Chapter Text
He flinches, and it is all he can do not to fall to his knees, aching chest a mess of holes and strings.
his cheek burns where christine's hand cradled him, the tenderness of it still fresh in his memory. he doesn't think he could bear remembering the way she had looked at him before she left, eyes so full of pity and regret.
a part of him cheers, twisted and bitter, relishing the feeling of victory, but the rest wishes she had not looked back at all. it would be easier, he ponders, to believe that she had only ever hated him. it would make the loss so much neater, the cut cleaner and more defined.
a strangled sob shakes his frame, choked back in an effort to maintain his composure.
A futile attempt, really. there is no dignified end to the situation he has put himself in, no neat bow to tie onto the tragedy of his existence.
The Phantom breathes in and lets out a whine, a pathetic sound that is barely muffled by the hands clamped on his mouth. his fingers shake, the slightest quiver keeping them from resting, a fracture in the man's carefully crafted mask.
It is his undoing, as it was always going to be. as it always was.
all it takes is a hair-thin fracture and the perfect picture of a man crumbles into smoke and mirrors and twisted flesh. He is on his knees now, eyes scrunched shut. He cant possibly get back up, yet he cannot bring himself to fall to the ground. if he comes undone now he fears he may never put himself back together, and the thought of spending the rest of his existence curled into himself feels dangerously alluring.
a tear finds his way through his shut eyes, warming his face and pooling in the creases of his scars. another sob, stronger now, racks his body like an electric shock. He cant possibly keep doing this. so many times has be gotten back up, carefully replacing his grief with sharpened anger, meticulously constructing the façade that earned him the fear of the theatre. but he has lost now, and he cant brush it off like a child that's tripped and scraped its knee. he lost.
his jaw aches, sore from gritting his teeth, but he does nothing to soothe the pain. he revels in the sharp twinge of it, praying that it will diminish the one growing in his chest and twisting around his lungs. like a snake it coils in the empty hollow of his chest, uncaring and lazy, and it squeezes. it sharpens itself and rolls around his frame, so harshly that for a moment erik muses that he may be dying.
it is a bitter thought, petty, and it almost brings a smile to his face. almost.