Phantom of the Opera 1. Chapter 1

Yes, I officially yoinked the title off of the beautiful song "Take Me Home" by Aqualung.

And no, this phic does not have a plot. Pointless? More then likely.

But you'll like it. So shut up and read.

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It was two in the morning.

Two-bloody-am.

Erik Destler groaned and checked his watch for the seemingly millionth time that night. It appeared that for not the first time, he had been stood up. It might have not been the first time, but it was most definitely the last, he thought bitterly. Disposing his coffee cup into the garbage can, he left the coffee shop quickly, nodding to the young woman standing behind the counter.

Two am.

He was supposed to meet her here at nine sharp and then they had planned to go to a late movie. He hadn't _planned_ on waiting until the early hours of the next morning for his "date" to show up. He could have left. But he had chosen not to. Erik was a gentleman. No… he had not left. He waited patiently by the door, praying that she had not gotten into a car accident or had been abducted by aliens. Or possibly something even worse.

Well, clearly his plans had fallen through.

Glaring at his battered white Cutlass, he thought of kicking the door in to vent some of his frustration but then decided against it. Kicking the car would do him no good. Instead he slid inside, locked the doors, and let his head fall against the steering wheel.

Why were women so hard? What was with them anyways?

Promising to do something one minute and then doing something of the completely opposite nature the next, leaving poor men like himself out in the cold.

Backing out of the parking lot, Erik sighed defeated and began his five minute drive home.

Did they purposely blow you off just for amusement? Did they sit there all day, creating cunning plans just to squash a man's heart in half?

No… No they were much more evil then that, he concluded. They went on group outings with their girly friends just to set sights on the weak ones. The ones who had obviously had a hard day at work and needed nothing more than a good lay. They had bets with their friends over who could crush a guy first… First they'd set bate… fluttering their cute eyelashes across the room at you. Once you showed interest, you were dead meat.

Then, before a guy knew it, he'd be reeled in- hook, line and sinker.

Yes, that had to be it.

Women surely knew how to kick a dog when he was down.

Pulling into the underground parking lot, Erik attempted to take the elevator up to the room he shared on the twenty first floor. Attempted, as in, he reached the elevator just in time to see two shapely blondes get in, smile at him, and then closed the doors.

Oh, how he hated women.

Two Hundred and Fifteen steps later, Erik reached his floor- and a conclusion.

Who needed women anyways?


	2. Chapter 2

"Have fun?"

Erik looked up in detest at the olive-skinned man lounging on the couch just inside the door. Nadir Khan. How the two men had ended up as roommates was an unlikely story, yet true none the less. They had been friends through university, both minoring in architecture. Though while Erik had chosen to major in Music, his counter part had selected Arabian Literature.

Wasted subject, really.

"I suppose," He chose to answer. The man laughed.

"Right. She stood you up, didn't she? And here I am, sitting alone, thinking that by some chance Erik Destler may _actually_ be getting laid. When was the last time you saw a breast Erik? A month? Two months? A year? Or perhaps our darling Erik is still a virgin!" Erik snarled and slammed the door shut with such force the hinges rattled.

"God-damn it Nadir! You are NOT helping the problem!" This clearly was not a good idea, as it only made the man laugh harder. Huffing slightly he exited the main room to his bedroom, locking the door firmly behind him. It took a moment before his eyes adjusted to the gloom and darkness of his lair- yes he called it a lair.

The apartment the two shared wasn't much really… two tiny bedrooms, a bathroom, and one large room that contained their small TV, two couches and a kitchenette. They paid 700 a month, which was actually considered somewhat of a bargain. Over all the place was quite small- so small in fact, that even if each were in his own room, privacy was next to none.

His room was only big enough to fit a sagging twin sized bed, a single stack of dresser drawers and an upside-down cardboard box that served as a station for his alarm clock, laptop and cell phone. An upright lamp baring a burnt out bulb sat in the corner. Upon entering the room most women would think it to be a dump. To most men, Erik included, it was enough. What else did a man need after all?

Dropping himself onto the bed he deposited his cell phone and wallet onto the box and kicked off his shoes before lying back and staring at the dark ceiling. Several glow-in-the-dark stars had been plastered to the roof by the room's previous occupant in an effort to make the room seem more like a room and less like a broom closet. Which it was really, come to think about it.

Not that it mattered of course.

Erik sighed and shifted his weight, wincing as a spring prodded him in the back painfully.

Why was he here? Sharing a dim apartment with a man he loathed on occasion but was okay with the rest of the time? He was supposed to be rich and well known, his name appearing in the tabloids every other week. What happened to the mansion and the Mercedes? The blondes and the martinis?

If he thought hard enough, he could remember. Because he had once been an artist. He had given up everything to make himself known, dedicating his every living fiber for his work.

But his plans had failed. Like always.

Music wasn't fun anymore. He had sucked everything out of it until it became dry like old toast- not that he had anything against old toast of course.

No… he had give up life as a starving artist.

Though taking away the artist part didn't do much about starving.

Erik currently worked part time at a grocery store down the street. Being a buggy boy was fun. You got to push the carts as hard as you could and watch them crash into cars. Of course, it wasn't often that you saw a 26 year old pushing buggies. But it made money, and money put food on the plate.

Actually, it didn't. Money went towards paying for the rent, which took up most of his pay check. The rest went towards gas money and caffeine.

Placing a hand on his growling stomach he sighed again.

Old toast was sounding good right about now.


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Drama, Humor