Author's Note: An attempt to reclaim my muse from the jaws of that hell called 'real life', and probably the only Kay-inspired work you will ever see from me. Enjoy.

"Sedation"

He sat on the bench, the cushion uncomfortable beneath his thin figure, the keys beneath his hands, the pedals beneath his feet unmoving. He sighed, slumped forward, restless and exhausted, complacent and frustrated all at once.

The case was calling to him.

He felt his blood race at the very thought; the case was calling to him. The worn, black leather case that sat so innocently on the mantel—this, this was calling to him.

Who was he to refuse its call?

He straightened up but as he raised his head his eyes beheld the sheet music in front of him, the notes scribbled halfway down the page in the blood-red ink he was so fond of. And at that same moment, his thoughts flew to a dressing room at the end of a long, deserted corridor, where a young girl sat, patiently waiting for her Angel to come.

The case was calling to him. But so was his Opera. So was Christine. So were a million other things he needed to attend to.

And still he remained on the organ bench, his being pulled in a veritable plethora of different directions, the thoughts within his head a swirling vortex that threatened to suck him in at any moment, the constant pain within his soul and heart that chose that moment to strike nearly bending him over with its sheer force. He balanced precariously at the edge of a sheer cliff to which there was no bottom, and, after a long while, he fell.

He fell for the case.

He stood, swiftly crossing the room, his eyes glowing intensely in the half darkness remedied only by the single burning candle that sat on the small side table close to the organ; he reached out his hands, fingertips connecting with the smooth leather, caressing it.

His long, slender, sensual hands alternated between steadiness and tremors as he took the beloved item with him, sitting in his favorite armchair, placing the thing in his lap. He opened it, loving the way the light reflected off the glass of the syringe, the glass of the small bottle half full with the clear liquid. He picked up the small felt pouch and retrieved the beautiful needle, joining it to the syringe; he picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap and let the syringe glut itself, sucking up the wonderful elixir before replacing the cap, the bottle, the pouch, closing the case and setting it aside.

He rolled up his sleeve, hands shaking violently, anticipatorily. Soon, he reflected, the pain would be gone. Soon, he would be able to think of everything and nothing; soon his mind would be clear. Soon would there be no thoughts of lust and guilt, obligation and pain; everything erased, and it would simply be he, Erik, and the drug working its magic through his body.

All he wanted was to be loved, really. And the morphine loved him. The morphine steadied him, purified him. Their bond was not based on appearance, nor deceit, no; theirs was a relationship based only upon need, constant, pressing, unconditional need. And Erik loved the morphine even more than the morphine loved him, and he smiled as he picked up the syringe, as cold and lifeless as he himself was, smiled as he located the much-abused vein and punctured the bruised skin with the needle, smiled as he emptied the drug into his system.

Gently, he removed the needle from himself, putting the syringe aside, resting on the case. He slumped back in the chair, sighed, feeling his mind clear and his eyelids droop, satisfied. And he could feel Ayesha come to him, weaving herself in and out of his legs as he sat, letting the drug love him, possess him, chasing the pain away—all was well.