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Erik House - Chapter 21 (Reupload)

So as you read, this is a reuploading of the latest EH chapter as I had a few things I needed to tweak-as if this chapter wasn’t long enough already XD). Also I must give credit where it’s due as @rubbersoles19 was a major help with editing this chapter and making it possible contributing to several ideas in this segment. Thank you so much <3

Gerik, locked away in his now empty room, was brooding. It was a bad habit he’d picked up in the last couple of weeks, while the whole house was in chaos with wedding preparations, and his own heart -

Well, it had been shattered into about as many pieces as his beloved Karimloo mannequin. And Gerik wasn’t exactly handling it well. The movie adaptation had even canceled his singing lessons with Monsieur Erik during his fit, and the more and more he dwelled on what had been done to him, his mannequin being smashed, Karimloo moving back to his own room, being repeatedly chastised and ostracized by the Meriks and other film and book adaptations alike, the more his blood boiled.

And it seemed the only one who could fix it, was the man he had lost. A man that, like any Merik, could be tricked with just a little magic, right?

Enough, Gerik finally decided, had been more than enough, and in the quiet, dark prison of his own room, a mad plan began to form.

----------------------------

The note hadn’t exactly been alarming when Karimloo had found it on his bureau, the Meriks were all known for their affinity for leaving notes, and Panaro, as dramatic and busy as he was currently, was certainly no exception to this. The contents, however, had proven a little confusing at best, concerning at worst. Sierra, since her arrival, had been the leading lady on all wedding preparations, stepping up to Panaro’s visual expectations and aesthetic standards when Karimloo couldn’t, and helping keep the younger Phantom grounded when Karimloo, once again, had failed. This had included, they all knew, organizing the rehearsal for the wedding, since it was only a few days away, which would take place that night. A rehearsal Karimloo couldn’t miss, but was desperate to anyway.

With a sigh that was more of a growl, Karimloo had double read the note, slapped it back on his bureau, and headed for the narrow stairs that lead to the roof.

No, he wasn’t sure why Panaro had asked him to meet him on the roof, especially not when they had so many other things to do, but he wouldn’t stand in the other Merik’s way. Heavens, he’d done enough to grate on Panaro’s nerves these last few days as it was. If he could please him by going to a simple meeting, then it was the very least he could do. Still, however, his stomach curled in knots, the anxiety of the meeting clenching his insides. What could Panaro want, to meet with him so privately? And on the roof of all places? Was Panaro finally going to break? Had Karimloo finally let him fall too far? This had to be about how Sierra had replaced him in the planning, right? Everyone had seen it, it was as plain on the mask on his face that Sierra was a much more deserving match for his fiance than he was, even he saw it! But - but had Panaro finally seen it as well?

The West End man shook his head of these jumbled thoughts, and forced another deep breath in and out. All week he’d been having wedding jitters, on top of the hundred of other pressures and fears he was swimming in, but he couldn’t let himself get overly paranoid now. He’d kept his oncoming breakdown to himself thus far. Just a few more days - a couple more days, and he will have survived. Besides, what harm would a simple meeting do? Aside from a few stolen moments here and there, the Meriks had had little time to privately see each other, especially with even more Phantoms and Christines running around. Perhaps that’s all it was, he figured. So, the West End man decided to think little more of this enigmatic message, letting his mind settle and felt at ease.

At least the quick ren de vous would be a necessary break from the utter chaos that was the entirety of the mansion below him. Decorations had appeared on every corner and every spare inch, almost over night, and Karimloo struggled to recognize parts of his own home. The rooms had been moved - even though they were still jumbled up due to the busted pipes - to give the Christines, by Heaven there were a lot of them - room to temporarily stay (to the delight of a few house residents). Panaro had single-handed turned every last Merik into his own groomsmen, running errands, fetching things and making last minute preparations. It was the kind of chaos Karimloo had revelled in once upon a time in his own Opera House, but now, completely out of his control, well, he wasn’t going to be complaining about the visit to the quiet, empty, unchanged roof garden.

At least Cherik had remained unaffected by the wedding, and his garden offered a solace of familiarity for the overwhelmed Merik.

What he didn’t expect, however, was just how quickly this, like everything else, would change.

The roof was largely consumed by Cherik’s dreamery, a garden that more closely resembled a well groomed forest than a grassy lawn. The rows and yards of flowers and grass had taken root into the soil Cherik had - in a week long affair that many of the occupants hated him for later - covered much of the roof with, creating an entire ecosystem on its concrete surface. Shrubs and bushes had been lovingly shaped into different creatures and cherubs, and miniature statues of the same manner were scattered around the garden, frozen in place as the flowers around them bloomed. They echoed the taller, towering stone angels that lined the edge of the roof like gargoyles, scaring away intruders and attracting all lost Phantoms to take shelter under their wings.

The night was dark and moonless, a few small lights placed around the roof for safety the only source of orientation this high up, and Karimloo rubbed his own arms down against the chilled, dead air. He probably should have worn his jacket or cloak, but since he had been in the middle of changing for the rehearsal wedding when he found the note, he had decided to trek upstairs in only his day shirt. Now, he was regretting it.

“Panaro?” the tired Merik called, shaking the exhaustion from his voice after a brief flash of panic when it slipped out. “Pan? Am I early?”

“No,” the snarling voice that crept up behind the West End sent shivers up his back, “No, you’re really rather late!”

It wasn’t Panaro that had written the note, Karimloo realized, and immediately berated himself for not noticing sooner. While each had their own unique touch, the Meriks shared similar handwriting, unlike the messy red-inked scrawl he'd read just moments ago.

Suddenly, it was much too similar to how Christine had grabbed and turned him under the opera house, something turned him by the shoulders. The Merik felt lips pressed against his own, hands - strong and large - locking him in place by the collar of his shirt. Every tired cog and worn out wheel in Karimloo’s mind was sent sputtering and spiraling out of place as shock, hot and white like flying sparks, filled his vision and flooded his senses, overwhelming and momentarily stalling them.

Just barely, thankfully he had been taking those horrendous dance lessons from Giry, he kept his feet under him as the other figure - why couldn’t he decipher their face from this explosion in his vision?! - pushed them both backwards. Karimloo was pinned against something taller than him, and stone hard, and he gasped for air when the other pulled from his lips. The hands also left his collar, only for one to hook viscously around his neck and the other to wander downwards, yanking on his belt and trying to loosen it. The twofold assault was enough to finally snap the Merik from his trance like a shockwave. His own hands, which were stronger, shoved and clawed the other body away from him, and he stumbled sideways and down onto all fours once freed.

“What - what - what are you-” gasping, he choked on the open air, hugging himself tightly as his stomach rocked inside him, swaying his vision and balance with it. Just over the pounding in his ears - what the devil had just happened to him?! - he could hear panting, deep and primal, even animalistic, as another figure circled him. “What - the devil - who - have you tried to-!?” The words, only forming in his crashing mind, were enough to sweep another wave of nausea over him. Had someone just tried to - had he just - one hand releasing his middle as the other caught himself from collapsing face-first onto the roof, he checked his belt, finding it unbuckled and tugged free.

While no longer expecting to see Panaro looming over him - he trusted his Broadway partner would never be so barbaric in his advances - Karimloo felt his mind stagger once more when the face of the film adaption, a face that had been in his dreams for entirely different reasons lately, swooped down into his vision. The strong hands returned and spun the Merik around, pinning him to the roof roughly and allowing the movie adaption to straddle him.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?!" Karimloo cried, grappling for the wandering hands that held him, locking them onto his shirt and away from the other parts of his body they’d be quite happy to further molest. “Have you gone mad?!”

"I've had it, Merik!” Gerik aimed a toothy grin down at his prey, and Karimloo felt himself shudder. “Waiting in the wings, being oh-so patient and letting your kind push me around! Watching you, and - and him! Carry on like you do! I’ve been good, I’ve been patient! Where is my reward?!”

“Reward for what?!” the Merik shouted, feeling terror begin to creep into his limbs. It was true that Gerik probably couldn’t take him on one and one, but he would be the closest of all adaptations to do so, that was for certain. While everyone in the house had their own respective tricks, Gerik had the physical strength many of them lacked. However, all faculties of logic had left the West End tenor when that smile - those gleaming fangs - flashed straight out of his nightmares, the same nightmare he had been having for the last two weeks, before he quit trying to sleep altogether, and hovered about him, dripping and drooling with desire.

This might have been the perfect time for logical thinking. But right now, Karimloo, the Phantom of the Opera, was much too busy being utterly terrified.

“Reward for waiting!” Suddenly, the movie adaption flinched, and made a grab for his throat again, but the Merik’s hands held them in place. It did nothing, however, to withhold the terror that flashed across Karmiloo’s face. “For playing nice! For keeping to myself! For letting you,” his voice dropped into a softer range, something like a sob breaking it, “choose.”

Gerik’s green eyes contorted as he scowled, the softness draining and replaced with rage when he heard Karimloo chuckle. Perhaps the Merik himself was finally losing his mind, as his chuckles turned into loud barks of hysterical laughter. Despite a twinge of fear inside, the Opera Ghost deep inside found his voice. The Phantom that lurked just beyond the mental fatigue was rejuvenated and energized anew by the attack, and found the film adaptation’s meltdown…

… amusing.

"This fixation you have is pointless,” Karimloo smiled, reveling in the confused blink Gerik gave him. “As if I, as if anyone, would choose you over Panaro! As if you even have anything worthy to... uphold. He’s a master illusionist, composer, singer, architect! You couldn't even hold your own in a swordfight against a spoiled boy!”

All too quickly, it was Gerik’s turn to smile, and Karimloo felt the Phantom waver.

“Funny you should mention that!”

Karimloo tensed, and the movie adaption stood. Drawing a sword the West End had failed to notice was strapped to the other Phantom’s hip, he slashed at Karimloo. The Merik spun underneath him to avoid the blade.

“The devil, man-!” Karimloo cried, scrambling to his feet as Gerik threw his head back and laughed. Tripping upright, the West End Phantom backed away from the movie adaption, who dropped his head and stalked after him.

“Everyone always seems to forget the sword,” Gerik sneered past a twisted grin, “even Monsieur F'antome when he was confiscating weapons, in all his great brilliance, over-looked a very important toy of mine!”

His back hit something, and Karimloo was too suddenly trapped, eyes - wide with panic - watching as Gerik, with a quick flick of his wrist, pointed the end of the blade to his throat.The bejeweled skull at the hilt of the sword seemed to grin back at Karimloo, mirroring its crazed master.

"Nothing to say now, ‘Kari’?" The film adapted tenor mocked.

Slowly, Karimloo was struggling to control his breathing as his mind continued to spiral and clatter about useless, he raised his hands to the level of his eyes. Hunger like he had never seen burned brightly in Gerik’s eyes at the supposed surrender. The sword was lowered, and he advanced quickly, much too quickly for Karimloo to react, and clawed at his face with another kiss.

“Get off-!” Karimloo cried, grabbing and shoving the other away from him. One fist to his abdomen, however, and Kari buckled, Gerik’s hand to his throat the only force keeping him upright as he smothered the gasping man with his mouth.

“Oh, Kari,” Gerik moaned in the back of his throat, and when the sputtering Phantom in his hold recovered enough to struggle again, the strong hand shifted, clamped down around his jaw, and pulled him off the stone angel only to slam Karimloo’s skull back into it. The Merik cried out as his head cracked, crumpling and groping blindly for the ground as he fell. Gerik, panting with excitement, shuffled half a step backwards as the Phantom underneath him twitched and groaned in agony, one hand digging into his wig.

After all, it was no secret that Karimloo’s particular deformity left him exceptionally acceptable to head trauma.

Giggling, the movie adaptation twisted his gloved hand around the hilt of his sword, and - switching the sword between his hands - tore the glove off, one finger at a time, with his teeth. Karimloo shuddered again, coiling more tightly on himself as the pain that radiated from the blow on his fractured skull continued to assault him in waves.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” Gerik said softly. The sword clattered as he knelt suddenly by the Merik and pulled the dizzy man against his chest. Karimloo blinked, his world spinning, before his hands tugged weakly on the man that held him, trying to push himself free. “Shhh,” the movie adaptation calmed, patting down the hairs in the dark wig that had been disheveled during the fight. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve never wanted to hurt you. I…” Gerik paused, then shifted the shaken man and cupped Karimloo’s face, pointing it towards his own. “Karimloo, I loooove you.”

Brown eyes, blurry with pain and exhaustion, scraped together a tattered glare.

“All this time...” the Merik sighed, allowing himself to slump into the hands that held him. Gerik’s face softened, and he caressed Karimloo softly, even tenderly, welcoming his embrace and shifting so Karimloo was more comfortable. Sighing into him, while Gerik was unaware of the fire in his eyes, the Merik continued. “All this time… and you still sing like a toad.”

Suddenly, Karimloo came to life, threw the hands off him, and with one solid punch, knocked Gerik’s mask off. An explosion of heat and flames erupted suddenly and consumed the movie adaptation. He shrieked again, hurtling backwards at the pain, and Karimloo scrambled to his feet and staggered further into the garden. The world tipped dangerously as he stood, the shock of the earlier blow to his head still pitching him off balance, but he managed to stay upright, watching Gerik squirm in agony on the ground through the fingers that clasped his head.

“Such spirited words, Monsieur,” the West End man mocked, pulling himself as upright as he could, and letting out another chorus of mad laughter. “To think that you are the only one with tricks that go overlooked!”

"DAMN!" the other roared, stumbling to his feet, "Damn you! How did-?"

"Everyone seems to forget, Monsieur, I don't need a staff to work my own magic!” And it was true. While the other Meriks required their staffs to hrul fireballs, Karimloo needed only a fistful of explosive powder, a trick that the movie adaptation had just been a terrible victim of.

With a snarl, still clutching his face, Gerik lunged forward, but still blinded by pain, he only ran himself into the statue Karimloo had fled from. Without his cape or even his suit jacket to protect him, the West End tenor ducked behind one of Cherik's beloved cherubs for cover. Having collapsed to his knees, he panted and gasped, searching frantically for a path back downstairs. The Dreamery, while beautiful, was a maze this deep into it. While searching, he heard Gerik roar again, and scanned the roof frantically for his path back inside.

His thoughts, jumbled as they were, drifted back to Panaro, soaked, beaten, and tied in the rain like a wild dog, forced to suffer under one of his greatest fears. Panaro, who had run himself to the bone organizing the wedding that’d been in the making for so long. The same Panaro that had, Karimloo’s breath hitched at the thought, falling back to his hands and knees, sought out Kerik - that ghastly goblin - to be touched by someone when Kari had left him, and thrown himself headfirst into an emotional breakdown that could rival even Karimloo’s own when his attempted cheating had been found out.

Panaro who had been beaten by the man he had gone to for some cheap sex, and by the man that had just tried to...to...

He may have avenged Panaro’s beating, but in the fog of panic he decided that avenger was no longer enough. He would become executioner.

Back on his feet, Karimloo thrust out his hand and another ball of fire burst out, mere inches from the movie adaption. Gerik cursed and staggered away from the explosion, grabbing a fawn-shaped bush and tossing it in the way to take most of the damage. The branches and leaves of the sculpture burned quick and hot, and after a quick popping fizzle of fire, was singed nearly completely.

“I’m here, Monsieur!” bellowed Karimloo, throwing his voice all around the garden and sending Gerik in stumbling circles. “I’m here, I’m here, the Angel of Death!”

A flash of movement caught his eye, and Gerik laughed, teeth gleaming, and threw his cape behind his shoulders, his sword swinging wildly. Now that he knew where his prey was, the hunt was on once more.

“You cannot run forever, Merik!” he cried. “One way or another, you will be mine!”

Further into the garden they ran, Karimloo the whole time trying to scrape together a plan while avoiding the business end of the movie adapted man's sword, or the curse of his own fractured mind.

---

“Come off it, Monsieur, I know it was you!” Panaro cried, waving the paper he clasped in his fist in Kerik’s face. "I, for one, know the only ones with penmanship this atrocious are Monsieur F'antome and yourself, you living gargoyle!”

Kerik, clearly unamused by the attempted insult, brushed the hand out of his face, and dropped his gold rimmed eyes back on his book. He, like the other adaptations outside of the Meriks, had been left largely, and - according to himself - thankfully, out of the wedding plans, and were allowed to live their lives in peace as they tripped over all the invading women and ducked past another canopy of flowers.

“So what if I did? It’s nothing more than a harmless distraction so I could have access to the… lucky bride’s time on the organ. It's been in use all day and I have a score to finish, you know. Not everything around here revolves around this affair of yours.”

The Broadway man scoffed. “Flatter me as you will, Monsieur, I am no fool. Your behavior has been especially charitable as of late!”

Kerik blinked, and glanced up at the Merik.

“And you take offense to that?”

“I take warning to that! You’re up to something, I know it! The glint in your eye tells all!”

"Really? You of all people are bringing looks into this? How insensitive." Kerik feigned a hurt expression, and Panaro, letting out a loud growl, threw the other away with a cut of his hand and pivoted back for the door. “You’re much too stressed, Panaro…” The Merik grimaced at the way the ghoul made his own name sound like poison. “Perhaps you should stop and smell the egregious amount of flowers you’ve damned us all to live with once in awhile. I hear Monsieur Cherik has been grooming an exceptionally lovely arrangement upstairs.”

Already staring at the novelized man, Panaro’s eyes sharpened into thin slits. He had the distinct feeling of a mouse being toyed with by a cat. A fitting feeling, he reasoned, as Ayesha entered on cue and curled herself around her master’s leg.

Behind him, however, he heard the brushing of skirts and a clip of heels he had gotten to know so well over the last few days. Sierra entered the parlor and hurried to Panaro’s side.

“Has he told you where Karimloo is?”

“No,” the Merik growled. Kerik, for his part, set his book in his lap and tossed his hands into the air.

“Even the women suspect me. All of you theatre types! So suspicious indeed,” Kerik exclaimed, mocking the two as he scooped up Ayesha, and - with book and cat safely under each arm - slinked down the hall to his chambers.

“Perhaps, Monsieur,” Sierra bit, watching him stalk away, “we are simply good at judging character!”

Kerik laughed, but continued walking. With a low growl, Sierra spun around and faced Panaro, who broke from his stance and stomped in a tight circle around her.

“We’ve looked everywhere!” he cried, clearing a nearby table of a vase and empty picture frame. Sierra gasped slightly, chasing away the memories of her once angel and friend that sprung to mind.

“Your room,” she suggested, catching Panaro’s elbow. “Perhaps he’s returned there by now?”

“Well yes, of course,” grumbled the other as he spun around and - hands folded - bowed to her. “We’ve only checked there four times already, but I’m quite positive we could have missed something!” Rolling his own eyes, Panaro motioned the woman ahead, and followed to his and his fiance’s room.

The double room was, as unfortunately expected, empty.

“Wonderful, my dear,” sang the Merik, striding into the room with outstretched arms and spinning to face her. “Just wonderful! Any other brilliant suggestions?”

“I’m as lost as you are,” she muttered, sitting on the edge of Karimloo’s rented out bed. “I don’t understand where he could be. He was meant to be here!"

"Perhaps..." Panaro scowled, considering, hardly for the first time, what Karimloo would do. His eyes screwed shut and his face turned into a sharp frown, searching, desperately for something - anything - that could give them a clue. With Karimloo missing, and even with Sierra at his side, he could only keep his own panic at bay for so long.

Where was his fiance?!

“Panaro? Oh, Madame, apologies,” a voice greeted from the door, the two spinning around to find Jones in the doorway, blushed bashfully. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

“Jones!” Panaro called, nearly sprinting for the man. He recoiled slightly, frowning at the shorter Merik. “Have you seen Kari?”

“No,” Jones shook his head, eyes darting briefly up to Sierra. “Not all morning. Is something wrong?”

“I’m afraid we’ve lost him,” responded Sierra, watching Panaro stomp back into the room. “We found a note on the organ addressed to him, telling him to vacate his portion of the organ for the afternoon, but that’s all.”

“Who left such a ghastly message?” Jones frowned.

“Who do you think?” snapped Panaro, shaking the note at him. “Kerik, that detestable ghoul! Threatening my Kari when he’s already got so much going on as it is!”

“The wedding, you mean,” the other Merik replied, and Panaro threw his head back and laughed.

“Oh yes, the wedding! Christine’s visit! All the planning, all the preparation, all the change! Damn it, he’s been living that that insufferable guttersnipe for the last … month.”

“Monsieur?” Sierra frowned, standing off the bed. Panaro, his tight frown widening into a face of terror, dug into his wig with his fingernails.

Stepping into the room, Jones muttered, “you don’t think-!”

Like most on the West End wing, Jones too had heard of the disastrous falling out the Merik and the film adaptation had had once Karimloo had discovered the photos and the mannequin.

“Where is your staff?” Panaro asked, rushing the other Phantom. “Your staff, Monsieur, where is it?!”

“I don’t have it,” Jones replied. “None of us do! We don’t have anything!”

“What do you mean, you don’t have ‘anything’?” Sierra asked, joining the two Phantoms.

“All of our weapons had been confiscated when you ladies arrived for your own safety,” Jones explained slowly. “Our lassos, staffs, blades, all manner of weapons. Monsieur Erik wished to avoid an incident with everyone so stressed over this wedding already. You understand first hand what happened the last time any of us had someone in a wedding gown.”

“Merde!” Panaro swore, bolting past Jones and for the door. Sierra and the other Phantom, confused, chased after him, Panaro sprinting down the hall.

“Where are you going now?” Sierra called, Panaro pausing long enough to half turn back to them.

“To find the blasted man that took my staff! I should need it to beat Gerik’s skull in!”

---

Gerik shrieked when Karimloo had grabbed and tossed him face-first into a towering stone angel, dislocating his shoulder and knocking the wind out of the movie man. His sword hand, however, was still functioning, and he swung blindly at Karimloo, who backpedaled and stumbled away, releasing the enraged Phantom. Karimloo ducked back behind the garden, which had suffered heavily from the ember flames and blind swings of a sword. The cherubs Cherik had so lovingly carved were either sliced haphazardly from the film adaptation’s blade or singed beyond repair. Several flower arrays were demolished and smoking, and Karimloo’s hands were cut and scuffed from the indecent number of times he had fallen or stumbled to the roof. Gerik, once he got close enough, was a brute, and fought dirty. His blows were strong and heavy, and Karimloo was getting tired, his reserves of explosive powder running low.

The two men, stunned for a moment and struggling to catch their breath, groaned. Karimloo, pushing himself to his hands and knees with a slow groan, crawled slowly and painfully towards one of the large statues, using it to drag himself to his feet. He leaned heavily against it, pain and dizziness his only orientations beneath the moonless sky.

What he wouldn’t give for a single star.

Screaming suddenly, he felt something sharp slice across the back of one leg, and collapsed to the ground, one hand catching him and the other grasping at the bleeding wound. Gerik, his blade coated with blood, stood over him.

“So,” he panted through gritted teeth, “the Angel of Death bleeds after all.”

His vision dotted with red, Karimloo wavered and fell onto his elbow, limbs beginning to tremble. Boots crunching on the concrete, Gerik paced away and towards a stone angel, slamming his shoulder repeatedly into it. Karimloo ground his eyes closed at the pained scraping he heard coming from within the movie man’s body as he tried to knock the arm back into its socket. The Merik rolled onto his back, hissing in pain as he dug into the wound on his leg to try to stop the bleeding. Finally, after a sickening crack, meaning the shoulder had returned, Gerik returned, rolling the joint with a grin that only grew wider and more wild with the pain.

Clearly, genius had turned to madness.

“What now, Merik?” he growled, Karimloo squinting up into the darkness. “Have you given in?”

“Like Hell,” hissed the fallen Phantom, eliciting a laugh from the other.

“Then I’ll gladly escort you there knowing I won one fight!” The hand returned to Karimloo’s neck, crushing it, and Gerik ripped into his lips with his teeth. Crying out, the Merik struggled back, clawed at the freshly burnt flesh in the movie tenor’s face and pushing him away. Free, he sat up against the angel with a grown. Gerik, screaming in pain, drove his shoulder into the Merik, cracking his skull once again against the stone, and lunged onto him.

Karimloo, the sword having run through his middle, choked on his own scream.

Gerik looked down at him. He saw the stab wound. He saw the terror flood Kari’s eyes as the blood left his face. He laughed. And as he stood, he pulled the sword up with him, scraping along the stone, and lifting Karimloo to his feet. Scrambling up, the Merik grasped the blade with one hand, the other on Gerik’s chest to support himself and feebly push the other away, choking and gasping for breath. Gerk’s smile swam in his blurring vision.

Even drowning in agony, the Phantom couldn’t suppress the scream as Gerik tore his mask away and pitched it over the edge of the roof. Karimloo instinctively lifted one hand to cover his face, removing his support against Gerik’s chest and dropping him back against the blade.

“D-damn you,” Karimloo hissed, gagging as blood trickled into his throat.

His hand leaving the statue, Gerik took hold of the Merik and yanked, pulling him off the stone and further across the blade until the hilt drove into his skin. Karimloo cried again and pitched forward, the movie Phantom catching him and steering them both to the ground. Doubling over as pain radiated through him, Karimloo was gathered into Gerik’s lap, Karimloo’s hand that had falayed itself open on the blade held the hilt, the other groping blindly for anything to hold on to. Gerik took the hand, pressed it to his own burnt face, and wrapped his other arm around Karimloo’s shoulders.

“At last,” he sighed with a content giggle.“One war is over. Rest now, Kari.”

“St-stop, you masochist,” he gasped, hand clawing uselessly into the already burnt flesh. “Stop it…”

A moan rumbled out of Gerik when he heard the begging, and he let his eyes slip closed, reveling in his own excitement.

“Kari,” he moaned.

“Stop!” Karimloo’s voice hitched, and his hand dropped from Gerik’s face to his shoulder, trying to push them apart, but Gerik’s other hand held him firmly in place. “E-enough! Stop!”

“Choose me, and I will! Beg me!”

Any answer the West End might have given was interrupted by his gagging, convulsing quite violently his body rebelled against the over stimulation. The choking was enough to break Gerik from the trance, and when he glanced down at Karimloo, the other was still. Gerik almost sighed as he stood quite suddenly and shoved Karimloo off him. Karimloo, with a wheeze, tumbled to the roof and curled in on himself, the sword protruding long and sharp out of his back. Glancing down at the blood that covered his hands, Gerik knelt by the fallen Phantom briefly and traced with the blood across his face.

“O...G...” Gerik signed, and kissed the stain.

“Now, I’ll be able to find you in Hell, my angel. Au revoir, Kari.”

From his pocket, Gerik pulled a strip of leather, snapped it tight, and moved for the fallen Phantom’s neck, when suddenly a blast of heat and flames nearly hit him. Gerik flinched and turned back to the roof’s entrance.

Slowly, his back straightened, and Gerik caught the mismatch-eyed glare in the open doorway that bore into him.

“That's enough, demon!” Crawford shouted, cloaked in fedora and cape, his own staff aimed at the film adapted tenor. The eye sockets of the staff glowed orange and smoked, ready to unleash another blast.

Gerik shook his head, chuckling bitterly.

“Of course Monsieur Erik would let you keep yours. Even he has favorites it seems.”

“The difference between you and I, Monsieur, is that he trusts me. And clearly, he made a wise choice,” The older Merik growled. “Now,” he shifted his staff between his hands and raised it, the eyes replacing his own and glaring at the movie man, “away from my Merik.”

From behind Crawford, Panaro, Cherik, and Sierra filled the doorway, scanning the dark roof.

“Kari!” Panaro cried when he saw his fiance’s body, shoving past Crawford and scrambling for Karimloo. Karimloo, who remained hunched over, toppled into Sierra, who knelt among them and caught the Phantom, cradling him in her lap. “Kari - Kari! Good Lord - Kari, can you hear me?!”

The other only gasped in pain and coughed up the blood that continued to trickle into his throat.

“Pan…” he wheezed, Panaro scooting closer.

“I’m here, darling, I’m here!”

“Gerik - he… he tried…”

“Shhh, my angel, easy there,” Sierra calmed, stroking Karimloo’s thin hair and pulling him close. Panaro’s eyes, blown wide with panic, skipped all over the crumpled body in the woman’s lap, reaching for the wound. Everything, however, was soaked with slick blood, and he knocked against the hilt, Karimloo screaming at the jostle.

“Merde-! I’m sorry, Kari I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!!” stammered the other Merik, withdrawing his hands.

“How is he?” Crawford asked, Sierra moving to reply when Panaro failed to register the older Phantom.

“It’s all burnt to Hell!”

Stunned, the party blinked, looking the other way to Cherik, who collapsed to his knees and surveyed his still burning garden in the darkness.

“All of it! Why - why my precious dreamery… why? It was perfect,” he sobbed, doubling over and clawing at the ashes and crisped leaves. “It was so perfect!”

Gerik, attention moving from the redhead and back to Crawford, smiled.

“How foolish,” he chuckled, wrapping the leather cord around his hands. “You think he belongs to you? I’ve marked him! Karimloo belongs to me!”

"You bastard!" Panaro roared suddenly, standing and bolting for the movie adaptation.

"Panaro no!" Crawford cried, lowering the staff and moving to stop the younger Merik, but Panaro had always been the fastest of all of them, and reached Gerik before he could move to protect himself. One solid punch sent the Phantom sprawling sideways, Panaro tearing his wig off with one hand, punching him directly in his burnt flesh with the other, and kicked him backwards. Gerik stumbled, staggered backwards, and straightened. His eyes glowed, the pain only adding to the fire.

Crawford gasped lightly at the gruesome display from one of his less hands-on Meriks, but stepped towards the fight nonetheless. He didn’t care if all that time Panaro had spent at the gym with his fiance had made him stronger and tougher, he wouldn’t allow another one of his charges to become a casualty!

“You think a silly thing like a ring means he’s yours?” Gerik sneered, throwing Panaro off him.

“Panaro, get out of the way!” Crawford demanded, striding forward, his staff once again raised and crackling. Panaro, however, was deaf to his elder and spun back around and continued to stare at Karimloo. The fallen Phantom, it seems, was avoiding him, glowing with shame.

Sierra ducked her head low to listen to whatever Karimloo was muttering, her face running white at the words he stammered out. Green eyes turning to Panaro, she shook her head.

“No,” Panaro hissed again, advancing on Gerik. The movie tenor backpedaled, but laughed loudly. His blood stained fingers he presented to the Merik, a long, twisted grin stretching across his face.

“BASTARD!!” Panaro shrieked, diving for the other and tackling him to the roof.

“Pan-” Karimloo wheezed, twisting after the two but hissing at the pain. He collapsed into Sierra, who pulled him close.

“Shhh, sit still, my angel!” she soothed, combing down his thin hair. A figure approached much too quickly, and she flinched in terror, finding a masked face staring worriedly down at her.

“It’s alright, Madame,” Carpenter calmed, hands held high. Jones knelt beside him, keeping an eye on the fight behind them. Reaching forward, Carpenter touched Karimloo’s shoulder, inching closer and reaching hesitantly underneath him and for the wound. “Karimloo? It’s Carpenter, I must try to stop the bleeding. I’m sorry, I’m very sorry.”

His eyes foggy and unfocused, Karimloo blinked but didn’t move them to look up at the other Phantoms around him, but cried out sharply when Carpenter found the wound and pressed his hand around it.

“Shhhh, shhh,” Sierra whispered in his ear, Sara appearing at her side.

“Keep him calm,” she instructed softly, shooing Jones and the others away. “Back up, and give him space! Let him breath!”

Turning his head, Carpenter nodded to the others.

“Go help Crawford split those two apart!” he barked, voice low. The others, glancing hesitantly at Karimloo again, hurried across the roof and towards the fight.

“Move!” one Merik hissed, shoving around Cherik, who struggled to fan out the flames that continued to lick up his garden with his jacket. The Meriks gathered around the brawl, astounded by the display. Gerik, who was a heavy weight, had been worn out considerably already, his heavy blows sluggish and easily deflected. Panaro, who had always been more of a sprinter than a runner, was wearing out quickly, but seemed determined not to let up until he ripped Gerik limb from limb.

Crawford, who held the mob back, searched the roof for some way to help his young Merik.

“We need to break them up!” Mauer barked, curling his hands into fists.

“No! I’ll not let any of you injure yourself!”

“We must do something!”

“With what? We have no weapons!”

“Crawford’s staff-!”

“And blast them both over the edge?! Get your whits about you, man!”

“I was just trying to help-!”

“Stop fighting! Our bickering won’t solve anything!”

“Crawford-!” Mauer called, chasing after the oldest Merik as he sprinted suddenly across the roof. “What have you found?”

“Up there,” he nodded, climbing onto the edge of the roof and taking the grid of clotheslines Cherik had built above his garden to water it more easily into his hands. He quickly handed the other Phantom his staff and shed his coat and cloak, eyes roaming over and judging the cords.

“The clotheslines?” Mauer gasped, reaching to steady the Phantom as he pulled himself onto one of the metal beams securing the wires. “Crawford - it’s been decades!”

“Someone has to protect you fools!” the older snapped, and straightening, he stepped onto the clothesline. Mauer was right; it had been decades.

Panaro grunted as Gerik landed on punch to his jaw, knocking him off his feet.

“He deserves better than a dandy like you!” Gerik cried, standing over Panaro quickly when the other Meriks flinched closer. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten the feel of your bones breaking under my fists!”

“Oh, but did you forget about this?” Panaro asked, removing a shaving razor from the breast pocket of his suit and flicking the blade open. Gerik indeed recognized the blade, from that night months ago when it was three against one. Drawing one foot back, Panaro nailed a kick to Gerik’s groin, and stood swiftly as the movie man toppled over.

“Damn you!” he snapped, and Panaro flicked the blade between his fingers.

“I’m trying!!” he cried, sidestepping the punch Gerik threw at him and slashing with the blade. Gerik snarled when the metal split his skin, past the jacket and cloak. Panaro swung again, and snipped Gerik’s unburnt face as he shuffled by. Gerik swiped at the blood that trickled from the knick and spun around to face Panaro, who had once again slipped behind him.

“At least now you’re as gruesome as the rest of us,” Panaro jabbed.

Gerik screamed in rage, grabbed a heavy pot filled with thick ivy and threw it at Panaro. It shattered across his body, knocking him clean off his feet and to the concrete among a shower of dirt, thorns, and shards of clay. Charging, Gerik kicked him away from his blade, stomped hard on the wrist that held it, and after something within the limb cracked, seized the blade for himself.

“Now,” he huffed and grinned, Panaro clutching his injured wrist to his chest and blinking the stars from his vision, “let you both be together in Hell!”

“After you!” a voice cried, and Gerik grunted, something inside him snapping as a body, heavy and large, fell onto him from above. Crawford, who had tip-toed along the tightrope thus far, had launched down onto the movie adaptation, tackling him to the ground.

Gerik, every part of him burning with pain, slashed blindly with the razor at the body on top of him, catching Crawford’s arm. The older Phantom cringed at the pain, but much more focused on detaining the squirming man underneath him, ignored it.

“Get off!” Gerik shrieked, bucking wildly and managing to knock Crawford off balance. He kicked and slashed his way free and to his feet, staggering and crawling away when a fireball, hot and bright, exploded near him. Crawford glanced to Mauer quickly, who prepared the staff for another attack.

Stumbling sideways, Gerik, flashing his cloak, vanished.

“No!” Crawford bit, turning around and scanning the garden. “Find him! Don’t let him get away!”

The Meriks scattered and began their search, the oldest one scanning the heads and counting them. He was missing two, besides from Gerik.

“Carwford-!” Mauer called, tossing the staff to the older Merik. He caught it with his good arm, swung it behind him, and bolted for the back of the garden. Hidden by tall shrubs and statues, Cherik housed his equipment and un-finished decorations in a small hide-away nook, and Crawford charged there.

---

The little nook wasn’t large, and was filled with tables and tools, but the canopy that surrounded it blocked out nearly all the light. Lowering his staff to conceal the glow, Crawford inched forward, senses on high alert as he stepped into the small space. He could hear grunts in the darkness, the scraping of boots on the concrete, and clatter of different clay pots that fell to the floor.

“Please, take your business elsewhere and leave my garden alone!” Cherik was begging, the edge of venom in his voice. “You’ve already destroyed most of it! Won’t you be satisfied with that?!”

“Shut up, Carriere!” Gerik snarled, Crawford just making out the redhead’s silhouette against the canopy.

“I won’t impose on whatever ghastly business you’re up to now, I simply ask that you resign yourself to a place of considerable less sophistication than my Dreamery!”

Cherik grunted as Gerik threw some tool at him, dodging the blow. It was obvious, even shrouded in darkness, that Gerik’s strength had almost completely failed him. Crawford tiptoed further.

“Cherik, leave,” another voice wheezed, Crawford straining to identify it from where he hid, crouched behind a large fern. “Leave now before this connard kills you too!” The French swears betrayed the third party as Panaro, though he sounded choked and still shaky from the earlier blow.

“Yes, Cherik,” Crawford spoke, finally revealing himself and stepping fully into the haven, “leave. It’s finished.”

“Not another step!” Gerik roared, Crawford hearing the man wrestle with his hostage and seeing the razor glint in what little light there was. “Not another word!”

“You’ve been hanging out with Y, too much,” Crawford scoffed. “Let Panaro go, boy.”

“Craw-!” Panaro gasped, whatever Gerik had around his throat tightening, “he’s got my blade!”

“I know, Pan, I know,” calmed Crawford, raising his hands slowly.

“And I’ll use it too!” Gerik spit. “I’ve already promised to reunite these two in Hell!”

“Let Panaro go,” the older replied slowly. “I won’t tell you again.”

“Or what?” Gerik laughed, still panting and gasping for breath. “A disaster beyond my imagination?”

“No, no, I think we’ve passed that point by now,” growled Crawford. Gerik scoffed and pulled Panaro closer.

“Your same old threats don’t scare me, Monsieur! None of you do! I’m tired of following your shadow, all of you theatre fops! Prancing around, pretending to be menacing! I deserve respect! Yet all you do - do is mock and scorn at me! I’ve had enough!!”

Crawford, his hands dropped, straightened. He could hear Panaro’s breathing slow, prepared for whatever his older had planned. The trust made the original Merik’s insides knot, but he reigned back control of his voice just long enough to speak.

“You’ve nearly killed Karimloo,” he said. “ If he were just any other man, you’d have murdered him in cold blood.”

“Hah! Such words when you and your theatre boys did the same thing!”

“At least I didn’t chase him down as though it was a thrilling hunt! Attacking Panaro, myself without just aggravation, you find this game of cat and mouse amusing! Your own Mademoiselle Emmy is but a child, but you boast about the things you have done to her that even we balk at! And even she has fled from your clutches. If there is any reason you are misliked, Monsieur, or not respected by us, I can quite assure you it is your own fault, and blooms from our own need for self-preservation!”

Silence stretched among the four, Gerik’s haggard breathing the only sound for several minutes.

“Damn,” Panaro muttered, and Gerik, jaw clenched, chuckled between his teeth. The other Meriks held their own breath, as Gerik’s laughter turned to something like a broken, defeated sob. Crawford flinched, however, and the facade shattered.

“No!” the movie adaptation shrieked, yanking Panaro closer and pressing the blade into his skin.

“Crawford-!” he gasped, the older lifting the staff once more. “Do it! Do something! Finish him!”

“End me and your take your beloved Merik to his grave!” Gerik chattered.

“You can’t kill me!”

“But I can make it hurt like Hell!”

“Cherik,” Crawford muttered calmly, the redhead behind him perking up. “I’m terribly, terribly sorry for this.”

“What are you-?”

Suddenly, a fireball let loose, consuming the towering rose bushes that lined one hallway of the small space. The roses caught fire quickly, burning with a raging heat that the others scrambled away from.

“NO!!” Cherik shrieked, shoving Gerik and Panaro out of his way and staring, terrorized, at the flames. They stretched from the bushes and vines and upwards, licking at the thin canopy that surrounded the group.

“Cherik-!” Panaro cried, continuing to struggle free from Gerik. “Get away from there-!”

Suddenly, the Phantom that held Panaro pitched forward, a sickening crack filling Panaro’s ears as he stumbled under Gerik’s weight, who clawed at him to keep himself upright.

“What the-?!” he swore, throwing the hands off him and stumbling away as Gerik collapsed to his hands and knees, grasping the bleeding wound in the back of his skull. Crawford stood behind him, staff flickering and glowing, a jagged crack glowing up the center of its face.

Panaro clutched the small knick on his neck, and blinked up at the older Phantom.

“Damn, Crawdad!” he swore again and Crawford blinked at him.

“What?”

“What?” Panaro tilted his head, his frown evident even as the fire behind him casted his face in darkness. Then, as the canopy burned, a large piece collapsed, just barely missing Panaro, who swore and flinched. He pulled Crawford out of the way just before a flaming beam collapsed where he previously had stood. Crawford hissed in pain, Panaro having pulled by his blood battered arm.

“Sorry-!” Panaro apologized.

“Nevermind it. Get Cherik out of here! He’ll kill himself before he salvages any of his garden,” Crawford demanded, grabbing Gerik and hauling the staggering man to his feet. As Panaro ran into the flames to rescue the redhead, Crawford threw his good arm under Gerik’s. Using the staff as a makeshift cane to balance them he half walked half dragged them out.

“You were right…” Gerik moaned, only half conscious. Choked sobbing filled his throat. “It’s my fault I’m this way…Just leave me here to burn.”

“Quiet,” The elder Merik coughed, “I won’t be sealing your fate tonight on this rooftop.”

The small band of Meriks were waiting in the open and scurried toward the pair once they materialized through the smoke.

Hands tried to pull Gerik away from him, but Crawford swatted at them. “Stop! Do him no more harm, merely restrain him! Now’s not the time to wallow in more blood.” He coughed, hands taking his elbow and pulling him to his feet, feeling his knees give out. “Did someone send for help?”

“They’ve been called. Madame Sierra and Sarah are with Karimloo now, and Carpenter is there helping. He’s been tended to.”

“Good, good man,” panted Crawford, leaning his hands on Mauer’s chest to steady himself. Four figures then emerged from the flames that now consumed the complete garden, Panaro’s hand still hooked around Cherik’s collar as he struggled weakly to resist them.

The two were dropped onto the roof, Panaro scrambling to his feet and staggering in the hands that held him back to Karimloo. Whoever was carrying him, steered him to the concrete, Carpenter trying but unable to leave his position with his hands gripping the wounds tightly.

“Kari?” Panaro coughed, crawling for his head and stroking it. “Are you still awake, my angel?”

“Pan,” the fallen Phantom wheezed, eyes struggling to flutter open.

“Shh, shhhh, it’s okay, my angel, it’s okay,” Panaro whispered, stroking his fiance’s head and kissing his temple gently.

Karimloo’s skin was cold, he realized, his lips a touch of blue, and his breathing, Panaro fished as gently for the pulse as he could, was almost undetectable. His head rested in Sierra’s lap, his legs curled under him, and hands, one still locked around the hilt of the blade, pawed weakly in Panaro’s direction. He cradled the hand in his own, kissed the knuckles, and pressed it along the contours of his own face and mask. Sarah knelt behind the Phantom, holding the blade steady, and Carpenter had his hands buried deep in the blood and soaked fabric, trying to hold the sword still and slow down the bleeding best he could. Despite it all, Karimloo still shuddered and trembled, his fingers as cold as his face and the cold from the night air chilling him further. Straightening, Panaro took his own cloak off and draped it - with Sarah’s help to avoid the blade - over Karimloo, returning his attention to his fading beloved.

“I’m here, Kari, I’m here. It’s alright. Help is on the way, my angel.”

“Pan…” Karimloo breathed again, Panaro bending low to hear him. “The … re- rehearsal… don’t - don’t … let me … let me be late…”

A giggle that turned into a sob ripped through Panaro’s chest, and he cupped his mouth quickly to contain it.

“Of-of course not, my darling,” he promised, continuing to stroke Karimloo’s thin hair. “I would never let you be late. I’ll be right there with you, the whole time. I swear it. They will never separate us again. I sweat it, my angel. I swear it.”

“...‘Till death…”

“And beyond that

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