Phantom of the Opera 1. Chapter 1

Paris, France: a city filled with so much glamor and wonder that even the people inside this illusion forget where they reside. The romance that this city is suppose to possess, the magic that is suppose to grace every land mark in sight, is nothing compared to the wealthy aristocrats, who stroll about with their ivory canes and pompous flair, not paying the slightest heed to anyone who has not worn the latest fashion or bought the most luxurious silverware. The everyday citizens hide their heads like common mutts, beaten to a force so low that they stopped trying to gain anything more than the normal, drawl day that was planned for them since birth. Then, there are the mongrels, which fight like Hyenas: unfair and unpredictable. They devour any sign of wealth, spending it on pleasures they could not hope to obtain. The very weak are their prey and they use any means exploit these poor and hopeless people to satisfy their hunger.

There is no light in the bustling city of Paris. The shadows engulf the light, corrupting both the poorest and noblest souls into succumbing into the darkness of Hell.

There is no Heaven in this place. Only misery and woe.

* * *

Rain. The endless, pitiless rain. It started in faint drizzles that alarmed the crowds in the streets to fall back into their homes. Then it abruptly began to pour from the heavens, dousing the streets with numbing water. The marred clouds above growled angrily in hopes of driving away the stronger citizens to safer havens and drowning the sick ones into their impending rat infested graves.

The streets emptied out quickly over the course of an hour. Not even a flea bitten mouse ventured out into the unforgiving weather. Yet, when every living soul deserts the streets, a shadow comes out to tour the town. The shadow comes when all of man is safely tucked into their beds, snuggled into their thick quilts and roaring fires. Only when the streets are bare that _He_ decided to walk around the surface world.

This shadow-figure stepped hastily into the night. The frigid rain showed no effect on the creature, yet the storm did not relent. Wind howled in fervent anger and pushed against the dark form. The action had little effect and only caused the shadow to grow in size. Unaffected, this unknown beast stalked the pavement, dodging light as if he would melt and disappear from Earth.

His focus was not set on anything in particular. His gaze did not stray on any object or person for more than a few passing moments. As he walked, the rain seemed to part just for him to pass, perhaps impressed that he was the only creature to stand so defiantly in these harsh conditions. However, there was one person who tried to face this storm but, from the looks of it, this little being never had a chance to begin with.

On sight, the shadowed man slipped across the street, eyeing the limp body that lay underneath a shopkeeper's window. Yet, the person did not stir, not even twitch. Curious, the man inched closer to the specimen; his footsteps were silent as he ventured closer to the pile of rags.

He stood there, staring at the body. Its back was slumped against the stonewall, its head cast down onto its chest, blocking its face from view. The man raised a gloved hand, but pulled back in confusion. Guilt and common sense argued with the man's emotions and all that he could manage to do was to kneel down and pull the thing's head up by the chin.

The 'it' was automatically changed to a 'him'.

He looked down upon a boy's face. The boy was no more than fifteen, he thought. His nose was long and slender, matching equally soft and pink cheeks. Locks of dark red hair curled up from underneath of his soaked, olive-green hat. His thin lips stood open and when the man brought his unclothed wrist to the young man's face, he felt faint breaths move against his pale skin.

He dropped the boy's head and stepped back, as if a rabid dog had bit him. The boy's head rolled back to his chest, short breaths escaping from his mouth.

For a long while, the man just stared at the boy. "He will die if I shelter him or not," he muttered to himself. "I am not responsible for this boy. I should not have to save his sorry hide." He took one more glance at the boy, noticing the muck and grime covering his face and clothes. His jacket was littered with discolored patches and various stains. He sighed deeply as he stared at the boy, "But...if I do leave him..." A low growl slips from his lips.

He closed his eyes and shook his head as he stepped towards the boy. He wrapped his arms around the boy's waist and lifted him onto his broad shoulder. He looked behind his back, searching for a soul who could have seen him and then melted into the shadows.

...

Nothing was as great as the pain as when he woke up. His lungs were congested and filled with phlegm and fluid. Trying to sit up caused his chest to squeeze painfully and his head to expand unmercifully. He laid his head back upon the softer ground. 'Wait, soft?' he asked himself in mild confusion. He opened his eyes with great difficulty before staring at straw littered around a wooden floor.

'Where am I?' he thought helplessly.

He groaned. 'How could I possibly be in here? I was out in the street...looking for...what was I looking for? A job...then it started raining...I was tired...' the shuffling of straw brought his muddled mind away from his confusion. His eyes watched as a tall, strong-bodied man with a cream colored mask walked into the stall he was residing in. The man froze in sight of the awakened boy.

The masked-man's movements were stiff as he placed an armful of clothes down beside the boy, "Well, well. Look who is awake? I did not expect you to be up so soon. I was hoping you wouldn't have to see me." He knelt down to be eye-level with the kid. "It's too late for that, isn't it? I guess I have to kill you then, hmm?"

The boy shook his damp head with wide eyes. The man huffed, "I was joking child. You need some sense of humor. If I wanted you dead I would've left you on the street. No point in killing you now for all of the effort I took to bring you here and bring up these dry clothes. It was a bother to find something to fit your small frame," He looked down on his body, "But I found some of my old ware when I was younger." He held a white shirt out in front of him and held it up, "These should fit you just fine."

The boy wheezed, "You...saved me...Monsieur?" He struggled to sit up in order to analyze the man, but was pushed back down onto his bed of hay.

"Don't move, Boy." The child wheezed and coughed harshly, moaning profusely. The man placed the back of his pale hand upon the boy's damp forehead. "Dear God! You're hotter than a stove! Only a half-hour after I put you in here too." He hummed as he pushed himself up off of his knees. "I'll be back. I will find something to...rid of that you horrible cough. Don't move."

As the man retreated, the boy mumbled, "As if I could go anywhere."

He heard the faint click of a door closing. He waited a few moments before clawing at the clothes lying next to him. His fist gripped a handful of the clothes and he pulled it to his thin form. Struggling, he lifted himself onto his elbows and then proceeded to push himself to a sitting position. The pain was intense, yet his determination was stronger than his need to rest against the wall of the stall. He proceeded to strip out of his clothes, slowly shimmying out of his pants and maneuvering his legs to fit into the dry, tan burlap slacks. The shirt was less of a hassle, but the relief he felt as he laid back down with a warm wool shirt was the best feeling in that moment.

The mysterious man returned with a bowl of soup in hand and stared at him in confusion. He looked at the new clothes on the boy's body and the soaked ones next to him. He decided not to bother with questions and set the concave container in the boy's reaching hands. The boy shoved the steaming liquid to his lips and downed whatever substance was in the bowl, not bothering to taste what was in it.

"Drink too fast and you will cause yourself to bring it all up again. And I refuse to clean up your vomit."

"What is your name, Monsieur?"

The man hissed, "That is no consequence of yours!" The boy felt like objecting, but his body was growing limp. "That worked faster than I thought it was going to." With heavy eyes and a painful ache in his head, the boy went to sleep, seeing the man's mask before he drifted off.

**I have to give a shout out to my Beta Reader moonservent. Without this writer this chapter would be severely mediocre. Funny thing is that I was looking for that word a few days ago, mediocre. **

**Hoped you enjoyed it. Please review and favorite.**


	2. Chapter 2

He pressed the back of his wrist to the boy's forehead. He pulled back, the heat stinging his skin. He rested his arm on his knee and glanced up over to the masked man. The elder rose himself from his squat, wiping dust from his cotton slacks. "This is new, Erik. I thought you were above kidnapping."

Defensively, the man pressed the leather skin of his gloves to his thin, white shirt, scoffing dramatically, "You really thought a monster was above something? Really, Gerard, I thought you were smarter than this." Erik gave the Opera manager a distinctive growl.

With a roll of his eyes, he returned his eyes to the boy. "You know that I think of you no less because of…." He paused, not wanting to state the obvious.

Growling, he spat, "Go ahead, say it! Because of my face!"

"Erik! Enough!" The boy stirred and he lowered his volume, "Tell me, why do you have this young man in the stables?"

"I thought you were smart enough to figure that out." Erik breathed deeply through his nostrils and when he exhaled, all of his anger and defenses turned into smoke. His eyes softened as he looked down upon the pathetic, _ordinary_ human. "He has a fever, he is in a cold sweat, and he coughs like a beggar. I found him passed out in the rain. His breath contained no spirits and his clothes were nothing but rags held together by a string. He's a sick, homeless boy."

A small smile graced Gerard's lips, "And you saved him?"

The man's arrogant air dissipated and his arms fell to his sides. "I couldn't just leave him in the rain. I'm not heartless, Mousier."

"I know Erik, I know. What do you plan to do with him when he is well?"

The masked man rubbed the back of his neck, nervously staring at the wall to avoid looking at the kid. "Just throw him out. I have done my dues and whatever happens to him is no longer in my fault."

There was no note that the manager had to say. He knew Erik was set in his ways and one of his ways was to always be alone. Yet, wasn't it his fault for turning this lonesome creature to act like such an old crone? It saddened him but he was too spineless to say anything else on the matter.

"Well, I'll make sure to have a meal for you to bring down to him every morning and evening. I don't wish to dump his body in a canal."

"Not like anybody would notice." Gerard furrowed his brow and upturned his mustached face at Erik's calloused attitude and walked out of the stall, deciding he didn't have the patience to deal with the Phantom at the moment.

With a fervent sigh, Erik rested his head on a support column. The boy was wasting his composing time. He had a million notes rushing around his head but they would not have a chance to be written down because he was too soft to let a boy die.

People die every day on the streets of Paris. When he ventures outside, he would see many dyeing beggars and even more corpses of them. And, he thought to himself, why hadn't he dropped him off at a doctor's house? There were a number of doctors who could treat this fool better than he ever could. Of course, from the looks of it, the boy is poor and, without money, he would not be treated.

He may have been living in a hole (literally) his whole life, but he learned fast that money ran the world. If you didn't have some form of currency, then you were worthless. The dirt in the ground was worth more to people here than a francs-less person. Money made people soulless and would only help if they received something in return. It was one of the reasons why he despised the outside world so much.

The boy whimpered. Erik glanced down at the bucket of water near his feet. He kept staring at the kid, noticing how he would cramp up. Sweet ran down his scrunched up, agony-induced face. Erik's eyes followed a drop of sweat slide slowly from the tip of his chin and onto the warped, wooden floor.

With a deep and ragged sigh he bent down, lifting the bucket of water by the handle and strode over to the sick young lad. Kneeling next to the kid, Erik picked up the rag that had been soaking in the luke-warm water. He rang the cloth of excess liquid before dabbing the boy's face.

A small cry was released from the boy's pink lips. "Mama?"

Ignoring the fever-driven cry of help, Erik continued patting the sweat from the boy's neck.

"Warum Mama? Ich habe nict zu bedeuten."

"Odd," Erik noted, "He speaks German."

When the skin felt cool, Erik tossed the cloth back into the tin bucket and stood from where he was squatting.

This sickly, rail-thin human gripped the hem of Erik's pants, preventing him to move any further. Although the grip was very light, the man didn't think he had the heart to tug his pant leg away. The mere sight of the poor fellow made the Phantom groan.

The boy's eyes were open just a crack and were horribly glazed over. His hands shook and his breathing was exasperated, giving a pained sigh after each gasping breath.

But Erik refused to stay and sooth the child, or, that's what he thought.

He couldn't. He wouldn't. He couldn't comfort this poor chap because, when the kid did awake, he would be petrified to see a masked fiend looking over him. He told himself that over and over again. That it was pointless to stay with him when he wouldn't even know the Phantom was there.

But, as if on instinct, the man knelt down to the boy, softly humming one of the tunes he had heard when he was but a child.


End file.
