Chapter Five

When they woke up in the swan bed on Sunday morning, Erik and Raoul were in much better spirits. Spending an afternoon with the Christytron 5000, listening to her tell them what a couple of hunks they were, had cheered them up considerably.

Raoul blinked his eyes and yawned widely. "You know, Erik, I've got to admit, this bed may be bizarre, but it sure is comfortable."

"Yeah. As soon as I work up enough self-esteem to get rid of that coffin in my bedroom, I'm going to start sleeping in this thing every night." The opera ghost stretched languidly.

Raoul's eyes darkened. "I hate to think what I'll be sleeping in come Monday night. You should see the furniture Christine picked out for our bedroom. It's like a nightmare." He shuddered.

"You'll be sleeping in it with the only woman I ever loved, whom you stole out from under my nose," spat Erik. "Somehow, I can't muster up a whole lot of sympathy."

"Two words: Lavender lace."

"Oh my God! You poor boy!" Erik wrapped his free arm around the vicomte and patted him gently on the back. "You know, there's an easy solution to that little problem…"

Their eyes met, and both men simultaneously jumped out of bed, ran to the basement, and switched on the Christytron 5000. Raoul placed his face less than an inch from the robot's. "Ch-Ch-Christine, I'm n-not sleeping in this room…" he choked out hesitantly.

"Sure you're not dear," snickered the Christytron 5000.

"No, no!" Erik coached. "Say it like you mean it, Raoul!"

"Christine, I'm not sleeping in this hideous room," the vicomte ventured bravely. "It's entirely too feminine."

"Yeah, yeah." The Christytron 5000 waved a hand dismissively. "I've got problems of my own right now. My feet are riveted to the floor of a sixth-degree basement, and this stupid wedding dress my creator makes me wear has a tag in the collar that chafes my neck horribly."

"Again!" Erik prodded.

"I am not sleeping in a room full of purple lace, Christine! I don't care what you and that tyrannical decorator of yours say! And stop cutting my meat up for me at dinner! It's humiliating!" Raoul screamed.

"And my name is Erik! E-R-I-K, Erik! So quit calling me Angel all the time!" roared Erik. "People keep mixing me up with that character from RENT because of you!"

"HSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!" hissed Ayesha angrily, now sitting at her master's feet.

Erik and Raoul eyed her quizzically.

"Meow? Meow meow." Roughly translated, that means, "What? I was just trying to fit in.")

Nadir appeared in the doorway, his eyes shifting from Phantom to vicomte to kitten with a mixture of anxiety and amusement. "Er, am I interrupting something, here?"

"Oh, shut up, Nadir. And let go of that gun you're hiding in your pocket. There's no need for that sort of thing."

Nadir hesitantly released the gun. "Are you sure? Because having your rival for Christine's affections in your home must be stressful. And with that abominable temper of yours, this could easily erupt into violence…"

"No, Monsieur Persian, it's okay, really." Raoul held up their cuffed wrists for him to see. "See? His Punjabbing hand is incapacitated at the moment."

Nadir stared from Erik to Raoul, his eyes as wide as saucers.

Erik fidgeted awkwardly. "There's a very logical explanation for this, Nadir. You see, Raoul and I were reading lists of r--"

"No, no, you don't have to explain," Nadir cut him off, trying to stifle a laugh.

"Really!" Raoul insisted. "You see, I was trying to rescue--"

"No, I don't think I want to hear this."

"Nadir!" Erik shouted. "It's nothing strange! I was just kidnapping Christine again, when--"

"You kidnapped her again? After you promised me you wouldn't? How many times does that make now?"

Erik shrugged indifferently.

"I lost count at nineteen," said Raoul.

"All right, all right, continue."

"We'd better go sit down," said Erik. "It's kind of a long story."

"Let's get something to eat first. I'm hungry."

"Me too," Nadir concurred. "And after all the time I've spent hanging around with Erik, I've had enough macaroni and cheese to make me sick. Why don't I step out and grab us some pizza?"

"Yeah, with pepperoni!" Raoul agreed.

"I hate pepperoni," groaned Erik. "Get Canadian bacon instead."

"Yuck!"

"Hey, kid, I was generous enough to forgive you for taking away the love of my life, but mess with my pizza and I won't be responsible for my actions!"

Nadir whacked them each on the back of the head with one of Ayesha's cat toys. "I'll have no more bloodbaths! We're getting plain cheese!"

"Relax, Nadir, I no longer have any desire to kill the boy. Although I would like to kill the khanum for designing these handcuffs."

Nadir's eyes took on a haunted look. "You think these are bad? You ought to see the personal ads she wrote to try and win you over." He shuddered. "Some of them--"

"I don't want to know," Erik interjected.

Nadir stuck around long enough to hear the whole story about the cuffs, eat three slices of pizza, and play the winner of a game of checkers. But when he accidentally knocked the remote control to the Christytron 5000 into the lake, the phantom and the vicomte joined forces to chase him out of the lair, wielding a lasso and a slingshot full of marbles, respectively.

They were left alone for the rest of the day. It wasn't until they were about to get ready for bed that the doorbell rang again. Yes, that's right. The Phantom of the Opera had a doorbell. Just because most of his visitors were foreign cops and screaming mobs didn't excuse them from having the courtesy to ring the bell before barging in.

The door opened, and in walked Christine Daae, an old man in a toolbelt in tow. "Raoul? Erik? I'm sorry for leaving you the way I did. Are you home or--WHA?"

Imagine her surprise when she saw her abductor and her fiancé slouched on the couch, laughing, playing cards, and eating leftover macaroni. Of course, the biggest surprise was that there was now a second set of shackles chaining their ankles together. "Raoul? Erik?"

"Hey, Christine," Erik muttered, not looking up.

"Hey, Christine, just wait a second. I'm trying to cultivate a good poker face." Raoul plastered a humorless grimace to his face, then burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, let me try it again."

"You've got to completely numb your mind if you're going to be convincing. Try thinking of something really boring," Erik advised. "Like that 'Phantom of Manhattan' book."

"Raoul!" Christine cried. "What are you doing? Why did you cuff your feet together? Have you been teaching Erik that stupid 'Truth or Dare' game you were always trying to get me to play with you?"

"No, no." Raoul chuckled. "It's just that these past two days together, we've learned how to move in step with each other really well."

"After a lot of tripping and falling and screaming and hitting and…you get the picture," Erik interjected.

"So, we thought we might try entering ourselves in the regional three-legged race tomorrow," Raoul continued. "We were out spying on the competition, and if they're any example of what we're going to be up against, I think we could make it clear to the Olympics."

"Hah!" Erik mussed the vicomte's hair. "Good one, kid."

"Er…right. Well, I've been feeling guilty about abandoning the two of you the way I did, so I hunted down a twenty-four hour locksmith to get you out of those things." She ventured a small smile as the locksmith came forward and began to work the shackles on their hands and feet open. "I'm sorry for trying to force the two of you to get along with each other. Forgive me?"

"Sure, Christine," Raoul chirped cheerfully as the chains fell away from his limbs.

"Of course, dear," Erik agreed as they stood up, flexing his freed wrist.

"I'm glad to hear it." She grabbed her fiancé by the arm. "Come on, then, Raoul. You've got to get home and rest up for our wedding tomorrow. Oh, and since I probably won't see you before the wedding--I bought you a new hat to go with your tux. It's in the top of your closet. And don't make any excuses about not being able to find it. The patterns on it are very, very hard to miss, and--"

"Actually, dear, I don't think I'm going to be needing that hat," the vicomte interrupted.

"Wh-what?"

"You see," explained Erik, "you were right about this weekend. Raoul and I have become friends. He's really not so bad once you get to know him."

"Right back at ya, O.G." Raoul clapped the phantom on the back. "And being friends has changed things somewhat. You see, no decent man would marry his best friend's girl."

"So," Erik continued, "the only solution we could think of was for both of us to give you up. Now, if you'll excuse us, dear, we have a race to practice for." He bent over to pick up the ankle-chains, motioning for her to leave. "Ready, Raoul?"

Raoul secured the chains snugly around their ankles, took one last bite of macaroni, and nodded . "Come on, let's go practice on your old putting green. There's plenty of open space out there."

They began to hop out of the house, their outraged former ladylove trailing after them. "Oh no, no, no! I've spent weeks planning out my dream wedding and nobody's going to spoil it! I'm not leaving this batcave without a groom! One of you boys is marrying me, whether you like it or not! Erik! Raoul! Come back here!" She sighed disgustedly. "That's it. I've had as much of those two as I can take. Maybe it's time to re-think that proposal from Sir Percy Blakeney."

THE END