Eternal Haunting

A/N: This story contains tense racial subjects relative to the time.

Months without Cathy beside him had proved most painstakingly torturous to Heathcliff but yet the further away from England he went the easier it became to breathe without her presence. He praised the change of the land and the scenery's ability to distract. Sometimes still, however, he would wish that the Moors would swallow her up and she would be left gasping and on her deathbed wishing for him to return. He imagined that she would pray for forgiveness for abandoning her former playmate and swear that she loved only him. On those nights he tried to find something to occupy him and that was quite simply the only reason he had come to the Opera House in Paris.

He was unused to situations such as these when he found himself wearing his best clothing and making small-talk he didn’t feel like making with rich painted women wearing hot furs and too much perfume. The hot summer night made their rotten sweet scent stifling and their fawning over his accent and dark skin was nearly as bad as the mocking of it. He wondered only briefly if he was under-dressed as it appeared impossible to be over-dressed and found that if he was, he couldn’t seem to care. The heavy heat of the velvet he was so unused to was making him uncomfortably tired and he was pleased when they finally found themselves seated.

The opera itself was awful and the obnoxious scents of the perfumes were wafting closer and closer to giving Heathcliff an ache in his head alongside the one that the high pitches of voice were giving him. Uncomfortably he reached for the program, frustrated when the pages of it seemed to have come loose and spilled across the floor in front of his seat. He slowly, trying not to draw any further attention to himself, began to pick up the papers that had blown across the otherwise empty box. Upon finally gathering the explanation of the opera into his hand, took his seat once more. However, beside him there was another paper.

He cracked the blood red wax that sealed the envelope, still soft and pliable from heat. Though it was difficult by the flickering candlelight, Heathcliff managed to piece together the note. ‘My dear Gypsy Prince, I can see the manner in which you avoid the play and teasing of the coquettes who lust for you; how it repulses you. Do you have a familiar ghost in your past that forbids you to take delight? Perhaps you might long for one night with a ghost you do not know. If so, wait. Most sincerely yours, The Phantom Opera Ghost.’

The familiarity of the note –kindly left in English – would normally have infuriated Heathcliff to fits but for now he would accept the mockery of this Phantom if it was the only way he could forget the teasing tone of that little girl back in England. So he waited through one and another song; ignoring the burning urge to leave as the lights flickered and went black. He could hear the worried and angered patrons cursing in French and the little lap dogs yapping at the change of the scenery. Amidst the panic and hurried tone of the performers making their excuses, a warm gloved hand took the Englishman’s wrist.

He allowed himself to be guided through the darkness without question; listening intently to the even, calm breath of this immoral specter. They seemed to travel down stone stairs forever and the muggy heat of the season began to fade as they neared the sound of a stream. When light again appeared there was a tall elegant man before him, dressed in fine expensive mourning garments and an unmarked white porcelain mask. Heathcliff wondered if it was shame for his own behavior that made the man cover his identity so, but then, he would have liked to have covered his own at times.

“What ought I to call you? Surely, you won't expect that I will stumble with your title all of the night.” He demanded with his usual surliness, hoping that the response would not be simply a variant of what the letter had been so dramatically signed. The voice that replied was deep and angelic and tugged sharply at the gypsy’s heart most painfully yet the words tugged in an opposite manner of agony as he understood their meaning. “Perhaps, you ought to tell me, dear sir. What will you call me tonight? What is the name of your ghost?” The Phantom offered him, not intending open mockery though it felt as if he were. Full lips briefly allowed their sneer to tremble, leaving long enough to whisper a word that felt so sublime in the silence of the stone chamber.

“Cathy?” The Phantom repeated, a tender undertone appearing to caress his words as they came from under the fragile mask. “Tonight you will call me by that name. But what, my Gypsy Prince, what am I to call you?” Briefly Heathcliff considered his options and briefly he considered the names and titles he might have taken had he not wanted so badly for true intimate contact that night. He might have told the man that he was Lord Earnshaw and it would have felt sincere had not the current lord wanted him to take his leave of the name. He felt that he was not the type to pay for a night of lies with another lie so he offered his only name quietly, bitter at the Phantom’s intrigue. “Heathcliff.”

A hand, still covered in leather, slid across his face apologetically and the other gestured around the room. It was impressive and close to frightening that under the opera house there was such a grandiose chamber. However it was not the luxurious bed covered with far eastern silk that caught the young man’s eye but the desk overflowing with half written music sheets. A mannequin modeling a more bold cape with a higher collar and less bold much slighter mask stood beside the organ. Heathcliff moved to the desk and plucked a sheet of paper from the desk, letting his eyes wander over it.

He recognized only C on the scale and offered a question in response. "Do you compose?" The Phantom's twitchs, Cathy's for tonight, seemed to imply displeasure with having his notes moved and he slid the paper from out of his companion's hand with a swift nod. "I am a musician." He responded almost angrily, placing the sheet back in the right order. Heathcliff was honestly unimpressed; music was a waste of time that could be spent working and not much else. The Ghost had to rummage through the sheets now to find the location, before turning his attentions back to the younger man.

“So you’re nothing but a dawdler and a procrastinator.” Heathcliff mused, a finger tapping idly at a bone white key on the organ. The Phantom, Erik, was finding himself less and less impressed with the handsome foreigner that stood so close to him. It seemed there was likelihood that instead of a well placed critic of the poorly chosen musicians…he was simply a savage. His dark inky eyes flew over the room as he continued to tap at the organ, sparkling in some sort of tenderness as he noted the vase filled with an armful of blood red roses.

Erik plucked one out of the vase and offered it to the other man, biting down on his lips under his mask when the warm tan skin was punctured and hot red blood pumped forth out of his wound. It was as if he could hear the beat of the man’s heart in the drip of his blood. Heathcliff ignored the wound as he moved the flower up to breathe in. The scent itself offered feelings of passion and he was reminded by his small wound of wild roses and youthful tears at torn bodices and cut hands; his wicked slattern, Catherine…

His expression was a mixture of woe and lustful hate unlike anything that Erik had seen. It was so emotional a look that the Phantom found he was willing to forgive him for his untamed manners towards the fine arts. Perhaps another brief affair with a flighty gentleman was not what was meant to move him to any feelings of inspiration. This beautiful creature was of true emotions, no matter how vile they may have been. He moved closer and pressed his cool masked lips to the face of the young man, inhaling the dusty scent of his hair. He found that it was skin touching skin he longed for in a way he rarely did with men.

Heathcliff huffed, panted perhaps was more accurate, and dropped the flower on top of the keys. The Phantom tugged off his calfskin gloves and dropped them on the desk, letting his now bared hands run up and down the flushed skin of the other man’s face. His skin felt hot and soft under Erik’s rough fingers and though he did not complain about the stroking he turned away in frustration. It appeared he could not control his hands and once again they found themselves going through the papers on the desk, a drawing of a young lady dressed in a pale under dress having caught his eye.

Quickly the item was plucked from his fingers and replaced back in its location on the desk. “Heathcliff,” The Frenchman explained with a good deal of patience wrapped around the firmness in his voice. “Let us say that the papers on the desk are strictly off limits.” The word ‘strictly’ was punctuated with a firm pat to the curve of the gypsy’s thigh, which brought a frustrated and humiliated flush to his face. The hand rubbed at the area that had been felt through the dark trousers; his fingers gently moving away to stroke muscular thighs.

The only sound in the room was their breathing and the rumpling of clothing but Erik would have sworn he could hear Heathcliff’s heart racing along with the quickening of his breath. He had grown unused to the touches he was receiving and his shoulders felt tense under the Phantom’s hands. He was a tall man, certainly, but the Phantom’s height gave him a precious few inches which allowed him to turn Heathcliff into a full embrace when he felt the tension. A handsome cheek resting against his own heart felt divine and he adoringly stroked long black locks, allowing his fingers to tangle through smooth silken strands.

“Lay down.” He requested of the Gypsy and he was surprised to find even vague obedience in Heathcliff’s movements. The young man sauntered with a notably cocky walk to the bed and slid down onto the silks and satins of the bedding, one dark hand casually tossing a blood red pillow to the side. From his expression it was obvious that the walk had been put on; he lay against the blankets with the look of child wanting for its mother. He couldn’t have been much older than one, Erik mused; his smooth unlined face and full pouting lips were enough to spark envy along with desire.

He moved closer and Heathcliff backed up towards the top of the bed, startled when ‘Cathy’ placed his hand on his shoulder to pause him. A gentle hand moved down and slowly began to unbutton his jacket, taking not too much time as his unadorned buttons were not able to contend with the Phantom’s own skull shaped silver pieces. He preferred not to draw his new playmate’s attention to the difference in their class and even felt a smile tug at his lips when the youth slid his jacket off. It was not surprising as from a downwards glance it appeared that he was not…uneager.

Heathcliff’s hands moved up brocade encased arms then and found Erik’s shoulders, laying them gently against the firm muscle covered by his coat. “Take off your clothing.” He requested shortly, more or less ready for them to unite for their share of the evening’s entertainment. He was not romantic nor cultured in the art of intimacy but feral and wild in a way that moved the Phantom just the same. His sort could be denied, however, and Erik shook his head silently, hushing any protest with his fingertips to full lips.

‘Cathy’s’ hands were soon undoing the silk of his cravat and when finished quick work was made of the pearl buttons of his partner’s shirt. He parted the shirt and the gypsy slid it off, offering a fleeting glance of long winding scars across smooth skin to the Parisian when he slipped the cuffs over his hands. “Turn over.” The Phantom demanded then, the spell of perfection Heathcliff had so briefly held now entirely broken by his fatal humanity. The younger man obeyed this demand after pause and he turned to lay with his head on his folded arms, offering his back to full scrutiny.

Erik’s fingers slid down across the warm skin of his back, fingers tracing over the smooth near white scars that crossed the beige skin with deeply felt intrigue. The lines criss-crossed in places and the width of the strikes left the Phantom to guess the object used to have been a belt or strap of some sort. The Roma bore this inspection without complaint; lips turning into a smile when he heard the older man’s breath speed. There was yet more mystery to his partner now, a titillating prospect. Gentle fingers followed the scars down to the waist of Heathcliff’s pants, hooking into the top of them and then pausing.

He let his hands fall away long enough to toss terribly fashionable black heels to the floor, soft white stocking following in their wake. Then his hands returned to the top of the pants and he slid down the fabric with anticipation, enjoying the uncovering of the scars far more than he ought to have. They crossed furthermore deeply at his buttocks and then the pattern changed down his calves to something else entirely. Some of the scars had faded past others while others still seemed to be only poorly healed deep gashes with the metal tips of belts.

The Phantom’s arousal had grown with this discovery and now he stroked muscular legs and thighs up and down with wanton lust. The dips and gashes exposed to him heightened his enjoyment and he whispered to Heathcliff to detail the events that were prelude to their gain. “Christmas Eve in years past did not greet me with such gaiety as most…Cathy…the baneful vixen…Cathy, the luxurious lamb was the event.” He admitted as if the first time to even himself; his tone was low and mixed with his enjoyment of the well placed petting and dull anger at the memory of his shame and humiliation.

A hand now at Heathcliff’s waist guided him to turn once more, while the other gently stroked his face with unveiled sympathy that the boy would have been so loved. He offered no verbal regards however and his left hand descended to fondle the other’s manhood while still tenderly petting his visage. The whimpering gasp he gained from the touches caused him to smirk wickedly behind his mask, his ego sufficiently sated. The gypsy, he found, was uncircumcised which, like his other wild traits, now brought the Frenchman no small level of delight. “Do you masturbate, Heathcliff?” He inquired.

“I do as I will.” Came the obstinate reply yet the while a tan hand guided Erik to continue, wrapping around his own and demonstrating a preferred technique. The movement was rough and quick but Heathcliff must have found pleasure as his dark eyes closed at the feeling. His mate let a skilled hand rise and then fall sharply against his inner thigh, causing a jerk of surprise from the youth sprawled across the bed. “What the bloody hell was that for?” He inquired, the lilt of the Moors returning to his lips in his surprise.

A deep laughter slipped from ‘Cathy’s’ lips at the sound and he replied with a similar slap to the other dark thigh. “I’d previous done so for want to see your bright eyes, my friend, but perhaps now I ought to continue for simply enjoyment of your tone.” He mocked, rubbing out the sting of the physical slap and continuing then with his pleasuring of the man. Heathcliff offered his lips up to the porcelain of the mask aggressively, his fingers tugging against slick dark locks of hair as he kissed the emotionless china face.

Erik’s hands began to rub Heathcliff’s thighs tenderly at the show of passion, pushing them together and then slapping his firm legs several times between loving pets. The gypsy moaned softly against the china visage, dragging his teeth against the cold surface and letting his own hand find his partner’s arousal. “Don’t say another word.” He demanded as he unfastened the tops of the pants, wanting no more alludes to his past misfortunes or uneducated manners during their current intercourse.

Having freed the other man’s erection from the confines of his trousers, Heathcliff moved him to rest between his thighs. He knew that from what he and Cathy had done so often behind the curtains of her bed, that the same would be possible for two men to enjoy each other likewise. The Phantom seemed startled by the move and perceiving it as rather bold from the boy, moved his hand upwards to cup a dark cheek. “But I will, my dear. For you are a precious devil and as beautiful as the Morningstar himself and for that I would speak your praise.”

Heathcliff pulled Erik’s shoulders forward, moving upwards to hurry him to thrust. He had always been impatient and now was no different than any other time; pleasantries were just that and he was not to be wooed by any poet no matter how seductive their voice. The Parisian would not hear of this, though he knew the motions and so while he thrust forward as desired he caressed warm dark skin and traced fingertips over full pouting lips. He may not have been allowed his words but his actions spoke with as much romance as his lips were denied.

The friction of their movements was exquisite and Erik watched the younger man’s eyes fill with an emotion entirely indescribable. It was as if his realization of their actions had finally fully come to him and just as it did, he thrust upwards to speed their love-making. This was no young Christian trying his best to please both himself and a Heavenly Father; this was the look of an errant lamb who sought to be damned. His fingers ran against the back of the other man’s neck, his nails digging into the unmarred skin so deeply that blood caught on his fingertips.

Erik buried his face against Heathcliff’s pulse as he thrust, inhaling the wild grassy scent of the other as best as he could past the mask and past the rubbing of jasmine scented wax. The scent under his perfume was vague, dusty and free like the first cuttings of summer grass had lingered in his ebony locks one evening and bled through his skin now with his excitement. He twisted up and down with the violent enthusiasm of his youth, laughing lowly when he heard the dying gasps that whispered of the Frenchman’s growing peak.

They continued in that manner for some time, Heathcliff thrusting upwards to meet the rhythm despite his mocking amusement, with the phantom’s hand trying to muffle the sounds. When he finally released his seed between his thighs, Heathcliff reveled in the warmth flowing across his skin, his eyes sparkling with a sort of hidden pride. His paramour moved back when he saw the look, turning them so that he had them pressed together front to back. He reached in front of the man, running his false-face against a shoulder as he resumed stroking his arousal, using his semen as a lubricant to speed his strokes.

The Houseless Lord grabbed the hand, guiding it by the pale wrist to pace the motions as he wished. It would have been Erik’s turn to laugh but he found the silent trembling of the man’s lips as he gasped to be delicate in a way that seemed foreign of his casual gestures. If he was aware of this knowledge he didn’t show it; his groans turning to faint whispers. He bit his own wrist savagely when he came; muffling the cry that the musician had wished to hear. No matter the attempt made to hide the call, it was without a doubt the name of his ghost that escaped.

He lay panting for only a moment before he sat up, grabbing a kerchief from his pile of clothing and cleaning himself in silence. As he redressed, his ghostly companion’s lips spoke wordlessly behind his mask. ‘If you stay, I will wrap you in silk and drape you in gold.’ He promised the gypsy prince. ‘I will feed you on a diet of chocolate and champagne. There will not be a want in your life that goes unfulfilled.’ But those vows never left his mouth because looking at the boy he knew that he would never work another day in the field but still the wounds he bore were too deep to mend.

Heathcliff only words reflected the sentiment; he said “I will find my own way out.” just as it had always been.