#&. verse; like yellow parchment is his skin ( erik )

[livedtough]

He does, in a way that he will never quite expand upon, appreciate that the man has remained, if not his friend, then his contact. He is an ear to the outside world, a hand to reach where he could not. He is not a pawn, not exactly, not a mindless henchman with which to extend his reach, but he is, in a way, more useful than even that. He is vital, a hand stretched, grasping where his own skeletal hand can not reach. He is a friend, though. His dearest, his closest, barring, at least, Ayesha.

Is there a distinction, though, between Erik and Phantom, between which man asks what of his dear friend? Perhaps once, but no longer. There is very little man left to speak of.

He sees the way the man's expression changes, but he does not understand why it does. He does not understand what it is that he possibly gave away. Of course he doesn't. There is no world in which Erik does not believe himself in control of every situation. "Bah!" Erik scoffs, dismissing the idea outright. Or, perhaps not dismissing it, but ignoring it. What, though, does Erik know of children? "I am not their teacher. They are guests in my opera house, and guests are meant to behave."

The transactional interpretation put on friendship is both deeply troubling and, from the shadowy outlines he has been allowed to glimpse over the years, disturbingly understandable. Iskandar has never quite known how to balance the dichotomy, as with so much surrounding this man; he has settled for allowing both to reside uncomfortably side by side. Two oxen yoked together, pulling in opposite directions. And in the stasis that results, he himself has stayed a friend to Erik if not the Phantom. But is that as meaningful a distinction as he thinks? Does separating out the demon's crimes exonerate the man? No, he doesn't believe that.

The same idea of exchange that imbues their relationship has strangely benefitted the young dancers. They are no use to him, and so he ignores them— unless, of course, they intrude on his realm. That last declaration is chilling, yes, but equally heartbreaking. Iskandar knows full well that pity would not be welcome but there is nothing he can do to prevent his expression shifting to reflect just how much he recognized what must lay behind such a sentiment. That is unquestionably learned, possibly taught with deliberate malice. "Not always," he says dolefully. "It is not always thus, Erik. Children also can learn respect when they are shown behavior worth emulating." Such as kindness, which he is convinced Erik never had.

[livedtough]

He does not know how she reacts. He sees it, yes, but he does not know it. As much as she haunts his thoughts, his music, the female creature is not one that Erik knows well. It is not one he knows at all. Oh, the sound of her voice, the color of her skin! It is a song of its own! It is music, art, light! And he has stained it with blood, a speck of crimson against the flawless surface of her skin. Surely this will be counted amongst the darkest of his sins.

"You are quite safe," he says, mistaking her reaction for fear, because he knows nothing else. "I will not harm you."

the  touch ,  although  brief,  sets  her  skin  ablaze . she  doesn't  quite  know  what  the  feeling  was . why  she  wanted  it  to  have  lingered  for  a  moment  longer . she  gazes  down  her  fingertips ,  the  tiniest  bit  of  blood  upon  skin  from  their  contact . she  takes  a  moment  to  reply ,  mind  elsewhere,  as  it  seemed . 

❝    good . . .  i — — ❞  she  is  incoherent  all  of  a  sudden ,  cheeks  turning  pink . it  was  warm  all  of  a  sudden . something  she  never  knew  would  be  possible  down  below .

[livedtough]

He is, of course, guilty of, if not all that she has heard, enough that splitting apart that which is exaggeration and that which is truth hardly matters. No, he is no phantasm, no otherworldly spirit, but he enjoys that which is spread. He may not be phantom, but he is the Opera Ghost. And, really, what difference does it make, whether he has hung from the rafters one stagehand or two? Whatever the number, it creates fear, and fear, like music, worms its way beneath the skin, digging into muscle until it is all that remains.

For all that he can do, all that he does do, he holds no foresight. He does not know that here, upon this rooftop, he will not be alone. That he will not be the only one with a desire to feel the air on their skin! For how still it becomes, deep in the catacombs! How he misses the sky! Oh, the music of stars! How deeply he yearns for the muse of starlight. So on these nights, he comes, climbs the stairs, the ladders, and feels the air on his skin. It is warm, and it is dry, so unlike the damp cold of beneath.

There is another, though. A woman, shadowed by darkness. Her face is difficult to see, as is his. He doesn't know what to say to her. Indeed, there are, and indeed, the tales are terrible, but it is also true that he means no harm on this night. He does not want to cause her harm, not now, for the stars are out, and the Phantom means no harm.

"When a man is made to become a beast, he will act as one, will he not? And a beast, when provoked, does bite." A bit unclear, perhaps, but it is the truth. It explains, but so too does it say that she is not wrong. There is danger, but only if it is provoked.

You need not fear.

An odd sentiment to hear from the lips of the opera ghost himself, credited with the deaths of several already though Roxane has never believed the rumors are wholly true. First, the ballet rats and back stage hands she spends her time with are apt to exaggerate. She sees it in retellings of events she has witnessed and so she imagines it is so with the ones she had not. And second, she simply does not believe in ghosts. If ghosts were real, she would have her baby still even in some corporeal form. She would have visited her at least in the darkness of the night or behind her closed eyelids as similar wives tales claim. But her youngest daughter died months ago, her husband disappeared nearly two years prior, and yet she has witnessed no hauntings. The only thing that plagues their grief are the horrific nightmares that often keep her eldest - Brianna, a six-year-old already showing such promise - awake at night.

She was sleeping well when Roxane left her under the watchful eye of a dear friend and fellow dancer, retreating to the rooftop to let the warm summer air dry the tears on her cheeks.

“There are those who say otherwise,” she answers, peering into the dark for a glimpse of the stranger but the shadows obscure him from view. Only his beautiful voice gives away his identity. “The tales surrounding you are…gruesome. I would like to imagine they’re false though I have known enough dangerous men to fear making such a fool of myself as well.”

Despite her words, she does not seem afraid but her claims remind her there are things far more frightening than fables and none would fill her with fear and dread like the face of the man who once took a knife to her late husband’s face. Her beauty was a curse and jealousy a force to be reckoned with.

[livedtough]

That is, of course, exactly his intention. Not that he doesn't mean what he says, but that he wouldn't say it if there wasn't a point, i he wasn't trying to get something from him. Erik is not one for aimless compliments, for aimless praise. It isn't necessarily done out of malice, but an understanding of the way the world works. People are more likely to do things when they feel that they have been...compensated. Threats are his choice for most other people, but for his friend, he will try a kinder route. After all, he knows him too well to fear him. A fault, certainly, but on whose side?

He supposes he should feel something as the other man sighs, some shame, some awareness of the man's irritation, but there is none. "And what use does Erik have for girls, eh?" Loud little things they are, always currying underfoot like so many animals! Of course, his thought is exactly what the Daroga warns him against. If they do not fear him, then he will make them fear. "What else is there to do? When a child does not show respect, they are taught it."

It is remarkable, the Daroga considers. He can recognize the manipulation and yet the scrap of genuity in it ensures that it succeeds, to some degree at least. Instead of arguing, he nods. Useful for the Phantom indeed. After all, he has done nothing but wring his hands, watch and wait. Talking to Erik like this hardly counts, as it will do no good. Is he truly so desperate for connection, and this phantom, this devil is the only source on offer? Possible, possible. He has been lonely since leaving behind all he had ever known. Darius is loyal, even a friend of sorts, but it is not the same.

Iskandar sighs, instinctively rubbing his forehead as though that will carry away the ache. "They are girls. It is their nature to be curious. I have done my best to impress on them the importance of keeping out of the way, but I fear they still half-believe it is a joke." Pausing, it strikes him how that could be taken and hastily adds, "That does not mean you should try harder to convince them."

[livedtough]

Just who is not useless? The ones he can use, of course. He had thought, once, that the managers would be useful, but what good was money when it came at the sake of art? They were junk scrappers! At least the rats didn't know what they did. "I have never considered you useless, my friend." Which was both genuine and manipulating. He had always cared for the man, in his way, and had always considered him genuinely useful. Helpful. He may still have been where he was now without his friend, but the man had made it quite a bit easier. Even if he does disapprove of almost everything Erik has done. Erik does not need his approval.

As for the girls. He scoffs. The girls! They are irritating, vexing. "Relax, friend! The girls will come to no harm, so long as they do not get in my way." As long as Erik was not threatened, he would not threaten in return. Usually, anyway.derlays his tone, as does a warning. He is not against revealing snippets of what he knows if necessary.

He is not wrong in that, perhaps not even in the diagnosis of why; there is undeniable power in the unsettling. Brute strength is still the quickest route to power, by no means the only. There are still quieter forms, both of which stand at opposite sides of a chasm here.

Despite the futility he tries, over and over despite the stupidity of it. Iskandar sighs but this is as much as he will concede. He would be neglecting his duty to all, including his old friend (what else to call him, if not the opposite, a devil?) if he did otherwise. "Just who is not useless to you? Anyone who surrenders, who gives in to your every whim? That is just another form of weakness." Not that he believes what he is saying, he is merely crafting an argument, a spider spinning a web designed to tell a story more than entrap.

"As for the girls— you have promised, no more of that. Besides, it would not look well to any young lady you might hope to impress." The hint of suspicion underlays his tone, as does a warning. He is not against revealing snippets of what he knows if necessary.

[livedtough]

There is little, Erik thinks, that can withstand his gaze. It may not be true, may only be something taken by the Phantom, something that is only true in stories. There is so much about Erik that is only true in stories, enough that he has almost begun to forget what is true and what is false.

For now, though, what is true is that he is here with the Daroga, his friend, the closest thing to a friend that the Phantom has ever had. The man holds his own against him, and that is something that Erik has always enjoyed. Oh, he enjoys when a man bends, enjoys the power, but so too does he enjoy this man that bites back. Then comes the man's answer, and the Phantom scoffs. "What of them? The managers are useless. Worse than! They are lesser than the rodents that scurry amongst the catacombs! And the girls. They pry. They pry, and they scream, and it is better that they fear Erik, is it not? You would not want one of your precious girls to meet an accident."

Fate had its hand in their meeting; now after all these years, the times their paths have crossed both by design and otherwise, Iskandar is cemented in his belief. For good or ill (most days in despair he thinks the latter) their fates are tied fast. At least there is no chance Erik can escape him, even if the reverse is also true.

He doesn't quail under that gaze but suffers a frisson nonetheless. He should have known that gambit would not draw Erik out. It will be a stalemate if he continues. As tempted as he is to let it lie, he resists. A brief flicker of tongue to lips his most blatant tell, he plunges ahead: "Where should I start? The managers, forced to pay you for the privilege of avoiding trouble? The dancer girls, who can hardly think of anything but 'the ghost' and speculate and shriek in turn at every movement of the shadows?" He will give Erik once more to come clean about the rest, but why does he bother?

[livedtough]

Iskandar may be unwilling to split from his chosen path in life, but so is Erik. Or, rather, they are both equally incapable of doing so. Their lives have been preordained, their destinies fated. They are, however, two sides of the same coin, are they not? They need one another. Their paths may be opposite, but they would always intertwine.

Yellow eyes watch the other man, waiting for his response. He doesn't know if he'll be answered, and, though he does want an answer, something in him delights in the obfuscation. "Come, my friend...certainly you can be more specific than that?"

Just as Erik's upbringing is nothing he can bear the blame of, it is not Erik's fault that the other man can't leave well enough alone. For that Iskandar is entirely responsible; but how much of a choice is it? Could he truly take another path? Even if he could, he doesn't think he would want to.

It is frustrating though. Sighing, Iskandar fixes his gaze on Erik's, lips pressed together. "I think you know very well what I have heard." Will he make him spell out what they both know already? He wills it otherwise, for all the good that will do.

[livedtough]

Oh! She touches him! It is brief, a simple graze of skin, but, ah, it feels as though a fire has been lit across his skin! For all the grandiosity of Erik, he practically trembles as she steps away, as he is left with only the memory of her skin. Warm, soft, oh! So unlike Erik's own, thin and papery, almost brittle. Even this touch, this small, accidental thing, is kinder than any other touch he has experienced. How wonderful, how exquisite. It is a simple kindness he has been shown, but to a man who has known none, there is no thing as a simple kindness. But he mustn't fall. He must allow her to step away, to leave his sight as he continues to wipe at the blood, his skin still alight where she touched him. Then she returns, ah, wonderful thing! And thin hands lower into the water, cold and clear, to begin to scrub away at the blood that stains them. "No," he responds, a simple word. "I am not hurt."

fingers    brush    against    one    another    as    she    extended    the    delicate    fabric    to    him .  she    watched    crimson    stain    ivory    as    he    wiped    his    hand    ,    the    sight    rather    difficult    to    look    at  .  she    had    always    been    rather    squeamish .   christine    withdrew    to    go    into    the    washroom    to    fetch    a    basin    of    water ,    filling    it    almost    to    the    brim    ,    a    bar    of    soap    &    a    towel  .  she    returns    to    the    sitting    room    ,    setting    it    all    down    in    front    of    him .    ❝        and    you . . . you    aren't    hurt    ,    are    you    ?        ❞   her    voice    is    filled    with    concern    ,    eyebrows    furrowed    &    gaze  softening  as    she    studied    him .