'Curiosity' (Erik/Meg, R)

Title: Curiosity
Author: Ignited
Rating: R
Category: Romance (?)
Pairing: Erik/Meg
Summary: “Curiosity is a terrible thing that will get the best of you, kill you, scar you.”
Spoilers: Post-PotO
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Notes: Bored and unable to find any new Phantom of the Opera Erik/Meg fic, I wrote my own. This does not bode well. Apologies for the state of it, and the slight romance/fluffy aspects; wrote it this morning while half-awake. Plus, it's freaking Phantom of the Opera. Of course it can get somewhat melodramatic. ::shrugs:: Sigh. Far from perfect, but I needed to somehow get rid of the urge to write them. About 1,100 words or so. ::goes off muttering about writing dark fic to cheer up::

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I’m not the only one
Staring at the sun
Afraid of what you’d find
If you took a look inside
-- U2, “Staring At the Sun”

---

It should have ended there.

But it didn’t. It should’ve ended when she found the mask, discarded amongst the bric-a-brac of this man-made lair. It ended there, that Opera Ghost, the Opera itself nothing more than a memory. Messieurs Andre and Firmin were ruined; they would’ve been better off staying with their scrap metal business, what a terrible thing this is, so on and so forth.

So the Opera Populaire was dead, and that’s where it should have ended.

However, curiosity is a terrible thing that will get the best of you, kill you, scar you. Meg thought it had gotten the best of Buquet – always a penchant for looking where he shouldn’t, and he ended with a noose around his neck, didn’t he? – and so she tried to ignore it. Maman was right – be mindful of your surroundings, but don’t poke your nose into where it did not belong. And don’t let “such silly thoughts distract you, dear. Concentrate on your dancing.”

Maman would faint had she known of this so-called ‘second act’.

It was second, wasn’t it? There was Christine’s story, her voice and her eyes, her mouth and her decision. Now she was probably off in London, enjoying her honeymoon with the Vicomte de Chagny. She was terribly sweet and terribly unaware that it didn’t really end. That was the first part, which Meg saw and gave as much comfort as a friend only could.

And then there was this.

This, being her on the floor, elbows scraped raw, trousers wet, blouse dirty. He was yelling at her now – as he did on occasion, jaw tensed, random white noise between soft music – and she let him. She let him do so, until his voice was hoarse, before she stood up abruptly, dusting herself off.

“Are you done?” she asks, trying to fight off tears (fourth time this month, you’re terrible, be stronger, stronger). “I do not have to be here.”

He smirks at her, shaking his head slowly. “That is the point. You shouldn’t be, little Marguerite. And yet you are, running away after rehearsals to see your precious Opera Ghost. Do I seem to be some sort of twisted hero from one of your romantic tales you read and blush at?”

Clearly, he is correct: she should not be running off from the Theatre Rouge (lots of seating, wide and open, just a few miles away from the Opera house), visiting him occasionally by carriage. Maman knew a number of helpful acquaintances, including one who didn’t mind giving her free rides into town while he went in for business.

So she visits, the first time originally to help him. Found him cold and wandering, sick and cowering, days after the mob and police left. Pity, you see, is a tricky thing, borne out of curiosity, and her arms are red and burning to prove it.

“You are a coward,” she tells him, chin raised, her face burning.

His nostrils flare as his eyes narrow. Meg decides to get on with it, sweet release, and brace herself all the while.

“You live here, you still do, but you’ve thrown away your talent. It is a sin that you misuse it! I’ve seen it – your scores, your blueprints, everything scattered about while you’re asleep. You’re terrible. You’d rather waste your time moaning about Christine rather than going on with your life, as you should!”

Hand at the level of your eyes, says Maman. Or hands up, in front, deflect the blow.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t move. He only stares at her, mouth open, as though unable to comprehend what she’s just said. After a moment, he says, “Why are you here, girl?”

“Pity,” Meg tells him, out of anger. She doesn’t mean to; it’s said too quickly, just as quick as he flinches, nearly shaking with anger. “Perhaps that, nothing more.”

It’s a lie, but it gets him starting towards her, grabbing her wrists, towering over her. “I’ve had enough pity for several lifetimes. I do not need another chorus girl’s.”

She tells him that she is not Christine.

Then she leaves.

--

It happens again, the visits, because it doesn’t end. She visits, gets curious glances from passersby for visiting a burned down opera house. Sometimes he reads to her, sometimes he plays music. She wishes to take singing lessons from him; after a while, he gives them.

Meg thinks his voice is lovely, though she has not approached the apparent enthralled feeling that Christine would show – she only closes her eyes and smiles. He seems amused by it at times.

It’s her little secret, this, knowledge that would bring her to the foreground. A silly little chorus girl and a maturing friendship with the Phantom of the Opera.

After their last argument, he doesn’t mention Christine for a long while.

--

The first time, it’s an accident.

Meg tells him – Erik, his name, after a month of visits – that he might consider speaking to the Monsieur who runs the Theatre Rouge. He is in need of an architect. Erik says no, he won’t bother, too much trouble. The Phantom is dead, as many believe, and he need not make reappearance at any theater again.

After that, Meg tells him he is being stubborn.

Her brazen declaration earns her a growl from him, and scattered papers in her lap, thrown at her in anger.

Even with him standing over her, reprimanding her, she starts to laugh. It’s high-pitched, and it may be the sign that she’s gone mad. Mad, to see a murderer time and time again, Christine long gone, little Meg left behind. Picking up the pieces and scattering them about, the way he seems to fear her, and be angered at her.

“You must learn to control your temper,” she says.

Erik raises an eyebrow -- perhaps both, but there’s only flickering candlelight against the white mask. “Must I, Mademoiselle Giry? Do you think I’ve nothing to be angry about?”

She opens her mouth, and then closes it again, for he’s offered his hand to her. Meg takes it, standing up.

“Perhaps it is my deformity? Or how I’ve been treated in the past? Oh, I forget. That is nothing. Nothing at all.”

At that point, Meg kisses him hard on the mouth, her eyes snapped shut.

“That was done for your own good,” Meg says when she pulls away, all business, Erik left staring and breathing heavily in her wake.

She turns to leave, but he’s still holding her, a bit hard. Hard enough that her arm jerks and she nearly slips, before he catches her.

Holds her.

--

He leaves welts, red and pink, on her arms and wrists.

--

When she wakes the morning after, her wrists are aching. There’s a black ribbon against her blonde hair, and the swan-like bed is a mess of sheets and clothing. The faint sounds of the organ indicate Erik is composing. Really, this state of affairs indicates it was all an accident.

An intimidating one, a forceful one, but an accident.

…Of course, that is also a lie. Again, borne out of curiosity, it seems.

END

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I’m not just deaf and dumb
Staring at the sun
Not the only one
Who’s happy to go blind