Erik recovered okay. It was all fine and inconsequential, despite Marie-Suzette's lack of medical knowledge. But I, your beloved author, am too lazy to finish up that particular subplot. Now, the final night of the opera was over, and Marie-Suzette descended into Erik's lair. Erik was surreptitiously touching his organ, and he jumped in surprise when she entered. She was still in her costume from the opera. He took her in his arms, and she was very surprised, considering he was by his organ just a second ago. He sniffed her neck, in a completely non-creepy way of course. She smelled of honey and candles and trees and ice cream and dust and Ethiopia and new cars and lace and solar eclipses and grass and mailboxes and tap shoes and math homework and gauze and road signs and telephones and breadboxes and rocks and innocence lost and hair and maps and cows and science teachers and sand and kites and clocks and picket fences and raptors and Home Depot and dirt and jewelry and rubbing alcohol and kittens and planetariums and golf balls and eyebrows.
"Oh Erik," she moaned, "You are my angel of music! And also possibly my dad! Have sex with me!"
Erik shrugged. "Okay."
And so they did.
"Oh, Marie-Suzette," panted Erik, two hours later. It had taken an hour and fifty-six minutes to take off her elaborate costume. "I luff you. Marry me and have my deformed babies, and together we shall be a walking advertisement for therapy."
"Oh, Erik," she gasped, "Those are the words I've been waiting to hear my whole life. Actually, for the past three—or is it four? —days. Let us run away together! Screw this stupid opera house."
"You must go and pack your things. I shall wait here. Here's a rose, in case something awful should happen to me. Which of course it won't, because that would be a terrible plot device. But hey, better safe than sorry, no?"
Marie-Suzette nodded and tucked the rose behind her ear so it highlighted her gorgeous curly locks and her stunning green orbs. She gave Erik a quick kiss on the cheek and rushed out.
When Marie-Suzette returned to her quarters, she was greeted by Meg.
"Oh, Meg, I have the most wonderful news!" she gasped. "Erik and I are running away together!"
Meg looked puzzled. "Why would you think that I would think that's good news? Are you wrong in the head?"
Marie-Suzette nodded. "Well, a little."
Meg sighed. "I hate to break it to you, sister, but there's an angry mob on their way down to his lair right now. And it's led by your viscount paramour. Rob? Ralph?"
"Raoul," Marie-Suzette corrected. "Wait… what's that about an angry mob?"
Meg repeated what she had just said. Marie-Suzette fell to her knees in anguish.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" she sobbed, reaching for the rose behind her ear and cradling it like a child.
"Oh, dramatize," Meg muttered. "You know, I'm sure you could get down there in time to save him. They're not really that organized. If you leave now—"
"NO!" sobbed Marie-Suzette. "It's too late!"
"But they haven't even left yet. You have plenty of time…"
"IT'S TOO LATE!"
"They don't even have torches. All they have are lit matches. And they have salad forks instead of pitchforks."
Marie-Suzette stopped her wailing to glower at Meg.
"What part of 'too late' don't you understand?"
Eventually, the angry mob made it down to Erik's lair. Raoul stepped out of the boat.
"PHANTOM!" he shouted in a manly voice. "Show yourself! It is I, Raoul!" He struck a heroic pose. Erik looked up in befuddlement. Here he was, naked in his lair, minding his own business, and here comes an angry mob bursting in without even knocking. The rudeness of some people.
"What do you want, Raoul?" he sighed, pulling on Marie-Suzette's costume.
"I have come—" here he paused dramatically. "To kill you!"
"First can you help me with this?" asked Erik, gesturing to the costume. "These corset lacings are a bitch and a half."
"Oh, of course," said Raoul, sheathing his sword and going over to help him. He pulled on the laces, and saw Erik's smooth, supple skin pucker with the movement.
"Oh, Erik…" Raoul's voice came out in a breathy murmur. Erik turned his big, limpid, golden eyes towards Raoul.
"Raoul, I… I never realized how handsome you are."
"Yes, I am," murmured Raoul, turning Erik around to face him. He drew him close. "Be mine forever,"
"But darling," Erik murmured, his lips inches from Raoul's, "you know this can never be."
"Why not?" asked Raoul, burning to close the gap between their faces.
"Because this isn't slashfic. We both want what's-her-face, remember?"
Raoul pulled back.
"Oh. Yes. I suppose you're right. Well." He turned back to the angry mob, who was watching this exchange with interest. "Shall we get on with it then?"
Marie Suzette entered Erik's lair as soon as she saw the angry mob leave. Erik was lying dead on the floor. She rushed over to him with a sob.
"Oh, Erik," she moaned passionately, "You were the only man I ever loved. I'll never love again, ever, ever, ever!" She looked up. "Now where did Raoul go?"
THE END!
I would like to thank ALL my reviewers, every last one of you, for reviewing it; Gaston Leroux for writing the story; Andrew Lloyd Webber for fucking it up; and… the goldfish I had when I was three.