later. The thought excited him, and he hadn’t felt even a twinge of pleasure in a very long time. The girl would be a poor substitute for Christine, but she’d suffice for the time being. And then, after he was finished, he would wear her skin for a few days, allowing himself to remember how it felt to have Christine’s flesh against his own. The mask would be another poor substitute, but if he closed his eyes, perhaps he could pretend it was a caress…
Some of the women had been passable, though; a few had even been good, and he’d written down their names too. None of them were quite what he was looking for, but that was always the case. Every few years, Erik stopped composing just long enough to produce a musical. He was a fisherman, casting out his nets into the great deep, hoping every time that he would find her. One of these days, he would. He always did.
It was almost time; he could feel it in his bones. Their meetings were nearly as regular as clockwork, really; every fifty years or so, she appeared without warning, some chance meeting that he could never foresee. And soon, very soon, she would cross his path again. This time, though, things would be different. He’d do everything in his considerable power to make sure of that. She’d never be allowed to leave him again. She was his muse, his inspiration; without her, he was empty. With her by his side once more, they would take Broadway by storm. She would be his vessel – she would bring his work to life like only she was able to do. And, in return, he would give her everything her heart desired – fame, fortune, love…music…forever.
Until then, his backers would require that he find someone to fill the role. Erik downed the rest of his lukewarm coffee before examining the woefully short list of serious contenders for the part. He certainly wasn’t looking forward to presiding over callbacks, but he had developed a reputation for being very involved in his shows at every step of the way. If he wasn’t successful in luring Christine to him this time around, he’d need his backers again to help finance another production in a year or two. Erik couldn’t afford to alienate them now, not when he was sure that he was so close to finding her.
The peroxide blonde who was currently on stage mercifully stopped screeching when the casting director thanked her for coming out today, and Erik shifted in his seat before glancing at his watch. Two more hours. He sighed loudly and crossed his legs, wondering if he’d even be able to move tonight. He was fast approaching two hundred years of age; his joints weren’t nearly as limber as they once had been.
A pair of dark-haired girls scurried onto the stage, and Erik tapped his fingers against his knee idly as they readied themselves. One settled at the piano in the corner, and the second stepped towards the center of the stage. The lighting was far too bright, washing out all color from her skin, and the girl shielded her eyes from the glare as the casting director asked her to say a few things about herself.
“My name is Christine Day,” the girl began, flashing a smile that showed off her dimples. Erik grew completely still at the name. Christine Day? But that wasn’t an uncommon name; he’d encountered a few Christine Days in New York City before, and none of them had been her. One had even auditioned for a show he was producing, but he’d known she wasn’t the girl he was seeking as soon as she sang the first note. Still… He leaned forward a little so he wouldn’t miss any of her words. “I’m second year at Julliard, and I’ve done a couple of things – mostly classical. I’ve studied with—”
“Yes, that’s fine,” the casting director interrupted with a wave of his hand. Erik wanted to reach down and slap the man. “What are you going to sing for us today?”
“I’m going to do a piece from Don Juan Triumphant, by Erik Destler.”
Erik twitched convulsively in his seat, his elbow slamming into the empty coffee cup and sending it to the floor with a clatter. The casting director called for silence, but Erik barely heard him.
She was Christine – his Christine. He didn’t even need to hear her sing to know that. She’d returned to him, at last. Fifty long years of waiting melted away as the pianist began playing the piece – his composition, the one that he had written expressly for Christine. And then she began to sing, and Erik closed his eyes at the heavenly notes soared towards the balcony. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest, and his ragged breath almost sounded like a sob.
Yes, as regular as clockwork. And this time, she would be his forever. She would never leave again.
Never.
also posted here
[week 6]
Title: As Regular as Clockwork
Characters: Erik Destler
Prompt:
50_darkfics 036 never, tamingthemuse 137 bleachWord Count: 1119
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Erik's point of view from the day that he and Christine meet again in 1989. Written for the March challenge at
tamingthemuse. WARNINGS: talk of murder (not graphic), mention of skinning victimsErik Destler didn’t want to be here. His back ached from sitting in the same uncomfortable position for hours, and the pounding in his head was only growing more intense with each passing minute. Most of the girls he’d listened to this afternoon had been absolutely dreadful; he’d scowled down at them from the balcony like an ill-tempered bird of prey, entertaining himself by thinking of the ways that he would kill them, if he was so inclined.
He’d quickly dispatch the bleached blonde with the frizzy curls; Erik had barely been able to stand her squawking, and he’d rid the world of that as swiftly as possible. He’d take his time with the brunette with the dark eyes, the one who had reminded him of Christine for a brief, painful moment. Her voice had been all wrong, but he could easily remedy that with a few neat slices to her vocal cords. Then he could enjoy himself.
Erik imagined removing swathes of her pale skin with the surgical precision that he had developed over the past two centuries of his life. It’d been years since he’d worn a real skin mask; he’d been reduced to using synthetic masks because they were easier to obtain and lasted much longer. Rubbing his chin as he considered the possibilities, Erik realized that he missed the thrill of the chase, the sound of the flesh being removed from his latest plaything’s body, the feel of real skin camouflaging his decaying features. Perhaps it was time for him to indulge once again.
He scribbled the girl’s first name on the back of a napkin; maybe he’d ask for her contact information from the casting director later. The thought excited him, and he hadn’t felt even a twinge of pleasure in a very long time. The girl would be a poor substitute for Christine, but she’d suffice for the time being. And then, after he was finished, he would wear her skin for a few days, allowing himself to remember how it felt to have Christine’s flesh against his own. The mask would be another poor substitute, but if he closed his eyes, perhaps he could pretend it was a caress…
Some of the women had been passable, though; a few had even been good, and he’d written down their names too. None of them were quite what he was looking for, but that was always the case. Every few years, Erik stopped composing just long enough to produce a musical. He was a fisherman, casting out his nets into the great deep, hoping every time that he would find her. One of these days, he would. He always did.
It was almost time; he could feel it in his bones. Their meetings were nearly as regular as clockwork, really; every fifty years or so, she appeared without warning, some chance meeting that he could never foresee. And soon, very soon, she would cross his path again. This time, though, things would be different. He’d do everything in his considerable power to make sure of that. She’d never be allowed to leave him again. She was his muse, his inspiration; without her, he was empty. With her by his side once more, they would take Broadway by storm. She would be his vessel – she would bring his work to life like only she was able to do. And, in return, he would give her everything her heart desired – fame, fortune, love…music…forever.
Until then, his backers would require that he find someone to fill the role. Erik downed the rest of his lukewarm coffee before examining the woefully short list of serious contenders for the part. He certainly wasn’t looking forward to presiding over callbacks, but he had developed a reputation for being very involved in his shows at every step of the way. If he wasn’t successful in luring Christine to him this time around, he’d need his backers again to help finance another production in a year or two. Erik couldn’t afford to alienate them now, not when he was sure that he was so close to finding her.
The peroxide blonde who was currently on stage mercifully stopped screeching when the casting director thanked her for coming out today, and Erik shifted in his seat before glancing at his watch. Two more hours. He sighed loudly and crossed his legs, wondering if he’d even be able to move tonight. He was fast approaching two hundred years of age; his joints weren’t nearly as limber as they once had been.
A pair of dark-haired girls scurried onto the stage, and Erik tapped his fingers against his knee idly as they readied themselves. One settled at the piano in the corner, and the second stepped towards the center of the stage. The lighting was far too bright, washing out all color from her skin, and the girl shielded her eyes from the glare as the casting director asked her to say a few things about herself.
“My name is Christine Day,” the girl began, flashing a smile that showed off her dimples. Erik grew completely still at the name. Christine Day? But that wasn’t an uncommon name; he’d encountered a few Christine Days in New York City before, and none of them had been her. One had even auditioned for a show he was producing, but he’d known she wasn’t the girl he was seeking as soon as she sang the first note. Still… He leaned forward a little so he wouldn’t miss any of her words. “I’m second year at Julliard, and I’ve done a couple of things – mostly classical. I’ve studied with—”
“Yes, that’s fine,” the casting director interrupted with a wave of his hand. Erik wanted to reach down and slap the man. “What are you going to sing for us today?”
“I’m going to do a piece from Don Juan Triumphant, by Erik Destler.”
Erik twitched convulsively in his seat, his elbow slamming into the empty coffee cup and sending it to the floor with a clatter. The casting director called for silence, but Erik barely heard him.
She was Christine – his Christine. He didn’t even need to hear her sing to know that. She’d returned to him, at last. Fifty long years of waiting melted away as the pianist began playing the piece – his composition, the one that he had written expressly for Christine. And then she began to sing, and Erik closed his eyes at the heavenly notes soared towards the balcony. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest, and his ragged breath almost sounded like a sob.
Yes, as regular as clockwork. And this time, she would be his forever. She would never leave again.
Never.
also posted here
[week 6]
