Of Human Affairs and Spectral Happenings

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/41971044.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: The Phantom of the Opera (TV 1990), Le Fantôme de l'Opéra |
Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera -
Lloyd Webber
Relationship: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Character: Christine Daaé, Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny, Gerard
Carriere, Comte Philippe de Chagny, Meg Giry, Carlotta Giudicelli,
Madame Giry, La Sorelli (Phantom of the Opera), Nadir Khan
Additional Tags: Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, crossover but not really, Think musical
Christine and Cherik, Sheerly because I love Cherik and he deserves
better than the Christine in the show, ALW elements, Eventual
relationship, Canon Era, Erik is a Sweetheart, Erik is a gentleman,
PLATONIC RAOUL AND CHRISTINE, Christine can't get a good
night's sleep to save her life, Hurt/Comfort, Meg is nosy - Freeform,
Eventual Smut, The most tender smut this side of the Mississippi,
They're so in love it's disgusting, Healthy Communication
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2022-09-27 Updated: 2022-11-14 Words: 57,292 Chapters:
15/?

Of Human Affairs and Spectral Happenings

by lavenderandeucalyptus

Summary

“You’ve no idea how you bewitch me, do you?” neither of them processed the staggering
honesty of what he’d just said, the implications of it. They were one being, blurred at the
edges and blissfully numb to the world. Christine turned to her left, reaching a hand over
the side of the boat and through the mist, dipping the tips of her slender fingers into the
frigid waters below.

“I don’t,” she said simply, slowly retreating from the water and looking back up to Erik,
who seemed impossibly tall at the angle from which she sat. “In fairness, I hardly think you
realize how spellbound I am by you.” He offered her the ghost of a smile at that, turning
from her to gauge where on the lake they were in relation to his home.

“I don’t,” his eyes were on her again and she gladly sank into them, held whole by their all-
encompassing warmth and depth. She pulled his tailcoat tighter around herself, as though it
would further envelope her in that heady sense of him.

(First few chapters are under some relatively heavy re-writing as of now)
Notes

See the end of the work for notes

 Chapter 1

“Straighten your back- forgive me,” Erik paused only briefly, silently determining how to tell
Christine what she needed to hear without coming across as curt. He was many things, but tactless
was not one. “But I believe your posture could very well be a hindrance in reaching that note we’ve
been attempting to pull from you.” Christine nodded, pushing her shoulders back and chest forward
as she attempted her high note again. A dark blush crawled up her neck when it once again came
out as little more than a squeak. If God were merciful, he’d have struck her down right then and
there to spare her the humiliation of disappointing her teacher of whom had such high hopes for
her. She dropped her shoulders in tandem with her chin, letting loose a dejected sigh from the
bottoms of her lungs as she wrung her hands on her skirts.

“I apologize, I uhm…” Christine found her voice, though she trailed off only a moment after she
began. “I’m afraid that it may be out of my range,” she finished, swallowing thickly. Her eyes
never left the floor. Erik studied her for a moment, opening his mouth once to speak, only to find
that the words were lodged firmly in his throat. He knew very well that she could reach a high E,
he’d heard her do it on those rare nights that she’d sneak onto the stage and sing after she’d been
certain that the few other inhabitants of the opera house had long drifted to sleep. Granted, it
required a little fine-tuning, but such is the nature of God-given talent. When she had arrived for
their lesson, however, she had appeared anxious, jittery and less than well-rested.

Having taken a moment of silent deliberation, Erik had decided how to help her (that was, if she
would permit him). “Christine,” he tried to grab her attention gently the first time, voice low and
soft. Hesitantly, she turned her head in his direction but did not meet his eyes. “Christine,” he said
again, this time with a conviction that had her looking up to him without a moment’s indecision.
“May I touch you?” he asked, puzzled for a moment by the shock that flashed in her eyes. In the
second he realized where he’d misstepped, the words came tumbling out of his mouth without so
much as a second thought. “Merely to correct your posture and ease the evident tension in your
shoulders,” he clarified, feeling mortified at his own poor choice of words. His ears felt hot. It took
every ounce of restraint he had to force himself from shrinking back into his seat at the piano
bench.

Amused with her misinterpretation and his poorly crafted question, Christine couldn’t help but
breathe out a laugh, feeling a fire ignite itself beneath the skin of her cheeks, leaving her with a
rosy flush to her face. “Yes,” she began, eyes shifting nervously to her dainty hands. “Yes, I think
that would be quite alright,” she decided, casting a quick glance his way. Erik let her reply hang
stagnantly in the air before bracing his hands on the edge of his piano and standing to come to her
aid, wanting to give her the opportunity to refuse his offer, should she feel so inclined. He thought
for a moment that he might take off his gloves to properly feel her slim form against his hands, but
thought better of it. The small intimacies that he craved from her were fanciful, and he needn’t fan
that flame within himself only to be crushed when his affections were inevitably unappreciated and
unrequited. It was heaven enough to be in this angel’s presence, he wouldn’t dare ask or assume
more of her.

“Would you like me to walk you through exactly what I’m doing and why?” his voice was hardly
above a whisper as he came up behind her. He noticed for the first time- with her so close to his
chest -just how much shorter she was than him. It was not lost on him that he was a rather tall man
and she a smaller woman, however, he hadn’t really given it much thought until now, either.
Funny, how he drank everything about her in as though he were a man dying of thirst, but had
largely ignored her stature until she was so close to him that he was certain that she could feel each
steady breath he took against her neck. He allowed himself a small smile when she nodded in
return, aiming to make this small broach of their usual routine as comfortable for her as possible.
Without thinking, he gently took hold of her elbow, ghosting a hand over her waist. “Now,” he
began, clearing his throat, “if you’ll allow me, I’m going to massage the knots from your shoulders.
I can tell by the way you’ve carried yourself today that you’re rather tense up there, am I correct?”
Christine nodded in response, breath hitching at the back of her throat when his hand lifted from
her arm and brushed her unruly curls from her back and over her shoulder. He didn’t miss the way
the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end at the brush of his fingertips over her shoulder
blades. Nor did he miss the way that she leaned into his touch.

For a moment they stood there, deathly still and a tad too engrossed in the simple closeness of one
another to break the comfortable silence that had fallen over them or to continue the gentle touches,
the feather-light brushes of Erik’s silk-clad hands against her bare skin. The way he looked at her
during their lessons was with unmistakable adoration and something akin to worship (granted, she
never considered the depth of those looks that were cast her way, nor their implications), and she
wasn’t surprised in the least that his touch reflected that warmth in his eyes– an extension of the
tenderness with which he spoke to her. In this moment they shared, there were only her shallow
breaths, the revenant look in his eyes, and the dim glow of the candelabra that lay on the piano,
casting soft, flickering shadows of them onto the wall, silhouettes stretched impossibly tall. Any
other worldly matters were wholly inconsequential.

Erik tensed for a moment, watching as Christine glanced over her pale shoulder to meet his eyes.
He softened when her doe-eyes fell on him, holding him whole in her curious, expectant gaze.
“May I?” he asked quietly, searching those eyes for any semblance of reluctance. He had not any
reason to fret, nor to disengage from this particular moment between them when he found her eyes
to be sincere and gentle.

“Yes, I’d like for you to,” her voice was soft, and when she offered him the ghost of a smile before
timidly dropping her gaze and turning her head again, Erik could have sworn that the world
stopped spinning. For his Christine, angels would fall to their knees. Tentatively, his hands found
her back, nimble fingers first working out the knots closest to her neck. With her off-the-shoulder
satin bodice, her upper-back and the tops of her arms lay bare before him. Without meaning to, he
let slip an appreciative hum at the feeling of her beneath his hands. Regrettably, he reminded
himself of his resolve to remain gloved.

“Did you sleep alright last night, mon ange?” he asked, catching the way she relaxed into his touch
at the sound of the endearment rolling off his tongue. Christine felt her face flush, knowing it had
to be red again in spite of her obvious inability to see herself, least of all in this mirrorless, dimly-lit
room.

“Would you like me to tell you a pretty lie or a truth that may displease you?” she whispered. Her
tone was teasing, if not deflective. When his fingers worked out a particularly stubborn knot in her
left shoulder, she breathed a small sigh of relief, a little, contented smile passing over her lips. In
turn, Erik smiled to himself, pleased with his work and hopelessly endeared and enamored with the
near-perfect being before him.

“The truth, if you please,” he murmured, feeling her shift under his touch as she moved to fidget
with the buttons on the front of her bodice. Christine worried her bottom lip between her teeth for a
brief moment, silently working out to herself exactly what she’d tell her maestro.

“In that case, I didn’t sleep,” she laughed mirthlessly, sending small vibrations into Erik’s
fingertips as he smoothed his hands over her skin, searching for other knots in her shoulders. “I
tried, really, I did,” she assured him, “I made myself chamomile tea with honey, just as you
suggested my last sleepless night, I counted sheep, I practiced that deep breathing exercise we’ve
run through, I– truly, I tried everything.” While she talked, he had managed to work out the last of
the knots in her shoulders, though he chose to continue his gentle ministrations in some small
attempt to soothe her. The frustration that had cut through her soft voice was distressing.

“If it would be beneficial to cut our lesson short so that you may rest, I’m willing to oblige,” Erik
offered, slowly removing his hands from Christine. A momentary confusion settled over her, and
she found herself missing the feeling of her Angel’s hands pressing into her skin. Her brows
furrowed, and without thinking, she turned sharply on her heel to face him, taking his hands in her
own.

“No, no, that’s quite alright,” she was quick to counter his offer, lacing their fingers together. He
startled, stiffening under her unexpected touch. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think before I-” she began to
pull away, embarrassed in her lack of forethought and restraint. For a fleeting moment, uncertainty
and regret flashed in her eyes, disappearing as quickly as they had come the moment that Erik had
registered what was happening and returned her grip on his slender hands.

“Truly, I’ve no intention to overwork you, Christine,” he gave her hands a gentle, reassuring
squeeze. This time, when she felt a warmth spreading from her chest to the tips of her ears, she was
certain that he noticed the red in her cheeks. For a moment, she found herself unable to speak, too
caught up in the moment to be bothered to find her voice. He did not push her to give an answer
any faster than she wanted to, simply soaking her in as though she were the sun on a rainy day.

Christine’s eyes were the fondest he had ever seen them in that moment. There were times,
ephemeral moments that he would- by some grace of God -catch a glimpse of something he
couldn’t quite name in her eyes, only for them to quickly break from his. She had prayed that he
didn’t notice, embarrassed by what she was certain were feelings that he didn’t and would never
reciprocate. Never had this look in her eyes been so uninhibited, so steady and sure and intense.
“And I’ve no intention to depart just yet,” she responded, confident in her decision to stay.

Erik tilted his head but gave a polite nod all the same, reluctantly releasing his hold on Christine’s
petite hands. She allowed him to do so, though she longed for return of the contact the second that
his spindly fingers left hers. “Turn around for me, angel?” he asked, voice of velvet low and even.
Christine, now feeling rather weightless– somewhere bordering on hazy, certainly content –did not
register that she had done as was asked of her until that voice of which so often made an
appearance in her dreams spoke to her from behind. “Very good, and are you ready to resume our
lesson?”

“Quite,” she replied quicker than she had meant to, eager for Erik’s attentions to resume, eager to
hear his voice and feel his fingers and hands and to listen to him playing the piano accompaniment
to her aria. Eager to please. He seemed to be pleased with her answer, offering a hum of approval
and a hand that ghosted along the base of her neck.

“Good, lean into my touch. Notice the pressure of my fingertips against your spine, the press of my
palm to your ribs. Allow those touches– my touches to guide you, Christine,” gone was the tender
lilt in Erik’s voice, an air of authority having fallen over his demeanor. She was quick to refocus,
nodding and looking at the wall ahead of her with a newfound intensity and determination.
“Remember what I taught you about breath control, and know that you’d do better to keep from
overthinking. Do not force your voice, support it. And do not fret that I am asking too much of you
too soon, we’ll run through your scales again before I truly work you," he promised.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Summary

“I’m upset,” she said plainly, though her voice was still small. “I’m upset but I’m not
angry with you. You were going to leave me here all alone and frightened. I’m
confused and I’m rattled and I think I deserve an explanation.” She sniffled and
released his hand to wipe her teary eyes. Erik swallowed and looked quickly away
from her. She was right, he knew she was. He brought his hand from around her waist
to the side of her neck and gave a reluctant nod, though he wasn’t sure if she could see
it in the dark. He did not look at her when he responded.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Christine’s voice felt raw. Erik, having worked her like a dog for the last hour of their lesson, had
willfully convinced her to take his seat at the piano bench in the interest of allowing her a place to
rest. It took her ten minutes to relent in her stubbornness. Such efforts, he had reasoned, should not
go unappreciated nor unrewarded– though he was the first to admit that a meager place to sit could
hardly be considered a reward. “Are you quite tired?” Christine nodded, looking up at her maestro.
Were she a woman more easily annoyed, she’d have complained of the overwhelming fatigue that
had kept her eyes unbearably heavy and half-lidded.

“Yes, very,” she murmured, casting her eyes downwards to her cream skirts. “Tired but pleased.”
When she dared to meet his eyes again, Erik offered her a mild smile, which she in turn mirrored.
“Thank you, I hadn’t the slightest clue that I was capable of that.”

“Of course you were, Christine,” the gentleness had slipped easily back into Erik’s voice. “What
are you if not music itself?” She preened under his praise, a smile tugging at her plump lips–
though she dropped her head and blushed in her infinite modesty. He breathed a blissful laugh at
her reaction, hopelessly endeared by her as he always was. Christine Daaé was more precious than
any amount of riches.

“I’m flattered, monsieur, however I must insist that I’m no more than a little Swedish girl trying to
bring pride to her father in Heaven,” she whispered, unaccustomed to receiving compliments, much
less accepting them. She tucked a stray chestnut curl behind her ear.

“No, Christine,” Erik shook his head almost distastefully, his tone firm. “You are nothing short of
an angel sent from above, and I can hardly fathom how you could possibly think any less of
yourself.” In an instant, Christine’s doe eyes were on him again, searching for any semblance of
sarcasm or insincerity. “You are exquisite.” The doubt in her eyes diminished, giving way to a
starry kind of wonder. How lucky she was to receive such a compliment from this prodigy of a
man.

“I hardly see how you can say that being as you are,” she reasoned, smiling to herself and fidgeting
nervously in her lap. The confusion on Erik’s face was evident; what in the devil had she meant in
saying that, anyway? “You’re a scholar– certainly the most intelligent man I’ve ever had the
privilege of knowing – you have a lovely voice, no, more than lovely, but I’m unable to think of a
more fitting word right now,” he raised a brow under his mask as she rambled on. “Perhaps
enchanting, though I’m doubtful that that puts justice to the sound of it, but I’m certainly
spellbound when you speak. Oh! And when you sing, Maestro, you’re nothing short of captivating.
Not to mention your talent, your mastery with every instrument I’ve seen you play-”

“Christine,” Erik cut her off as quickly as he could, worried that he’d dilute himself into believing
that he had any chance of sweeping her off her feet as he so desperately wanted to do if she were to
continue. He couldn’t help but feel guilty when he caught a glance of the embarrassment evident
on her face. Unable to confront that pleading look in her eyes, he shifted his gaze to the candelabra
on her left. They had been together in this little room long enough that a few of the candles had
dripped wax onto the piano below and gone out. “I’m-” he heaved a sigh, collecting his thoughts as
quickly as his reeling mind would allow him. His jaw was tense and his fingers, at his sides, flexed
anxiously around the empty air. “I’m flattered, truly,” he began again. “With that being said, this
isn’t about me, the triumph is yours and I can’t help but insist that I’m hardly deserving of your
praise.”

Christine froze for a moment, but nodded her understanding. “I can’t agree with you that you’re
undeserving, however I respect your wishes for me to drop the matter,” she whispered, seemingly
disappointed and unmistakably humiliated. Attempting to appear indifferent and unaffected, she
was quick to clear her throat and tuck her unruly coffee-colored curls behind her ears. He glimpsed
the little pearl earrings she wore, briefly wondering if they’d been a gift from her late father. That
same guilt crept into the pit of Erik’s stomach again as he watched her toil over her perceived
mistake. For a moment, he stood there dumbly, immensely displeased with himself. How
thoughtless had he been to bring this angel distress? Unsure of how else to remedy his mistake and
her now-soured mood, he took his seat next to her on the piano bench, trying to maintain a
respectable distance lest he startle her, and began to play for her a Swedish lullaby.

It had been winter when he’d first heard her sing it, or perhaps late fall– either way it did not
matter, snow had blanketed the ground and kept sweet Christine within the confines of the Opera
Populaire more often than not. She did not have a thick enough cloak to endure the harsh elements
beyond the opera house, and so she opted to stay put as often as possible. One night, late at night,
as the gentle falling of snow outside devolved into that of a blizzard, the ethereal force of
Christine’s voice had drifted down from her quaint room and into the vast expanse of Erik’s music
room. Though he sat on his piano bench, dead to the world as he composed in a fevered haze, his
hands ceased at once over the ivory keys of his organ. He listened, and he listened intently. The
melody was slow, soft and mournful, nothing short of hauntingly beautiful coming from her lips.
After a brief hesitation in which his fingers hovered still over the organ, he dropped his hands into
his lap and allowed the music to sweep over him, eyes closed and grateful for the simple pleasure
of listening to this woman that he had come to love so dearly singing a song she’d surely heard
often in childhood. The moment that her singing had ceased, he had resigned himself to plucking it
out on the piano until he was certain that he’d perfected the piece.

Recognition flashed in Christine’s eyes, and within seconds, she softened. The dim light in the
room became comparable to that of daylight in the company of her bright smile. It took her only a
moment to chime in, singing along with the music emanating from Erik’s piano. He glanced at her
briefly as he played, unable to escape the grin that played at his lips at the sight of her positively
beaming. Christine was nothing if not radiant. This easy camaraderie between them had been
nothing short of sacred to the pair over the past 8 months in which he had taken her on as a
student– together, they found a sense of belonging, of safety and security and an inherent longing
that neither of them would admit to, so intense that it had, at times, frightened the both of them. A
connection so namelessly profound that neither had dared to speak of it aloud for fear that it would
be lost to time like some Greek myth; afraid that if this comfortable arrangement changed, he
would lose her and become the unworthy and grief-stricken Orpheus to her condemned Eurydice.
Erik’s voice joined Christine’s in the last verse of the song, blending with her’s seamlessly. The
piano accompaniment softened and died with their voices, leaving the last note of the lullaby and
the small intimacy between them hanging in the air as they caught their respective breaths. He
watched her as she laughed, eyes full of mirth. “I’ve not heard that song played properly in years,”
her smile cut through her voice, and Erik couldn’t help but delight in her wonder. “I believe not
since before Papa died,” she raised her brows and shook her head breathlessly, finally meeting his
eyes. Her smile only grew with the unmistakable adoration she found there.

“Yes, I’ve been fortunate enough to overhear you singing it a handful of occasions,” he admitted,
silently praying that she wouldn’t question how.

“A lovely song, isn’t it?” Christine asked, still looking into his eyes with the warmth he had
instilled in her. The candlelight behind her provided the illusion that she was glowing, every bit the
divine feminine being he had become so certain she was. It took him a moment to process what she
had said, too preoccupied with that incandescent bliss, the otherworldly light that she was bathed
in.

“It’s splendid,” Erik agreed with a small smile, barely noticing that she had inched closer to him.
Shortly thereafter, in his resolve to be a gentleman, he made his move to stand. God forbid that he
invade her space and bring her discomfort. In an instant, a little, warm hand was on him, encircling
his wrist.

“No, no,” Christine tugged at his sleeve. She looked up at him, craning her neck upwards and
leaning in so close that he could see the tiny flecks of gray in her cobalt eyes, even in the dim of the
room. The shock must have been evident on his face, for she spoke once more with haste. “I’d very
much like for you to keep your seat, I’m enjoying you as you are where you are.” Erik flushed, but
did not once think to deny Christine. Without any conscious thought or effort, he wetted his lips
and sank slowly down into his seat. Pleased with his compliance and content with his closeness,
Christine relaxed and settled properly once more into the lacquered mahogany beneath her.

A moment of amiable silence passed between them, Erik simply enjoying the comfort and warmth
found in being in the presence of his Christine, having very little clue that she was doing very
much the same. “You’ll pardon me for the sudden, impertinent question, but I have to ask; what
kept you awake all last night?” he finally broke the silence, finding that his voice was quieter than
he had anticipated. She blushed and looked briefly away, worrying her plush lip between her teeth;
Erik found that he was unable to look anywhere but her, drawn to her every move as he so often
was. She was magnetic and enigmatic.

“It’s silly, really,” she sighed, shaking her head. A lock of her dark hair fell from behind her ear,
and, before he could stop himself, Erik found that he was tucking it back in place for her.
Christine’s eyes snapped to him and her breath hitched at the feeling of his gloved fingers lingering
for a moment against her jaw.

As quickly as the touch had come, he pulled his hand away, embarrassed by his own lack of
restraint. Damn the enchantress that sat left of him and damn his impulsivity. “Forgive me,” he
muttered, tense. She watched him for a moment with parted lips and wide eyes, taken aback. “I did
not think before I- forgive me.” He shook his head, terribly embarrassed. In spite of his
preparedness to be on the receiving end of a curt insult and brisk departure, he found that she
merely offered him a demure smile and reassuring squeeze of her hand around his wrist, of which
he had just noticed had never left him. He did not deserve this inordinately gracious woman.

“I could not sleep last night because– and before you say anything I know that this is terribly
girlish, no, childish –but I did not sleep last night because I find that I am rather uneasy all alone in
the dark,” she paused for a moment to laugh at herself. “Silly, isn’t it? So terribly silly; you’d think
I was scared of my own shadow. A grown woman and I can hardly stand to be alone at night,” she
shook her head at the hilarity of it all. “You must think me a coward,” and though she was giggling
to herself about it, evidently amused in her own nonsensical fears, she was cut off by the stern
voice of the man on her right.

“Christine, you are the bravest woman I’ve ever met. I’d be a fool to think you cowardly,” and
Erik was deathly serious as he spoke to her, as all he said was true. “Whether you recognize it in
yourself, you are terribly independent, capable, strong, and so very brave. Have you any idea the
courage you hold?” Christine could only look up at him in stunned silence, her breath catching in
her chest and her heart beating wildly against her corseted ribcage. “You handled the death of your
father with a grace few others possess, bravely made the move to France, bravely sought out a
position at the most prestigious opera house in Paris, bravely insisted on pushing yourself to be the
best version of yourself that you can be, and bravely made a place for yourself here. I’ll be damned
if that’s borne of cowardice, angel.” Tears welled in Christine’s eyes, rarely had she been on the
receiving end of such kindness, such sincere appreciation.

She dabbed at her eyes with the hand that wasn’t holding tightly onto Erik’s wrist and offered him
an earnest smile. “If either of us were cowardly, it’d be me, my dear. I’ve hardly even been outside
of the opera house, heavens, I’ve hardly even left my home down below since Gerard was
dismissed,” and with that one stupid, impulsive admission, he knew in an instant that he’d exposed
himself. He sat in stunned silence for little more than a moment, replaying what he’d just said in
his head. What a stupid, stupid man he was. When the implications of his impetuous words were
realized, she would have too many questions, and when he answered them, she would be horrified
and would go running up above to send the mob down after him in fear that she would be the next
victim of the Opera Ghost. This was the end of their arrangement, of that he had no doubt.

“I’m sorry I must have misheard,” she began, confused, though he would not give her the chance to
finish. At her words, he tensed and stood hurriedly, wrenching his wrist from out of her grasp and
promptly gathering his cloak from the coat rack on which he’d hung it.

Feeling suddenly like a caged animal, he blew out the final few flickering candles in the
candelabra, and darted to the door. He hardly registered the short yelp she released in response to
the sudden darkness that had enveloped the pair. It wasn’t long before she gathered her taffeta
skirts in hand and frantically flew from her seat at the piano bench to him, following the sound of
his erratic footfalls. With some innate animal instinct, as though it were reflex, she caught him by
his arm in a white-knuckled grip, yanking him back from the door and into her arms, where she
forcefully turned him right around and desperately clung to him. “Christine,” he hissed through
gritted teeth, fiercely attempting to dislodge himself from her snug hold around his middle. His
efforts proved to be futile when her embrace only tightened.

All that she could manage was a vehement “Please.” Startled, confused and trembling, she choked
on a sob. “Please,” she blubbered, digging her slender fingers into the soft fabric of his tailcoat.
“Please don’t go, don’t just leave me here, I’m confused and frightened and I won’t be able to find
my way back in this dark. There are no matches.” Christine’s voice was terribly small and with the
sound of it, something wound its way around Erik’s heart and began to squeeze. His breathing
evened out with the sound of her pleas, and he dropped his cloak, which landed on the cold floor
beneath their feet with a soft swishing sound. She relinquished her hold on him and reached blindly
for his face in the pitch-black, her shaking hands framing the exposed skin of his jaw. With a great
deal of hesitance, he rested his hands on her exposed shoulders, watching as best he could in the
dark with interest the way that she softened at his touch. He sighed at the contact in spite of his
better judgment and tentatively wound his arms around her small frame, pulling her impossibly
close when her lithe arms came to wrap around his neck. The fear she felt bubbled up inside her,
resting in her throat for a moment before one of his hands found her hair,brushing through her curls
in gentle, methodical strokes of his long fingers. Only then did she properly allow herself to cry,
overwhelmed and alarmed by this sudden turn of events.

At the feeling of sobs wracking her body against the safety and warmth of his chest, Erik was quick
to soothe her, hushing her and running a gloved hand along the expanse of her back. “I’m sorry,”
he sighed into her hair. “I’m so terribly sorry, mon ange.” Christine, still shaking, took hold of the
hand that he had wound in her umber curls and held it to her cheek, pressing into his open palm and
breathing a tremulous sigh of her own.

“I’m upset,” she said plainly, though her voice was still small. “I’m upset but I’m not angry with
you. You were going to leave me here all alone and frightened. I’m confused and I’m rattled and I
think I deserve an explanation.” She sniffled and released his hand to wipe her teary eyes. Erik
swallowed and looked quickly away from her. She was right, he knew she was. He brought his
hand from around her waist to the side of her neck and gave a reluctant nod, though he wasn’t sure
if she could see it in the dark. He did not look at her when he responded.

“Yes,” he said carefully, gently taking her face in both of his hands, gathering the last of her tears
onto his thumbs and wiping them away. His gloves came away damp. “Yes you do and I won’t
deny you one,” his voice shook with his anxiety. “Just- please… promise me that you’ll not tell a
soul, Christine. Please,” it was his turn to plead with her. Logistically, he could survive her
inevitable departure from his life, though he would despair in it. What he could not survive was an
angry mob ransacking his home- his domain -and then dragging him above onto the unforgiving
streets of the city to ridicule and beat him, as Gerard had so often warned him of.

She gave him an earnest nod. “I swear it,” and when she did, he knew that her promise was a safe,
sacred thing. He swallowed thickly and removed his hands from her cheeks, only to lace his fingers
with hers and lead her over to the piano bench. Under different circumstances, these free, easy
touches from him would set loose butterflies in her stomach and ignite sparks under her skin in
their wake. This once-flightful fear had emboldened him.

When the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bench, their fingers released from one another, and
she sat expectantly in the dark, waiting for his explanation. When it did not come, she was
prompted to coax it from him. “You-” she tried desperately to find the words, though they felt thick
and unnatural in her throat, choking her. Erik, pacing the room in a state, looked down at her with
an unprecedented surprise. “You said that you live beneath the opera house, is that right?” Though
faint, she could hear his heart hammering against the confines of his chest,and wondered if he
could hear hers doing the same. She shared his anxiety, his vulnerability.

His eyes remained trained on her shadowy form. He blinked once. Twice. “Yes,” he replied, trying
not to sound too curt, slinking out of his tailcoat as the room had suddenly become far too hot for
his liking. Chrstine waited for him to continue with bated breath. “I do, I live in the lowest level of
the opera house.” Christine nodded, desperately trying to wrap her head around the why of his
words.

“I’m sorry, I-” she shook her head. “I’m not certain I follow. I know where you live but nothing of
why, and certainly nothing of why telling me that made you spring forth from our conversation and
to the door,” she said slowly, brows furrowing in her efforts to find some sort of subtext,
something, anything to make sense of his reaction.

“The why of it all is complicated,” he muttered, running a hand through his tousled hair in some
attempt to slick it back into place. His efforts were fruitless. Christine called upon her memory to
decide the last time she had seen her teacher in such disarray, and after a moment decided that she
 hadn’t. His hair fell over his masked forehead, and his eyes were wild as he stood there nearly
panting in nothing more than his shirtsleeves, waistcoat and trousers. She could not recall when he
had removed his cravat, but it sat discarded in a rumpled heap atop his tailcoat all the same.

Erik, feeling dizzy with his plight, pushed aside his urge to pace as he had been doing, and forced
himself to close his eyes and lean back against the wall to steady himself. Christine waited
patiently, not wishing to cause him any further distress as he fought to regain some semblance of
composure. It was only when he had dared to reopen his eyes that she broke the silence. “I’ve no
place to be, no duties to attend to. I have time for you,” she paused, watching him as he gathered
himself from the wall and stood now on his own. “For your story, whatever it may be,” she finally
added when he locked eyes with her.

He opened his mouth once as though to speak, and she was ready and willing to hang on his every
word. He instead closed it in favor of hesitantly making his way to the piano bench. “May I?” Erik
asked, and she didn’t have to ask what he meant before nodding. She knew.

Relief flickered in his eyes, though he remained tense as she scooted to the side, making room for
his limber form beside her. Grateful, he flashed Christine a small smile. She returned it in kind,
never pushing him to explain before he was ready. And so there they sat in silence.

Chapter End Notes

I've been writing like it's the end of the fucking world and I don't see that stopping any
time soon, so buckle up-- as always, feedback is more than welcome and I sincerely
hope that you enjoyed <3
 Chapter 3
Chapter Summary

The darkness of the spiraling corridors and stone walls would have been comforting in
Erik’s company had it not been for the damp chill in the air. She shivered, and he
halted on the steps to wrap a protective arm around her. “Thank you,” she breathed,
pressing herself flush against his side and nestling into the warmth emanating from his
chest as best as she could.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Erik could not remember when he had started talking again, only that as he had, he had done so
ineloquently. At first he had forced himself, his confessions feeling syrupy and thick in his throat
as he gripped his knees with such force that he was more than likely leaving angry, purpling bruises
in his wake. He reminded himself often that his sins of omission were not so unacceptable as
unmitigated lies. Gone with his cravat and tailcoat were his gloves, though it seemed that neither
him nor Christine remembered him peeling them off in his anxiety-addled haze. He sat tense for
several minutes, submerged in his anxiety, in the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and the
words that seemed to snag at the back of his throat and linger uncomfortably in his mouth, sticking
to his gums, in the roots in his teeth. And then at once she placed an empathetic, comforting hand
on his shoulder and it was everything he could do to keep from sobbing as he babbled of his dead
mother, Gerard’s determination to give him a safe haven and legacy at the Opera Populaire, the
fact that Gerard was his father– though he wouldn’t admit to it –of his antics and title as the
mysterious Opera Ghost, and the dreaded admission that his mask was, in fact, not solely for
anonymity’s sake. She had listened intently, never once thinking to question him– that was until it
came to the matter of his mask. “But you had told me-”

He cut her off, unprepared and unwilling to discuss the subject at length. “I know very well what I
said and rest assured I did not lie to you, Christine,” she could feel the bite in his voice. She tried
once to interject, but hastily closed her mouth with one steely look cast her way. “I did not lie to
you,” he repeated, trying as best he could to soften his sharp, exasperated tone. “It is true that
should my identity as your teacher be revealed, especially with your voice being nothing short of
angelic, there would come others interested in my services. You gather that I’m a very private man,
you have to, knowing me intimately as you do. I have no desire to be sought out and apprehended
for my curious ways, least of all this pitiful face I was born with, and I have no wish to take on
other students. I find myself very much devoted to you.” That word struck Christine in a way she
was certain it shouldn’t have, sitting warm in her chest and buzzing in her ears. Devoted.

A beat of silence, and then, “May I ask why you felt the need to be dishonest about your mask?”
She was careful to avoid sounding accusatory, treading lightly as she could. Christine dared not
look at him as she spoke, keeping her eyes steady on the wall in front of her as she wrung her
delicate hands nervously in her lap. She felt guilty asking, as though it were some unforgivable
transgression; but curiosity had long been her vice, and she was anything but able to resist the
temptation to ask, to know. And she had a right to know, they both knew she did.

So, he did not dawdle nor distract when he answered. “I very much wanted to teach you and was
afraid that you’d be quick to reject my offer if you knew,” he said plainly. She could only nod in
response, understanding the choices he’d made, unable to be resentful of them. The indignance
he’d expected of her never came. “I’d easily understand if you wish to terminate our arrangement, I
have no wish to keep you bound to me against your will,” the tremor in Erik’s voice was
unmistakable. This, Christine knew, was meant as a goodbye. The whole of their exchange felt
naked.

“Why in Heaven’s name would I want that?” Christine was incredulous. In an instant, his eyes
were on her again, flickering with some small ember of hope in the dark of the room. Neither of
them had even briefly considered fetching matches to illuminate their small, shared space. They
could see well enough even in the dark, and wished to respect each other’s privacy, nearly
scandalized by the notion of seeing too much of each other.

“Perhaps because I am a creature of darkness living out his days in the depths of the world below,
and that I am-”

“A man that was frightened, a good man with a kind heart that values his privacy and with good
reason.”

“Christine-”

“No, I’ll not hear of it. I, too, have been frightened in my life, monsieur, and your transgressions
are miniscule. I have nothing but respect and compassion for you.”

“You pity me.”

“No, I would not insult you with pity. You do not need my pity, you need my understanding.”

And he believed her. Though he blinked in surprise and held his breath at her words, he believed
her. The comforting hand on him again, this time grasping his own in his lap. Such honeyed,
merciful words from an angel, such reassuring touches and kind eyes. Erik felt quite aware of his
mouth going dry, of the minute quickening of his pulse– though it was she that sought after and
found the fervor and fondness in his eyes. However hesitantly, he was the one to lace their fingers,
and she smiled at the gesture of trust, the secure squeeze in the bare, calloused pads of his fingers
pressing into the back of her hand. Christine breathed a sigh of relief, feeling exponentially lighter
with Erik’s hand in hers. His thumb passed over her knuckles once, lightly, contentedly. And then
she noticed the moment he shifted uncomfortably, the timid loosening of his hand around hers.
“You’re not revolted?”

“No, not in the slightest,” came her whispered reassurance. “I’ve no reason to be, you are here with
me and very much the same man you were when you called upon me for my lesson this evening. I
think no differently of you, I merely have a more intimate knowledge of you– a new understanding
and appreciation.” At that, he finally relaxed with the ghost of a smile on his lips, dropping his
shoulders and allowing himself to slouch in his seat, improper as it was. His fingers flexed around
Christine’s in his wordless gratitude to her. “Will you grant me one last question?”

“Yes, though I ask you to understand that I am tired and that there are some things I am simply
unwilling to speak of at present,” he answered, tilting his head to look at her. She hummed her
understanding, thinking for a moment before she found her voice.

“I know much of you,” she began on a laugh. “Certainly more than most of Paris, let alone the
world at large… and yet I do not know your name,” her question came as a statement, and the
irony of it was not lost on him. The soft rumble of his chuckle deep in his chest set her heart
aflutter. Christine felt warm, knowing that his answer was on his lips before he spoke it.
“Erik,” he replied softly, “My name is Erik.” She smiled to herself, maneuvering in her seat so that
she may take hold of his free hand. She did not know what she had expected his name to be, but
found it to be oddly humanizing. Erik: a man. Erik: her teacher. Erik: her friend. Yes, she found
that to be quite apt.

Now, with both of his hands clasped in hers, she repeated it to herself. “Erik,” his name felt rich
coming from her mouth. “May I call you by that? May I call you Erik?” she asked, barely above a
whisper. She patiently awaited his response, understanding his quiet consideration, though she
sincerely hoped that he’d take her request to heart. He thought about it for a moment, stunned to
silence by the eager lilt in her voice, and decided that, for selfish reasons, he quite liked the dulcet
sound of his name rolling off her tongue.

“Yes,” he replied, a soft smile of his own forming on his lips. “You may, I’ve taught you for the
better part of a year. It is perhaps time to do ourselves a favor and drop the pretenses of meager
formalities,” he decided, and Christine was positively giddy. The implications of what he’d said–
whether he realized it or not –were enticing. How lovely it would be to stop pretending.

“A favor to ourselves indeed,” she agreed, and he could not name the thing that flashed in her eyes,
but knew that it burned. Christine thought better of lingering too long on that thought. “Do you
suppose it’s late?”

Erik broke one hand from hers and fumbled for his gold embossed pocket watch, clicking it open
as quickly as possible. He’d not even considered the time, he had called on her for their lesson at
7:30, and it was now bordering on midnight. “Yes, I’m afraid I’ve kept you up well past what
should be considered acceptable,” he frowned, closing it again. Christine was discontent in the
anticipation of her imminent departure, though her weary body ached for sleep. “I should like to see
you to your room, I’ll not have you alone in the dark.” With the promise of extending her time with
her maestro, her woes were forgotten.

“That’s quite kind of you,” she said, meaning to thank him. He understood, and stood at once to
gather his things. How tired she must be, not having slept in nearly forty-eight hours, not to
mention her patience in listening to his each and every confession without complaint, as though she
were a priest and he a sinner in desperate search of repentance. He slipped easily into his tailcoat,
shoving his burgundy cravat and silk gloves into the pockets of his trousers after deciding that he
hadn’t the mind to bother putting them back on. Christine sat patiently until a hand was extended to
her, helping her briskly to her feet.

“I imagine you’re exhausted,” he sighed his apology, guiding her to the doorway with a spindly
hand on the small of her back, though he moved to grasp her hand in his as they began their ascent.

“Very,” she sighed, the heaviness of her eyelids becoming nearly unbearable. He kept a watchful
eye on her as she made her way up the first flight of stairs, following close behind him with her
fingers gripping his tightly. He would be remiss to let her slip and, God forbid, harm herself on
these winding stone steps. Erik had not been so negligent as to let her out of his sight on the
journey up or down since she had, sometime in the fall, twisted her ankle venturing to find him for
their lesson. The guilt had eaten him alive for a month in spite of Christine’s best efforts to reassure
him that no, it had not been his fault. She was a grown woman that could very well take care of
herself and had not paid close enough attention to the depth between each step, and had thus
foolishly injured herself.

The darkness of the spiraling corridors and stone walls would have been comforting in Erik’s
company had it not been for the damp chill in the air. She shivered, and he halted on the steps to
wrap a protective arm around her. “Thank you,” she breathed, pressing herself flush against his side
and nestling into the warmth emanating from his chest as best as she could.

“Quite drafty here, isn’t it?” he replied nonchalantly, quickly taking to walking again. She
followed, forced to walk quicker than she’d have liked to accommodate Erik’s longer strides.
Fearful of slipping, Christine held fast to the satin of his waistcoat, thankful to feel his arm tighten
around her.

She wasn’t certain how long they’d been walking when they finally reached her quarters, the small
room adjoining the world below that Jean Claude had so generously offered her. Free of rent,
cooler in the warm months and warmer in the cool months; closer to her maestro than she’d
realized. In all, an exceptionally favorable arrangement. The temperature here was more agreeable
than it had been in the labyrinth of staircases and rooms that led to nowhere, and Christine found
that she was eager to shuck off her dress and sleep. While Erik busied himself with lighting the
candle on her bedside table, she sat quietly on her bed slipped out of her shoes.

She watched as he blew out the match held steadily between his thumb and forefinger, looming
over her bed and casting dreamlike shadows on the wall opposite them. “Thank you for your
honesty,” she began after a moment of amiable silence, and his gaze was cast immediately back to
her. The candlelight caught the honey tones of his eyes as they roved over her. He was calmer now,
calculated and controlled as he usually was in contrast to their earlier confrontation. Composed. “I
know it wasn’t easy for you, being vulnerable as you were.”

Erik cleared his throat. “Yes, you deserved the truth,” he said plainly, heart skipping a beat when
she offered him a tender smile. Another companionable silence fell over the pair as Christine took
to pulling the pins from her chocolate curls, and he watched with no lack of interest as her hair fell
in ringlets about her shoulders and around her face. Wordlessly, he grasped for the brush she’d left
discarded on her vanity and presented it to her, which she thanked him for with an appreciative
hum. It was curious how naturally this simple domesticity came to them, how easy and
comfortable it felt.

“I should take my leave,” Erik’s voice was low and gentle. He made a move to exit her room, but
turned suddenly on his heel back to her. “But before I go, I’d like you to know…” and then he
stopped, anxious. Long, calloused fingers tapped apprehensively against the black of his trousers.

“Yes, Erik?” Christine urged him as patiently as she thought possible when she wanted nothing
more than to strip down to her chemise and succumb to the sleep that she so desperately craved.
Her eyes were glued to his, expectant.

“I should like you to know,” he tried again, forcing down the trembling of his voice. He didn’t
know why he was so worried, he had no real reason to be. Christine was kind. “Now that you know
where my door is, it’s open to you at any time.”

“I’d hate to impose.”

“You’d be no imposition.”

“I couldn’t invade your privacy like that, Erik.”

“I enjoy your company.”

“You enjoy it when there is an appointment in place.”

“Christine-”

“Truly, there’s no need-”

 “Christine, I want you to visit me. I would be delighted to find you at my door or in my kitchen or
sitting at the chaise lounge in the music room. If you aren’t interested in taking me up on my offer,
you need only to say so, there is no need to feign humility.”

Christine blinked once and then sat in stunned silence. She’d wanted to visit him, longed for an
excuse to, and she was scarcely prepared for the opportunity to simply fall in her lap– much less to
have him so plainly admit to her that, yes, he would very much like for her to. Sheepishly, she cast
her eyes down to her hands and responded, “In which case I should very much like to find myself
at your door.” Erik allowed himself a small smile and knelt down to take her petite hand in his,
where he pressed an ardent kiss.

“Goodnight, Christine.” The candle on her bedside table flickered and then quickly extinguished
itself when he left.

Chapter End Notes

Another chapter down and however many more I end up writing to go. As always, I
sincerely hope you enjoyed and look forward to your feedback <3
 Chapter 4
Chapter Summary

Silent in her champagne pointe shoes, Meg scampered through the vast expanses of
empty halls, dashed silently down the grand, sweeping staircases and did not concern
herself with knocking when she found herself standing before Christine’s door.
Hearing the door’s rusty hinges creak and groan as it opened, Christine sat bolt upright
in bed and rushed to find her dressing gown. Being seen in nothing save for her cotton
chemise and intimates would be most inappropriate. Pawing frantically through her
wardrobe, she breathed a sigh of relief and slumped against the wall at the echo of
Meg’s voice from the top of the stairs. Her brain very much still sleep-addled, she
closed her slender fingers in the bottom drawer of her dresser, cursing under her breath
in Swedish.

Chapter Notes

No Erik in this chapter, just a lot of Meg and Christine and Raoul and plot shit, but
he'll be back by the next chapter

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The soft apricot light of dawn crept through the windows of the Opera Populaire as the ballet rats
scurried about their dressing rooms, stretching and slipping into their gauzy skirts. The girls rose
with the sun each day, rehearsing tirelessly at the instruction of the strict ballet mistress. The first
of the girls on stage was that of La Sorelli, diligently practicing her solo in the upcoming
production of Il Muto, followed closely by little ginger Jammes, who had not bothered to
participate in the morning’s gossip. Meg Giry, however, was wholly unaccounted for.

Silent in her champagne pointe shoes, Meg scampered through the vast expanses of empty halls,
dashed silently down the grand, sweeping staircases and did not concern herself with knocking
when she found herself standing before Christine’s door. Hearing the door’s rusty hinges creak and
groan as it opened, Christine sat bolt upright in bed and rushed to find her dressing gown. Being
seen in nothing save for her cotton chemise and intimates would be most inappropriate. Pawing
frantically through her wardrobe, she breathed a sigh of relief and slumped against the wall at the
echo of Meg’s voice from the top of the stairs. Her brain very much still sleep-addled, she closed
her slender fingers in the bottom drawer of her dresser, cursing under her breath in Swedish.

“Christine Daaé,” she began, bounding down the stone staircase. “Now just where were you last
night?” She stood by the vanity now, a mass of blonde curls and ivory tulle.

“Here in my room,” Christine stood, holding her throbbing fingers with her back still pressed
against the cool, stony wall and shook her head, feeling around her bedside table for a match. “I
had no interest in being dragged to the Comte’s dinner party and told you as much, Meg. He can
throw lavish banquets for the corps and their plus-ones to impress Sorelli, but I hardly see why I
should be forced to sit there and watch. I doubt my company is very much welcome there,
anyway.” She lit the solitary candle on her vanity. The Comte had not called on her since sending
her to the opera house for singing lessons with plans to make her his mistress for a night or so, and
she found that she didn’t much care for the opportunity to be in his company again. In spite of what
the whispers among the company and patrons would suggest, Christine’s dignity and sense of self-
worth were very much intact.

“The Vicomte De Chagny would say otherwise, but we can talk about that later,” Meg argued,
crossing her arms over her chest. Christine looked up from her vanity wide-eyed and with her
mouth agape. Images of a little boy with windswept hair and flushed cheeks came to mind,
accompanied by the feeling of a soft woolen scarf around her neck and the enchanting sound of her
father’s violin. How lovely Perros Guirec had been…

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t follow,” she said deflectively, wiping the shock from her face and
employing her nimble fingers with her corset laces. Meg scoffed and ambled over to Christine’s
lacquered oak wardrobe, producing a prussian blue dress, which she held out to her friend with an
extended arm.

“Childhood sweethearts, he said,” she replied pointedly. “A very charming story. He recalled very
fondly your red scarf and the sea at Perros– said his governess scolded him for hours, that he
ruined his nice dress pants in the salt water.” Christine shook her head and slipped her arms into
the bodice her friend had fetched for her. Tiers of lace pooled around her forearms and at the
dress’s square neckline. Meg buttoned it from behind, appreciating the feeling of taffeta against her
deft fingers.

“Of course he did,” Christine sighed, having decided to skip her bustle and step straight into her
skirts. She hadn’t any reason to be anywhere other than backstage and in her room today.

“Yes, he would very much like to see you again,” Meg agreed, pulling the last button through its
loop and standing back from her friend. “But that’s not what I came down here to talk about.”
Christine glanced over her shoulder to meet Meg’s eyes, quirking a suspicious brow. “When
exactly were you in your room last night?”

“From 6:00 to now,” Christine replied plainly; she was quite the actress. “Now what did you come
to talk about?”

“Oh nothing, really,” Meg said. Christine prepared for the ambush she knew was just on the
horizon, feeling rather like a rabbit caught in a snare. “I just thought it was interesting that– seeing
as you were in your room all last night –you were nowhere to be found when I ventured down here
to bring you up to the party.” Christine tensed, fisting her hands in her skirts. She had hardly
expected for her lies to catch up to her. “So, Mlle. Daaé, I just wanted to know where you really
were.”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Christine forced an answer past her lips. Half-truths, she told
herself. Tell Meg enough to placate her, spare Erik’s privacy. “If you must know-”

“And believe me, I must,” Meg interjected, eagerly awaiting her friend to explain her
unprecedented absence. Christine shot a look her way, and she offered her an unbothered shrug in
return. What could possibly displease her now that she was getting details about her friend’s
mysterious whereabouts?

“If you must know,” Christine began again, slowly. “I was with my maestro receiving voice
lessons.” Meg gasped and clasped her hands tightly together, bouncing up and down on her
dancer’s feet. To her knowledge, Christine had tried and failed to find a vocal coach, eventually
giving up and resigning herself to be a costume girl.
“Oh, Christine! That’s wonderful!” she congratulated her, wrapping Christine in a snug embrace.
“Who’s teaching you? How are you affording your lessons?” She broke away, her hands lingering
on Christine’s lace-clad elbows. Meg’s jade eyes, Christine had noticed, were always inquisitive,
always mischievous. She had an elfish sort of quality about her, always playing innocent practical
jokes on the other ballet rats, always gossiping. The insatiable curiosity they shared was what drew
the pair together– what got the both of them into trouble.

“He wishes to remain anonymous, which is why I’ve kept our lessons to myself for the better part
of a year,” she began, her little hands resting on Meg’s broad shoulders. “And I am not affording
them, his tutelage has been offered to me as a simple favor.”

“Favor?” Meg echoed, fine brows raised. “And here I thought you a devout woman of God,” she
laughed, taken aback in what she perceived to be a rather scandalous confession.

“Heavens, Meg, no!” Christine groaned, exasperated. “I can hardly believe you’d even entertain
such an idea,” she shook her head. “He heard me singing one day when I thought myself to be
alone and offered to teach me free of cost, there needn’t be any speculation of the taboo going on
behind closed doors. He’s a good man, he’d not exploit me in such a way.” Indignantly, she pulled
away from her friend’s hold on her arms and made her way to the velvet ottoman before her vanity,
pulling her comb from the top left drawer and brushing through her chestnut curls. She didn’t know
what upset her more: the idea that Meg would buy into the idea of her giving her body in exchange
for Erik’s services, or the idea that– even though she knew nothing of him –Meg would think him
capable of requiring her to partake in such unsavory behavior to train her. Making herself useful,
Meg retrieved her hairpins from the drawer to Christine’s right and presented them to her.

“Well, what was I supposed to think? The implications of what you told me were barely innocent,”
she argued, watching as Christine pinned her hair in place, the half-up stye that she favored.

“No, Meg,” Christine nearly snorted. “You are not so innocent, the implications and details of my
arrangement are entirely inconspicuous. You’ve been ruined by Sorelli’s accounts of her time with
her many patrons– and perhaps a few trysts of your own.” Meg huffed.

“Oh, and you’re so virtuous? Having secret appointments with your mystery man entirely
unchaperoned?”

“How are you to know that we’ve forgone a chaperone?”

“Well, haven’t you?

“Yes, but-”

“A-ha! So you have!”

“Yes, and-”

“And how long have you been having clandestine meetings with this man?”

“You make it sound as though-”

“How long, Christine?”

Christine looked sheepishly down at her feet. “Eight months.” Meg bit back a laugh, patting
Christine’s shoulder. She hadn’t the patience to deal with another suggestive remark from the
ballerina. “Haven’t you somewhere to be? I’m certain that your mother will be expecting you on
stage, you may have already missed your cue.”
And with that, Meg uttered a curse under her breath, blonde locks and snowy tutu flying behind her
as she scrambled her way up the stairs and through Christine’s door. It slammed shut with a rather
inelegant thud, and Christine heaved a sigh of relief. She loved Meg, truly, she did; but having
gotten hardly any sleep once again, she found that she was much too tired to handle her unwavering
shenanigans and wholly inappropriate speculations. But she knew that her friend meant well, and
that was enough to keep her from being angry. She resumed pinning her hair in place, picking up
her hairpins from where Meg had dropped them on the floor in her hurry to make her way back to
the stage. Once she was well satisfied that her hair was secure and presentable, Christine pulled on
and laced her boots, blew out the candle on her bedside table, and hurried up the stairs after Meg;
she was, after all, needed in the costume department.

The sun had risen and given way to the light and warmth of spring, the very air alive with a
dancing breeze that swept through Paris. Upstairs, in the theater, the opera house managers had
called a mandatory meeting, all staff members sitting patiently in the velvet seats before the stage.
“Everybody settle down, settle down and take your seats please,” M. Cholet tried to direct the
room, though he sounded rather like an entitled purse dog with a bruised ego. Madame Giry, who
stood to his left, struck the stage floor with her staff once to assist him. The sound thundered
through the room, and the silence that followed was immediate. “Thank you, Madame.”

It was at this point, while M. Cholet wiped the sweat from his brow, that Christine entered from a
side door and hurriedly took her seat next to Meg. “What’s happening?” she whispered, leaning in
towards her friend as she settled into her seat. Meg glanced at her and shrugged, every bit in the
dark as she was.

“We don’t know, M. Cholet called a mandatory meeting,” she murmured back, hurriedly pressing a
finger to Christine’s lips when she opened her mouth to ask another question. “Hush, we’re about
to find out.” M. Cholet’s fingers dipped into his breast pocket and produced a folded piece of
parchment, which everyone in the crowd supplied was a speech.

Nervously, he unfolded it and read, “Patrons and opera house staff, it is with a heavy heart that I
inform you of my imminent departure from the opera house.” Meg’s hand shot up to Christine’s
shoulder as she held back a fit of laughter.

“Heavens, they hardly made it through a season,” Christine giggled, admittedly glad to hear that
she’d be rid of Cholet and his insufferable wife, Carlotta. Meg nodded, unable to wipe the smug
smirk off her face.

“Management of the Opera Populaire will fall back to M. Gerard Carriere in the meantime, and
auditions will be held Wednesday afternoon for the role of Countess in the beautiful, talented,
gracious La Carlotta’s absence,” he continued, shaking like a leaf through the entire speech. “We
will oversee auditions and the first three rehearsals with the new Countess as we move out of the
opera house. It has been a pleasure to manage you all this last season,” the smile that he gave was
forced, the humility he feigned nothing short of insipid. “You may be dismissed.”

Christine and Meg looked at one another immediately, tickled by M. Cholet’s sudden departure
and delighted to be free of his wife’s tyrannical reign. “Well that cut right to the point, wasn’t it?”
Christine laughed, gathering her skirts in hand as she stood. Meg nodded vigorously, snickering as
Christine helped her out of her chair.

“It certainly was,” she replied, nearly wheezing as she and Christine walked side by side to the
stage doors. “Lord, Christine, he was shaking in his boots! Makes you wonder what had him in
such a tizzy.”

“Perhaps a letter from the mysterious Opera Ghost,” Christine jested, feeling self-satisfied in her
knowing that there was, in fact, an opera ‘ghost’, and that his name was Erik.
“Yes, perhaps,” Meg chuckled. They had almost made it to the door when Christine heard
shuffling from behind them and was halted with a firm, warm hand on her arm.

“Christine?” and there he was when she turned on her heel, that little boy with the windswept hair
and rosy cheeks now a grown man in gentleman’s clothes. He beamed at her and she returned the
gesture in kind– oh, how long it had been!

“Monsieur le Vicomte?” she asked, eyes flashing with recognition. Her mood was soured only for a
moment at the sight of La Sorelli hanging on Phillipe’s arm just behind Raoul. Remembering
herself, she curtsied before him in a gesture of respect, demurely casting her eyes to the floor. He
laughed and shook his head.

“Please, there’s no need,” he insisted, meeting her gaze when she resumed the comfortable position
she’d previously been standing in. “We’ve only been friends for a decade and some change, Mlle.
Daaé.” Christine let slip a breathless laugh, caught in the throes of nostalgia. He was still every bit
the kind soul with the boyish charm she’d remembered him to be.

“Ah yes,” she sighed. “And how has the little boy that dove into the sea to fetch my scarf been?”
He barked out a laugh, charmed that she remembered the events as well as he did. He had not
gotten the sand and sea-water properly out of his blonde hair for weeks.

“Quite well, so long as you’ve held onto your red scarf,” he replied, teasing his old friend.

“You’ll be pleased to know that it’s sitting safely folded in my wardrobe,” she responded with the
same facetious tone.

“Ah, how nice it is to see old friends reunited,” Meg cut in the conversation, patting Christine’s
narrow shoulder with a smile. “I’m needed backstage, come find me when you’re done, Christine,”
and with that, she trotted off with the rest of the corps (save for Sorelli, who was still having some
sort of amorous exchange with Phillipe), leaving Raoul and Christine to their own devices.

“Charming, isn’t she?” Christine laughed, shaking her head.

“Very,” Raoul agreed. “She told me last night that you’ve found employment here?” he asked,
eying her as she nodded yes. “Ah, chorus or lead roles?”

“Neither, I’m afraid,” she began, fidgeting nervously with the lace at her neckline. “Costume
department– La Carlotta was… generous enough to offer me a position there,” she leaned in closer
to the Vicomte, as though sharing a secret. “That was, however, not without thoroughly insulting
me beforehand.” He shook his head distastefully.

“Yes, her name has made the rounds in certain circles as of late and it would seem her reputation
precedes her,” he sighed, glancing behind his shoulder as though to make certain that she wasn’t
lurking just behind him. Christine tilted her head in her endless curiosity.

“And what reputation might that be?” she asked, biting the inside of her cheek as she waited for
Raoul’s response.

“That she’s tactless and talentless,” he chuckled. “Quite a snide little thing, from what I’ve heard–
but you didn’t hear that from me.”

“No, no, of course not,” she promised, smiling as he pressed a finger to his lips in a mock gesture
of sworn secrecy. “I’ve only seen it for myself, monsieur.” At that, he snorted. This easy
camaraderie between the two had been sincerely missed by the both of them.
 Raoul cast a glance to the clock to their left and cursed under his breath. “I’m afraid that I need to
take my leave, Little Lotte,” he muttered, grabbing her hand and pressing a chaste kiss to her
knuckles. She was glad to find that it felt like a friendly gesture, having no interest in pursuing a
silly crush from her childhood. The Vicomte, already several strides towards the exit, turned one
last time to call to Christine. “And Christine, you should audition for the role of Countess; as I
remember it, you have a lovely voice.” With that, he departed in a hurry, and she was left alone to
ponder her thoughts.

Chapter End Notes

As always, I sincerely appreciate your feedback and hope that you enjoyed <3
 Chapter 5
Chapter Summary

“Take me to the roof.” There were stars in her eyes; he swore on all that was good and
right that there were tangible, burning, twinkling stars in the endless cerulean pools of
her eyes when she looked at him. He blinked once and then once more, trying to
gather his thoughts– though it was proving difficult when she was looking up at him
with her rosy cheeks and hopeful doe eyes.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Christine could not sleep. Nighttime had stolen with a haste that she had not expected in the
anxiety-ridden haze that was her day, and she found herself wide awake in the dead of the night
once more. Her footfalls had been light, nearly silent as she’d snuck her way past the manager’s
office and ballet dormitories, slinking soundlessly into the kitchen to prepare herself a cup of
chamomile tea as she almost always did when her racing mind got the better of her. She had been
caught only once by Meg, who had been slipping out of her room for a late-night rendezvous with
some patron that had tickled her fancy, but ultimately deserted the appointment in favor of
sneaking a few cookies from the pantry with Christine. She rounded the corner, bare feet sticking
to the cool tile of the floor and chestnut hair cascading down her back and around her shoulders as
she went along. There in the kitchen, every bit as quiet as she was, was the statuesque silhouette of
Erik, with one hand immersed in the inside of a cabinet as he dug around for God-knows-what. She
froze in the wide arch of the doorway. “Erik?” she called out to him, just above a whisper,
bemused and perplexed to find him here.

On reflex, he inelegantly jerked his hand from out of the cabinet, whirling around to face her with a
start. He was in his nightclothes much as she was; he had not expected to be caught. “Christine,” he
breathed, relieved to find that it was only her in the doorway. “What in the devil are you doing up
this late and in the kitchen? Your audition is tomorrow,” he scolded her as quietly as possible,
leaning against the marble countertops and slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacquard robe,
feeling embarrassed and irritated. She shook her head and moved past him to find the teas, her hip
brushing against his side as she reached on tiptoes for the cabinet.

“I couldn’t sleep, I came to brew myself some tea in hopes of remedying that issue,” she whispered
into his ear as she felt around blindly in the dark. His pulse quickened with her breath tickling the
nape of his neck, her side pressing into his as she readjusted her angle in hopes of making contact
with her target. Christ, this woman would be the death of him. “And besides, I could very much ask
you the same.”

“Let me,” he murmured, reaching easily into the cupboard and retrieving the tea he knew she was
fond of: the one in the sunshine-yellow tin with the little daisies painted on the lid. She stood now
pinned between Erik’s body and the cold countertop, relishing in the feeling of his hand on her arm
as he handed her the blend she’d sought out in her trip to the kitchen. She flushed, her breath
coming quicker now as her fingers brushed his in their exchange of the tea tin, his touch leaving
sparks that danced across her bare skin in their wake.
“Thank you,” came Christine’s whispered gratitude. His slender fingers lingered for a moment with
a gentle pressure on her arm, and, even in the dark, he caught the way that her cheeks reddened at
his touch. With a sigh, he cleared his throat and swept across the floor to the stove.

“I’ll put the kettle on, set the tin down and I’ll brew your tea for you,” she obliged without
hesitation, hoisting herself onto the countertop to the right of Erik, content to sit and watch him
work. It felt silly to adhere to standard social protocol when they were both somewhere they
shouldn’t be, unchaperoned, wearing only their intimates and nightclothes– it hardly crossed her
mind that she should fret about being ladylike. “I recall you telling me that you take your tea with
honey.”

She nodded, flattered that he had bothered to remember such a minute detail about her. “Yes, that’s
right,” Christine hummed, watching as he took hold of a spoon and dumped the contents of the tin
into a little silvery strainer. “And you take yours with one lump of sugar.” He glanced down to her,
looking as though he thought that she held languages lost to time behind her tongue and the very
world in the palm of her hand; he looked at her with that same wonder he’d inspired in her a
million times over, and she couldn’t help but be endeared by it. “Can I ask what you were doing
with your arm buried in the spice cabinet at this hour?” she asked, teasing him.

“I’m out of cinnamon,” he said plainly, and she choked on her laugh. “Always a pleasure to see you
so thoroughly amused, my dear,” he retorted, watching as she took her bottom lip between her teeth
to stifle her giggle. Even as it had been meant in jest, butterflies fluttered in the pit of her stomach
at the endearment.

“I’m sorry it’s just-” and she took a deep breath to quiet her laughter. “It’s just silly, the thought of
you venturing to the above world to stalk through dark corridors and into the kitchen to steal
something so commonplace as cinnamon. You seem– you feel most often like a force of nature, it’s
hard to imagine you as a petty thief or common man.” Christine shook her head, her unruly curls
falling into her face. “The Opera Ghost: infamous kitchen thief,” she teased, reveling in the
moment that Erik finally cracked a smile and met her gaze with a playful glint in his eye. He was
nothing if not magnetic.

“Yes, well, baking is no crime, Christine,” he chuckled, the sound deep and rich, quiet as it was.
She tilted her head– funny, how she missed a perfectly good opportunity to crack another joke at
his expense in favor of hanging on his every word, always eager to learn about him– she was, after
all, an attentive student.

“You bake?” Erik retrieved a teacup from the drying rack and poured the hot water into it just as
the kettle whistled.

“No, not usually,” he admitted, submerging the strainer into the steaming water of the teacup.

“My father and I used to bake together,” she whispered, fondly remembering his well-loved recipe
book and their oven that heated unevenly. “We made cookies every Sunday to bring to church, the
children my age and just younger always ate the whole batch before anyone else could get a taste.
He helped Raoul and I make cakes and bread on a few occasions, told us tales of the Angel of
Music and Little Lotte while we waited as impatiently as the children we were for the dough to
rise.” Christine’s smile was mournful. Erik noticed the tear slipping down her cheek before she
did, and pulled his paisley silk handkerchief from his pocket to wipe it away. Her lips parted in
surprise, as though she hadn’t expected the hand on her cheek or the tears in her eyes. Take away
her tears, take away her pain. She caught his hand in hers before it left her face and pressed a
gentle kiss to his fingertips in thanks.

“I apologize, it had not been my intent to upset you,” he murmured, absently tucking a lock of her
umber hair behind her ear. Christine leaned into the touch, sighing shakily. She wished that he’d
touch her like this more often, it was a welcome comfort.

“You’ve not upset me, Erik,” she responded after a moment, looking up at him teary-eyed. “Did I
tell you that I saw him recently?”

Confused, Erik asked, “Your father? Christine, are you quite well?” She breathed a laugh at the
hand that was thrust upon her forehead, diligently checking to see if she had a fever. His brows
furrowed under his mask in his concern, and she could tell by the look in his eyes.

“No, Raoul.” Hesitantly, he opened his mouth to speak, only to shut it again. Certainly she couldn’t
mean the Raoul that came to his mind. “You’re aware of him, I’m sure,” she hummed thoughtfully.
“The Vicomte De Chagny, we were something of childhood sweethearts. Such innocent, fanciful
times they were.” And as apprehensive as Erik felt, he still took joy in her laugh. She blinked her
tears away. “My Papa liked him very much, he liked him from the moment that he darted into the
sea at Perros Guirec to fetch my scarf.”

“Certainly a catch,” Erik tried to sound congratulatory. Christine looked perplexed at his words,
and then rushed to correct him when realization dawned on her. Even in his best efforts to hide
from them, the feelings that he very well knew he had for Christine always sat just below the
surface of his skin, pin-pricked and bleeding out into the open with every little thing she did; and
suddenly, in his poorly-concealed jealousy, he felt as though he bore a gaping wound. There has
always been transparency in pain.

“Oh, Heavens, no!” she exclaimed, quick to reassure him. “Raoul is a dear friend, Erik. I’d be a
fool to ruin that in pursuing him. I couldn’t be with him even if I wanted to– which I most certainly
don’t, I’ll have you know –the very notion of a poor little Swedish girl becoming the Vicomtess De
Chagny is preposterous in and of itself, especially with the consideration that I’ve no interest in
courting him, let alone wedding him; and I’m certain he feels very much the same about me.” She
paused for a moment, considering her next words carefully. “My Papa would have liked you, too,
you know.” It was funny, how she couldn’t very well put a name to what she felt for Erik, but
knew exactly what to say to him and exactly how to convey emotions she wasn’t even consciously
aware that she had. She always had been and forever would be a girl with her heart worn proudly
on her sleeve, private as she could be.

“You’ll pardon me for my inappropriate speculation,” he murmured, feeling rather embarrassed

now in his previous rash assumptions. Christine said nothing, only timidly grabbing ahold of his
wrist and sliding down from her spot on the counter, dragging him to the palatial window on the
wall opposite them. She could say no more of the matter without being redundant.

Once close enough to brace her petite hands on the windowsill, she dropped his wrist and looked
wistfully outside. “The moon is beautiful tonight,” she whispered, though she fixed her doe eyes on
Erik as she said it.

“Yes, it’s lovely,” he agreed, basking in the tranquil silence that had fallen over them– and then
that look in her eyes that told him she was scheming passed over her.

“Take me to the roof.” There were stars in her eyes; he swore on all that was good and right that
there were tangible, burning, twinkling stars in the endless cerulean pools of her eyes when she
looked at him. He blinked once and then once more, trying to gather his thoughts– though it was
proving difficult when she was looking up at him with her rosy cheeks and hopeful doe eyes.

“Christine, it’s late-” he tried to reason with her, only to be interrupted.

“I said,” she began again, slower this time, more deliberate. “Take me to the roof.” He was not
strong enough to deny her. Erik bit the inside of his cheek as she waited with baited breath for his
answer.

“Go quickly and get changed, you’ll catch your death out there in that sheer nightgown,” he finally
muttered, defeated and leading her with a hand on the small of her back to her quarters. “I’d do
better to change, too, it’s hardly a wise idea to wander to the roof in a dressing gown. I’ll retrieve
you once I’ve finished, wait in your room for me.”

Her tea sat cold and forgotten atop the marble counter.

The rest of their walk to the world below was silent and when Erik emerged to begin their ascent as
he promised he would, he had changed into wool trousers and a heavy coat and cloak, wielding an
olive-green cashmere scarf that he wrapped carefully around Christine’s neck as he murmured
something or another about how she’d hardly be warm enough. She was privately elated to find
that the scarf he’d given her smelled of him: of sandalwood and pine and the parchment and ink he
used to jot down his compositions.

“Mind your step,” he whispered to her, leading her up the many winding flights of stairs that would
show them to the roof. She walked with a spring in her step and Erik’s cloak and arm wrapped
tightly around her to shield her from the unforgiving cold, her hair tickling the exposed skin of his
jaw in her close proximity to him. He thought, absently, that she smelled of rosewater and lilac.

“Are we nearly there?” she asked, his lips brushing her temple as she turned to look at him. His
breath hitched in his chest.

“Nearly,” he affirmed, squeezing her arm once to reassure her. “Are you quite alright?”

Christine thought for a moment and then nodded. “My feet are sore, but yes, I’m alright– splendid,
in fact,” she responded.

Erik contemplated his next move long enough to let Christine know that there was something
amiss, having stopped so abruptly on the stairs. “Would you prefer it if I carried you?” he finally
asked, quietly, timidly. Her cheeks burned at his offer and when she nodded her approval, he swept
a wiry arm around her ribs, bending to do the same under her knees. Holding fast to his broad
shoulders as he brought her lithe form from off of the ground and into his arms, she squealed and
buried her face in the warm crook of his neck. There on that staircase, he held his world and the
heavens above in his arms.

“Goodness, Erik, extend me the courtesy of a word of warning next time,” he felt rather than saw
the furious blush on her cheeks, warm against the few inches of exposed skin trailing from his jaw
to his neck, and stilled for a moment to allow her time to adjust. He liked that, ‘next time’.
Christine’s heart hammered against her ribcage, and her laugh reverberated through the expanse of
her chest and into his, as though it were something that they truly shared as one cohesive being.
The boning of her corset dug into his fingertips as she relaxed into his secure hold on her.

“Ah, my apologies, Mlle. Daaé,” he murmured into her silky hair, appreciating the way that her
breath caught in the back of her throat at his words, and then began their ascent anew. They
reached their destination in what was likely no more than five minutes, Christine feeling as though
she were floating in the arms of Erik until he sat her gently down at the feet of Apollo, just under
his lyre.

“Quite the view, isn’t it?” she asked, staring down at the city below and then up to the full moon
and glittering stars in the sky.
And when Erik agreed, replying, “Exquisite,” he was not looking at nor did he mean the streets of
Paris or the heavens above, but his Christine bathed in the ethereal silvery glow of moonlight and
her eyes that caught and held the starlight overhead. He did this often, stared at her as though she
would disappear if he looked away just long enough for her to catch him and soften under his gaze.
He looked quickly away when it happened again.

“Do you think I’ll be alright?” she whispered, even though they both knew very well that she
would not be heard by anyone other than Erik here in the privacy and sanctuary of the roof. Worry
flashed in his eyes when she anxiously wrung her hands on her heavy cotton skirts.

“How do you mean, ange?” there it was again, that caring, tender lilt in his voice that wove its
delicate threads around her and cocooned her in soft silken sheets. Christine sighed, and her breath
was alive in the night air.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the lustrous moon even as she turned her head to face him. “My audition
tomorrow,” she began. “Do you think I’ll please the director?”

Erik barked out a laugh at that. “Please him? Christine, when you sing, the world stills on its axis
and angels fall from the heavens to their knees. There is only you,” he reassured her. Her eyes were
on him now, bearing a look of something akin to a plea. “It is a tasteless and blind fool of a man
that does not appreciate your grace– and I assure you, the director is neither.” Christine offered him
a shaky smile in return and he continued without so much as a second thought, hellbent on
consoling her. “You are art, mon ange, you are music; and why does one live if not for the
uninhibited force of art and gift of song?”

“You flatter me,” she breathed, held whole by the ardent look in his eye.

“I am not a man that says things for the sake of saying them, Christine,” he countered.

Dizzy with some animal impulse that she felt a stranger to, she glanced quickly down to Erik’s lips
and then back up again at his eyes that burned, that longed and craved and ached, knowing very
well now that she wore the same look in kind. She could not tell if she was breathless or panting;
and when he wetted his lips in some subconscious preparation for the inevitable, she all but threw
herself at him, surging forward and pulling him in by his lapels with a white-knuckled grip,
feverishly pressing her lips to his. Sharing her impulse and need, he surprised himself when he
mirrored her without restraint or a moment’s indecision, drawing her closer with an arm around her
slender waist and a hand that cupped the side of her face. This was music. This was epiphany.

Experimentally, she trailed her hands from the velvet lapels of his coat to his glossy hair and the
exposed skin of his jaw– liquid against him, moving and bending and so innately, instinctively
yielding to the gentleness of him that satiated the fire in her. And this was how they existed, always
arching and twining with each other as was fit; natural, with melody and rhythm and rhapsody. At
the first tentative licks of his tongue into her mouth, her skin and soul alike sang and wept,
returning the gesture with a hum against his lips. There wasn’t a nerve-ending in her body that
wasn’t on fire. When her nose bumped against his mask, she found that she didn’t much care
outside of her wish that it had been the skin of his cheek that she’d felt pressing against her.
Lightheaded with the world spinning around her, Christine pushed herself further against him with
an urgency that she had not known before Erik, needing him closer, feeling that he would never be
close enough.

Then, all at once, time resumed its regular shape and function and she pulled away, panting and
overwhelmed. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, chest heaving as she met the amber of his eyes again. “I
couldn’t give you a reason why I-”
His lips were on her again, sweeping her for a moment under the depths of his tide before he pulled
quickly away. A reassurance that came as a surprise to them both; impulsive, instinctive. Shaking
and still acting very much on autopilot, Erik smoothed a hand through her wild curls and over her
back, the thumb of the hand that still rested on the side of her face brushing gently over her cheek.

“You needn’t apologize,” and the last kiss he had to offer was pressed gently to her forehead before
he reluctantly released her, shakily dipping a hand into his pocket to retrieve the cigar and lighter
he’d had the foresight to bring, having already felt ungrounded and stressed when he returned
briefly to his home to dress. He trembled as he lit it and brought it to his kiss-swollen lips for a
drag.

Christine stood reeling and panting still behind him, arms outstretched around the empty air. With
a teetery sigh, she dropped her arms to her sides and smoothed her hands over her skirts. She’d
shared kisses with other men– chaste, impersonal kisses that were pleasant but vapid. This, she
felt– no, knew –was different. Her body buzzed and tingled in the aftermath, the embers of the fire
in her that had been set alight with Erik’s touch crackling and smoldering in the pit of her stomach.
She’d had a taste of the effect he had on her, the sparks that traveled up her skin with gentle
brushes of his fingers against her body, the smoke that seemed to burn her lungs when he entered
or left a room– but this… she had never been engulfed by the flame. Feeling like a burnt
candlewick, she collected herself enough to wander to his side. The world around her finally
stopped spinning when he looked down at her.

“I don’t see how you can smoke those things, they smell terrible,” she muttered, nose scrunching
up as the smoke was carried on the wind to her. Cold in the absence of his touch, she shakily
wrapped her thin cloak tightly around herself. “Hand that to me, I want to take a drag.”

Erik eyed her doubtfully, nearly snorting at the thought of her smoking. “You’d not like it,
Christine,” he warned her. His shaking had subsided.

“Oh, just give it to me,” she insisted. “Do you really think me such a prude?”

He chuckled and handed the cigar off to her with some reluctance, lest she become incensed and
storm back down to her quarters to sulk. “No, of course not, my dear,” he sighed. “Don’t take more
than one drag, you’ll ruin your voice for tomorrow otherwise.”

Christine nodded her understanding and agreement, lifting the nasty thing to her lips and sharply
inhaling. The second that she exhaled, a wheezing cough was forced forth from the bottoms of her
lungs, and she waved her hand desperately in front of her face to clear the smoke. “God in Heaven,
Erik,” she choked out, stifling another cough. “Those are vile– oh, God, they burn.” Erik’s worry
outweighed the hilarity of the situation, leading him to rest a concerned hand upon her shoulder,
which she reached for and held tightly to. “It’s alright, I’m alright,” she assured him once she had
stopped coughing and hastily handed the cigar back to him.

“Are you certain?” he asked, lacing their fingers and giving her hand a squeeze. She nodded her
affirmation and looked at him just as he took one final drag and reached behind them to extinguish
the offending cigar on the foot of Apollo.

“I’ll not do that again,” she laughed her promise and shook her head. Erik smiled warmly in return,
loosening his grip on her little hand before letting it fall from his entirely. Christine watched as he
reached in the pocket of his waistcoat for his pocket watch, pulling it out and frowning at the time
he was presented with.

“Come, it’s half past 11:00,” he directed her, extending an arm which she held fast to and hastily
began their descent.
Chapter End Notes

Sincerely hoping that this makes up for the stark absence of Erik in the last chapter
and that you enjoyed, as always, your feedback means the world to me <3
 Chapter 6
Chapter Summary

“Have you been honest with her about your…background?” Gerard leaned back in his
seat and eyed Erik, admittedly doubtful that he had been.

He nodded noncommittally and breathed a sigh, tracing the rim of his glass as he
spoke. “If you’re referring to my face, odd living arrangements and childhood trauma,
then yes, I have been,” a beat of silence passed. “She didn’t seem to mind, reassured
me that she didn’t, in fact. I believed her– still believe her. I’ve seen her twice since
and she’s sought out my company, she’s given me no reason to doubt her.” A long
stretch of silence fell over the two, Gerard studying Erik and tapping his foot under his
writing desk.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Erik couldn’t ignore the way his stomach was twisting itself in knots. He had to talk with Christine
about the events that had transpired on the roof sooner or later, but as they made their way back to
her quarters, he knew that neither of them were in the right frame of mind to do so. She was
lightheaded and hardly present and he was far too anxious to string two thoughts together, let alone
address what would likely bring a drastic change to their comfortable, safe arrangement. He knew
that if she rejected him now, he would be unable to take it in stride, and thus opted to resign
himself to the stillness of the sleeping world around them, making not a sound as he escorted her.
The silence that had enveloped them was only amplified by the sensation of her arms locked
around his bicep, binding her to him as they walked. He opened her door for her, following her into
the dark of her room and watching as she shed her cloak and tossed it unceremoniously onto her
mattress. Courteous as he always was, he reached for his lighter in his pocket and lit the candle on
her bedside table, setting her boots down by her vanity where he knew she kept them when she
kicked them off and started on removing the pins in her hair. The air was stagnant here, a stark
contrast to the electricity in the air on the roof.

Struggling for a moment with a pin that had gotten tangled in her curls, she heaved a sigh and
called out to him. “Erik?” He needed no further elaboration before he stole to her side and gently
worked it from her scalp. Without thinking, she leaned into the touch, whispering her thanks to
him.

Nothing short of drained, he leaned against the cool stones of the wall and slipped his hands into
his velvety pockets, watching as she brushed through her coffee-colored hair that fell in ringlets
over her shoulders. “Are you quite cross with me?” Christine’s voice was small when she broke the
silence. The long journey down had given her far too much time to think, and she had mistaken his
tired silence for hostility. Refusing to look at him, she fixed her gaze on her shaking hand, still
hovering over her comb that laid atop her vanity. She tentatively dropped her hand to her lap when
he sighed out her name.

“Christine,” he knelt by her side. “Look at me, please.” Taking in a tremulous sigh, she adhered to
his command and turned to look at him, though she avoided his gaze, looking instead to his hands
and focusing desperately on keeping the tears she felt pooling in her eyes from falling. “In the eye,
dear.” His patience was a virtue, she knew, taking the better half of a minute to gather the strength
to meet his eyes. Swallowing thickly, she did as she was told and met his gaze through her dark,
teary lashes. “Very good,” he murmured, taking her hands in his and pressing soothing kisses to
each of her individual fingertips, which were numb from the cold. Christine’s tears stung her
cheeks as they fell. “No, I’m not cross with you,” he finally affirmed. “Our moment on the roof
was lovely and we’ll talk about it later when your mind is clear and you’re rested.”

“I was impulsive and selfish, you needn’t lie to spare my feelings, Erik,” she sniffled, biting back
the sob that she felt rising in her throat, choking on it. Men, she had learned, were not kind; the
kindness of men came at the price of a service they deemed useful and her unquestioned
obedience– the only men in her life that she had known to be kind before Erik were her father and
Raoul, the former being long-dead. Trusting as she was of Erik and his good intentions, she
couldn’t help but doubt. Gingerly, he released her hands and brushed the tears that stained her face
away, feeling more than a little guilty.

“Please,” his voice trembled; he was far from ready to discuss their amorous exchange at length.
“You’ve not done anything wrong, I would not lie to you, Christine. We will discuss this later. Do
you understand?” Erik’s voice was firm, and the finality and conviction she found in the way his
hands steadily held her jaw forced her to drop the matter and nod her agreement. “Thank you. Now
rest, ange.”

“Will you stay with me?” she asked, terrified that if he left now, he’d never return, leaving her to
stew in her grief. “Just until I fall asleep?” Erik held his tongue, wanting to give in to impulse and
hold her tight to his chest on her little bed until her irregular breaths evened out and her muscles
relaxed beneath his touch.

Instead, he said, “I’m doubtful that that’s a good idea, Christine.” If he stayed now he would not be
able to leave, much less clear his head enough to form a truly critical thought. She opened her
mouth to object but shut it quickly again when he stood and made his way to the door. Just as he
reached for the handle, he turned on his heel to face her again, nonchalantly putting his offer on
the table. “We’ll talk before your audition tomorrow afternoon over– shall we say –breakfast?”

“Yes, I should like that,” she murmured, trying her best to give him a winning smile, though she
was only able to purse her lips and weakly lift one corner of her mouth.

“I’ll write to Gerard to inform him that you’re to be excused until the auditions are held,” he
began, catching the way that her face flushed with embarrassment as he spoke. “Don’t fret, he’ll
not know the fine details of our exchange,” he reassured her, quickly continuing when she nodded
her understanding and relaxed. “Try to sleep until I come to retrieve you, you need the rest.
Breakfast will be cooling on my table.” She brightened a little at the promise of visiting his home.
“Goodnight, Christine.”

“Goodnight, Erik.” And with that, he slipped through the door, leaving her to change back into her
nightclothes and find the sleep that she so desperately needed. He made it only a few strides down
before changing direction from his house to the manager’s office– to hell with the letter, he needed
a drink and a word of wisdom from his father and confidant. Properly exhausted, he began his
ascent to the trap-door Gerard had installed nearly two-and-a-half decades ago, trying to rub the
stubborn sleep from his eyes behind the porcelain of his mask as he went. There, when he pushed
through the mahogany floorboards and into the room, was M. Carriere, bent over papers with a
glass of brandy at his side and a pen in his hand. He didn’t have to look up to address Erik.

“I assume you’ve heard that management has fallen back to me?” he asked, signing something or
another on his desk. Erik unclasped his cloak from around his neck and draped it over the back of
the chair opposite of his father.

“Yes, and it’s a damn good thing,” he sighed. “M. Cholet and his haughty wife have been nothing
short of unbearable– an insult to the arts and music itself, to put it lightly.” Gerard snorted at that,
looking up at Erik as he shed his coat. “Do you have another glass?” he asked, gesturing with a
vague nod of his head to the bottle of brandy sitting on the shelf behind Gerard.

“To your right, feel free to help yourself,” he responded, watching as his son unscrewed the cap
and poured himself a glass, emptying it with one swig and a hiss as it burned the back of his throat.
“Rough night?”

“Some parts more so than others,” he replied indefinitely, pouring himself a second glass and
putting the bottle back where he found it. “I may have done something impulsive.”

“Good God, Erik, don’t tell me I have to make up another excuse for a man’s disappearance,”
Gerard groaned, squinting as though the light had suddenly become too bright and massaging his
temple with his free hand.

“No,” Erik began slowly. “I’ll have you know that this time, it’s a woman.” Carrier gawked. “Oh,
relax, I’m teasing,” he sighed, slumping back into the smooth leather of the chair and stroking his
chin thoughtfully. “Well, sort of, anyway.”

“Thank the Lord, I thought for certain that I’d be writing M. Cholet a letter apologizing for
Carlotta’s untimely demise,” he sighed, setting the pen down. “If you didn’t kill anyone– thank
you for not killing anyone, by the way –what did you do?” Erik chuckled at that, taking a sip of his
brandy, which sat warm and flat on his tongue.

“I may have become involved with a costume girl in your absence,” he admitted, gauging Gerard’s
reaction.

“And you got her pregnant?”

“God, no, I’d not defile her in that way. She’s an angel, Gerard.”

“In literal or metaphorical terms?”

“Both? She’s an earthly woman, but to be truthful, I’m not entirely convinced that she wasn’t sent
from above.”

“So you love her?”

“...Yes, though I’ve not said it aloud.”

“And you can’t have her?”

“See, I’m afraid that’s where my problem lies. I don’t know whether or not I can or should have her
and I’m anxious. We shared a… moment on the roof earlier tonight, and I find myself restless in its
implications.”

“Never took you for an exhibitionist, but I suppose-”

“I’m not, it was just a kiss, the details of which I’ve agreed to keep private.”

“And is her name to be kept private, too?”

“No, I let her know that I’d inform you that she’s to be excused from her obligations tomorrow– at
least until when the auditions have been scheduled.”

“So she sings?”

“Yes, she’s divine; a goddess, really.” Erik paused to take another sip of his brandy. Gerard
mirrored him, watching as he slicked a hand through his hair from over the rim of the glass.

“No wonder you like her so much, your praise isn’t easily given,” he observed. Erik wetted his lips
and nodded, looking up from his glass to Gerard. “You never told me her name.”

“Ah, right,” he muttered, resting his hands on his knees. “Her name is Christine.”

“Last name?”

“Daaé,” Erik quickly replied, and Gerard’s eyes flashed with recognition.

“Yes, I believe we’ve met briefly before, she was hired the day I was dismissed. Charming girl.”
Erik nodded his agreement, though he thought that it was a tremendous understatement.

“Very,” he sighed. “She’s witty– incredibly intelligent, certainly more so than she lets on. She’s
impressive in every aspect of her being, Gerard. Fiercely independent, courageous, kind,
understanding, accepting, attentive, gorgeous…” he trailed off, emptying his glass with one last
sip. “She could easily do better, settle down with a normal man and lead a normal life– it’d crush
me, in all honesty, but it’s what she deserves.”

“Have you been honest with her about your…background?” Gerard leaned back in his seat and
eyed Erik, admittedly doubtful that he had been.

He nodded noncommittally and breathed a sigh, tracing the rim of his glass as he spoke. “If you’re
referring to my face, odd living arrangements and childhood trauma, then yes, I have been,” a beat
of silence passed. “She didn’t seem to mind, reassured me that she didn’t, in fact. I believed her–
still believe her. I’ve seen her twice since and she’s sought out my company, she’s given me no
reason to doubt her.” A long stretch of silence fell over the two, Gerard studying Erik and tapping
his foot under his writing desk.

“I can’t tell you what to do, you’re grown, I’d be foolish to try to. I can only remind you to keep her
best interest in mind and to protect yourself. You’re my friend, I’d not like to see you hurt over
this.”

“And I’d not like to be hurt over this, believe me,” Erik replied dryly, leaning back in the chair and
drumming his fingers on the plush armrests. His jaw tensed when he broke eye-contact with
Gerard. “You loved my mother, yes?”

Carrier, taken aback, swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Yes, I loved her very much.”

Erik’s eyes scorched him when they fell on him again. “And did you treat her like the angel she
was?” Gerard squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, drawing in a lungful of air to steady himself. He
had not been overtly abusive by any means, but he had certainly been an asshole.

“Erik-”

“Don’t try to pacify me, I know more than you think I do; it won’t do you any good,” he thought
for a moment before continuing. “You don’t have to come clean about everything right this second,
I know you’re not ready to and I’ll not force you, but I think you owe it to me as much as you owe
 it to her to offer some transparency for a change.”

“...No, your mother deserved much better than what I was able to give her.” When Gerard finally
answered, Erik stood and gathered his discarded cloak and coat in hand, offering him a hum that
signified his appreciation for his honesty.

“Then I should certainly hope that comeliness and devotion are two sides of the same coin– it
would seem that we each only have one of the two to offer,” he muttered, shuffling towards the
door. “Goodnight, Gerard, and thank you for the chat.”

Chapter End Notes

Another chapter in the books, sincerely hoping you enjoyed and, as always, feedback
is more than welcome <3
 Chapter 7
Chapter Summary

“You’ve no idea how you bewitch me, do you?” neither of them processed the
staggering honesty of what he’d just said, the implications of it. They were one being,
blurred at the edges and blissfully numb to the world. Christine turned to her left,
reaching a hand over the side of the boat and through the mist, dipping the tips of her
slender fingers into the frigid waters below.

“I don’t,” she said simply, slowly retreating from the water and looking back up to
Erik, who seemed impossibly tall at the angle from which she sat. “In fairness, I
hardly think you realize how spellbound I am by you.”

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

It was 9:45 when Erik came to fetch Christine for breakfast, standing in her doorway and quietly
assessing the scene before him. The candle that he had lit on her bedside table the night before was
still burning, though it was now little more than a melting stub in its silver holder, illuminating her
soundly-sleeping form. The candlelight caught her hair splayed over her pillow, casting it in a
flickering coppery light, highlighting the rosy apples of her cheeks, the sloped bridge of her nose,
her full lips and long lashes. He thought, wistfully, that she looked like a painting he’d seen once;
of a nymph bathed in the golden rays of sunlight, limbs sprawled about the lake she laid afloat of
clad in a sheer, gauzy silk frock that clung wetly to her alabaster skin. She looked otherworldly,
she looked at peace.

Reluctant to wake her, angel that she was, he begrudgingly rapped twice on the wall to the left of
the door, hoping that it would be enough for her to spring out of bed and follow him down below.
His attempt was in vain. Her steady, slow breaths came faster for a moment, but ultimately
resumed very much as they had been. “Christine?” She stirred and buried her face into the soft
linen of her pillow, hooking her arms around it to pull it closer and emitting a low sound from the
back of her throat that told him she was as reluctant to wake as he was to wake her. Sighing from
the bottom of his lungs, he stepped tentatively towards her and knelt at her bedside, gingerly
tucking her wild curls behind her ear to reveal one side of her face to him. “Goodmorning,
Christine.”

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open and fell on Erik’s face, level with hers in his spot on the floor. Her
mind foggy with the remnants of her dream, she smiled warmly and turned to face him, reaching
out to cup his masked cheek. His hand caught her wrist before her fingers could meet the smooth
porcelain. “Goodmorning, Erik,” she whispered, voice rough with sleep.

“Come quickly before breakfast gets cold, we’ve much to discuss,” his voice was still quiet, a low
and comforting purr deep in his chest. Christine blinked once before she took the hands he
extended to her, allowing herself to be pulled gently out of the comfort of her bed and into the cool
air of her room, wobbling a little as she now stood on her own. “Are you quite alright?”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine,” she assured him, allowing herself a rather unladylike yawn as she raised her
arms above her head to stretch. “Merely struggling to wake.” He nodded his understanding, hands
folded behind his back as he watched her stretch the lingering sleep from her lithe body. “And
you? Are you alright?” She looked up at him expectantly, watching as he opened his mouth to
speak, though his words came at a delay.

“Is my unease that apparent?” Erik asked, reaching for something, anything to busy his hands. His
anxiety always came where he knew he couldn’t hide. Christine’s brows furrowed, and he found
that she had noticed his restless searching and given him her hands to hold. The weight of her
hands in his was grounding, a relief.

“No,” she assured him, shaking her head and snaking her hands further up his arms to draw him
closer. “No, not at all– I’d not have known if you’d not said as much. What’s troubling you?” Erik
had heard people describe looking at their loved ones and ‘melting’, but it was here, with
Christine’s dainty hands wrapped around his biceps and her bright, concerned eyes searching his
with an unadulterated concern that he finally understood the feeling. He felt rather than tasted the
sweetness of it, wanting to bottle that feeling to indulge in whenever possible. “Oh,” her brows
raised and her shoulders tensed, realization wrapping its thorny brambles around her stomach and
heart. “It’s me, isn’t it? It’s what happened last night on the roof…” He paused, unsure of how to
address the situation at hand. Her eyes never broke from his.

“You’re an exceptionally bright woman, I won’t insult you by lying to you,” he muttered, giving
her hands a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll discuss the matter over breakfast, now come, ange.”
Holding fast to the arm that was extended to her, they began their descent. The staircases were
dimly lit, Erik having ignited a few torches for Christine’s benefit on his way up to rouse her from
her fitful sleep.

“Here,” he stopped abruptly, peeling off his coat and wrapping it around her narrow shoulders. “It’s
drafty down here and I’ll not have you catch a cold before your audition– or any time after, for that
matter.” She flushed and gave him a soft smile, reaching for his hand and allowing him to lace
their fingers before continuing their trip down. They were both privately thankful that he had
foregone gloves. “You’ll forgive me for the state of my home, I’m afraid that it’s in disarray at
present. I underestimated the time it would take to prepare our meal and was rather pressed for time
when I came to wake you, fifteen minutes late, in fact. I hadn’t the time to clean before I left.”

“I don’t mind,” she breathed, keeping her eyes trained on him as they moved lower beneath the
opera house, where she found the shadows seemed to warp in some unprecedented dreamlike way
and meld into the light that they touched. “Truthfully, I’m just honored to finally see your home. I
don’t think I could bring myself to care whether or not it’s in a state.” She caught his honey-toned
eyes as he glanced quickly back to her.

“I only hope that the meal is worth it,” he sighed, his grip on her hand tightening as they rounded
the corner to the lake. Curious when she heard the lapping of water, she adjusted her pace so that
she trailed closer behind, her shoulder brushing against the back of his arm as they walked. He had
not told her what to expect and she found that she was ill-prepared for it. Christine’s breath caught
in her throat as it came into view, misty and glistening in the candlelight. Speechless, she turned to
her teacher, her plush lips parting in awe. “Is it not to your liking?” he asked nervously, letting go
of her hand and wandering to the dock to board the gondola.

“Erik, it’s remarkable,” she laughed breathlessly, unable to wipe the wistful smile from her face.
“To think that you get to wake up to this view every day I-” she sighed, her eyes roving from the
vast expanse of the lagoon to the flickering candlelight emanating from the ornate candelabras that
littered the space and back again. This place, she decided, wasn’t as opulent as the opera house
above, what, with its countless crystal chandeliers and sweeping staircases– but it was infinitely
more magical, more romantic and unearthly and intimate. “It’s stunning.” Erik was, for once,
thankful for his need for a mask as it kept her from seeing the furious blush that had spread over
his gnarled cheeks. Private, passionate, personal man that he was, his domain, this world below
was an extension of himself, and her praise struck a chord with him– so to speak.

Silently, he crooked a finger in her direction, beckoning her to join him on the gondola. She
obliged, taking his hands once more to steady herself as she stepped onto the boat, only releasing
them once she was comfortably seated. “Are you ready?” he asked, untethering the boat from the
dock and taking the oar that had previously laid forgotten against the gondola’s seats in hand.
Wonderstruck, Christine nodded, unable to tear her eyes from her mentor. He belonged everywhere
in the Palais Garnier, fitting seamlessly like some intricately woven thread in a quilt wherever she
found him, looking and feeling like he’d always been there– and she supposed he always had. But
here, where it seemed to her that he was truly in his element, she felt that he dictated the world
around him, was not only one with it, but was it. Whether it was illusion or attraction or something
else of the like or not, the lights dimmed and brightened with the minute changes in his expressions
and the air itself felt as though it, too, had a breath and being of its own, alive with the essence of
him. It was there again when the light hit him just so, that dizzying desire she’d felt on the roof
stirring within her– only now, the force of it was so deeply overwhelming and yet subdued that she
could barely breathe, let alone stand and crush his lips to hers as she so desperately wanted to. If he
was magnetic above, he was intoxicating below.

So engrossed in her own vision of Erik, she’d hardly noticed that he’d not looked away from her
once, either, seemingly enamored with her in the same way she was with him. “I’m a terribly
compulsive daydreamer, I’m sure you’ve noticed,” was that her voice or someone else’s? “Over the
past few months I’ve imagined where you lived, dreamed that you’d take me there and give me a
grand tour and have tea with me after each of our lessons, perhaps even read me poetry or whatever
book you’ve taken an interest in, fanciful as that may be. I’ve thought up all sorts of nonsense,
grand neighborhoods where each house is bigger than the last and yours is somehow the biggest,
little cabins deep in the woods and cottages in sunny meadows full of wildflowers, old abandoned
castles that you’d masterfully renovated, chateaus with chandeliers lining every hallway and a
botanical garden bigger than the house itself, cozy flats in little hidden nooks of the city where
you’d have a cat or two for me to pet and coo at during my visits– truly, I’ve thought of
everything,” yes, that was her voice, it had to be, those were her private daydreams. She’d scarcely
even registered that she’d spoken at all. “And yet, none of them hold a candle to this– to the reality
of it.”

“You’ve no idea how you bewitch me, do you?” neither of them processed the staggering honesty
of what he’d just said, the implications of it. They were one being, blurred at the edges and
blissfully numb to the world. Christine turned to her left, reaching a hand over the side of the boat
and through the mist, dipping the tips of her slender fingers into the frigid waters below.

“I don’t,” she said simply, slowly retreating from the water and looking back up to Erik, who
seemed impossibly tall at the angle from which she sat. “In fairness, I hardly think you realize how
spellbound I am by you.” He offered her the ghost of a smile at that, turning from her to gauge
where on the lake they were in relation to his home.

“I don’t,” his eyes were on her again and she gladly sank into them, held whole by their all-
encompassing warmth and depth. She pulled his tailcoat tighter around herself, as though it would
further envelope her in that heady sense of him. On the roof, there had been an undeniable,
insatiable sense of urgency. This was not that. Here, there was a tender, tranquil stillness in the air
and Christine found that the warmth in her felt less like the consumption of wildfire and more like
the comforting glow of candlelight. She was drowning in it, and instead of desperately gasping for
air where she knew she wouldn’t find it, she allowed herself to slip under the current and bask in
the sense of rapture and calm that filled her lungs. Yes, these waters were kinder to that steady
flame in her.

Vaguely aware that they’d docked, she gently took the hands that were offered to her and stepped
outside of the gondola, feet hitting the damp stones of what she would consider to be his porch, for
lack of a better description. While she knew that she’d commit every detail of this first trip below
to memory, she felt hazy, as if she were wandering through a dream. Floating outside of her body,
she let Erik help her through the front door and into the foyer where there laid an organ, a cozy lit
fireplace that stood before a loveseat and a chair, a fine Persian rug, and a lovely mahogany coffee
table and velvet chaise lounge. Hastily, he let go of her hands and plucked his coat from her
shoulders, hanging it on the coat rack by the door and rushing to tidy the stacks of parchment
strewn about the room.

“You use a quill?” she asked, roaming over to the organ and skimming over his compositions,
brushing her fingertips over what seemed to be a libretto, though she took note of the fact that it
looked very much to her that he’d sewn it together himself as it lacked the even stitching and fine
leather covers of the ones she had seen used at the opera house.

“Yes,” he turned to face her as he put himself to work folding a blanket that had previously laid in a
heap atop the chaise lounge. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“No, no not at all,” she laughed, taking the libretto in hand and opening it to skim over the
contents. She felt more grounded here in the house. “It’s just amusing.”

“How so?” he asked and turned back around, laying the blanket over the arm of the chaise lounge
and fluffing the pillows on it.

“It just seems so very…” she trailed off, sliding her fingers over a piece that caught her eye. ‘The
Point of No Return’. She’d come back to it later, perhaps even ask Erik to sing it with her as it
seemed to be a duet. “You, it’s fitting somehow. Well, that and I wager you’re the last man in Paris
to still use one. They went out of fashion about a decade ago, you know.” She kept flipping
through the score.

“Yes, so I heard. Modern pens and all that,” he sighed, coming up behind her. “Ah, so you’ve
found my Don Jaun.”

Christine smiled at that. “You wrote this?” She turned to face him, breath catching in her chest at
his close proximity to her. No more than a breath away from her, he nodded his affirmation and
brushed a wayward curl from out of her eyes. “I had figured as much, though I should have simply
known from the moment I saw it. You’re nothing short of a savant, it only makes sense that you’re
a composer, too.” She thought for a moment, looking up from the libretto and into the balmy
amber of his eyes. Carefully, he took the libretto from her– the pads of his fingers brushing against
her knuckles in the exchange –and laid it back on the organ where it belonged. “You’ve never
played your own works for me before.”

“I doubted that you’d be interested in hearing them,” he said nonchalantly, though the look that
flashed in his eyes betrayed that he very much wanted to play for her, to share that part of himself
with her on an intimate level.

“I should find myself greatly interested in hearing them.” Christine mirrored the soft smile that he
gave her. “You said you made breakfast?”

“So I did,” he murmured, leading her away from the foyer and into the dining room with a gentle
hand on the small of her back. Stepping through the doorway, she immediately recognized the
scent wafting to her from her childhood.
“You made cardamom buns,” much more animated as the realization dawned on her, she all but
scampered to the place Erik had set for her at the table and beamed up at him. He stood leaning
against the doorway, fondly watching as she went on. “My father used to make these every other
Saturday, it’s been years since I’ve had one,” she sighed, the corners of her eyes crinkling with her
grin.

“Yes, you told me as much,” Erik chuckled, hopelessly endeared by her enthusiasm. She swept
over to the head of the table, where he had set a place for himself, and pulled his chair out for him,
motioning for him to sit with a wave of her hand. “You know,” he began, ambling over to his chair,
“it is customary for the host to seat his guests.”

“Oh, hush,” she huffed, impatiently patting the lacquered armrests. “Just sit.” He stifled a laugh at
her bossiness but obliged, sitting as he was told and startling when she effortlessly slotted his chair
back into the table. “Heavens, Christine, you don’t particularly look like you have that kind of
strength.” He raised a brow under his mask at the noncommittal shrug she gave, seating herself to
his right.

“I was an only child raised on a farm, I hadn’t any brothers to aid my Papa when he needed a
helping hand.” Erik hummed a sound of acknowledgement and made a vague gesture for her to try
her cardamom bun. Wordlessly, she cut into it with the fork he’d left out for her and put it in her
mouth, where it sat warm and sweet on her tongue. “You used cinnamon,” she said, rather matter-
of-factly. “Papa used cinnamon, too.”

He swallowed a bite out of his own bun and nodded. “Another detail I recall you mentioning,” he
said coolly, as if it were so easy as remembering her name or hair color. Sitting to his right, she ate
for a moment more in their amiable silence, tenderly watching him between her bites.

And then the realization dawned on her. “That’s why you were in the kitchen last night,” she
laughed, setting down her utensils and leaning back in her chair to better observe his reaction to
being caught red-handed. “That’s why you needed cinnamon, to make these for me.” She’d not
have known that he was blushing had it not been for the red that spread to his ears.

Nearly choking on a bite of his cardamom bun, Erik cleared his throat and briefly covered his
mouth with his hand. “Yes, I’d intended to bring them up to you after your audition so that I may
congratulate you, but in light of last night’s…events, I thought this to be more fitting.” With that,
she was snapped rather abruptly back to reality.

“Right, last night,” she mumbled, heart beating in her throat.

“Yes,” he said carefully, eying her and anxiously biting the inside of his cheek. “I do hope you
understand why I must insist that we discuss what happened at length.”

Nervously drumming her fingers against her knee under the table, she glanced away from him to
the doorway. “Of course, my decisions were rash and should not be without consequence.”

“Consequence?” puzzled, Erik shook his head. “Christine, I don’t bring this to your attention to
chastise you. Surely you must know that?” He reached for her hand under the table, steadily
holding her gaze when she built up the courage to look back to him.

“Then whatever else for? I was terribly inconsiderate of what you wanted,” she whispered, voice
regretful.

Lord help him, his heart was beating out of his chest. “And if that’s exactly what I wanted?” The
breath was stolen from Erik’s lungs as he waited for her response, tightening his hold on her
fingers in some sort of a silent plea for her to say something, anything at all.

“I’m sorry I’m afraid I don’t understand,” her brows knitted together in confusion as she spoke,
trying desperately not to sound absurd lest she make a bigger fool of herself. “You- heaven forgive
me, I sound insane,” she laughed. “I couldn’t have heard you correctly, it almost sounded like you
said that you wanted to kiss me?” It was her turn to hold fast to his hand.

Erik wanted to get up and pace the room to alleviate some of the pressure building in his chest but
remained glued to his seat by Christine’s questioning eyes. He sighed, mouth dry and his free hand
clutching his woolen trousers in a white-knuckled grip. “You’ll forgive my impertinence,” taking
in a deep breath to stall and steady himself, he watched as she leaned in ever-so-slightly, trying to
ensure that she’d hear him correctly this time. “I did want to kiss you. I wanted very much to kiss
you and I’d be an egregious liar to say that it was the first time that I’d wanted to kiss you.” She
opened her mouth to speak but found that her voice was rendered useless in her surprise, stuck
somewhere at the back of her throat. “I told you last night that it was lovely and I meant it– God
help me, Christine, I enjoyed it.”

She blinked once. Once more. “Do pardon me, I need a moment,” she whispered, sliding out of her
chair and slipping her hand from his. He watched helplessly as she made her way through the
doorway of the dining room, walking with ambivalent steps to the foyer. Thinking better of simply
leaving her alone in a place that was so very new to her, he hesitantly followed her out to find her
sitting on the chaise lounge. Wordlessly and timidly, he sat with her, making certain that he kept
his respectable distance as she’d made it clear that she needed her space.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath?” he asked after some moments, gauging her reaction. She
shook her head.

“No, no, that’s alright,” she mumbled, tucking her chestnut curls behind her ears. “I don’t need to
be comforted, Erik. I very much enjoyed our moment on the roof, too, it’s just…”

“I understand that what I said was…overwhelming,” he said slowly, folding his hands in his lap.
“It happened in the heat of the moment and I understand that it was overwhelming to hear that I
desire you when you only wished to have me in such a way once.”

At that, she huffed out a laugh. “You’re right, it was overwhelming,” she turned to face him,
meeting his eyes and letting slip a small chuckle. “Forgive me, I really shouldn’t be laughing, it’s
terribly rude of me, it’s just that you couldn’t possibly have more thoroughly misinterpreted my
desires.”

“How do you mean?” Erik’s voice was apprehensive, anxious.

“Erik, you silly, silly man-”

“I hardly think I’m silly.” Christine shook her head at that, offering him a fond smile.

“If you’d let me finish…” she trailed off, waiting to be certain that he’d let her speak without
interruption. “I was going to say, I’m not overwhelmed because I don’t want you. It took me longer
to sort out than I care to admit, but I want you and I certainly want you beyond a singular heat-of-
the-moment kiss. I’m overwhelmed because you’ve felt so far out of reach and now you’ve
suddenly told me that you reciprocate what I feel for you when I thought with the utmost certainty
that there wasn’t so much as a faint chance that you felt the same.”

All Erik could do was watch her skeptically. Patient as she always was with him, Christine let him
process all she’d said, silent and waiting. “Oh,” was all that he managed to say.
 Timidly, she set one of her hands over his own in his lap. The look she gave him sent sparks
trailing up his skin from where her hand laid to the pit of his stomach, where the familiar desire he
felt for her began to stir. “Are you alright? I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you.”

“I’m more than alright,” he breathed, having the mind to clasp her hands between his in a warm
embrace. “You’ve not hurt me, Christine. I’m just having trouble believing you, believing that any
of what you’ve said is real– that this isn’t some lovely dream I’ll wake from at a moment’s notice.”

“Then I’ll have to show you that it’s real, won’t I?” she whispered back, scooting almost
imperceptibly closer. Erik flashed her a look, silently telling her that he would very much like to
find out what exactly that entailed.

“Yes, I suppose you could.”

“Can I kiss you again?” A moment of stillness and silence passed, Erik dazed and Christine
looking expectantly to him. He nodded and she slid in one fluid motion onto his lap, straddling him
and bracing her hands on his shaky shoulders. “Is this alright?” His hands found her hips, toying
nervously with the silk of her nightgown that had pooled around her thighs.

“Quite,” he breathed, asking her for permission to close the gap between them with a glance that
flickered down to her plush lips and then back up to her eyes.

“Please,” she whispered, reiterating her want by sliding her hands up to gently cup his jaw.
Silently, he wetted his lips and nodded, leaning in and tentatively brushing his lips against hers, a
ghost of the sincere kiss she sought out.

In stark contrast to the night before, he held her as though she was glass and she returned the favor,
fingertips just barely tracing his jaw and shoulders as he brushed their lips together once more. He
pulled back to look at her, making sure she wasn’t just some figment of his imagination only for
her to chase his lips and pull him into a proper kiss, unable to wait any longer to feel him against
her. While one of his hands went lower, caressing the outside of her exposed thigh, the other went
higher to tangle in her hair. It was her that broke the barrier between their lips, sliding her tongue
past his teeth and earning a low noise from him in return. Secure in her actions, she moved her
hands from his face, trailing them down to his chest where she felt his heart hammering against the
confines of his ribcage and around his back to draw him closer.

“Is this real enough?” she murmured against his lips, pulling away just enough to assess the state of
him. Chest heaving and eyes fogged over with something she couldn’t quite name, he pressed a
fervent kiss to her jaw.

“I’m afraid not,” he breathed, though she could tell he was teasing in the way his hands slid
confidently to her waist, his thumbs smoothing over her ribs just below the swell of her breasts.
Another ardent kiss, this time to the juncture of her neck. “Show me again.”

Chapter End Notes

Bit longer than usual and, as always, I hope you enjoyed and I appreciate your
feedback <3
 Chapter 8
Chapter Summary

She was the first to notice– as her cheek brushed against his –that his face was bare.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she began, burying her face into his chest,
more concerned with apologizing than the matter of his face at that particular moment.
“I made it across quite alright but slipped when I went to exit.”

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Christine vaguely remembered falling asleep in Erik’s foyer late in the evening after her audition as
he read to her, her head resting in his lap and his deft fingers stroking gingerly through her hair as
her eyelids grew heavy with the sound of his voice. The fireplace, she recalled, had been lit and
her friend– no, lover –had taken care to wrap a soft blanket around her, ever-mindful of her warmth
and comfort. The memory felt hazy now, like some extension of a daydream she’d had or a vision
sent to her from a past life, and she couldn’t help but wonder, however briefly, if she’d dreamt it.
The heady, lingering smell of him on her nightdress told her that no, it had, in fact, been real.

The world around her came into view in time with her slowly-opening eyes that struggled to adjust
to the flickering candlelight. Her room, she noticed, was tidier than she’d left it the day prior. The
novel that she’d been reading before her second trip down below was no longer sitting open on her
vanity, but tucked away on the shelf where it belonged, and the nightclothes she’d worn to
breakfast were stacked with the rest of her laundry. What caught her eye, however, was the folded
piece of parchment and singular red rose on her vanity, which were stacked neatly atop of the
cashmere scarf that Erik had leant her on their excursion to the roof. She thought it rather romantic
that he’d not taken it back with him, feeling that it was something akin to him offering her a piece
of his being to keep for herself. Holding tight to the heavy fleece blanket around her shoulders–
which she had only just realized he must have carried her back up in –she willed herself to rise,
tentatively reaching for and unfolding the letter as she seated herself at the ottoman before her
vanity.

Christine,

I sincerely hope that you slept well and that you enjoyed our evening together as much as I did. If I
am correct, you have the day off as there are no rehearsals scheduled– do visit me down below
should you feel so inclined. Yours,

-Erik
Was that what he was? Hers? She flushed at the thought.

Before she could fall too far into her musings, the door at the top of her stairs flew open and she
scrambled to shove the letter into her vanity drawers, knocking her comb to the ground in the
process as she just barely managed to conceal it before Meg bounded down the stairs. “God in
Heaven, it wouldn’t kill you to knock,” she yelped, heart pounding as she reeled from the rush of
nearly being discovered.

“And wait for you to answer the door? I’d sooner perish,” she replied, dramatically clutching at
her heart. “Come, get dressed, we’re going on a walk.” Christine shook her head, confused.

“I’m sorry, repeat that, I’ve just barely woken, Meg,” she muttered, massaging her temples. Fun as
Meg’s seemingly limitless energy could be, it was far from easy to accommodate this early in the
morning.

“I said get dressed,” Meg repeated, already rifling through Christine’s wardrobe to find her a dress.
“Having the whole of my life confined to the opera house is suffocating, I need fresh air and you’re
coming with me.” The bodice of Christine’s favorite tea-gown– the silky pale pink one with the
floral lace at the sleeves and hem –was thrust rather unceremoniously into her arms, followed
closely by the skirts.

Reluctantly pulling her nightdress over her head to don the bodice, Christine shot her friend an
annoyed look. “You know, it’d be nice if you’d warn me beforehand about these outings,” she
muttered, stepping into her skirts and buttoning them at her waist.

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” Meg asked, crossing her arms at the scoff Christine answered
her with. “Come, now, where’s your sense of spontaneity?”

“Nevermind that, would you be a dear and fetch my hairpins?” she mumbled, tightening and tying
the laces at her back with nimble fingers. Meg did as was asked of her, presenting them to
Christine with an open palm. “Thank you. Where are we walking to, anyway?”

“I don’t really know yet,” Meg sighed, “truthfully I just need the change of scenery and the
company.” Christine softened at that, flashing her friend a small smile as she took the final pin
from her, satisfied that her hair was at the very least presentable. “Shall I present you with your
shoes as well, my liege?”
“That’s quite alright,” she laughed, taking her skirts in hand and slipping into them herself. Meg,
impatient as ever, tapped her fingertips against Christine’s vanity, watching her as she looked
herself over in the mirror to be certain that she’d not forgotten anything.

“Now then,” Meg hummed, extending Christine an arm. “Shall we?”

“If you insist,” she teased, taking the arm that was offered to her and following Meg up the stairs,
through the doors to the opera house, and into the busy streets. The chill in the air that was often
characteristic of early-spring nipped at Christine’s cheeks and she rather wished that she’d have
had the foresight to bring a cloak or at the very least Erik’s scarf.

No sooner than they had begun their walk in earnest did Meg ambush Christine. “So, tell me about
the man in your life.” Floored, Christine stopped dead in her tracks, the couple walking behind
them shoving rather rudely past the pair, bumping against her shoulder and shooting a glare their
way.

“I beg your pardon?” she stammered, Meg ushering her forward with an insistent hand around her
wrist.

“Oh, please, Christine,” she rolled her eyes, amused by the shock on her friend’s face. “You smell
of cologne– a rather costly one, at that –you were shoving a letter in your drawer when I came to
bring you up, you have a rose laying on your vanity and you’re positively aglow with it. I mean,
I’ve seen you daydreaming and lost in your own little world before, but I’ve never seen you quite
like this.”

“What do you mean ‘like this’?” she shot back, anxious and indignant. Meg shook her head and
barked out a laugh.

“You keep looking around as though you’re expecting to see someone specific, you haven’t been
sneaking into my room at night, you can’t focus on anything to save your life– you think you’re
being discreet, but it’s really quite obvious.” Christine opened her mouth to object. “Hush, it’s
adorable. I mean you’ve either become taken with some new suitor or you have a stalker and I’d
like to know about it either way– though I doubt the second option, what, with how you’re
blushing right now.”

“I can’t keep anything from you, can I?” she sighed, shaking her head.
“No, you most certainly can’t,” Meg confirmed, glancing quickly behind them. “I thought you
knew that. Now, tell me about him, what’s he like?”

“Is there any way I can get you to drop the matter?”

“What, are you embarrassed of him?”

“Heavens, no, it’s just a very recent development– that and he’s a very private man and I intend to
respect that.”

Meg wracked her brain for a moment. Why did that sound so familiar? A private man in
Christine’s life? She vaguely remembered something or another about a guarded man… no, that
wasn’t the right word– something about anonymity. And then it dawned on her. “Good God,
Christine! You’re courting your teacher, aren’t you?” Christine gawked.

“How did you-”

“So you are!”

“No! No, of course not, that would be highly inappropriate!”

“Don’t lie to me, Christine, you’ve just admitted it!” While her friend looked horrified, Meg’s
energy and bubbly disposition spiked (if such a thing was even possible), and she looked as smug
as the day was long. “My God, imagine the scandal: Young Debutante Beds Vocal Coach ,” she
chortled, gripping Christine’s arm.

“Yes, you’re right, it would be terribly scandalous and that’s exactly why you’re not to say a
word,” Christine muttered, face hot despite the chill in the air. “And I haven’t bed him.”

“Yet,” Meg corrected her, far too chipper for Christine’s liking.

“Yes, thank you for that,” she mumbled, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Remind me to have a lock
installed on my door.”

“I’d have found out either way and we both know it, just as you know that your secret’s safe with
me,” Meg assured her, patting her shoulder.

“Is it now?” Christine couldn’t help but huff out a bitter laugh. “We both know you’re quite the
gossip.”

“Yes,” she agreed nonchalantly, “and we also both know that I have only the utmost concern for
your wellbeing and happiness and would not spread a rumor that could compromise that.”
Christine softened at that, feeling reassured.

“...Thank you. I know you don’t very much like to hold your tongue,” she murmured, casting Meg
a meaningful glance. “Do, however, know that if you tell a soul that there will be hell to pay. Not
so much for my sake but for his, I’ve only just recently learned his name, Meg– I mean it when I
say he’s a private man.”

“Heavens, eight months worth of tutelage and you’ve just learned his name?” she guffawed,
shooting Christine a concerned look.

“Yes and with sincerely good reason,” she sighed. “If you’d like I could tell you about his
personality, his interests and such. But if I refuse to disclose certain information, you’re to drop the
subject and not ask again.” Meg nodded, seemingly pleased with the compromise.

“Well, then,” she mumbled, deciding what to ask first. “Hobbies? Does he have any?”

At that, Christine laughed, the idea of Erik being a simpler man nothing short of absurd. “Yes,
he’s something of a renaissance man. He plays several instruments, he sings, he composes, he
says that he doesn’t bake often but from what I’ve seen he’s quite good at it, he’s interested in
architecture, he reads– I mean, really, Meg, he’s brilliant, something of a scholar.”

“It’s no wonder you like him, then. Is he romantic?”

“Very,” she sighed, unable to wipe the fanciful smile from her face.
“Do tell,” Meg urged. “I want details.”

“Yes, of course you do,” Christine rolled her eyes, though she was admittedly excited to share.
“Well, to start he calls me his angel. Oh! And last night, Meg! He’s so gentle, it’s really very
endearing. But anyway, last night, a few hours after my audition, he fetched me to spend the
evening with him and it was splendid. He brewed us a pot of tea and talked with me for hours on
end about music, about our upbringings and interests and all manner of pleasant nonsense– and, oh,
Meg, his voice is indescribable. It’s otherworldly, truly, utterly spellbinding. We curled up
together on the loveseat in front of his fireplace and I laid my head in his lap while he read poetry
to me, it was lovely.”

“Very romantic indeed,” Meg chirped. “Tell me more.”

“Well a few nights ago, I asked him to take me up to the roof– the view was magnificent, by the
way. We made it about halfway up before he took me in his arms and carried me the rest of the
way. He…I can’t describe it, Meg, but when he looks at me there’s this dizzying, undeniable
magnetism; it’s gravitational, I swear. He looked down at me and the sparse light from the moon
hit him just so and– my lack of restraint was terribly embarrassing, really –but I lunged forward
and kissed him. I’ll spare you the details but it was wonderful.” She flushed as she spoke,
remembering the way he pressed against her, his heart beating wildly against her palm, the feeling
of his hair twined between her fingers. She was quieter, more soft-spoken when she began again.
“He made me cardamom buns for breakfast yesterday, just the way Papa used to. He remembers
what I say better than I do, commits every little detail to memory and then acts as though it’s no
grand feat that he’s done so.”

Meg smiled and shook her head. “I’m happy for you, Christine, truly. If there’s anyone that
deserves such a doting man in her life, it’s you, and I’m glad that you’ve found one another.” She
returned Meg’s smile, touched by this rare show of sincerity from her.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “But enough about me, how have things been in the corps?”

“Oh! I’m glad you asked!” Meg squealed, her usual effervescent air returning to her. “I finally got
a dance solo for the upcoming production!”

“Much to the behest of Sorelli, I’m sure,” Christine chuckled. “But that’s wonderful, Meg! I’m
certain your mother is exceptionally proud.”

“Yes and she’s working me like a dog, I didn’t think it possible for her to be any more critical and
yet here we are,” she sighed, shaking her head.
“It’s because she wants you to excel– though you and I both know that she could certainly go about
it in a gentler way.”

“She most certainly could, my feet are still sore from last night’s rehearsal.”

Christine hardly registered that they’d looped back to the opera house until Meg slipped the front
doors, pulling her friend along behind her with a hand at her wrist. “Thank you for the walk,”
Christine laughed, admittedly surprised that she’d enjoyed herself as much as she had in light of
Meg’s borderline-interrogation. “I do believe that I have things to attend to, if you’ll excuse me.”

“The pleasure was mine, have fun with whatever it is you’ve got to do,” Meg called from over her
shoulder, already heading back towards the ballet dormitories.

—---------------------------

Christine felt like an absolute moron. She had made it down below and across the lake carefully
and unharmed– that was until her excitement at seeing Erik got the better of her and her foot caught
on the gondola’s edge as she exited, capsizing the boat and sending her careening into the icy
waters below. The panicked cry she gave out and the following splash sent him flying out the
door, running to her aid as she tried desperately to haul herself onto the dock, weighed down by her
soaked skirts. As quickly as he could, he fell to his knees before her on the dock, surely bruising
himself in the process, and reached for her, pulling her by her wrists from the lake and into the
safety of his arms.

She was the first to notice– as her cheek brushed against his –that his face was bare. “I’m sorry, I
didn’t mean to frighten you,” she began, burying her face into his chest, more concerned with
apologizing than the matter of his face at that particular moment. “I made it across quite alright
but slipped when I went to exit.”

The first real look that she got at his face was when he pulled away to assess the state of her,
thumbs smoothing gently over her cheekbones as he cupped her face with both hands, brows
furrowed in concern for her. She thought, as she drank him in, that he wasn’t half the revolting
creature of a man that he’d made himself out to be. The worst of his deformity was confined to the
cheek and forehead of one side of his face, though the skin seemed to be patchy and warped
everywhere that the mask had previously hidden and his nose skewed to the left– and she didn’t
mind. She didn’t mind one bit, and even found herself relieved to finally look at him in his
entirety. When her breath caught in her throat it wasn’t so much at the actual contents of what had
been lying just under the mask all this time, but rather at the shock that she was seeing it at all.
“It’s alright, I’m not angry with you,” he murmured, helping her to her feet and brushing her wet
curls from her face with a gentle hand. “Are you quite alright?” Shivering, she nodded and
reached up to trace her fingers along the gnarled skin of his bare cheek, silently letting him know
that she saw him. His face fell. On instinct, trying desperately to comfort him, she went to cup his
cheek with her other hand but thought better of it when he immediately tensed, catching her wrist
and pulling her away from his face. “I’ve forgotten my mask inside, haven’t I?” The silence that
followed spoke for itself.

“Yes, it would seem so,” she broke the silence with a gentle lilt in her voice and tried to wrap him
in a reassuring embrace, though it was proving difficult as she shook like a leaf in her sopping
dress. The fact that there were more pressing matters at hand than hiding his face and sending her
back above only added insult to injury, backing him into a corner and keeping him pinned there.
He nodded, clearing his throat and blinking away the humiliated tears that had pooled in his eyes.
Under different circumstances, he would have melted under her concerned gaze– but as he saw it
now, he thought, however incorrectly, that it reeked of pity.

“Right then,” the tremor in his voice was evident as he led her swiftly into the warmth of the
house. “I’ll draw you a bath, stay here by the fire where it’s warm and help yourself to a blanket.”
Regrettably, he was far from able to run from the situation, what, with the drenched, trembling girl
in his foyer. Christine, capable and independent as she was, didn’t often need him. She coveted
him, sought out his comfort, liked it when he looked after her, but did not need him to do so– and
this change of pace was at a wildly inopportune time. He didn’t remember where he’d set his
mask, nor did he have the time to look for it as he busied himself with preparing the bath for his
lover– though he was doubtful that she’d want to associate herself with him in such a way after
this. God– he thought –was a sadist. There was no other explanation as to why he’d be given a
taste of heaven only for it to be violently yanked from his grasp in one moment of necessary
impulse and instinct.

Choking on the sob that sat stubbornly at the back of his throat, he gathered himself enough to
retrieve Christine. It was best that she divest herself of her soaked clothes now rather than later.
Wordlessly for fear that he’d fully lose his control over himself and begin to cry if he uttered even
one word, he stumbled into the foyer and helped her again to her feet from the loveseat by the fire,
guiding her through the halls and into the bathroom. He was almost in as much of a state as she
was, maskless and teary-eyes with mussed hair and a trembling lip.

“Erik, wait,” she called out to him just as he moved to leave, stopping him dead in his tracks. “Can
you help me with my laces? I don’t very well think that I can manage them on my own like this.”
God help him, he was going to weep in front of her.

Hardly able to breathe without crying, he allowed himself a moment to suck in a slow lungful of
air, steeling himself back to the best of his abilities. Quiet save for the occasional sniffle, he
nodded and came up behind her, though he refrained from touching her, having thoroughly
convinced himself that she’d never allow him to do so ever again after what she’d seen. “Are you
certain you want my assistance?” his voice was shaking almost as much as she was.

“Quite,” she hummed, trying to steady herself for his benefit. “You do know that this doesn’t
change anything? That I still feel very much the same for you?”

“Don’t lie to me, Christine, it’s cruel,” he muttered, wiping the tear that had slipped down his
cheek with the back of his hand before beginning on her laces as she’d asked of him.

“I’d not lie to you, love,” she replied firmly in spite of her vulnerable state, relieved to feel the
warmth of his hands against her freezing body. Her words seemed to have the desired effect as he
softened ever so slightly, the almost imperceptible shake in his hands subsiding. He tried to recall
a time when she’d used a term of endearment and found that he couldn’t. He wanted so badly to
believe her, to trust that she meant what she said and would act as such, and the implications of her
words nudged him in the right direction.

“Then it would seem that you’re lying to yourself,” he refuted her, still feeling the need to guard
himself. Gerard had warned him to protect himself, and as much as he wished that he didn’t have
to, he heeded his advice without question. She turned to face him once her laces were undone,
shakily extending her arms to him. He understood her silent request and obliged, pulling her
bodice down and off of her arms. Between the stubbornness of the wet fabric that clung to her and
her rather violent shivering, he doubted that she’d be able to strip on her own. He watched for a
moment as she struggled with her skirts, usually nimble fingers slipping from the spots she needed
them and sticking to the places they shouldn’t have been. Her mounting frustration was the push
he needed to help her. “Allow me,” his voice came out gruff, a far cry from the gentleness in his
touch.

“Thank you,” she whispered, looking gratefully up at him with her big doe-eyes. He nodded,
feeling far too exposed under her gaze in spite of the fact that he was the one stripping her bare. “I
meant what I said,” she spoke up again as he undid the button at her waistline and unzipped her
skirts, trying to make him understand, “about this not changing anything between us. I don’t care
how you look, Erik. Anything of yours is beautiful to me.” He felt more conflicted than anything
else when she shakily brushed the stray tear on his cheek away. Standing now in just her chemise,
she reached for his hands. When she struggled to properly take hold of them, he clasped them in
between his, tentatively dropping his forehead against hers.

“You should get in the bath, ange, you’re freezing and you’ll catch your death just standing here
soaked to the skin,” he mumbled, deciding that arguing with her would only escalate things. He
hesitated before he spoke again. “There’s a change of clothes for you on the counter.” Not giving
her time to respond, he slipped through the door and out into the foyer, terrified of what would
happen when she emerged.
Chapter End Notes

I re-wrote this chapter like six times before I was decently happy with it, like there
were several different plot-points I explored and then scrapped while writing this but
that's neither here nor there. As always I greatly appreciate your feedback and hope
you enjoyed <3
 Chapter 9
Chapter Summary

“You’re alright,” she murmured, finally allowing herself to rest her head against his
shoulder and close her eyes, every bit as exhausted as he was, though she would not
complain. She was her father’s daughter through and through, and she had never
known him to be anything less than selfless. “You have me whether you want me or
not.” And he did, as he was every bit a part of her as she was of him. He had touched
a part of her soul that she could hardly even fathom the existence of– this thing that
they shared was tangible and had a life of its own, it breathed and it sang and it wept;
an entity in and of itself. As free as they were to break from one another, this ardent
being borne of their connection would not simply die with their separation.

Chapter Notes

Literally just a whole chapter of hurt/comfort and fluff for you fine folk

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Christine’s absence was suffocating. The stagnant air, the incessant ticking of the grandfather
clock, and Erik’s inability to settle down all highlighted the vacant state of the room, and it was
maddening. He had thought, rather foolishly, that he would fare better and clear his mind while she
bathed and let him be, but that theory had proven itself incorrect not even fifteen minutes into her
soak. Without her there in the flesh to talk him down, he was free to make up all manner of
nonsense about what would happen when she returned– and as he saw it, there was very simply no
room for this to end well. Nothing had ever ended particularly well for him. In the end, all he had
the mind to do was slip back into his mask and try as best as he could to keep himself from crying.

Disoriented and distressed as he was, he hardly noticed when Christine rapped gently at the
doorway, wanting to make certain that he knew she was there before she came any closer. Mild-
mannered as he was, she knew better than to poke the bear. “Erik?” her voice was soft. He wished
it wasn’t. He wished that she’d scream obscenities at him and go running back to the above-
world. It is harder to grieve the loss of someone that is kind– nevermind the absolute bleeding-
heart of a woman that Christine was.

“What do you want?” there was no venom in his voice, he held no contempt for her and figured
that he couldn’t bring himself to have any even if he tried. He was exhausted and it cut through his
demeanor; it was in his tired, sunken eyes and slumped posture, in the way his voice cracked, the
locks of his hair that fell over his masked forehead. Tentatively, she slipped through the doorway,
revealing herself to his questioning eyes. His silken robe was much too big for her, dragging on the
floor just past her ankles and swallowing her little hands as she stood fidgeting on the Persian rug
that laid soft beneath her bare feet.

There was a tense stretch of silence that had fallen over them, Christine nervously wringing her
hands over her middle and Erik watching her with a tense jaw and his heart beating in his throat.
She didn’t meet his eyes when she spoke again. “I thought that I might sit with you, if that’s
alright?” her voice was raised only a hair above a whisper. He considered her for a moment and
nodded, expecting her to take her place on the loveseat to the left of his chair, warming herself by
the fire and ultimately paying him no mind– and then she timidly crossed the room to him and sat
slowly at his feet, looking up at him with pleading eyes. Her soft gaze silently begged him to
believe her, to trust her– and, oh , how he wanted to.

“Christine-” he was cut off by a shake of her head, knowing that he was going to protest the
moment he spoke.

“No,” she said, taking one of his hands and twining their fingers together. “No, I want to be right
here with you, you’ll not push me away again.” Want. His eyes broke away from hers, unable to
stomach the compassion she offered him. Want. He felt rather like a starving man rejecting a
decadent feast. Want.

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Don’t be,” she hushed him, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze that he mirrored with no lack of
hesitation. He could feel the impending sob rising in his chest, working its way to his throat where
he was determined to keep it. He would not cry, not here. “You needn’t apologize, you needn’t
speak. I’m here.” Doubt in his eyes, then. “I’m here,” she repeated, firmer this time. Satisfied
that she’d said everything that could be said at that particular moment, she tentatively dropped her
head to rest in his lap and turned on her hip, sitting sideways at his feet. The moment that she gave
his hand a second comforting squeeze was the moment that his resolve broke, and he at last began
to cry in earnest.

Bent over her and clutching her to his legs, he all but wept into her hair, listening to her hushed
words of consolation and encouragement to let go– to trust that she was there and would continue
to be there. She did not mind when his fingers dug into her shoulder; she did not mind when his
hand trembled in hers. The cries that he gave with the sobs that wracked his body were not loud,
nor were they quiet, and Christine reached with her free hand to rub his back. When she told him
that she’d not leave him, the words were a sacred oath on her lips, and, God help him, he believed
her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried in front of someone– perhaps Gerard when he
was a boy, though he doubted that he had ever been quite so vulnerable in his life. The life he’d
led had not extended him many opportunities for true, genuine intimacy; and as such, the concept
of being comforted in times of need felt completely foreign to him. As though a floodgate had
been opened, his body expelled every sob that had caught in his throat or mounted in his chest over
the past however many hours in one fell swoop, saturating him with them and then leaving him
reeling. After the initial first wave of his unabashed lamenting subsided, there were no new wails
or rasping cries for him to give. He had bled himself dry.

Erik was brought slowly down from his outburst by Christine; the smell of her that enveloped him
as he laid lax atop of her, and the soft shushing sounds she made to soothe him, her nimble fingers
that traced patterns into his back. She was always so very patient with him, letting him process
events at his own pace and not forcing him to answer to her; she could not weather the storm for
him, but she could weather it at his side– she knew this and she applied the knowledge, intending
to do so whenever necessary. At the last small sniffle he gave, she nudged at his chest with the
hand that had previously been at his back, silently asking him to sit up.

When he did, she timidly reached up to his face and braced her fingers at the edge of his mask,
allotting him the opportunity to stop her before she lifted it. He allowed her to remove it, curiosity
and fatigue keeping any protests he might have had at bay. His brows furrowed in confusion as she
set it down gently on the floor beside them, casting a tender look his way. No one had ever looked
at him like that– not bare-faced, anyway, and he found it to be immensely curious. Snaking her
dainty hands up to his arms, she pulled him in one fluid motion onto the floor with her by his
shirtsleeves, shifting immediately to sit between his thighs and wrapping her lithe legs around his
waist. Her movements, though sudden, were gentle– and he found that he quite liked being
enveloped by her, soothed and grounded by the weight of her against him. Softly and slowly, she
kissed away the tears that had clung to his skin under the mask and draped her arms around his
neck, handling him as though he were made of the same china as the tea-set they’d used the night
before. His breath having returned to normal, she lifted her fingers at the base of his skull to card
through his hair and craned her neck to press a soothing kiss to the tip of his nose.

“You’re alright,” she murmured, finally allowing herself to rest her head against his shoulder and
close her eyes, every bit as exhausted as he was, though she would not complain. She was her
father’s daughter through and through, and she had never known him to be anything less than
selfless. “You have me whether you want me or not.” And he did, as he was every bit a part of her
as she was of him. He had touched a part of her soul that she could hardly even fathom the
existence of– this thing that they shared was tangible and had a life of its own, it breathed and it
sang and it wept; an entity in and of itself. As free as they were to break from one another, this
ardent being borne of their connection would not simply die with their separation.

When he returned to himself enough to lean back against the chair he’d previously sat at and hold
her to his heart, she sank further down his chest, head resting under his chin as he languidly stroked
her back. “Are you quite warm enough?” he finally whispered, voice hoarse. She nodded,
humming contentedly as his fingers passed over the knobs of her spine through his robe. “Are you
certain? Your hands are cold and I can feel the gooseflesh on your arms, ange.” Bit by bit, his
strength and sentience returned to him, allowing him to tend to her needs as she had done for him.

“I’ll be alright,” she assured him, appreciating the feeling of his fingers smoothing through her
damp curls. Feeling that she may doze off at any moment, she planted a soft kiss against his jaw
and hoped that he’d drop the matter. He did not.
“I’m certain you will be, but that’s not what I asked, my love,” he murmured, dropping his head to
press a lazy kiss to her forehead. She liked that, him calling her his love. She felt the vibrations of
his voice rumble through his chest when he spoke again. “You’re still freezing, sit up so that I may
put the kettle on for tea.”

“No,” she shook her head and tightened her arms around his neck, determined to stay wrapped
around him. He frowned. “I am quite comfortable where I am. I’ll warm up eventually, Erik.”

“Christine-”

“I told you that I would be fine,” she mumbled, too tired and cozy to even think about moving. “I
have no intention of getting up, I very much like where I am right now.” The exasperated sigh that
left him inspired a chuckle in her.

“You’re even more stubborn than I am.”

“I hardly think that’s possible,” she shot back, not missing a beat. His fingers in her hair again–
yes, she’d certainly fall asleep at any moment.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he murmured, standing at once and supporting her weight with an arm
around her legs. She yelped as the sudden movement displaced her arms from around his neck,
tightening her thighs around his waist in an effort to hold herself steady in his arms. “I’m brewing
you tea whether you like it very well or not. Now, would you like chamomile or mint?” He set her
down on the loveseat before the fire with no lack of protest from her, clinging to him with heels
that dug into his sides and arms that locked stubbornly around his neck, complaining the whole
time. She finally relented when he firmly pressed her into the seat, one hand splayed across her
sternum to keep her there. “I redact my earlier statement, you most certainly are more stubborn
than me,” he panted.

Her chest heaved with her fruitless efforts as she looked up at him, one leg still pinned at his hip
with his steady hand. “I still very much doubt that,” she breathed, making a move to pull him
down onto the loveseat with her. He quickly dodged it and dropped her leg, wandering to the
chaise lounge to fetch her a blanket.

“Chamomile or mint, Christine?” he asked again, making his way back to her and gesturing for her
to lean forward. She obliged without having to ask what the vague wave of his hand meant. The
blanket was wrapped then snugly around her shoulders, his hands lingering at her arms for a
moment longer than necessary. Kneeling before her so that he was level with her eyes, Erik
brushed her drying hair from her face and tentatively dropped a kiss to her cheek, which she
hummed her appreciation for.

A glance cast quickly down to his lips and she was on him, chasing the kiss that she’d wanted from
him since that morning. Short and sweet, he pulled away as quickly as she had leaned in, still
patiently awaiting her response. She would have to get her kiss later. “Chamomile.” At that, he
stood and left her alone in the foyer. Admittedly, she was relieved to be on the receiving end of his
affection and care, rattled as she was after falling in the lake; though she would have preferred if
he’d just continued holding her as he had been.

Sufficiently exhausted, she’d began to drift off again by the time he had finished brewing her tea,
bringing it out and presenting it to her in the finest china he owned, eager to impress her.
“Christine?” he nudged her shoulder, watching as she stirred.

“Hmm?” she hummed, slowly opening her eyes and taking him in. “Right, my tea. Thank you,”
she whispered, trying to blink the sleep from her eyes as it had seemed to make the world around
her blurry. The sleepy smile she offered him brought back that melting feeling he’d only ever
experienced with her, and he set the cup gently in her hands.

“Is there anything else I can fetch for you, mon ange?” The endearment felt different rolling off
his tongue now than it had when they were merely student and teacher, more tender and fervent.
She decided that she quite liked it.

“No, I don’t believe so,” she murmured, taking a sip of her tea. A brief pause, then, Christine
looking as though she were considering something or another. “I would very much like it if you
would sit with me.” He nodded, seemingly ready to adhere to her request, but disappeared from
her view, leaving her confused. “Where are you going?”

When he came back it was with a blanket of his own draped over his shoulders. She stifled a laugh
when he sat in the chair beside her, amused that this is what he’d thought she meant. “I don’t
understand what is so very entertaining,” he muttered, watching as she tried desperately to wipe the
smirk from her face. “What?” at that, she giggled, shaking her head and taking a quick sip of her
tea.

“Erik, love,” she snorted, watching as he softened at the endearment, “come, leave your blanket in
the chair.” His brow creased at the request.

“Why?”
“Because I had rather hoped that you would hold me, now leave the blanket and come here,” she
explained, blushing at her own admission and thoroughly charmed by his confusion. She scooted
to make room for him when he made a small sound of realization and hurried to heed her
invitation, shrugging out of his blanket and rising to his feet. Endearing as his inhibitions could be,
she very much looked forward to the day that he’d feel comfortable enough to take her in his arms
on his own accord.

“Are you sure this is alright?” he asked quietly, his hand hovering over her shoulder as he took his
seat next to her. While he had returned to himself in some aspects since his unmasking, he still
grappled with his confidence in her attraction to him, some little voice at the back of his head
telling him that she couldn’t possibly be anything other than revolted by him. Gratefully, she was
an exceptionally affectionate and reassuring lover.

“Yes, I did ask you for it, after all,” she whispered, moving to wrap the blanket around him so that
they could share it. Without thinking, she set her cup down at her feet to free her hands– there was
no available coffee table. He let slip a contented hum when she nestled into the space between his
shoulder and chest, looking up at him with a gentle smile as the soft cotton of his shirtsleeves
rubbed against her cheek. “I still very much want you, I did tell you that your face hasn’t changed
anything,” came her voice again, soft and quiet. Stoic as he often tried to be, she read him like a
book. He finally wrapped his arms around her when she craned her neck to press a chaste kiss to
his lips, feeling more confident that she truly wanted this for herself.

There was no need to fill the silence that fell over them with light-hearted banter or whispered
reassurances when they broke from one another. Erik no longer felt anxious, Christine no longer
unmoored, and it was expressed through the uninhibited ardor and reverence of their eyes as they
unabashedly roved over one another. There are intimate silences and there are comfortable
silences, and they both knew that this was the former. Without meaning to, they had matched each
other’s breaths, chests rising and falling in tandem with one another as they committed every detail
of the moment they shared to memory, content to simply be – a rare state for the both of them. She
only felt compelled to find her voice when his fingers ventured to lightly trace the contours of her
jaw, that look of religion she had become so well acquainted with in his eye again.

“It’s silly, what I’m about to say,” she began, sinking back down into Erik’s arms to lay her head
against the expanse of his chest. “My father told me stories often in my childhood, everything
from fables and fairytales to anecdotes from his life to pass on some piece of his wisdom to me–
but the one that’s continued to resonate with me is that of the Angel of Music. He said– and of
course he said this, I never did see him more alive than when he was playing his violin –but he told
me that every great musician is visited at least once in their life by an Angel of Music.” Doting
lover he was, he slotted his fingers between hers and stroked her hair while she spoke, listening
intently as he always did. He waited patiently for her to continue when she paused to gather
herself, always emotional in one way or another where her father was involved. “He said to me on
his deathbed that he would send me the Angel of Music when he passed, and as much as I know
that it was something said to comfort a distraught young girl, I’ve not let go of it. I carry that hope
that he will with me, I’ve never quite lost faith that he would, even as I’ve matured and grown to
understand that such things are ultimately nonsensical.”

“Your father has looked after you well, Christine,” Erik murmured, pausing to press a comforting
kiss to her hand. “I am quite certain that he’s sent you your Angel of Music.”

“Yes, I am too,” she hummed, flexing her fingers around his. “I met you, that would seem to be
the only convincing I need.”

He chuckled at that. “Mlle. Daaé, do you mean to insinuate that you believe me to be your Angel
of Music?”

She nestled further into his chest, delighting in the satisfied sound that slid from his throat, the way
his hand dropped from her curls to rub her back. “Naturally,” she breathed a laugh of her own, so
terribly tired and so very content.

“You are a remarkably charming girl, you know?” he murmured, smiling softly as she craned her
neck and nosed at the column of his neck.

She answered his question with a little yawn, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. “That was deeply
unladylike, I apologize.”

“You’ve no need to apologize,” he sighed, thinking for a moment before he continued. “Perhaps
it’s time I take you above?” Her brow creased at that, confused and displeased with the suggestion.

“Why?”

“So that you may properly sleep, you’ve had an eventful day and need the rest, darling,” he replied,
watching as she pulled away just enough to look him in the eye. Darling. He’d never called her
that before, and she found herself to be fond of it, if the butterflies in her stomach and red in her
cheeks were anything to go off of. A hand brushed her unruly curls from her face, then. His
amber eyes searched her, taking her in and silently questioning her. “What are you thinking,
Christine?”

Her mouth went dry. She knew very well what she wanted and felt scandalized at asking for it,
which she did in spite of herself. “I- well, I had rather hoped-” she stopped herself, feeling that she
had been too brazen. While ‘hope’ had been an accurate description, it made her feel rather
licentious. “I…I had thought it might be easier for me to stay the night,” she managed to choke
out, not registering that she’d taken to fidgeting with the buttons of Erik’s waistcoat to soothe her
nerves. While her intentions were wholly innocent and innocuous, the embarrassment that she felt
at asking was immeasurable. “You know, in light of my tiredness– I hardly think I’m in a well
enough state to make the trek up.” It was laughable that she was so anxious about asking to sleep
over, what, with how forward she’d been up to that point.

“I hardly think that’s an issue when I intend to carry you.”

“Well, I haven’t any wish to impose.”

“It’s no imposition, I’d bring the sun down from the sky and into your open palms if you so wished
me to.”

“Then let it be known that I do not wish for you to carry me.”

“Christine-”

“Erik, I do not want to spend the night alone, I’m rattled after falling in the lake, and I miss you
when you are not there.”

Taken aback, his breath caught in his throat. “And I miss you when you are not there,” he
mumbled, feeling the need to return the sentiment before continuing. “I suppose that I have a nice
enough guest room for your use-”

“Guest room?”

He blinked once. Once more. “Forgive me, I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“I-” she swallowed the lump in her throat, silently praying that she wasn’t being too bold in her
request. “You’ll forgive me for being so forward, but I had rather hoped that we’d share a bed.”
The room fell silent once more, and she knew very well that he could hear the way her heart was
hammering against her ribcage. Christine preferred to be subtle whenever possible, but it had
seemed that she often had to be blatant where Erik was concerned– and she hadn’t minded until
now. He eyed her skeptically for a moment, hardly believing that she could possibly want to be so
close to him for so long, least of all while she slept. “It is of course entirely fair of you to object,
 innocent as my intentions are, I can’t help but feel impudent and immodest in asking. I’d not fault
you for telling me to return-”

“No, no, that sounds lovely,” he breathed, tucking her chestnut curls behind her ear. “I- forgive
me, I had hardly thought that you would want to have that kind of time with me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” When he opened his mouth to answer, she knew better than to allow him to
speak, instead pulling him down to capture his lips in a kiss. It worked, as he forgot all that he
might have said and returned the action, tangling a hand in her hair and slipping his tongue past her
teeth. She liked this, that side of him that was more sure of himself, more fervent and forward.

He pulled away, hand lingering in her curls as he looked down at her. “I’ll set to making the bed.”

Chapter End Notes

As always I sincerely hope that you enjoyed and immensely appreciate your feedback
<3
 Chapter 10
Chapter Summary

“You are many things to me, Christine, and that is inclusive of my muse,” he replied,
the blasé quality of his voice and posture meant to compensate for the flush in his
cheeks. A moment passed before she realized just what exactly he was alluding to.

“I am your muse? I inspired your nocturne?” Accustomed as she had become to

Erik’s praise, the gift of his music and the inspiration he took in her were new– to her,
anyway. Neither of their voices had traveled very far above a whisper since he had
shown her to his bedroom the night before, soft-spoken and treading lightly in the new
territory of it all. “I hardly…it was ethereal, Erik.”

Chapter Notes

A little plot and a shit ton of fluff for y'all

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Meg Giry was, beyond the shadow of a doubt, a world-class schemer. As such, when she heard
through her mother that Christine had been cast for the lead role of Countess in the upcoming
production of Il Muto even before Christine herself had, she set to making exceptionally elaborate
celebration plans, employing the help of one Vicomte Raoul De Chagny.

“A masquerade ball?” tucked away in an empty corner of the opera house at dawn and under the
cover of looming shadows, Raoul crossed his arms and looked down at Meg Giry, who stood an
arm’s-length away from him clad in her ivory leotard and tulle skirt. He didn’t very well
understand why she’d insisted on being in the dark, as there were plenty of well-lit and equally
empty spaces in the opera house at present, but followed her here all the same. She had, after all,
been terribly insistent, tugging at his sleeve and complaining that he was walking much too slow
for her liking the whole way there.

“Yes, I thought that’d be a grand way to celebrate Christine’s triumph,” she replied plainly,
mirroring the man in front of her and crossing her arms. He looked skyward with pursed lips,
furrowing his brows and tapping the toe of his boot on the tiled floor below as he mentally filed
through dates and other such logistical matters, determining whether or not her suggestion was
even doable.
Meg chewed at the corner of her lip, impatient to hear his reply. “Well, when are they announcing
her debut?” he tilted his head, meeting Meg’s eyes once more.

“Today, I believe,” she replied, turning her head to scan the hall, making certain that no one else
was there to listen, lest she ruin the surprise. “We of course can’t organize an event in that time,
but, with some luck, we may be able to schedule it for the end of next week.” She suspected that
the Vicomte shared her same proclivity for impulsivity and excitement and very well intended to
play into that to arrange the celebration her dear friend was deserving of. And, from what she
definitively knew of him, he would more likely than not delight in their friend’s victory and make
certain that she was the toast of Paris during and well after her debut.

He hummed in consideration, uncrossing his arms and letting his hands slip easily into the warm
pockets of his woolen trousers. There was a chill in the early-morning air, and he was amazed that
Meg was seemingly unbothered despite being so scarcely dressed. “That may very well work,” he
decided after a brief moment of deliberation, watching as Meg lit up in front of him. “I only
wonder if the party should be hosted at the opera house or at my estate-”

“The opera house, harder for Christine to bow out when she lives here,” she decided without a
second of hesitation, delighted to have Raoul’s kinship and assistance. “I knew you were just the
man to ask!” He laughed as she patted his shoulder and scurried off down the hallway, calling
quickly behind her, “I’m afraid I have other matters to attend to, M. le Vicomte– do discuss it with
M. Carriere and do give Christine her invite sooner than later, she’ll need to be fitted for a
ballgown!” And with that she dashed through the wide arch of the doorway, a flash of white
gossamer fabric and blonde curls.

—---------------------------

Deep down in the catacombs of the Palais Garnier, the esteemed Opera Ghost sat feverishly
composing in his music room, too engrossed in his work to take note of the shadowy form of his
lover in the doorway– that was until she spoke. “Erik?” At once his hands ceased over the keys of
his piano, though it took a moment for him to turn towards her. Married as he was to his music,
this woman had him mind, body, and soul, and he knew with no lack of certainty that she would
always come before his creative endeavors, vital as they were to his being. He could be forgetful
and absorbed in his work, but he would not be so inconsiderate as to ignore her.

“Good morning,” he breathed, coming down from the high of composing as he addressed her. She
still wore his robe, her favorite tea-gown having been ruined in the frigid lake just beyond his
home– and he could tell, even as dimly-lit as the room was, that her hair was tangled after a good-
night’s sleep. “I must apologize, I’d not expected to find you up at this hour.”
“You didn’t,” Christine responded plainly, making her way slowly to his side and taking a seat at
the velvet-upholstered piano bench next to him. “I found you.”

He cracked a small smile at that, absently tucking a stray curl behind her ear as he spoke. “So you
did…how did you find me?” his brow creased. “I’ve not brought you to this room– not yet,
anyway.”

“No, but your music speaks and it called me here; it was a matter of intuition and melody rather
than traditional direction.” He hummed, understanding the pull of music as she had described it.
“What are you working on? It sounded lovely from what little I heard of it.”

“A nocturne, it isn’t particularly impressive, but I felt the need to play and jot it down when it
came to me,” he murmured, folding his hands in his lap and watching as she tried to blink the
lingering sleep from her eyes. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry if I did, that had hardly been my
intention when I slipped out of bed.”

She smiled softly at the concern and regret that flashed in his eyes, always so attentive of her
needs. “Yes, but I don’t very much mind,” her voice was quiet when she replied, the tender lilt of
it inspiring a contented hum in her lover. “Do you think you could play it for me?” Erik cleared
his throat, offering her a small chuckle. At the sound, her breath caught in her chest and her heart
all but skipped a beat, always so wholly taken with the man in front of her. For her, it was the little
things– it was the gentle thumping of his heartbeat when she laid against his chest, the way his lips
formed a thin line when he found something amusing but thought that laughing would be
inappropriate, the way he blinked twice before answering a question that confused him, the way he
wrote with a quill; and it was the sound of his laugh.

“I suppose I could, though it really is rather unimpressive at present,” he paused, thinking for a
moment. “If you’d prefer, I could play you something I’ve finished, instead– something more…
polished, if you will?” Christine thought for a moment that she may take him up on the offer but
ultimately decided against it when she found herself to be terribly curious as to what had stolen him
from her side and swept him to the sanctuary of the music room.

“I should like to hear whatever piece you may be thinking of another time– as I figure it, I should
like to listen to all of your compositions at some time or another,” she began, sincerely hoping that
he would take to her request. He poured himself into everything he did, man of passion he was,
and she could hardly imagine that his compositions could deviate from that– least of all when she
could tell that his compositions were deeply intimate to him, some privy thing he often held close
to his chest, even if he wanted nothing more than to share them. She had seen his face, and she
very well intended to see the rest of him, too. “However, that time is not now. Play me your
nocturne.”
Something that Christine couldn’t quite name flashed in Erik’s eyes, disappearing as quickly as it
had emerged when he bowed his head and obliged her request with an acknowledging hum. She
rather thought, as she listened to him play, that it was reminiscent of her more lucid dreams and
their late-night stolen kisses– and it consumed her. There was no room for anything in the world
but Erik and his music, each press of his fingers against the keys pushing the world beyond where
the pair sat farther and farther away until she could no longer fathom its existence. This language
he spoke with deft fingers and the insistent, fervent thrumming of his heart was one that she, too,
felt fluent in. This music, she found, had swallowed her whole, and she was dizzy with the
simultaneous and effortless coupling of light and longing that bled out of every note. She did not
breathe in air so much as the distinct and heady sense of him , intoxicating and bewitching as it
filled her lungs. This nocturne was a flight of fancy, sweeping her up in something that would
have been comparable to a pleasant daydream if it weren’t for the intensity of the emotions that
snaked through her in time with the melody– there was a sense of surrender that came with them,
and she was all too content to submit to it. It spoke; It knew her name and her soul and she knew it
in kind. In moments such as these, where he talked to her without saying so much as a single
word– so transparent and expressive in spite of his silence –she found that she could not help but be
engulfed by that fire he ignited in her, happy to burn and spark and smoke under the gravitational,
magnetic, influential and undeniable pull of him. There were far more dismal fates, she thought,
than being the kindling to this prodigy’s kerosene.

The music that she had been so wholly enraptured by came to a slow, gentle end; each note
prompting what she could only describe as her ascension until they stopped all together, leaving her
lightheaded and reeling as she came slowly back to herself. Her mouth moved, and she was
initially unsure if the words that fell out came from her or another being altogether. “Erik-” her
ability to breathe had left with the music, and she felt choked as it exited her lungs to make room
for air.

“I apologize, I should have insisted on playing something different-”

“Erik, that was otherworldly, I’ve never been so lucky as to hear anything quite like it,” she cut
him off, and this time, it was her turn to look at him as though he were the sun, moon and stars
above. Christine had looked at him many times with wonder, with a tenderness and desire that
would bring poets of old to their knees, but she had never looked at him as though she may just
simply die if he didn’t return her gaze with even a sliver of the devotion held in her gaze– no, this
was the first time that he seemed to her to be the very heart pumping in her chest and blood
coursing through her veins. Even if the feeling had been unwelcome, she knew far better than to
fight it. “You-” she trailed off, her thoughts discordant and scrambled. “May I ask what your
inspiration was?”

He cleared his throat. “Is it not obvious?”

She thought for a moment, or at least tried to as she drank him in. He was maskless, still in his
nightclothes, and clearly tired, if the dark circles under his eyes were any indication. He hadn’t
gotten a lick of sleep, not with the heady warmth that came with her lying fast asleep on his chest,
seemingly finding pleasure in the revenant kisses he’d pressed to her hair and the feeling of his
thumb rubbing circles into her shoulder as he had held her flush against him. “No, I’m afraid not,”
she murmured, feeling less like she was weightless and more like she inhabited her body at the
gentle brush of her knee against his thigh under the piano. This man, she felt, was magic. As far
as she could tell, there was no other explanation as to how he embodied both the urgency and
consumption of fire as well as the calm and tranquility of water. Just as he could set her ablaze
with a simple, feather-light sweep of his spindly fingers against her skin, he could ground her with
one comforting look and accidental touch– and she was hardly aware that she did very much the
same to him.

“You are many things to me, Christine, and that is inclusive of my muse,” he replied, the blasé
quality of his voice and posture meant to compensate for the flush in his cheeks. A moment passed
before she realized just what exactly he was alluding to.

“ I am your muse? I inspired your nocturne?” Accustomed as she had become to Erik’s praise, the
gift of his music and the inspiration he took in her were new– to her, anyway. Neither of their
voices had traveled very far above a whisper since he had shown her to his bedroom the night
before, soft-spoken and treading lightly in the new territory of it all. “I hardly…it was ethereal ,
Erik.”

He breathed a laugh at that, greatly amused by her awe. “As are you,” he countered, understanding
that she had meant to rebuke him. “You are in each measure of that nocturne, I assure you of that
much, Christine. You, my love, are a most spellbinding daydream.” Gone was the nonchalant air
about him when he met her eyes. It would take far stronger a man to deny that seraphic glimmer
she held there, and, well, Erik had always thought himself to be rather weak. Now, he flagrantly
burned just as she did, and she could feel it; liquid heat in his voice and sparks in his stare. “There
are few men so lucky as to call an angel their Juliet– though I fancy you as being elevated well
above the likes of Juliet.” Her ears felt hot, and she could tell by the tender yet self-satisfied smile
he offered her that her cheeks must have been terribly red. She had never thought of Erik as a
prideful man until she finally began to take notice of the way that he preened at the evident longing
he so effortlessly pulled from her time and time again.

“Is that what you are? My Romeo?” she asked, that same breathless, weightless feeling returning
to her with the look in his eyes. Endeared by the hopeful, soft sound of her voice, he allowed
himself another small smile.

He hummed his consideration and stood, extending Christine a hand to gather her from the piano
bench and into his arms. “If you so wish me to be,” he murmured, dropping a timid kiss to her
forehead, apprehensive despite his otherwise debonair demeanor.

“Believe me when I say I do,” she whispered, craning her neck to press a quick kiss to his lips.
“And believe me every bit as much when I say that I’ve no intention for our story to end in such
blatant tragedy,” the words were whispered against his lips, and, with that, she pulled him down to
her once again, appreciating the feeling of his hand trailing from the small of her back to her curls
as he slipped his tongue past her lips, the hand he laid on her waist just barely tracing the shape of
her through his robe. Her little hands stayed tenderly braced at his jaw, and she smiled at the small
laugh he gave against her lips when she bumped up against his nose in an attempt to deepen the
kiss.

He was the first to break away, charmed by the small sound of disappointment that left Christine in
the absence of his lips. Still on tiptoe, she let her hands fall from his face, trailing them down his
shoulders and onto the expanse of his chest. “Pity you’ve no balcony to serve for our clandestine
meetings,” he paused, leaning back from her when she tried to swathe him into another kiss.
Woman of many virtues that she was, she still struggled to deny herself that which she wanted–
and at that moment, it was Erik. “Patience, darling,” he murmured, moving his hand from her hair
to brush his thumb against her bottom lip, reveling in the want that flashed in her eyes. “You’ll
pardon me for denying you, you are a vision in this light and I’d rather hoped to properly take you
in.” He was, of course, right. The light emanating from the candelabra on his piano highlighted
the contours of her lithe body and the delicate features of her face, and the way that his eyes roved
over her did not cause her discomfort. The look in his eye was one of ardent worship, and it felt to
her to be a far cry from the disrespectful, lusty looks cast her way by men who had proven
themselves to be far beneath Erik. No, she melted under his unwavering attention.

“As are you,” she whispered, moving to trace her fingers along his jaw, holding him every bit in
her eyes as she did through her touch. His hands trailed slowly to her hips, sparks dancing across
her skin in their wake. “I like this. I like it when you initiate, when you are confident. It suits you,
I think,” she murmured, reveling in the feeling of his hands and eyes roving over her.

He wetted his lips, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into her sides. “Does it now?”

“Certainly.” And when he dipped his head to kiss her again, she stopped him with a finger to his
lips. “ Patience, darling, ” she parrotted back to him, unable to help the smirk that settled over her
lips at the dazed expression he answered her with.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I do believe I am due the same courtesy I so graciously extended to you, now let me take you in.”
He blinked twice, just as he always did when he was confused– but did as she asked, his eyes never
leaving her as she studied him. “You are beautiful, you know,” she whispered, finally meeting his
eyes when she was satisfied that she’d thoroughly soaked him in. Erik tensed, clearing his throat
and working his jaw.
“There is no need for flattery, my dear, I’ve no intention of denying you a second time tonight,” he
muttered, moving to pull her into another kiss; a distraction for the both of them. It lasted only a
moment before she pulled away.

“Erik.” He flinched when she cupped his face, thumb brushing gently over his deformed cheek. “I
truly do mean it. You’ve known me long enough to know that I’d not lie to you, least of all for
selfish gain. If I were simply impatient to kiss you, I’d have told you as much, I’d not make you
guess. I give you my heart, and I give it to you willingly and with the belief that you are
beautiful.” Skeptical as he still looked, he softened and nodded, hesitantly tucking a stray
chocolate curl behind her ear, beginning to feel a bit more secure in her claims when she leaned
into the touch and held his hand against the side of her neck before it could leave her. “If you’d
like, we could go back to sleep. I don’t believe that they’ll need me above until noon when they
announce the new Countess,” she offered, sensing that his nerve to kiss her had diminished in the
company of his insecurities.

He swallowed thickly and nodded. “Yes, I should like that very much,” he murmured, flushing at
the prospect of holding her so intimately again. It amazed him, how trusting she was of him, how
she wanted to be in his arms even in her most vulnerable state as she slept.

At the ghost of a smile he gave, she took his hand and blew out the candles, surprised when she
was lifted swiftly off the ground and into his embrace. “Erik!” she yelped, quickly taking to
winding her legs around his waist while her delicate hands held fast to his shoulders.

“Forgive me, I find that I am not particularly keen on the idea of you tripping in the dark. I am
more familiar with it– the house and the darkness,” he explained, rubbing her back and walking as
soon as she’d adjusted to the new position, lax in his arms save for the gentle squeeze of her thighs
at his waist.

“And if you do trip?” she asked, pressing her cheek against his chest to listen to the steady
thrumming of his heart; rhythmic and musical, just as everything else about him seemed to be.

“I won’t,” he said plainly. She knew better than to ask any further questions about the matter,
having every confidence that he knew very well what he was doing. This was, after all, his house,
and it seemed to her that the shadows were his friends.

“Do you remember what I told you? About the dark and how it frightens me so?” she asked,
feeling his grip on her loosen as her back made contact with his silk sheets and downy mattress. If
it hadn’t been for the dip in the bed as he took his place beside her, she’d not have known that he
was there at all, soundless as he was.
 “Yes, of course,” he hummed, helping her under his duvet and letting slip a contented sigh when
she immediately curled against his side. Her long lashes brushed against his neck as she nestled
into him, letting her eyes drift shut in preparation for a few extra hours of rest with the man she
adored at her side.

“It feels comforting, now,” she murmured, content to find that Erik had rolled onto his side to wrap
his arms around her, her face buried in the warmth of his chest and his chin resting idly atop her
head. “Safe with you here.”

“I’d be remiss for you to feel any other way with me, ange.”

Chapter End Notes

This one took a little longer as I've been busy, but, nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed
and sincerely appreciate and look forward to your feedback <3
 Chapter 11
Chapter Summary

“Lead the way, Little Lotte,” he affirmed, only just noticing the disruption they’d
caused when Christine sheepishly turned towards the small pod of people sitting in the
audience, all seemingly gawking at their insolence.

While her impulse to apologize profusely to the crowd and beg for forgiveness was
strong, her impulse to crack an admittedly inappropriate joke proved to be stronger.
And so, gesturing to Raoul with a flourish, she called out: “Forgive me, it would seem
that I can’t take him anywhere.” He let a beat of stunned silence pass them by before
he reacted by giving Christine a light, teasing smack upside the back of her head. She
turned indignantly, shooting him a playful glare. “Just as I said, he’s terribly ill-
mannered– a most rambunctious escort indeed.”

Chapter Notes

Shorter than usual because I have writer's block for this story right now but like I got it
up so that's good

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It was 11:00 when Erik sent Christine above, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead and assuring her
that he was nothing short of certain that she’d obtained the role of Countess. Comforted as she was
by his confidence in her, she could hardly help but feel restless in his absence. This man had
become her sanctuary. She quite liked their privacy, the way that the time they shared together
was for them and them alone, appreciating that their relationship wasn’t and couldn’t be subject to
speculation or prying eyes when only they knew what went on behind closed doors (which was, of
course, everything they’d ever done together). Sweet and sacred as their arrangement was to the
both of them, it could do little to soothe the dull, longing ache in her chest. There are people out
there in this world with souls that simply connect, that meld and twine together– souls that cannot
separate no matter if you very well wish them to or not; and Christine could feel in the way that he
held her and the way he looked at her that their connection was of that nature. The world of
difference between the two did nothing to atone for the fact that when they were together, it was
nearly impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. He was not there to hold her hand
while she waited with baited breath to hear whether or not she’d been cast as the lead in La
Carlotta’s absence, nor was he there to hold her tight in celebration or consolation afterwards– and
as much as she understood why he couldn’t be, she still felt terribly anxious.

So, when she caught sight of the Vicomte De Chagny on his way out of the Palais Garnier and her
way into the theater, it was a godsend. She reacted immediately to the sandy blond locks and
nicely-tailored coat in her periphery, calling out his name and gathering her taffeta skirts in her
determined hands as she bolted to catch up with him. Courtesy of her crinoline, she was unable to
feel her dress moving about her legs as she ran to him. She needed a friendly face like she needed
to breathe.

“Christine?” he turned quickly to face her, brows furrowed in confusion. Skidding down the first
flight of stairs separating them, she cast him a meaningful look, and his confusion grew. “Is
everything alright?” When she yelled out something he couldn’t very well make out in her distance
from him, he resolved to stop dead in his tracks to wait for her.

“Yes, yes, it is,” she panted, doing her best to smooth out her wrinkled skirts as she reached him,
stopping herself just in time to avoid plowing him over. “Do you have anywhere you must be?” At
that, he quirked a brow and shook his head, curious to hear what he knew very well to be her
inevitable request.

“Not unless there’s someplace you need me,” his question came as a statement, and she heaved a
sigh of relief, still trying to catch her breath from her mad dash to him.

Gathering herself enough to form a coherent sentence, her eyes flickered down to the carmine wool
hanging from the Vicomte’s neck, and it was all she could do not to laugh. “I see you’ve bought a
red scarf of your own. Pity I hadn’t the foresight to wear mine, we could have matched– granted,
we already look enough alike, what with your feminine frame and my broad, masculine
shoulders.” He caught the playful glint in her eye as she spoke, offering her a mischievous smile of
his own in return.

“Ah, yes, do you like it? And, for shame, Mlle. Daaé, forgetting your red scarf– I risked
pneumonia sprinting into the sea like that, you know,” he chided her, unable to wipe the grin off
his face. Christine shook her head in mock guilt.

“An unforgivable transgression, I’m sure,” she returned, having just barely caught her breath. A
beat of silence, and then, “Do you think you might grant me a favor?”

Raoul nodded with not a moment of hesitation. “There are few favors I’d be unwilling to grant
you, Little Lotte,” was his reply, and Christine’s relief was evident.

“I return the sentiment tenfold” she hoped that he heard the sincerity in her voice. They had known
each other long enough to feel like family, ready to be at the other’s aid at the drop of a hat. “But
anyway, if you’ve no place to be, would you be so kind as to accompany me to the theater? The
manager and director asked that all cast members and actresses that auditioned for the Countess to
be there at noon to announce whom the role will fall to in Carlotta’s absence,” she explained
hurriedly, knowing that it was no more than ten minutes to the scheduled time. “I’d have asked
Meg and saved you the trouble, but I’m afraid she’s rather busy rehearsing for her dance solo with
Mme. Giry.”

“It’s no trouble at all, I assure you,” he replied, already starting up the stairs. “Come, if we’re to be
on time then we must make haste.” She barely had time to react before she was running back up
the stairs after him, winded once again as they all but sprinted to the theater. Even with places to
be and things to do in their respective adult lives, they had maintained that same devil-may-care
attitude that characterized their childhood when they were together, racing gracelessly through a
place so often defined by its culture and prestige, stumbling over their own two feet and laughing
until their ribs ached all the while. These opulent halls and grandiose staircases were a far cry from
the rolling hills of Sweden and dancing breezes of Perros Guirec, but that mattered not in the right
company.

They turned heads when they dashed through the doors, Christine trying to force Raoul to hurry up
with what she had intended to be a hand at his elbow, only to miss her target by several inches,
yanking his scarf off and running off with it instead, doubled over and all but howling when she
realized her mistake. The Vicomte jogged to her side, wheezing in his laughter as he joined her,
blindly reaching for her as his eyes were screwed shut with the force of his laughter as he held onto
her arm for support, trying desperately to catch his breath.

“My scarf,” he panted between bouts of laughter, finally standing fully upright with her and
motioning for her to hand it back to him.

“Your scarf?” she asked, evidently having forgotten what she had been laughing about a mere few
moments before. The amused look he gave her jogged her memory. “Oh! Heavens, I wouldn’t
have even remembered that it was in my own hands had you not reminded me,” she giggled,
handing it off to him and then clearing her throat. “I suppose we should be seated?”

“Lead the way, Little Lotte,” he affirmed, only just noticing the disruption they’d caused when
Christine sheepishly turned towards the small pod of people sitting in the audience, all seemingly
gawking at their insolence.

While her impulse to apologize profusely to the crowd and beg for forgiveness was strong, her
impulse to crack an admittedly inappropriate joke proved to be stronger. And so, gesturing to
Raoul with a flourish, she called out: “Forgive me, it would seem that I can’t take him anywhere.”
He let a beat of stunned silence pass them by before he reacted by giving Christine a light, teasing
smack upside the back of her head. She turned indignantly, shooting him a playful glare. “Just as I
said, he’s terribly ill-mannered– a most rambunctious escort indeed.”

“My apologies for the interruption, we’ll be seated now,” he announced, fighting another bout of
laughter and shaking his head to try and feign disappointment in his friend. Wordlessly but
snickering the whole way, she took the hint and showed him quickly to a seat three rows back from
the stage, taking her spot next to him and trying her best to keep her giggling at bay.

The second that the director and M. Carriere took the stage, the wind was knocked from her lungs,
successfully silencing her. She glanced nervously away from Gerard when he made brief but direct
eye-contact with her, feeling naked in spite of her modest day-dress as he seemed to size her up.
He knew about her relations with Erik– in what detail, she did not know, but there was little other
explanation for the specific brand of scrutiny in his eyes as they fell on her. It is only natural for a
father to want the best for his only son, even if he won’t admit that said son is his. Anxious, she
took to fidgeting with the pearl buttons at the front of her bodice, hoping that no one would notice
the incessant and admittedly unladylike bouncing of her leg beneath her heavy skirts and
crinoline.

Her efforts to be discreet had proven themselves to be in vain when Raoul rested a comforting hand
on her shoulder, squeezing once before pulling away to maintain his respectable distance. She
glanced back up at him in time to catch the reassuring half-smile he had taken to in an effort to
console her. With a deep breath, she willed herself to remain composed, hands folded in her lap
and leg still beneath her dress. “There isn’t so much as a chance that they casted anyone but you,”
he promised, able to say it with confidence as he’d been told as much by Meg a mere few hours
earlier. He wouldn’t ruin the moment for her, she deserved the surprise.

“I can only hope so,” she responded, swallowing thickly and taking a deep breath as Gerard and the
director fetched what would be the new Countess’s libretto backstage, evidently ill-prepared. The
chaos of old to new and then back to old management, she figured. “Thank you for accompanying
me,” she murmured, Raoul simply nodding in response.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” M. Carriere’s voice echoed through the theater,
commanding the attention of all in attendance. Christine, however, took the opportunity to glance
up to box five just in time to see the velvet curtain rustle.

Of course he’s here.

Taking advantage of everyone’s focus on Carriere, she gave an inconspicuous wave of her hand in
the direction of box five: a greeting. She couldn’t help the small smile on her lips when the curtain
swished again.

“It is with great enthusiasm that I welcome our new Countess, Mlle-”

“And great sadness, the Palais Garnier will mourn the loss of my Carlotta,” M. Cholet cut M.
Carriere off from his spot in the audience, his wife’s indignance at being replaced evidently
enough to spur him on to speak so brazenly– a gutsy choice in light of all they’d endured at the
hands of the Opera Ghost, to say the least. She had nearly forgotten that the couple would be
watching the first few rehearsals as they moved out. Rumors had surfaced since the announcement
of their retirement, and at the center of most were either bankruptcy, or, more commonly, The
Phantom. This had, admittedly, been greatly entertaining to Christine, though she did sincerely
wonder what part he may have played in it all. Grateful that she could even do so, she decided that
she’d simply take any questions she had to the source.

Gerard forced a tight smile and gracious nod before continuing. “Yes, of course. Now, we are
thrilled to announce our new Countess– perhaps I should allow the director to do the honors?” he
asked, turning to his colleague and raising a questioning brow.

“Ah, I’d be delighted,” he affirmed, stepping forward to redirect the audience’s attention. “It is
with great pleasure that we welcome Mlle. Christine Daaé to our cast as leading lady in the
upcoming production of Il Muto.”

The choked sound that she gave nearly prompted Raoul to ask if she was well– that was until she
lunged, still in her seat, to tackle him into a quick celebratory hug and gasped out a delighted
squeal. “I’ve done it! I’ve truly done it!” absolutely elated, tears pricked at the corners of her doe-
eyes as she pulled away from her friend, breathless and shocked.

“Of course you did, Little Lotte,” he responded, patting her on the shoulder and giving her a wide
grin.

“Do join us on stage Mlle. Daaé– you’ve a libretto to retrieve,” Gerard prompted her, watching as
she scrambled from her seat and skittered through the isles to do as was asked of her.

Pride and adoration swelled in Erik’s chest as he watched her speech of acceptance from box five,
endeared by her bright smile and infectious laugh. The moment was short and sweet– Christine
was not one to keep people past when she felt she’d said all that was necessary to say –and the
theater cleared out rather quickly after she finished. Beaming, she flipped through the libretto,
assuming that her lover had likely left at the same time as everyone else. And then the note fell
through the rafters and onto the stage.

With an outstretched hand, she caught the folded parchment between her dainty fingertips and drew
it down to her front to read.

Dearest Christine,
It is with the utmost pride that I congratulate you on your success, I do believe that victory suits
you. You were stunning this afternoon and I am most certain that your magnetism will carry forth
into your role as Countess. You were made for the stage, my love.

-Yours, O.G.

“Erik?” she called out, flushing at his praise. “Or should I call you M. Opera Ghost?” Looking up,
down, left and right for him, she tucked the note away in the bust of her corset, clutching her
libretto across her middle as her eyes scanned the theater.

“At your service, Mlle. Daaé,” he called back, a disembodied voice echoing through the theater.

“Are you still in box five?”

“No, higher than that.”

“Higher?”

“Yes.”

“Then it would seem that I will have to lure you lower. I should very much like to thank you face-
to-face.”

“I? What have you to thank me for?”

“You and I both know very well that I’d not be holding this libretto right now if it weren’t for your
tutelage, maestro.” She didn’t hear his footfalls as he joined her on stage, but she did feel the
slender hand ghosting over her waist and hear the small hum he gave to make himself known from
behind her. “Do promise me that you’ll be careful when you are so high up,” she whispered,
turning just her head to face him, not yet meeting the amber of his eyes as she spoke.

“I assure you that I always am, my dear,” he murmured back, pressing his hand further into the
 curve of her waist, using the new leverage to spin her around. Catching her chin between the
thumb and forefinger of his free hand, he prompted her to look up at him and dropped a soft kiss to
the corner of her mouth, reveling in the contented smile she offered him in return. Her libretto
dropped to the floor with a thud as she wound her arms around his middle, pulling him to her and
pressing her cheek flush against the warmth of his chest. Tentatively, he returned the embrace,
holding her to his heart and resting his chin atop of her curls.

“Thank you,” she sighed, nosing at the column of his neck, “for everything. Truly, there is a
reason that I consider you my Angel of Music.”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading, as always I sincerely hope that you enjoyed and appreciate
your feedback <3
 Chapter 12
Chapter Summary

I doubted you would very much want to. You had seemed to be quite upset with me
earlier.” She considered him for a moment, worrying her lip between her teeth and
searching his face– what little of it she could see behind the mask, anyway.

“I was,” she said simply. “I don’t very much appreciate sins of omission where I may
be concerned. It makes me feel as though you view me as a wide-eyed child when I
am very much a grown woman.” The words left unsaid hung in the air, Erik tilting his
head in silent question, hardly able to tell why, then, she would wish to stay with him
again. “That hardly means that I’m quite cross with you now– I haven’t any reason to
be.”

Chapter Notes

bit longer than usual, this one wrote itself once I got going

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The fragrant bouquet and mulberry silk ballgown left in Christine’s dressing room had been
unexpected. She had received her invite to the masquerade ball the evening before her first
rehearsal in the role of Countess, Raoul and Meg giddy as could be when they congratulated her
and filled her in on their plans to celebrate her imminent debut. The only person who had been
more enthusiastic, had, oddly enough, been Erik– who had unexpectedly jumped at the opportunity
to be her date to said ball. He had lifted her from where she stood before him in her quarters,
twirling her around twice and pressing a delighted kiss to her lips before he set her down again.
This, he had reasoned, would be a most ideal opportunity to make their courtship known while still
maintaining his anonymity.

She thought, as her fingertips passed lightly over the soft, sleek fabric of her new dress, that she
should have known that he would make it his aim to spoil her silly. It had been mentioned once
and offhandedly to him that she quite fancied red roses and baby’s breath, and she was reminded
when she cast a glance to her dressing-room vanity that he kept better track of what she said than
she herself did. The balmy heat under her skin informed her of the flush in her cheeks before her
reflection had the chance to. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so valued, or if she
ever had in the first place– least of all by someone she was so utterly enamored with.

The knock came just as she set her libretto down atop of her vanity, palm lingering on the smooth
leather cover before she relinquished her hold on it. “Come in,” she called out, expecting to hear
the creaky twist of her doorknob and telltale footsteps behind her– but then the floor-length mirror
on the wall opposite of her slid to the left, giving way to a dimly-lit corridor and lanky silhouette
shrouded in the surrounding shadows. Startled, she whipped around just in time to see Erik
stepping through the ornate gold frame of the mirror, cloaked and wielding a candelabra. There is
confusion, and there is bewilderment– and Christine found that she was seized by the latter.
“Good God, Erik, what in the devil-”

“My apologies, ange, I’d no intention to frighten you,” he chuckled, evidently amused as he shed
his heavy cloak and set his candelabra atop of the mahogany end table to the left of the mirror.
Erik’s good mood, they both knew, could easily be attributed to the recent developments in their
relationship, and she welcomed the change. He was never cold, but he was often detached and
stoic, and seeing him so present and mirthful was fulfilling, to say the least– not that she paid that
pleasant, tingly feeling much mind in light of the current odd and unforeseen circumstances. Her
brows furrowed when he reached up atop of the frame, flipping what she rightfully assumed to a
switch. The mirror slid closed without so much as a creak or scrape against the frame, and her
breath caught in her chest. Her eyes darted between him and his point of entry in silent question,
much too stunned to speak as he nonchalantly peeled his leather gloves away from his deft fingers.
“Ah, yes, that, ” he began, nodding once to the mirror. “You’ll forgive my lack of foresight to
warn you, I hadn’t any idea that they’d intended on giving you this dressing room. It’s been
unoccupied for quite some time. I installed that little function you just witnessed nearly a decade
ago to aid in my comings and goings about the opera house. An admittedly convenient
coincidence, wouldn’t you agree?”

Christine nodded slowly, wrapping her head around his words at a delay from when they left his
lips. “Yes, I suppose,” she breathed, hesitantly advancing a step toward him and wringing her
hands over her middle, feeling flustered. Thinking on her feet as she so often did, she gathered
herself and asked: “Does this mean that I can expect a timely visit after each of my
performances?”

“And after each rehearsal, if you so wish,” he responded, the stark contrast of ivory and crimson
catching his eye when he glanced quickly behind her. Getting the bouquet delivered to her
dressing room had been a nightmare, but the quality of the flowers seemed to make up for it;
perhaps he would send out another order after her first performance. The self-satisfied smile that
he gave did not go unnoticed by her. “I had rather hoped that my gifts would arrive by this time.
Do you think they are suitable? If you find that you are unsatisfied with the gown, I will gladly
have another made for you with your specifications in mind.”

“No, no,” she hurried to assure him, his generous offer sending a jolt of panic up her spine. “Erik,
you mustn't, I’ve never owned something quite so nice in my life, nor have I ever expected to. It’s
stunning, truly, you didn’t have to buy it for me– it must have cost you a fortune.”

“Such is fitting for a woman such as yourself, is it not?” he asked, taking a step forward and
gingerly taking her hands in his. He didn’t miss the doubt in her eyes, nor did he miss the way that
she briefly worried her bottom lip between her teeth before she found her voice again. He flexed
his hands around hers in a silent effort to put her mind at ease. The guilt that pooled in her stomach
seemed to be beyond his control, however. Christine had never been spoiled by anyone other than
her late father, and she hardly thought that she deserved to be. Her invitation to the masquerade
had been overwhelming enough.

“A woman such as myself is not a woman of means. She has very little to her name and does not
need costly fabrics or ornately-beaded bodices,” she murmured, quickly casting a glance to the
chair before her vanity where the ballgown had been carefully draped. Erik released one of her
hands, the calloused pads of his fingers grazing the sensitive skin along her jaw as he silently
beckoned her to look at him. With the patience of a saint, he searched her eyes to make certain that
he had her undivided attention before continuing.

“No, of course not,” he murmured, fingertips dipping beneath her chin, tilting her head up to him.
“A woman such as yourself is not so vain as to need such earthly, materialistic things. But that was
not what I asked, was it?” Trust and something more mild flashed in the cool blue of her eyes, and
Erik smiled when he saw it there.

“No,” she decided, leaning timidly into his light touch and trailing her free hand to rest across his
bicep. The wool of his coat was soft against her palm. “No, it was not. Thank you. The gown is
lovely.” With a reverent look cast his way, she wound her lithe arms around his neck and pulled
him into a snug embrace, chestnut curls tickling the few inches of exposed skin on his neck as she
pressed into him.

As seemed characteristic of him, he stood tense and with his arms hovering over her back for a
spell before tentatively returning her hold on him, almost always sincerely perplexed when she
initiated physical touch. “Of course, ma petite,” he murmured into her hair, planting a firm kiss
atop of her curls when she nestled further into the warmth of his shoulder. The rosy flush in her
cheeks was felt rather than seen, the heat of it seeping from her skin into his. Another self-satisfied
smile from his lips. “You quite like that, don’t you?”

“Hmm?” she hummed back, sinking further against him when his fingers passed through her thick
curls and over her back through the soft viridian cotton of her bodice.

“You like it when I call you ma petite.” It was not a question. Inexplicably shy in his observation,
she did not respond, only holding tighter to his neck. Reading her as though she were a two-letter
word, he breathed a laugh and drew her closer (if such a thing were even possible). “You needn’t
be embarrassed, I find it to be most endearing.”

Eager to change the subject, Christine broke away from him and cleared her throat, pretending to
smooth out her heavy skirts as she found her voice again. “I thought that I might stay another night
with you, if you find that to be quite as apt as I do?” Her eyes were hopeful when they fell on him
again.
There was no trace of apprehension in his voice when he spoke anew, charmed and admittedly
thrilled by her request, though he did his best to keep his excitement at bay. “That sounds
splendid,” ‘splendid’, he thought, was a gross understatement, though he continued all the same.
“Shall I meet you at the second flight of stairs down or would you rather I accompany you to your
room?”

“I quite missed you during today’s rehearsal-”

“I assure you that I never left box five– your performance was riveting, ange.”

“Yes, but– and thank you, by the way –but I was denied the chance to properly absorb your
company. Now, indulge me; I’d quite like for you to walk me down below.”

“ Below below or below?”

“Below, we both know very well that you’d not allow me to venture below below on my own even
if I asked it of you, least of all after I was careless enough to capsize your lovely gondola.”

“My concern was not for the gondola.”

“No, and you made that quite clear in the aftermath, ma musique.”

Erik blinked twice, hardly registering anything she’d said before or after ‘ma musique’. “I’m
terribly sorry– come again?”

“Nevermind that,” she sighed out a laugh, every bit as endeared by his reaction as he had been by
hers only minutes earlier. “Come, I am dreadfully tired and your bed is very comfortable. I don’t
believe I’ve ever slept on a mattress quite so nice.” He hardly had time to don his cloak and take
his candelabra in hand before she was pulling him out the door, inordinately quiet for someone
moving so swiftly. Any protest he may have had at being dragged through the halls of the Opera
Populaire were kept at bay by the deserted state of the opera house and cover of night, having
stayed in her dressing room well past the time that everyone else had taken their leave or made for
the dormitories.
They made it down the first two flights of stairs without a hitch, Christine holding fast to Erik’s
cream-colored waistcoat as the roles had somehow reversed themselves with him leading the way,
escorting her back to her room with a firm hand at her upper back. The figure emerging from the
bottom of the last flight of stairs went unnoticed by the pair in the pitch dark of the opera house–
that was until it came much too close for them to ignore. On instinct, a protective arm was wound
around Christine’s waist, pressing her flush against his side.

“Erik?” Christine recognized the voice just a few paces from them but couldn’t quite place who it
was. The figure’s leisurely stroll gave way to a jog as it ascended the stairs, footfalls echoing
through the barren space around them. His grip on her loosened almost imperceptibly, giving her
the room to crane her neck to make out the outline of Gerard’s stocky frame in the dark.

Erik huffed, shaking his head and relaxing his shoulders. “Heavens, Gerard, what are you doing up
so late?” Christine released a breath that she didn’t realize she’d been holding at the whisper-yells
being passed between the pair, slumping against her lover in relief.

Carriere’s brow furrowed, face finally revealed in the flickering candlelight when he reached the
pair. “Should I not be the one to ask that question? Good God, Erik, what are you thinking? You
and I both know that there are no shortage of passageways you could be putting to good use right
now. What are you doing up here in the first place?” Christine held tighter to him, never having
been comfortable in the face of conflict that wasn’t her own, however small it may be.

“If you must know, I was escorting Mlle. Daaé to her quarters. It would be most discourteous to
allow her to travel alone through the dark, would it not?” he shot back, not missing a beat.

“But did you not ask me-” Christine tried and failed to argue, an agitated Erik cutting her off.

“I know very well that I gave you the option,” he sighed, stroking his thumb over her ribs through
her dress and corset. “Did you really think that I wouldn’t insist on taking you myself had you
denied me? I’d be a fool to let you wander back alone, lest you lose your footing and, God forbid,
hurt yourself. And before you accuse me of taking you for a klutz, my dear, let us remember that I
know very well that you are a most capable, adept woman– however, let us not forget that you
have had your fair share of accidents when left unattended. It was bad enough when you twisted
your ankle last winter, I’ve no intention of letting anything more happen to you.”

She opened her mouth once to speak but closed it quickly again when Gerard shook his head and
cut back into the conversation. “If she really needs an escort, then take her back through her
dressing room mirror and through the passageways behind it– or let me accompany her on your
behalf. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so careless, Erik, really, I-”
“No, M. Carriere, the fault is mine,” she interjected, still gripping at Erik’s satin waistcoat beneath
his cloak. “I hadn’t any clue that there were passageways leading back to my quarters from the
dressing room; I’m afraid that I neglected to ask when I dragged him through the door with me.
I’m terribly sorry for my recklessness.”

Gerard gave her a tight smile. “Yes of course, you’ve no way to know these things– which is why
Erik must tell you himself before the two of you stray too far,” his exasperation bit through his
tone, evidently even more concerned with his son’s privacy than he was, something Christine had
hardly thought possible. There was a tense silence that followed, M. Carriere impatiently
drumming his fingers against his thigh through his trousers and Erik rubbing anxious circles into
Christine’s side with his thumb.

Erik was prompted to find his voice once more when she shot an antsy look his way, silently
begging him to say or do anything to fix the situation at hand. “Right, then,” his voice was
strained, and he awkwardly cleared his throat before continuing. “If you’ll excuse us, Gerard, I’d
be remiss to keep Mlle. Daaé up much longer– you and I both know that rehearsals will run far
smoother if she gets the rest she is due. Goodnight.”

Carriere answered with a terse nod, stepping stiffly to the side to let the pair past him. “A
goodnight to you two as well. And, Erik, for the love of God, be more careful in the future,” he
called behind him, continuing his ascent up the stairs as they scrambled down and around the
corner, Christine nearly losing her footing on the final step.

“I’m terribly sorry, I hadn’t foreseen-”

“How much does he know?” Christine asked rather pointedly, feeling her stomach churn with an
anxiety she couldn’t very well explain. There was no denying that Gerard knew of their relations
in some way or another now (not that she thought him to be clueless before), and she very well
intended on finding out what exactly it was that he had told him. Taken aback by her protrusive
question, Erik nearly choked on his own breath and waited a beat before answering her, similarly
anxious.

“Ah, well…” he trailed off, drumming his fingers against her ribs as they continued to her room, at
a loss for words. There were details he very much wished to exclude; he did not need her to know
that Gerard knew that he loved her before she herself did, nor did he need her to know anything
more about his myriad of insecurities– some of which she’d encountered first hand. “More than
you may know and less than the two of us collectively know.” She scoffed, feeling suddenly ill-
tempered. The withholding of information made her feel small, as though he saw her as a petulant
child. She had heard the whispers amongst the company when they thought she could not hear;
their assessments of her character, of what they had perceived to be a childish and unbecoming
innocence and staggering gullibility. Their belittlement had been enough, she didn’t very well
intend on tolerating the same treatment from her lover: from a man who was meant to be her equal.
“Heavens, Erik,” she muttered, releasing her hold on his waistcoat and wrenching herself from his
grasp to take a few substantial strides ahead of him. “Is it really so much to ask that you just-” it
was not uncommon that she cried when she was angry, and she could feel her throat closing up and
hot tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as she turned back around to face him. “That you just
tell me things instead of making me guess? I’ve been patient and I’ve not minded it, but I think I
have a right to know what is said of me– of us –behind closed doors. I work with him on a daily
basis, I do believe that I should know if there was anything said that may change his opinion of
me, and, furthermore-”

She had not ceased her walking, though she could hardly see where exactly she was going when
she was facing away from her destination in the pitch dark. “Christine, please-”

“No. No, I am not going to accept a cryptic riddle as an answer to my question. I am grown and I
deserve to be treated as such,” she objected, crossing her arms over her chest, looking to him
expectantly for an explanation.

“Christine, can we please do ourselves a favor and drop the matter? I hardly see how it makes a
difference either-”

“There are many things that I am quite alright with you keeping to yourself– granted, I adore you
and would love for you to share them, but that’s irrelevant –I, however, am not so keen on allowing
you to keep matters that directly concern me secret. Why, pray, won’t you tell me? Unless I’ve
greatly misinterpreted your affections for me, I can hardly imagine that you’ve gone behind my
back and said something vulgar or insulting about me,” she reasoned, teetering between annoyance
and lividity. Patient as she typically was with him, her poise in the face of demeaning rumors or
information divulged without her consent was meager at best.

“And you are right in assuming so, you know that I haven’t anything but praise for you,” he
assured her, steeling himself back to keep from raising his voice at her.

“Yes, of course not,” she grumbled, mood thoroughly soured by his avoidance. “What was it
then? A sob-story? What exactly did you tell him, Erik? That I’m a charity case and a naive little
girl out of her depth here where I clearly don’t belong?”

“ Christine ,” he warned, humility wearing thin in the face of her baseless accusations.

“Ah, so that was it,” she snapped, raising a brow at him. “Wasn’t it? You told him that-” she was
too engrossed in their argument to notice the one uneven floorboard beneath her feet, but she could
feel her heel catch on it, sending her stumbling backwards.

Erik caught her with an arm around her waist before she could hit the ground or twist her ankle, his
eyes never breaking from hers as he helped her gruffly back to her feet, much too aggravated to
bother with gentleness in the wake of her impudence. “Mind your step.” He was ahead of her
then, with a resolved hand around her delicate wrist. Dazed, she followed closely behind, ready to
pester him once more after taking a few moments to recover.

“I hardly see how it’s fair that you get to-”

“ I told you to drop it, Christine, ” he spat, no longer having it in him to control the volume or
venom in his voice. Christine, perhaps stupidly, was only spurred on by his ire, deciding against
her better judgement to push her luck and fan that white-hot, incensed flame in him.

“And I told you that I would not, so, if you would be so kind as-” she was cut short by her own
shocked yelp when he yanked at her wrist, forcing her to his side as he turned to face her.

“I love you and I told him as much,” he said slowly, loosening his vice-like grip on her wrist in his
attempt to regain some semblance of composure. Her breath caught in her throat at the admission.
Had her heart ceased its beating or leapt out of her chest altogether? “He knows about the roof and
nothing more, if it is your reputation that worries you. Are you quite satisfied, Mlle. Daaé ?” With
one brief, impatient glare shot her way, he gave her wrist a gentle tug and beckoned her to follow
him once more. No, her heart had not stopped– on the contrary, its steady thrumming had
devolved into an erratic hammering. “Come, it’s getting late and I’ll not have you ill-rested for
tomorrow’s rehearsal. It would be most unbecoming of you to deliver a sloppy performance.”

She hardly registered a word of what he’d said beyond ‘I love you’, the world around her
beginning to spin and warp with his declaration as it was played over and over again in her mind.
“Erik-” her mouth was dry.

“ Please , Christine,” he urged her, lacing their fingers in an effort to pacify her. “I told you what I
told Gerard, now do me a kindness and leave it be.”

“You love me?” The glance he cast her way rendered him unable to filter through his thoughts,
much less his speech. There was no defense within his repertoire to aid against the look of
unadulterated hope and wonder in her eyes, the rosy apples of her cheeks, or the small, pleading
squeeze of her little fingers around his hand.
“I’ve loved you since the moment I first saw you and I believe that I loved you long before that,
too– in every lifetime I’ve ever had, I’m quite certain. I love you as the ocean loves the moon.”
He thought that the silence that followed should have been tense, twisting in his gut or grabbing
and clenching at his heart, but the way that she simply stood there wonderstruck and flushed
seemed to be his saving grace. There was no need for her to reciprocate, he did not need her to.
She had offered him a feast where he would have been content with the mercy of crumbs– he had
no intention of asking more of her. “Come, you’re still yet to prepare for bed.”

The walk back was quiet save for their steady footfalls and Erik’s occasional comment about the
drafty air or how the candles lighting their way had begun to leave a trail of dripping wax on the
floor behind them, which vaguely reminded her of Hansel and Gretel. Christine’s lips, however,
were sealed shut. She felt adrift, blank and disoriented in the wake of their fight and his
confession– and the only thing keeping her from floating away was the grounding weight of his
hand in hers, the smell of pine and sandalwood and parchment that enveloped her as she walked at
his side. Unmoored but not untethered.

Her world didn’t seem to come back into focus until they found her door, where she stopped him
from reaching for the handle with a gentle embrace, her arms twining tenderly around his middle as
she went lax against his chest. The moment felt too short for her liking, some ephemeral blip in
time when he tried to fill the silence once more. “Christine-”

She broke away, a hand lingering on his side as she opened her door. He understood and followed
her soundlessly through the door when she began her descent, slipping out of her boots the second
that her feet hit even ground. Next to go was her bodice, her nimble fingers pushing and pulling at
her satin laces until they were loose around her torso. While she shed her skirts and corset, Erik set
to lighting the solitary candle on her bedside table, taking note that she had evidently replaced the
old one since he had last stepped foot in her quarters. With her corset, bustle, and skirts discarded,
she dropped onto her bed with a soft thud, untying her garters to divest herself of her stockings,
which had clung to her supple skin with sweat from that afternoon’s rehearsal, relieved to be rid of
them. She did not have to ask him to fetch her a nightgown.

Christine’s exhaustion was rearing its irksome head, and Erik noticed without any effort at all,
vaguely gesturing for her to lift her arms and sliding her nightdress over her body with an
appreciative hum from her throat in thanks. The chaste kiss he pressed to her knuckles was, at best,
confusing– a goodbye she hadn’t expected. “I was under the impression that I’d be accompanying
you down below?” she asked quietly, too tired to exert much force or volume behind her voice.
Having already started towards the door, he turned around and looked her anxiously up and down.

“I doubted you would very much want to. You had seemed to be quite upset with me earlier.” She
considered him for a moment, worrying her lip between her teeth and searching his face– what
little of it she could see behind the mask, anyway.
“I was,” she said simply. “I don’t very much appreciate sins of omission where I may be
concerned. It makes me feel as though you view me as a wide-eyed child when I am very much a
grown woman.” The words left unsaid hung in the air, Erik tilting his head in silent question,
hardly able to tell why, then, she would wish to stay with him again. “That hardly means that I’m
quite cross with you now– I haven’t any reason to be.”

His breath caught in his throat when he realized that her silence was meant to allow him to speak.
“Well…do you want to?” he asked, shoulders tense and back tight.

“Want to what?”

“Stay with me,” he clarified, swallowing thickly when she shook her head.

“No,” she began, smoothing her hands over her thighs through the thin gossamer fabric of her
nightgown. “Forgive me, I believe that I am much too tired to make the trek, even if you were to
carry me the whole way. The change in scenery would be most overwhelming. But I thought that
you might stay here with me? I know that the bed isn’t as big or comfortable, and that my sheets
aren’t as nice, but-”

Her ramblings were cut short when he shucked off his tailcoat, starting on the buttons of his shirt
and waistcoat. “Would you prefer if I kept my mask on?” Hurriedly, she scrambled up from her
spot on the bed and pulled the robe he’d leant to her after the lake incident from her wardrobe.

“No, I would very much like if you removed it– that is if you feel comfortable enough to do so,”
she replied, scurrying to his side and presenting his silken robe to him with two open palms. He
tensed when she pulled his waistcoat away from his shoulders, only softening when she took hold
of one of his hands to press a tender kiss to his wrist. He had started a neat pile of his discarded
clothing atop of her vanity, each garment he shed joining the one before it as he went. When she
peeled his shirtsleeves away from his body, he did not flinch or stiffen or startle, much to his own
surprise.

“Are you quite certain that you want to gaze upon my bare face?” The reassurance he felt when
she reached for the ties herself was insurmountable, and he allowed her to pull the porcelain away
without further question. He had always imagined that their first time undressing in one another’s
presence would be done with more need, more fervency and sensuality, but as she pressed a soft
kiss to his exposed shoulder, he found that he didn’t much care what his expectation had been. She
was there with him and that was all that mattered.

The only time that she left his side was when he started on his trousers, wishing to maintain some
semblance of modesty as he finished dressing for bed. “Come,” she whispered, backing onto the
bed and pulling the covers down to welcome him. The weight of him made the bed shift and dip
beneath her thighs, and she welcomed his warmth with a sleepy smile. As though they had shared
a bed for years, Erik instinctually lifted one arm to welcome her onto his chest without so much as
a word, watching as she settled there with a sweet kiss pressed to his jaw. His arm came to wrap
around her, and she was boneless against him, unable to remember the last time that she had felt so
whole– so complete and serene.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” she murmured, running her fingertips lightly over his side through his
nightclothes.

“What for? You haven’t a thing to be sorry for, ange,” he returned, planting a soothing kiss to her
forehead as she looked up at him through her dark lashes.

She thought for a moment, stilling against him to drink in the sound of his heartbeat beneath her
cheek. Allowing her to simply be , Erik said nothing, only waiting patiently for her to find her
voice once more. While he could hardly predict what she would say or do, he always knew when
she was about to say something of importance, he felt it in the way she tensed beneath his touch,
saw it in the way she pursed her lips and cast her eyes anywhere but him. “I love you, too, you
know,” she finally hummed, hearing and feeling the faint quickening of his heartbeat beneath her.

In silent deliberation, he drummed his fingers against her back, letting their silence hang heavy in
the air with anticipation. “You…you don’t have to, you know. I would easily understand if you
did not,” he offered, wanting to give her an out if she felt the need for one. There wasn’t any room
in his heart for false hope, even with as well as everything had gone up to that point. Dreams, he
knew, were a luxury that he could seldom afford.

“I feel no burdensome obligation to love you. My love has never been and will never be out of pity
or duty or anything of the like, it simply is . I couldn’t even rightly tell you when exactly it
happened, when I fell or when I knew that I had fallen– though I’m quite certain that I realized
much too long after the fact. There is only you, the little things that make you up. I feel it when
you smile and when you do not, I feel it in your music, I feel it in your voice and lips and the way
that you still write with a quill; I feel it in your heartbeat steady and rhythmic beneath my palms,
the vigilance of your watchful eyes and determined hands as you lead me down dark stairwells and
through dim corridors. I feel it in the brush of your fingertips against my spine and ribs when you
correct my posture, the way you take one lump of sugar with your tea, how you condemn coffee as
a most offensively bitter beverage, the feeling of your hair soft between my fingers and the safety
of your arms around me. Erik…” she paused only for a moment, feeling as though she’d opened a
floodgate and set loose a tidal wave for which she no longer had any control. “Erik, I don’t think
that there was ever any choice but to love you. It is hardly any fault of mine or yours that you set
me alight. This thing I feel for you is shapeless and has a sentience of its own, I don’t very well
imagine that I could control it if I so pleased– and believe me when I tell you that I don’t. There is
nothing calamitous in this love, not for I.”
Chapter End Notes

Thank you for making it this far and as always, I sincerely appreciate your feedback
and hope you enjoyed <3
 Chapter 13
Chapter Summary

“I still haven’t a name for this mysterious companion,” she prompted him, following
closely behind as he left her side to sit back down at the chaise lounge. The cream-
colored envelope on the coffee table caught her eye, its deep blue wax seal broken and
what she assumed to be this friend’s letter lying lazily at its side. “Nadir Kahn?” she
read aloud, glancing down to the signature scrawled in the bottom left corner.

“Yes,” Erik affirmed, taking the letter in hand only briefly before he set it back down
on the lacquered mahogany coffee table as though it were an afterthought. “Would
you care for some tea?”

Chapter Notes

Wake up babe, new Erik and Nadir origin story just dropped

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Erik did not hear Christine come in. After failing to retrieve her from that afternoon’s rehearsal,
she had resolved to find him herself, slipping through the heavy, creaky door separating her
quarters from his domain and taking care not to trip over the stairs or, God forbid, capsize the
gondola a second time as she crossed the lake. He would be cross with her for making the journey
alone when she arrived, she knew he would. The hearth was not lit when she stepped through the
door; he had not been expecting her.

Silently, she untangled the powder-blue hood of her cloak from her curls, letting it fall with a soft
swishing sound to her shoulders as she extinguished her lantern, setting it gingerly down atop of
the sleek black organ in the foyer, just to the left of Erik’s Don Juan Triumphant . He was in the
music room. She hadn’t the need to question her initial instinct even in the absence of music,
simply knowing. He had told her the night before that he loved her as the ocean loves the moon–
and she knew that to be true enough, the pull they felt in one another’s presence being nothing
short of gravitational. So, without so much as a second thought, she wound her way through the
empty hallways and the dimly-lit drawing room (there was no door, only two doorways allowing
her to enter and exit), unsurprised to find that the door to the music room was already open when
she arrived.

Sure enough, there Erik sat, hunched over the coffee table by the fireplace– of which was the only
one lit in the house at present –pouring over something or another with his back turned to
Christine. “Erik?” He stirred, head lifting from between his stooped shoulders and back
straightening. It was a moment before he turned to look at her, feeling that he must have been
hearing things until she cleared her throat in another attempt to secure his attention.
“Did Gerard escort you?” Taken aback by the immediate, pointed question, Christine’s breath
caught in her throat at the raised brow she was met with. He was maskless and in only his trousers
and shirtsleeves, another indicator that he’d not expected a visitor. Deciding that she would rather
warm herself by the crackling fire than answer his query, she quietly swept to his side, unclasping
her much-too-thin cloak from around her neck and draping it over the back of the chaise lounge
where he sat. “Heavens, Christine, don’t tell me that you went alone?” The concerned crease in
his brow made her chest tighten when she dared to meet his eyes once more. Cast in orange and
blue, the cool, ocean-toned darkness and sunny heat of the hearth, they drank one another in,
thinking that they looked more like the subject of a romantic painting than real people of flesh and
bone and breath in the surreal lighting.

Her hand lingered on the satin brocade back of the chaise, the floral embroidery somehow rough
and smooth beneath her fingertips. Her mouth was dry when she spoke again. She knew that his
disapproval would come, but hadn’t expected it to manifest the second that she walked through the
door. “I did,” she confirmed, tentatively removing herself from the chaise to wring her delicate
hands over her corseted middle. “You’ll forgive me, I hadn’t the patience to wait much longer for
you. Rehearsals ended nearly two hours ago, and if I remember correctly, you had promised to
retrieve me.”

“Yes, we’ll return to that in a moment, love,” he sighed, rising from where he sat with his hands
braced on his knees to fetch her a blanket. Her eyes never left him as he moved about the room.
“It’ll be a miracle if you didn’t catch your death on your way down, that raggedy cloak is hardly
any match for the cold out there. There’s a bite in the air this spring, you know.” His breath
caught in his chest when he turned to face her once more, the way that her baby blues caught the
light as she looked doe-eyed up at him stealing the breath from his lungs. There were times–
though he never entertained the thought for long, seeing too much of that angelic quality in her to
truly consider it –that he wondered if she were perhaps a bandit. Even cross with her, he was
nothing short of spellbound. With a shake of his head, he pushed that melting feeling that had
settled in his stomach down and away in favor of wrapping the heavy blanket around her narrow
shoulders and pulling her to him with his hands braced at the woolen tails. She did not hesitate to
fall into his embrace, having missed him in their mere few hours apart, soothed by the steady
thrumming of his heart against her cheek and the warmth of his arms. “You’ll not do that again.
Do you understand? I wouldn’t have been able to come to your aid for quite some time had
something happened to you. Don’t ever do that again.”

“I’m sorry, ange,” she murmured, snaking her hands from where they pressed flat on his shoulders
to the expanse of his back, enveloping him in her arms as he had done for her– a welcome act of
reciprocity. The little shapes that he had taken to tracing into her back were met with a contented
hum, soothed and content when he pressed a tender kiss to her coffee-colored curls.

He shook his head. “Don’t be sorry, it won’t help or change anything,” he muttered, the agitation
in his voice a juxtaposition to the warmth of his arms encircling her lithe frame. “No, don’t be
sorry. Promise me, instead– promise me that it won’t happen again. I worry about you enough as
is, don’t make me worry that you’ll hurt yourself on your way down, too.”
“Erik, I am quite alright. You needn’t worry about me in the first place,” she protested, now
similarly agitated. “I will be fine , that is what I can promise you.” He tensed at her answer,
evidently dissatisfied.

“No, that is not what I asked,” he bit back, firm and authoritative with her as he would be during a
lesson. “Now promise me, Christine. Swear to me that you won’t be making that trek alone
anymore.” She heaved a defeated sigh, shaking her head against his chest when he urged her with
a carefully-timed squeeze to her shoulder.

“I will If you promise to tell me why you weren’t there in my dressing room to retrieve me,” she
bargained, pulling away and giving him a meaningful look, dainty hands lingering at his biceps.

“I received a letter from an old friend and became distracted in writing back,” he held her gaze,
brushing a wayward curl from her forehead and running a calloused thumb over her cheek as he
spoke. “Now promise me.”

“Who wrote you?” she asked, sincerely curious and distracted by this new information. His hold
on her waist tightened, patience wearing thin.

“Promise me, Christine.”

Huffing out another sigh, she nodded and obliged him. “I promise. I will be quite alright either
way, but I promise. Now who wrote you? I’ve no knowledge of your connections outside of M.
Carriere and I, and I haven’t any shame in admitting that I’m terribly curious.”

He barked out a laugh at that, knowing very well that her exigent curiosity was her Achilles’ heel–
asinine and irksome as it could be, always seeming to rear its head at the most inconvenient of
times. Even so, he was endeared. “Of course you are,” he chuckled, watching with no lack of
wonderment as her cheeks flushed. “Inquisitive little thing,” she opened her mouth to protest. “Oh
hush, it’s sweet– well, usually it is, anyway.”

“I still haven’t a name for this mysterious companion,” she prompted him, following closely
behind as he left her side to sit back down at the chaise lounge. The cream-colored envelope on
the coffee table caught her eye, its deep blue wax seal broken and what she assumed to be this
friend’s letter lying lazily at its side. “Nadir Kahn?” she read aloud, glancing down to the
signature scrawled in the bottom left corner.
“Yes,” Erik affirmed, taking the letter in hand only briefly before he set it back down on the
lacquered mahogany coffee table as though it were an afterthought. “Would you care for some
tea?”

Sufficiently perplexed and even more curious than before, Christine furrowed her brows and shook
her head, instead taking her place on the chaise next to him and curling against his side, chin lifted
to rest on his shoulder so that she may look at him; at the sharp lines of his jaw and high
cheekbones, the twisted nose and warped skin and thick, glossy hair. “No, thank you, I’d much
rather hear about this friend of yours. You keep pushing the subject to the side and I’d very much
like to know why.” Casting a quick glance down at her, he leaned back and opened his arms to
her. Though he had not made as quick a study of it as he had with many of her other interests and
behaviors, he had learned that she was an incredibly physical lover, dissatisfied and antsy when
there were no kisses planted to her lips or hands upon her waist. He supposed that he should have
guessed that she would be cuddly, sticky-sweet and warm as she had always seemed to be.
Without a moment of hesitation, she carefully ducked under his arm and dropped her head into the
warmth of his lap, chocolate curls fanning out about his thighs and cascading over his knees as she
looked expectantly up to him.

“I’ve no intention of avoiding the subject, ma petite,” he hummed, languidly stroking through her
hair. “I simply feel inclined to make certain that you’re settled and comfortable first, it is a rather
lengthy story and I know that you’ll have questions.”

“Because I’m so dreadfully curious?” she quipped, not missing a beat and smiling softly when he
answered her with a chuckle, the sound deep and rich in his chest. The kiss pressed to her forehead
was feather-light, a reverent, warm brush of his lips to her skin.

“Yes, that’s exactly why,” he agreed, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye before
swooping back down to capture her lips in a kiss, the tip of his nose grazing the corner of her
mouth at the odd angle. For once, she did not mind the kiss’s brevity, anxious to hear more about
this friend of his.

“I do believe that you were just about to tell me something or another about the letter you
received? About M. Khan?” she asked, never breaking from his eyes as she took his hand in hers,
their fingers twining together.

“Right,” he began on a sigh, wracking his brain about where exactly to start. “I don’t suppose that
I’ve mentioned my few years abroad to you?”

She raised her brows, unable to recall even a vague allusion to said time. “Certainly not. I do
believe that I’d remember if you had.”

“Well, and this sounds absurd, I know, but-”

“Erik, I didn’t so much as bat an eye when you told me that you live here beneath the Palais
Garnier under the guise of being the Opera Ghost. You’ve no need to convince me of the validity
of your claims, I know you haven’t any reason to lie.”

“Right,” he cleared his throat. “...Thirteen years ago– give or take –the Shah of Persia sent for the
architect of the opera house, wanting a similarly constructed addition to his palace. Gerard came to
me about the matter, as the architect had recently passed; it was offhanded, some complaint about
not knowing quite how to handle the situation but wanting to recommend another gentleman to the
man that had come on the Shah’s behalf-”

“M. Khan?” she asked, running her thumb over his knuckles, committing to memory each ridge
and smooth spot she found there.

“Pardon?”

“The Shah’s representative? Was he M. Khan?”

“Yes, I was getting to that,” he laughed, amused by her impatience and interest. “But anyway,
Gerard was not particularly keen on my suggestion, which was that he send me in the architect’s
place. I presented the idea to him on the spot, reasoning that no one knows the opera house quite
as well as I do– a fact that still rings true –and telling him that I had quite the interest in
architecture and knew enough to meet the Shah’s expectations. His adamance that I stay down
below was a setback for nearly a week as he collected the names of other, better known and
significantly more well-respected gentlemen. So, I did what I do best.”

“I hardly see how your musicality can relate to this story.”

“It doesn’t. I schemed like a lovesick lad trying to chance a glance at his one and-”

“As you did when I met you? Though I suppose our meeting was much more true to your simile.”
He flushed, blaming the heat under his skin on the steady flame in the hearth and the warmth
rolling off of her in waves. “...Yes,” he stopped to clear his throat, his fingers suddenly stilling in
her hair.

“Go on.”

“I watched Nadir for a day, found out when he’d be at the opera house, where he would be and at
what time and acted accordingly, traveling to the west wing at daybreak to introduce myself. He
was gracious, saying nothing of my mask and listening intently to my proposition, letting me prove
to him my extensive knowledge of the Palais Garnier’s construction and other such architectural
matters,” he began again, easing back into himself as he spoke. “The next day, he vouched for me
to my father, promising that he would personally see to it that I was well taken care of and that my
identity would be protected. He was as insistent as I was, and, eventually, Gerard gave in. I left
that same night with nothing but a change of clothes and a couple hundred francs for our travels.
We departed from the opera house at the last stroke of midnight and walked for another hour
before we hailed a cab, making certain that the driver would not be able to link the masked man in
the back of the carriage to the identity of the notorious Opera Ghost. The details I can recall from
that particular night are scant; I was so anxious that I’m surprised that I didn’t black out all
together.”

“Leaving home for the first time tends to be like that, yes,” Christine empathized, breathing out a
laugh and squeezing his hand in solidarity. Unlike her Erik, she had left Sweden in the daylight,
but hadn’t the benefit of an escort, of someone to accompany her, much less someone to guide her.
No, she had made her way to France with a handful of tales she never wanted to recount and no one
but herself to fall back on in the aftermath– younger than Erik had been at his departure, too; more
vulnerable. She would tell him about her travels some other time, perhaps over tea or on a walk, if
he would even allow her to take him on one.

“We made it as far as Bordeaux the first night, resolving to board our ship the following morning.
Much like the vast majority of that night– well, the first two weeks, in all honesty –I remember
very little of where we stayed, likely some well-run, reliable bed and breakfast closer to the sea
than I had realized when we settled in for the night. I’ll spare you the details of the rest of our
travels, time spent on the ocean is terribly monotonous when there isn’t a storm sending everyone
aboard into a blind panic. We arrived a month later, beginning design and construction the
following week. I lived with Nadir for the duration of my stay, which was, if I remember correctly,
for the better part of three years. I hardly see what I could have done to deserve it, but he
welcomed me into his home without complaint, making certain that my quarters were to my liking
and teaching me local knowledge at any given opportunity– ointments and balms and recipes and
folklore, things about clothing and lodging and the like. I was paid handsomely for my work, a
fraction of my wages going toward things in my home now; the rug in the foyer, cookware, my
sheets and duvet and a select few pieces in my wardrobe I no longer have much use for, fine teas
and silken robes and other things of the like.”

“That sounds lovely,” she hummed, shifting in his lap to better look in his eyes.
“I owe half the man I am today to Nadir. I can hardly fathom who I’d have become without the
experience, likely someone much more bitter and inexperienced. Lord knows I would never have
left Paris had it not been for the opportunity, a man with a face like mine is unfit for-”

“Stop,” she sighed, pressing a firm kiss to where their fingers were joined. “I hate when you speak
of yourself in such a manner. You are everything to me and you underestimate your capabilities,
the things that you could do if you set your fear aside and let yourself.”

“Christine-”

“No, I’ll not hear of it. Now continue, I’m quite interested in the rest of what you have to say so
long as the contents are dissimilar to the nonsense you just tried to spew at me.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, gathering his thoughts. “He saved my life on more than one
occasion. I hadn’t the slightest clue what exactly I was doing or how to do it half the time I was
there, and it caused its fair share of problems, some of which came close to being fatal. I was
young, naive, out of my depth-”

“You were my age and just older, yes?” she asked, her own insecurities rearing their head. She
knew very well that she could be too trusting, that she didn’t know nearly as much as she wished
she did.

“I was,” he affirmed, shooting her a look. The question was clear in his eyes, a pointed ‘ and where
exactly are you going with this?’

“I notice those same traits in myself, is all,” she answered his silent question, trying as best as she
could to sound and look nonchalant. He frowned.

“You are far from being out of your depth here, mon ange,” he murmured, running the fingers of
his free hand through her curls and over the delicate contours of her face in some small attempt to
reassure her.

There was a brief silence, the skeptical look in her eyes unmistakable as she studied his face. “You
said nothing of my naivety,” she finally pointed out, voice quiet.
“There is hardly anything wrong with a touch of innocence, darling,” he assured her, watching as
she worried her lip between her teeth and drummed the fingertips of her free hand against her
sternum. “You are not any less witty or intelligent for it, it’s charming, really. You’ve no need to
be self-conscious about such matters.”

“Do continue with your story, love, I’m sorry to have interrupted you,” she whispered, leaning into
his touch when he brushed her curls gingerly away from her shoulders. The guilt in her stomach
for troubling him with such silly matters ate at her, though she was determined to bottle and shelf
it.

“You’ve no need to apologize, ma petite,” he promised, letting his anecdote fall to the wayside in
favor of peppering her face with mild kisses, determined to put any apprehensive musings she may
have had to rest. The flush in her face was evident, balmy beneath his lips with each firm press to
her cheeks and mild brush against the tip of her nose. Having had enough of what she had
interpreted as relentless teasing, she slipped her fingers free from his hand and brought them to the
base of his skull, stilling him for a proper kiss. In spite of her initiative, she was pliant beneath
him, docile as she opened her lips to his wandering tongue when he sought to push it past her teeth,
following his cue to sit up when she felt a hand winding in her hair, pulling her up and to him. He
didn’t care when her elbow bit into his thigh where she supported her weight, only deepening the
kiss with his middle and index fingers tilting her chin up to him. She was the first to break away,
dizzy and winded as he continued to trail kisses along her high cheekbones and across her
forehead. “I love your hair,” he murmured, stooping down to nose at the side of her neck, smirking
when she sighed at the contact.

“I noticed,” she breathed, humming contentedly when he pressed a feather-light kiss against her
jawline. She had suspected for quite some time that he quite liked her hair, it never being lost on
her that he would bury his nose in her curls every time they embraced, combing through them or
smoothing a hand over them whenever the opportunity presented itself– which was more and more
often as their time and affection for one another grew.

He pulled back to look down into the cobalt pools of her eyes, feeling that he wasn’t swimming in
them so much as he was drowning. “Is it really so obvious?” he asked, a small, sheepish smile
tugging at the corners of his kiss-swollen lips.

“Yes, you only sink your fingers in it at any chance you get,” she giggled, lifting her elbow from
where it had jabbed into Erik’s thigh. “Forgive me, you were terribly distracting when I was trying
to right my balance.”

“Mmm, distracting you is a most enjoyable pastime.” Wordlessly, he shifted to lay across the
chaise, pulling her down atop of him as he went, her cheek laying against his chest. The soft
scratch of his linen dress shirt on her skin was an odd comfort, grounding in a way she hadn’t
anticipated. “Is this alright? Are you quite settled, my dove?”
The answer she gave was in the form of a small, contented noise that rose from the back of her
throat, breathing in that distinct smell of him that had become so soothing– there was a new layer
to the pine and sandalwood and parchment she was so accustomed to; stronger, something with
more of a bite. “Were you already writing Nadir back when I arrived?”

The deft fingers tracing along the boning of her corset through her cotton day-dress threatened to
lull her to sleep. “Yes, why?” he asked, enjoying the rise and fall of her chest against his ribs, the
feeling of the ridges of her corset pressing into his calloused fingertips and smooth torso through
his thin shirt.

“I thought I smelled ink on you,” she began, voice soft and sleepy. “Evidently I was right, I just
wanted to be certain. It cuts through your cologne.” He answered her with a thoughtful hum,
absently and languidly stroking the hand that wasn’t occupied at her back through her curls.
“You’re doing it again, playing with my hair.”

“So it would seem I am,” he mumbled back, his ministrations never stilling or wavering.

“Your story,” she yawned. “You never finished it.”

“Right,” he murmured, backtracking in his mind to the point at which he’d stopped. “I do believe
that I told you that I was there for the better part of three years, yes?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“I’ll spare you most of the details, I’m sure they’ll come up every now and again,” he mumbled,
forgetting anything that he may have said when she inched up his torso to hide her face in the
crook of his neck. “...We have managed to keep in contact over the years, though I believe that
we’ve fallen off in recent years due to personal life events that have had the both of us up to our
necks in change-”

“Change such as myself and the former manager and his wife?”

“Yes, though I’d hope that you know that I hold you in a much higher regard.”
 “I imagine that you wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole, let alone allow me to nestle into you
on your chaise lounge if you didn’t.”

“Precisely, my dear,” he agreed, not realizing that his hold on her had tightened until she hummed
contentedly against his neck, the vibration of her voice ringing through him and setting his nerve
endings alight with that pleasant tingling sensation she often sent coursing through him; a warmth
that he would seek out of his own volition if he knew how. “I can’t remember the last time I heard
from Nadir before today, at least a year before your arrival, I wager. However, it would seem that
he’s invested in a nice little flat on the Rue Rivoli. I gather that he’s already moved in, or at the
very least will soon– his servant, Darius, delivered the letter by hand to Gerard right as rehearsals
were winding down.”

“Do you think I might meet him sometime or another?”

“Yes, I think he’d quite like you. If nothing else, he’ll be glad to know that my life isn’t quite so
dismal and isolated as it had been at the time of our last correspondence.” Christine did not
answer, only humming in response and allowing that heady sense of him to envelop her as sleep
tugged at her weary eyes. “Are you quite tired?”

“Dreadfully so,” she muttered, nosing against the juncture of his neck and shifting in his hold to
curl further into his side.

He thought for a moment, lazily stroking a spindly hand along the length of her arm through her
cotton day-dress. “I can allow you a little kitten nap, but I insist that you allow me to instruct you
before bed, your pronunciation and projection during today’s rehearsal was lacking. You need to
take that damned corset off before you properly sleep, anyway, it’ll damage your ribs, otherwise.
You really shouldn’t wear it in the first place– it restricts your breath-control and-”

“Yes, I know you’re not fond of it,” Christine cut in, having heard this exact lecture a thousand
times over. “We’ll discuss the matter later, just hold me.” Begrudgingly, he did as was asked of
him, tilting his head to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, knowing very well that sharing his
concerns again was a lost cause– not that it would stop him.

It didn’t take long for her to drift easily into that sleep she had felt wearing at her behind her
eyelids and in her lax shoulders, boneless against Erik’s willowy frame as her lucidity diminished.
And when it did, he did not move her, content to lay there with her as her lover in the hour before
he had resolved to slip back into the title of Maestro.

Chapter End Notes

I've been working on two other Erik/Christine fics, steamier one and a modern au in
case any of you were interested and would care to keep your eyes peeled for those,
whenever they may be ready to post. But anyway, as always I sincerely hope that you
enjoyed and I greatly appreciate your feedback and support! <3
 Chapter 14
Chapter Summary

“And now a toast,” Raoul called out after the introductions, every bit as boisterous and
charismatic as he had been in their childhood. Some things just never change.
Christine jumped at the thunderous pop of the cork, clutching at her heart as frothy
bubbles fizzed from the overflowing bottle of Bignon Grande, spilling down onto the
floor beneath her friend’s feet. The first glass he poured was thrust at once into her
little hands, the sincere grin that he gave her one that she easily returned, feeling the
warmth of gratitude and kinship rising in her chest. “To Christine!” he toasted, raising
his glass. The clinking sounds that followed and the splashing of champagne over the
rim of each glass were invigorating, and she felt quite certain that there was no
possible way for the night to improve, convinced that she had reached the peak of
what the masquerade had to offer, content with simple amity and celebration. And
then the air changed.

The spindly hand pressing gently into the small of her back sent a jolt of electricity up
her spine. “To Christine,” the voice behind her agreed, reaching around her lithe
frame to join in the toast.

Chapter Notes

Babe, wake up, first part of the masquerade just dropped

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The evening had been about two clicks beyond stressful. Christine had hardly even registered that
it was the night of the masquerade, her days blurring together in a jumbled mess of rehearsals,
Meg’s gossip, and her nightly voice lessons. Really, she hardly thought that she would have
remembered at all had it not been for the reminder at the end of that day’s rehearsal, a declaration
made by M. Carriere as she and her colleagues slowly trickled out of the theater. Even then, it
hadn’t felt real, striking her more as some plan she’d made for a lifetime from then– no, it hadn’t
actually sunk in until she was descending the sweeping staircase with Meg’s insistent fingers at her
wrist and the mulberry silk skirts of her ballgown gathered in hand.

Her entrance had not been particularly reminiscent of the fairytales she so fondly recalled from her
girlhood. The room did not suddenly give way to a mystified silence or an eruption of whispers
and shocked stares, nor had she expected it to. She was quite happy with that, with the few excited
glances and secretive whispers that she did receive, relieved that it wasn’t anything more or less.
No, she was not nearly as overwhelmed as she had anticipated, nor did she feel wholly ignored and
unappreciated, that ache of being disregarded and outcasted diminishing with her upcoming
debut.

“See, I told you that everything would be fine,” Meg huffed, pulling her along. “Now come, I
promised the Vicomte De Chagny that I’d bring you to him straight away– something about an
introduction or announcement, he said.”

“Yes, yes, I know, you told me,” she sighed, still annoyed that Erik would have to make his way to
her through the sea of people, having been excited to make her entrance arm-in-arm with her lover.
While the night felt a bit more manageable now that she was actually here, any lingering anxiety
she harbored would have easily been swept under the rug with one brush of his hand against hers, a
chaste kiss pressed to her forehead, anything . “I do wish that you would have told me about this
sooner, I promised to meet-”

“Your mystery man? Yes, I’m sure you did,” Meg cut in, still tugging at Christine’s delicate
wrist. “If the two of you really have that sixth-sense for one another that you’ve described, I’m
quite certain that he’ll have no trouble at all finding you whenever he decides to make an
appearance. Now step lively, it would just so happen that you’re not the only one with promises to
keep. That ballgown is lovely on you, by the way; It matches your eyes.” Of course it did.
Christine felt silly for not realizing it sooner, Erik had had it custom-made, after all. He had hand-
selected the fabrics, requested a particular cut and silhouette– one that Christine had told him she
was fond of before –and evidently had matched the hue to her eyes. Of course he had .

“Right, thank you,” she breathed, flushing and stumbling over her own two feet as she caught up
with Meg’s hurried strides. It wasn’t long before Raoul came into view, laughing and joking with
a group of what she accurately assumed to be his posse of aristocrats and other socialites, a
champagne flute in one hand and a sixty-year-old bottle of Bignon Grande in the other. It was rare
that she was reminded of his wealth, of his high stature in society where she was hardly more than
a songbird with an aim to please. His eyes shifted to her almost immediately, and the breath that
she released was one that she hadn’t realized she was holding. As much as he played the part of
charming host and affluent nobleman, she would always see the little boy soaked to the skin with
her scarf in hand.

“Ah! Our lady of honor!” he called out, motioning for her to join him in the circle with a wide grin
and a vague wave of his arm. Meg pushed her to him, her hands adamant against her shoulders.
“Come, come!”

“M. le Vicomte,” she greeted as demurely as she thought possible, curtsying with her eyes glued to
the floor beneath her as she figured she ought to. Thankfully, she was almost immediately
reminded that Raoul was not quite as traditional as his fellow noblemen.

“We’ve only known one another for a decade , Mlle. Daaé,” he laughed, looking down at her and
gesturing for her to stand once more at her full height. “I hardly see any need for formalities
between us two. Allow me to introduce you.”

Christine could not keep track of every name hurled her way. What she could keep track of,
however, were faces and temperaments. She did not care much for the older woman with the high
cheekbones and sharp eyes that looked down at her over the defined bridge of her nose, nor did she
care for the older man that she gathered to be her husband, wanting to squirm out of her own skin
in the way that his eyes seemed to rake over her form through her dress, the annoyance in his
pursed lips at anything she dared to say. She found that she could tolerate the girl with the round
jaw and bronze-framed spectacles that seemed to interrupt everyone at any given opportunity, and
felt neutral about the elderly gentleman with the defined mustache and bad comb-over that
regarded her with an indifferent nod and impassive smile. The only three that she really quite liked
were the young woman with the ebony hair and olive skin that gave her a bright smile and warm
welcome, the younger man with the ginger hair that bothered to congratulate her, and the middle-
aged woman with a bump in her nose and lopsided grin that seemed to her to be the only one truly
invested in her imminent debut– the woman’s name was the only one that Christine had caught.
Her name was Hélène, and, if Christine’s memory served her correctly, she was the only one in the
group (save for Raoul) that saw every production that the Palais Garnier had to offer.

“And now a toast,” Raoul called out after the introductions, every bit as boisterous and charismatic
as he had been in their childhood. Some things just never change. Christine jumped at the
thunderous pop of the cork, clutching at her heart as frothy bubbles fizzed from the overflowing
bottle of Bignon Grande, spilling down onto the floor beneath her friend’s feet. The first glass he
poured was thrust at once into her little hands, the sincere grin that he gave her one that she easily
returned, feeling the warmth of gratitude and kinship rising in her chest. “To Christine!” he
toasted, raising his glass. The clinking sounds that followed and the splashing of champagne over
the rim of each glass were invigorating, and she felt quite certain that there was no possible way for
the night to improve, convinced that she had reached the peak of what the masquerade had to offer,
content with simple amity and celebration. And then the air changed.

The spindly hand pressing gently into the small of her back sent a jolt of electricity up her spine.
“To Christine,” the voice behind her agreed, reaching around her lithe frame to join in the toast.
Dumbstruck, she finally turned to meet Erik’s gaze, the tender, doting look in his eyes enough to
make her melt. Without saying so much as a word, she twisted her free arm behind her back to
draw him closer with a little tug at his cufflinks, his arm immediately snaking around her waist as
she leaned into the safety of his side. It was easy, natural to fall back into his arms in front of her
friends and every other member of high-society as though she’d done it a million times over,
feeling like a comfortable routine in spite of its novelty.

Meg gawked, though Christine hardly noticed as her eyes trailed over Erik’s form, her breath
hitching in her chest at the sight of him. Everything in his wardrobe was exquisite, that much was
indisputable– but, resplendently accoutured as he was, anything she had seen him in previously was
undoubtedly put to shame. The blues of his tailcoat and cravat were deeper than the blues of her
dress, midnight where she was morning; but the embroidered flowers peppering his waistcoat were
a direct nod to the ones at the bodice and hem of her gown, and she realized, with a sticky sweet
feeling settling in her stomach, that he’d had the ensemble custom-tailored to match her ballgown
for the event.

“I believe that we’re due an introduction, Mlle. Daaé ,” Meg finally spoke up, glancing behind her
to make certain that Raoul was every bit as taken aback as she was. While her surprise lay in
Christine’s lack of reservation, Raoul was thrown by the fact that she had even taken a lover in the
first place, having heard nothing of the matter in his recent correspondences with his old friend.

The Vicomte nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all, but instead cleared his throat and agreed with
Meg. “Yes, I believe we are– unless of course your…friend would prefer to do the honors
himself?” Christine, while sometimes impulsive and untraditional, had always been a firm believer
in propriety, gradually introducing suitors when she had had them in the past, curtsying and
bowing when society dictated that she should, playing the part of modest, soft-spoken, prim and
proper lady whenever it was expected of her; which was, of course, more often than not. This, he
thought, was laughably out of character– and it seemed that Meg agreed, if the flabbergasted,
furtive glances she cast his way were any indicator.

“Right, I’m terribly sorry,” Christine murmured, slowly coming back down to reality as Erik
rubbed circles into her side with his thumb and sipped on his champagne– wherever he’d gotten it.
“Meg, Raoul, this is–?” unable to tell how she was meant to finish the statement, what would be
appropriate in his eyes or not, she trailed off and motioned for him to finish.

“Erik, Mlle. Daaé’s paramour,” he finished for her as though it was nothing, and the easy quality of
their courtship rolling off his silver tongue sent a crimson blush climbing her chest to settle in her
cheeks.

“Right,” Christine confirmed, glancing between her friends to gauge their respective reactions.
“Erik, this is Meg, Meg this is Erik, and Erik, that’s Raoul,” she explained quickly, shooting Raoul
a look when he started to snicker, hoping to God that he’d stop.

“Forgive me,” he choked out, hand flying to cover his mouth when Meg joined in laughing. “Meg,
stop that! You’re not helping,” the authority and conviction in his voice were lacking, and sooner
than later, the pair were doubled over practically howling while Christine looked on in horror.
Erik, however, seemed to be entirely unphased.

“Oh hush, you started it, M. le Vicomte,” Meg wheezed, briefly removing her mask to dab at her
eyes. “You’ll pardon us, Erik, we don’t mean to laugh at your expense, this whole thing is just so
beyond the realm of decorum for Christine’s usual standards-”
“I hardly see how that’s true, what better time to announce-” Christine tried to argue, flustered and
defensive.

“None of us have ever even seen this gentleman, there’s an undeniable level of absurdity to the
circumstances. You can’t deny that this is out of character for you,” Meg reasoned, still giggling
as her friend grappled with a retort.

“Yes, of course,” Erik cut in, tightening his hold on Christine to stop her from making a rash
remark in return. He knew better than to let her speak any more on the matter, feeling in her tense
shoulders and shallow breaths that anything she’d have to say would be either obtuse or redundant;
gifted as she could be with words, seeming to him every now and again to be a poet, her
humiliation seemed to leave a blind spot for her. It is unbecoming of a capable, talented young
woman to lick at her wounds like an injured dog. “Christine is very courteous and it’s clear that
the two of you hadn’t the intention to bring her or I any distress, meeting you has been a delight.
Now, if you’ll excuse us for just a bit, I do believe that she promised me a dance when I received
my invitation.”

She was quick to scramble away from the crowd hand-in-hand with Erik, thoroughly embarrassed
and grateful for the out he gave her as she led him across the room, far away from prying eyes and
the scrutiny that came with them. “Did I really do that?” she asked him, finally coasting to a stop
in a little nook by the staircase, relieved to be rid of her humiliation.

He released her hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, glancing down at her lips quickly enough
that she didn’t notice. “Do what?” he asked, watching as she skeptically eyed her champagne flute,
taking a sip with no lack of suspicion. “Have you ever had champagne?”

“No, and truthfully I thought that I might not like it,” she murmured, taking another sip. “I’m glad
I was wrong, it’d be a shame to waste so much as a sip from that bottle; it has to be worth at least
double of what my dowry would have been if I had one. And agree to dance with you, I mean– did
I really do that?”

“I’m pleased that you like it, too,” he chuckled, watching as she continued to sip on it. “You
weren’t particularly impressed by the pinot noir I offered you before last night’s lesson. Pace
yourself, Christine, you don’t often drink and you’re very petite; you’ll regret it later if you don’t.
And, yes, if my memory serves me correctly, I was promised a dance– something I’ve looked
forward to for a week, might I add.”

“Are you quite certain?” she asked, pausing to dab at the corner of her mouth with her fingertips,
her doe-eyes never leaving his. “I’ve only ever waltzed once.”
He hummed in consideration, eying her in that way that made her heart quicken in her chest and
her breath hitch at the back of her throat. “Outside of or including when I taught you?” he asked,
quirking a brow beneath his mask.

“Including,” she affirmed, tilting her head in silent question when he nodded, imploring him to
verbalize his train of thought.

“Well then, if my memory serves me correctly, you were a natural. Do you remember the steps,
the counts?” he asked, holding her gaze with a tenderness she had only ever known in him. She
was thankful for his casual encouragements; the calculated, deliberate detachment that he spoke
with keeping her from disagreeing or growing uncomfortable with his praise. Tentatively, she
nodded, taking a long sip of her champagne to stall. “Pace yourself, ma petite,” he chided her,
considering the logistics of wrenching the glass away from her when she ignored the warning.

“I believe that I remember them, yes,” she mumbled, flushing at the prospect of tripping or missing
a step in front of the hundreds of patrons and performers in attendance. Her eyes broke from his.

“Very good,” he murmured, fingertips wandering to rest under her chin in a silent request for her to
hold his gaze once more. “And can you repeat them for me?”

Her mouth went dry at the request, at the patient yet insistent look in his eye and the gloved
fingertips ghosting at her jaw. “One two three, one two three and right step right step back step left
step left step,” she repeated, her voice lacking the confidence that she’d intended it to have.

“Very good indeed,” he praised, taking a quick sip of his champagne and offering her a small
smile. “And who leads?”

“You,” she whispered, trying not to seem as breathless and enraptured as she felt, the flickering
candlelight and lustrous chandelier overhead casting her lover in an ethereal glow– yes, she was
quite certain that her father had sent her her Angel of Music.

Erik’s smile was prideful, accomplished and tinged with adoration. “That’s my girl. Now come, I
do believe that I’m due my dance.”

Gingerly, he took her now-empty champagne flute from her, setting their glasses down on a little
table that seemed to be collecting them, and offered her his arm. She held fast to his bicep,
practically vibrating with anticipation and trepidation as he led her across the floor. They stopped
in time with a dip in the music that had been playing all night, Erik pressing a fervent kiss to her
delicate knuckles before winding an arm around her waist and taking her hand in his. Nearly
missing her cue, Christine brought her free hand to his shoulder in time for the music to
recommence, overwhelmed and nearly dizzy as the waltz began.

“Erik, I’m not-”

“You think too much, sweet girl,” he murmured, cutting her off from her anxious musings. “Focus
on me, on the music,” he continued, effortlessly spinning her around and watching as her skirts
fanned about her legs, twirling in time with her as she moved. “This is no different than when I
taught you, there is only you and I.”

Frustrated when she stumbled over her own two feet, she fisted her hand in the fabric of her lover’s
tailcoat from where it laid on his shoulder. “No, it is different, there are-”

“I said that there is only you and I,” his voice was firmer now as he reiterated, the same air of
command he slipped into during their lessons prevalent in his pointed gaze. “Do you understand?”
The gentle, reassuring squeeze that he gave to her waist was all that it took for the world around
them to fall to the wayside, carried away with the singing of violins and the dolcet melody of the
piano. She did not think about the nod that she gave, hardly comprehending anything beyond the
warmth of Erik’s hand in hers, the steadiness of his gaze and comfort of his palm upon her waist.
The look that flashed in the amber of his eyes was warm, prideful when she stopped sinking and
allowed herself to float, her ascent easy with his guidance. “Good girl,” he murmured, and she felt
that fire he inspired in her spark and crackle, liquid heat pooling in her stomach and cheeks at his
praise.

The small tug at the corner of his lips told her that her reaction did not go unnoticed by him. “Have
you any idea how very much I love you?” she asked, the words rising from her throat before she
had a chance to consider them. But, judging by the pleased hum that he offered her in return, there
was nothing for her to fret over.

“No,” he said simply, spinning her once again and watching rapt as her curls swished about the
expanse of her back. “Do you? Have any idea how very much I love you, I mean.”

With all of her worries having vanished, she beamed up at him, practically glowing as her eyes
flickered up to his. “No, but I fancy that I’m starting to.” The corner of his eyes crinkled with his
smile from behind the mask.

“Good.”
Wholly lost in one another, they hardly noticed when the music stopped, their dancing coasting to a
slow stop, both breathless and refusing to break eye contact. Christine wasn’t certain who leaned
in first, though she found that it didn’t matter when the brush of his hand against her cheek was so
soft, when the arm around her waist was so gentle and insistent, the beating of his heart steady
beneath her open palm. The first brush of his lips against hers was enigmatic, that undeniable
headiness of him enveloping her and stoking the flame in the pit of her stomach ever higher,
threatening to engulf her in the wildfire she remembered feeling on the roof. Desperate to be closer
and forgetting the world around her, she brought the hand that had been at his shoulder to the base
of his skull, tangling her nimble fingers in his hair as she brought him down for the earnest kiss that
she craved. He matched her need, the low sound that came from the back of his throat spurring her
on as she pushed her tongue past the seam of his lips, meeting him stroke for languid stroke as he
returned the gesture in kind. Flush against him in the crowd, she sighed into his mouth when he
ran the hand that had been cupping her cheek through her curls, wholly content to push the world
around them away for a moment longer as they burned together.

Needing air, she broke away, thankful that he didn’t stray far, his forehead dropped against hers as
she caught her breath. “You are radiant tonight, my love,” he whispered against her lips, pleased
by the small smile that she answered him with.

“No more than you,” she murmured, craning her neck to press a final chaste kiss to his lips. “Do
you suppose that we should find Meg and Raoul again?”

He nodded, reluctant to lose her undivided attention but wanting her to properly bask in her victory
as any young debutante should. “If you so please,” he mumbled, planting a gentle kiss at the tip of
her nose as he went to stand once more at his full height. She took the arm that he offered her
without so much as a moment’s hesitation, holding fast to him as they sought out her friends.

Their plans, however, were put on hold by the hand on Erik’s shoulder, Christine stopping dead in
her tracks at his side when he went rigid. “Erik?”

Thoroughly confused, he furrowed his brows and cast a glance over his shoulder, the man in his
periphery pulling back as their eyes met. The recognition that flashed in Erik’s eyes was
immediate. “Nadir?” Christine followed Erik’s line of vision to the man, that insatiable curiosity
deeply rooted in her rearing its head once more.

“I thought that I might find you here, I can’t ever remember you skipping out on a masquerade,”
Nadir chuckled, taking in his old friend as he turned around. Christine followed Erik’s cue to face
Nadir, allowing him to slip from her grasp to give the man a quick embrace.
 “No, there isn’t so much as a chance that I’d be so careless as to miss my only real opportunity to
indulge in normalcy. I can’t say that I expected the same, I wasn’t even quite certain whether or
not you’d made it to the city,” Erik laughed, grateful to be reunited with the daroga. The quick
glance that he cast down to Christine was a silent question, a way to ask her if she was alright
without having to say a word. Her uncertainty of what to do with herself and insecurity were
evident in her eyes, and, with a soft, reassuring smile, he draped an arm around her waist. Soothed
by the gesture, she leaned into his side and listened as the two men talked.

“Yes, I arrived a week ago,” he responded conversationally, finally taking note of Christine as his
eyes wandered to Erik’s right. “Ah, my sincere apologies for not noticing sooner– who is this?”

“This,” he began, meeting her eyes and wrapping his arm tighter around her corseted waist, “is
Mlle. Christine Daaé, my lover and this ball’s guest of honor– the toast of Paris, as yesterday’s
headlines called her.” Christine had missed that, not often having the time to read the paper.

“Yes, of course, I’ve heard quite a bit about you; you’re the talk of the town,” Nadir replied,
offering her a warm smile. “Congratulations on your imminent debut, Mlle. Daaé, you’ll do
splendidly in the role of Countess.”

“Thank you, M. Khan,” she replied, her answering smile sincere, grateful for his kindness. “I’ve
heard a fair bit about you, too. You’ll pardon me if what I’m about to say is overstepping any
boundaries, but I feel inclined to thank you for taking care of Erik during his time in Persia– it
seems to me that you’re of great importance to him.” The red in Erik’s ears betrayed the fact that
he was blushing and he rushed to clear his throat, flustered while Nadir was touched.

“I’m glad to have made an impact,” Nadir laughed, watching as Erik shifted uncomfortably to
bring Christine further into his side.

“I’m afraid that I promised Mlle. Daaé that we would return to her companions,” he murmured,
fighting the urge to hide his face in her hair– what little of it could be seen behind his mask,
anyway. “I will send for you soon, sometime before the upcoming production of Il Muto for tea;
you’ll know how and where to find me.”

Chapter End Notes

I hope that you enjoyed and sincerely look forward to your feedback <3
 Chapter 15
Chapter Summary

Preening at his praise, she breathed a moan and rolled her hips once more against his,
reveling in the low groan he gave in turn as she pushed his tailcoat off of his
shoulders. “Please,” she whispered, eyes half-lidded and brows furrowed as she made
her plea. “I want you, I’d be terribly bereft to be denied now.”

“Then let it be known that I haven’t any intent to deny you,” he chuckled, endeared by
her urgency when they may as well have had all the time in the world. And then she
was working at his silken cravat, fumbling at the complicated knot as she wound her
legs around his narrow waist. “Tiresome, I know,” he laughed, gently halting her
fruitless attempts with a hand around her wrist. “Allow me, your only duty is to relax,
my love. Allow me to take care of you– it is you that we’re celebrating tonight, is it
not?”

Chapter Notes

An extra long chapter with a shit ton of healthy communication, fluff, and the gentlest
smut I could muster in hopes of making up for the wait

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The lights felt blinding. That had been the first of many things to set Christine off, suddenly
feeling much too hot and more than a little overwhelmed as she held fast to Erik’s arm in the sea of
people. The evening had been nothing short of magnificent, and she had enjoyed it, basking in the
blithe atmosphere and her lover’s attentions, the congratulations from her friends and the socialites
filling the room– but now, as she listened to Erik charm her friends with some anecdote or another
about a particularly tasteless production of Rigoletto, she wanted nothing more than to leave.

The tale itself was delightful, his dry sense of humor and quick wit infinitely entertaining– and yet
she couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably against his side, oversaturated with the sheer decadence
of the celebration, the slew of people in every direction; flashes of silk and velvet and taffeta in her
periphery, boisterous laughs that were much too loud as they rang discordantly in her ears.

Her mind had severed itself from her body– she felt all but certain of it. It had to have, that was the
only possible way that she could think to explain the sudden nausea gnawing at her stomach, that
floating feeling that kept her lightheaded and pale and hopelessly disconnected from the
conversation she was meant to partake in.
She didn’t register the concerned look that Erik shot her way, nor did she register him bidding her
friends a quick but kind farewell– what she did register, however, was the firm hand at the small of
her back as he led her through the crowd and back to that little nook by the staircase where the
splendor was subdued and the eyes on her were few and far between.

“Christine?” his voice was gentle, patiently coaxing her back into the moment as he cupped her
face with both hands, thumbs smoothing lightly over her cheekbones. The air felt thin, her chest
too tight as she tried to blink the world back into focus. Had his voice always sounded so distant?

The memory that flashed in her mind’s eye was one from her girlhood, when she had been thrust
into the middle of a dinner party that was entirely too formal and lavish for her simple upbringing
at the request of a young Raoul. She remembered feeling out of sorts; that same breathless, jittery
sensation that was so prevalent in her now, that fear that there were entirely too many eyes on her
and too many things to take in from her surroundings, her eyes skittering about the room and never
quite finding somewhere to land. And now, nearly a decade later, the feeling had returned to her as
though it had never truly left.

“Yes?” she tried her best to respond, though her voice was choked, catching in her chest and
sticking painfully at the back of her throat.

She could tell by the look in his eye that his brow was creased behind the mask. “You’re
anxious.” It was not a question. Her nod was timid, hesitant to admit to what he already knew.
“You need fresh air, petite.”

Unable to do anything but nod and try to blink away the tears that she suddenly felt welling in her
eyes, she allowed him to sweep her out of the room and to her quarters, confused as he led her
down the drafty stairs, what was likely a five minute affair passing her by in a blur at the blink of
an eye. “I thought that I needed air?” she asked, voice small, surprised that she had even processed
where she was being led, much less his words.

“You do,” he began, kneeling at her feet when they hit even ground and motioning for her to give
him her leg. Tentatively, she took her silken skirts in hand and obliged. “But not in that, you need
something warmer. You’ll catch your death out there in that ballgown.” Gingerly, he freed each
of her feet from her shoes and set them aside by her vanity. “How does a stroll along the river
sound? Or would you rather make the trek to the roof?”

Still feeling like a livewire as she watched him set to rifling through her wardrobe for a warmer
dress, she did her best to push down the stertorous breaths that were rising in her chest, the
desperate clench of her heart as it beat wildly against her ribcage like the wings of some frantic
bird. “A walk, please,” she mumbled, trying desperately to undo the pearly buttons at her back to
no avail, suddenly very aware of the shake in her hands, the tremble in her lip. “Erik?”

In an instant, he was at her back, having abandoned his search for the time being in favor of aiding
her in her attempt to disrobe. “It’s alright,” he murmured, reaching around her front to hold her
quivering hand while the other slipped those tricky buttons through their respective loops. “I’m
here, it’s only you and I, Christine.” Bit by bit, her bodice came loose around her torso, and she
accepted his help as he slipped it off of her arms. “Do you want help with your skirts as well?”

The hand running up and down her arm was grounding, a distraction that she was grateful for.
“Yes, please,” she whispered, slowly processing all that she was feeling with the sound of his
voice, the steady touch of his hand.

Wordlessly, he worked at her skirts, watching as they dropped from her waist and pooled about the
floor at her feet in waves of powder blue and embroidered forget-me-nots. Her crinoline joined it
in a heap shortly thereafter, leaving her stripped to her ivory corset and cotton chemise. The hands
braced at her corset laces were timid, hesitant. “Can I take this off?”

“Yes,” she whispered back, flushing at the feeling of it gradually loosening around her middle with
the help of his deft fingers. With a brief moment of pause, she brought her fae-like hands up to her
chest and unhooked the eyelets keeping it tethered to her lissome form.

While she had been in this state of undress in his company before, there was something infinitely
more vulnerable and intimate about this moment as it unfolded, her shaking having just subsided
and her chest still tight with the anxiety that had snaked its way through her at the masquerade.
She had shed that feeling of detachment with her skirts, and was now much too aware of just how
unstrung she felt.

Gingerly, he peeled the corset from her pliant body, stepping to the side to set it on the ottoman
before her vanity with a warm palm pressed to her curve of her hip.

“...Can you turn around for me, ange?” he asked, voice soft and low as he let his hand fall from her
when she adhered to the request. Stealing one doe-eyed glance up at him before falling into the
safety of his chest, she wound her arms around his neck, easing back into herself bit by bit as his
arms encircled her.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she mumbled, listening to the steady, rhythmic thrumming
of his heart against her cheek. “I should have been having a splendid time. I know that you were
enjoying yourself at the masquerade, I’m sorry for taking that from you.” The guilt that she felt
was tangible, manifesting in the frustrated tears she felt gathering in her eyes, that still-tight
sensation in her chest as he held her; some knot that her arteries had clumsily tangled themselves
into.

His arms wound tighter around her at that, chin resting atop of her head as he slowly rocked her to
and fro. “Don’t apologize when you haven’t done anything wrong, petite,” he murmured, pausing
to press a slow kiss to her curls. “I enjoyed myself because of you, leaving the ball could hardly
steal that away from me. You are here and that is far more than enough for me; much more than I
could ever possibly need to be content.”

“I feel so out of sorts and I haven’t any idea why,” she choked out, some combination of touched
by his reassurance and frustrated with herself for being so disordered.

The hand rubbing up and down her back was soothing, a reminder that she was there in his arms
and not floating somewhere far away where no one could pull her back down. “You’re
overwhelmed and there isn’t anything wrong with that in the slightest, sweet girl. There was plenty
happening at the masquerade that could have made you feel that way,” he murmured, feeling her
little hands balling into fists around his dress shirt in some desperate attempt to cling to that solace
he gave her. “What do you need from me right now?”

“A kiss, if you please,” she mumbled, shifting to look him in the eye, hands still braced at his
chest. “I just want it all to go away, I want it to be just you and I.”

And with that, his hand was at her cheek, gently holding her still for him as he bent to brush a
barely-there kiss to her pliant lips, a whisper of the heady, all-consuming kiss she sought out. “It
is,” he promised, pausing to drop a tender kiss to the corner of her mouth. “It’s only you and I, ma
petite.”

Her arms twined around his neck at the next kiss he planted to her lips, sighing into his mouth at
the steady press of his lips against hers, relieved by the distraction it offered. The hand at her
cheek slowly trailed down to her waist, his thumb smoothing over her ribs just under her breast
through the sheer cotton of her chemise as he broke away from her.

“I’m going to pick you up, is that quite alright with you?” he whispered against her lips, feeling her
nose nudging up against the smooth porcelain of his mask when she nodded her approval.

Slowly, as though she would startle if he moved too suddenly, he trailed his hands down to the
backs of her supple thighs, spindly fingers curling around them through the sheer cotton of her
chemise as he lifted her from the ground, her legs obediently winding around his waist as she
leaned into the safety of his arms. Her head dropped against the slope of his neck where it
connected to his shoulder, flushed cheek meeting the sleek midnight blue of his tailcoat and crisp
white collar of his dress shirt.

He allowed her a moment to adjust to the new position before she felt him moving about the room,
setting her gently down atop of her mattress and peppering her face with little kisses as she
gradually relaxed beneath him, pacified by the feather-light brush of his lips against her too-hot
skin. He knelt at her feet to press doting kisses to her neck, a hand seeking hers and lacing their
fingers as she tilted her head to accommodate his attentions. Each little kiss and whispered praise
was calculated, slowly pulling her out of the celebration’s orbit and into his, grounding her and
subduing the seemingly neon world around her to manageable and muted pastels.

The hand cupping the swell of her breast, however, had been entirely unintentional, sliding from
where it had rested at her shoulder in an unfortunate, unforeseen turn of events. “ Shit ,” he
breathed, beyond embarrassed. The spell was broken then, her eyes fluttering open at the
profanity, having never heard him properly curse. “I apologize, that hadn’t been-”

Just as he moved to pull his hand away, hers darted up from where it laid dormant on the bed and
held it there. “No, no, I…” she trailed off, every bit as rosy in the cheeks as she suspected him of
being. “That’s quite alright, you…you can keep it there, I don’t mind.” Dumbstruck, he looked up
at her wide-eyed, watching as the pretty pink in her cheeks darkened to a deep crimson. “I’m
sorry, that was inexcusably vulgar, I haven’t any idea what-”

“No, it’s alright, if you uhm…” he paused, briefly averting his gaze at the heady jolt of arousal the
hardly-concealed coveting in her eyes had instilled in him. “If you want it there, I haven’t any
qualms.”

“I do– want it there, I mean,” she stammered, assured of the fact by his offer. “...Would I be too
terribly brazen to ask you for a proper kiss?”

He breathed a short laugh at that, endeared by her sudden timidity, her tentativeness. “No, of
course not, ange,” he whispered, eyes brimming with his infinite adoration for her as she let slip a
small smile at his agreement.

His mouth was on hers again then, the gentle pressure of his lips slotting against hers headier now
as her hand fell away from her breast, pleased to find that he continued to cup it in her absence.
Experimentally, he brushed a calloused thumb across her nipple through the gossamer cloth of her
chemise, using her answering gasp to slide his tongue past her teeth as it hardened beneath his
touch. Vaguely aware of his own arousal growing with each of her breathy moans and soft
whimpers, he pushed himself off of the floor and onto her bed beside her, the mattress dipping with
his weight as he pulled her in one fluid motion onto his lap.
The halt to his actions was abrupt, a loss that left Christine reeling. “Is this alright?” he murmured,
that velvety voice rougher than she could ever recall hearing it as he rubbed soothing circles into
her hips with his thumbs. “You can stop this at any point, ma petite.”

His words fell on deaf ears, the hardening length of him nudging against her inner thigh entirely
too distracting for her to process anything else. Wordlessly, she braced her little fingers at his jaw
for another kiss, only for him to break away moments later.

“Christine,” he sighed, hellbent on hearing her affirmation or denial from her lips. “Is this alri-”
The question died on his lips with a testy roll of her hips against his own, the tented fabric of his
slacks dragging against her sex through the cotton of her drawers. “ Christ, Christine,” he groaned,
stooping to gently mouth at her neck, bereft when he reminded himself that he couldn’t– or at the
very least shouldn’t –leave marks in his wake.

“Please,” she breathed, unsure of what exactly it was that she was asking for as she tangled a hand
in his hair, unabashedly holding him to the slope of her neck as he gently nipped at her silky skin.
He gave a thoughtful hum against the column of her neck, contenting himself with the feeling of
her dainty hands carding through the thick hair at the base of his skull.

“Please what?” he murmured, trailing a hand from where it had laid on her hip to grope at her
shapely backside, reveling in her answering whimper. “Wonderful as your hands feel in my hair, I
do hope that you’ll let go for a moment so that I may look at you,” his voice was soft, a gentle
request as opposed to a pressing demand.

Tentatively, she obliged, meeting his gaze with lust-blown pupils as he cupped her flushed cheek
with the hand that wasn’t at her behind. “Your mask,” she breathed, scrambling to work at the ties
holding it flush to his face. “I don’t want to do this with your mask– not this first time, anyway.”

“Christine-” he tried to protest, tensing as he felt her peel the porcelain away from his skin. “You
needn’t-”

And then her lips were at the twisted tip of his nose, his temples, dusting along gnarled cheekbones
and the sharp contours of his jaw. “If you’re going to take me, I hardly think it fair that you should
be wholly covered whilst I am bare,” she whispered, pausing to plant a languid kiss to the corner of
his mouth. “I haven’t anything but love for you– for every part of you.”

“And I for you,” he mumbled, hesitantly dropping his forehead against hers. “You truly are an
angel, Christine.” She rewarded him with a small smile, flushing when his hand dipped to trace
along her inner thigh. “Beautiful,” he sighed, leaning back to marvel at the raw want in her eyes.
“My muse, my goddess, my Juliet, my sun and stars.”

Preening at his praise, she breathed a moan and rolled her hips once more against his, reveling in
the low groan he gave in turn as she pushed his tailcoat off of his shoulders. “Please,” she
whispered, eyes half-lidded and brows furrowed as she made her plea. “I want you, I’d be terribly
bereft to be denied now.”

“Then let it be known that I haven’t any intent to deny you,” he chuckled, endeared by her urgency
when they may as well have had all the time in the world. And then she was working at his silken
cravat, fumbling at the complicated knot as she wound her legs around his narrow waist.
“Tiresome, I know,” he laughed, gently halting her fruitless attempts with a hand around her wrist.
“Allow me, your only duty is to relax , my love. Allow me to take care of you– it is you that we’re
celebrating tonight, is it not?”

Swallowing her impatience, she gave him a nod and tentatively dropped her hands to rest at her
thighs, docile as she watched him work the cravat from his neck and start on the silvery buttons of
his waistcoat. “I want to thank you,” she whispered, recapturing his attention. “For everything;
your tutelage, your guidance, your care, your affection, your-”

“You needn’t thank me, my dear,” he cut her off, clearing his throat in some attempt to fight off
the flush in his cheeks. “I assure you that it’s reward enough to see you flourishing as you have
been, to see you so full of mirth and life. I do believe that your smile is the eighth wonder of the
world– or perhaps the ninth, second only to your voice.”

“You flatter me,” she breathed, held whole by the reverent look in his eye.

“What did I tell you on the roof?” he countered. And then she was there again, with that same
hunger and dizzying need he had ignited in her then as she looked doe-eyed up at him,
remembering the life her breath had taken on in the night air, how she had bent and yielded to him
with the fluidity of water. The moment of music, of epiphany.

Once again she found herself surging forward and pressing her lips to his with a fervency neither
one could deny, his hands immediately gripping at her back to hold her flush against his chest and
pushing his tongue past her teeth. And this time, it was the skin of his cheek that she felt pressing
against her nose as she deepened the kiss, gripping onto the collar of his dress shirt as though it was
the only thing that could possibly keep her there in the moment with him.
The tenderness that he brought to the forefront of their kiss came as no surprise to her, the languid
strokes of his tongue along hers lessening in urgency as she melted into his hold. There came no
sudden realization that the world beyond where she straddled his lap and met his lips had dwindled
away to nothing, the familiar headiness of him putting the racing of her mind to rest when that
blissful sensation of rapture finally washed over her. There was only him; the feeling of his jaw
caught between her hands as they trailed up from the ivory collar of his shirt, the pang of desire at
the apex of her thighs, the long fingers tangling in her hair.

With a breathy moan from the back of her throat, he pulled away to shrug out of his waistcoat,
balmy amber eyes breaking from hers for only a moment to chance a quick glance at her heaving
chest. “That needs to go,” he murmured, gesturing to her chemise with a vague nod of his head and
a raised brow. Flustered, her breath hitched at the back of her throat as she timidly reached for the
hem of her chemise where it laid rucked up about her thighs. He took note of her tentativeness as
he unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt, softening at the way she worried the corner of her
lip between her teeth. “You needn’t if you haven’t any wish to, Christine. I would never push you
to do something that you are uncomfortable with– not within the realm of the sexual, anyway.”

“No, no, I want to I just…” she trailed off, suddenly feeling every bit the inexperienced virgin that
she was.

He offered her a moment of silence, a grace she was thankful for as she burned crimson under his
patient gaze. “Have you ever done this before?” he asked, the gentle lilt in his voice soothing the
embarrassment that had begun to seep into the pit of her stomach.

“No,” she breathed, pausing to gather herself. “No, I can’t say that I had ever quite expected to
find myself in such a position before my wedding night– whenever that might be.”

“We can still wait if you would like, ange,” he murmured, gingerly tucking a stray curl behind her
ear. She let slip a small smile at the implications of his offer, his words conjuring up images of a
jewel-encrusted ring on her finger, of white, ornately-beaded gowns and Erik’s lips on hers in a
chapel. “I see no reason why we can’t if you so wish it.”

“No, I want to, truly, I do,” she promised. “...And you? Have you done this before? Do you want
me?”

“Only a handful of times,” he admitted, his voice every bit as comforting as the warm glow of the
solitary candle at her bedside table. “Though I assure you that it’s been quite some time, long
before we met. And I want you more than you could ever fathom– however I feel inclined to tell
you that I could go all my days without your touch so long as I knew that you were fulfilled by
such an arrangement.”
“I want you to take me,” she whispered, rosy-cheeked and doe-eyed as she looked up at him. “I’m
secure in that decision so long as you still wish to have me.”

His stomach flipped at the conviction in her voice. “I do,” he breathed, unable to tear himself from
that hopeful glimmer in her eye as she held his gaze. “Heavens, Christine, you haven’t any idea
just how badly I do.”

“Please,” she emphasized, punctuating her need with a palm pressed to the bare sliver of his chest.
“I asked you to make it all go away, and I intend to hold you to that.”

With that, he stooped to pull her into another kiss, every ounce of gentleness in his willowy body
making itself known as he stroked through her hair and cupped her cheek as though she were made
of the same porcelain of his mask. She gladly sank into the feeling of his lips against hers, the
warmth rolling off of him in waves as she wound her arms around his neck. In an instant, a hand
was at her breast, his thumb tracing circles around the hardened peak of her nipple through the
cream-colored cotton of her chemise. Just as he had before, he used her answering gasp to slip his
tongue past the parted seam of her lips, delighting in each breathless moan and whimper that he
pulled from her gilded singer’s throat.

When he pulled away, it was with no lack of disappointment from Christine, pacified only by the
sensation of his hands trailing to knead at her inner thighs. “Your chemise,” he murmured,
swallowing a low groan when she began to squirm in his lap, evidently enjoying his attentions as
he massaged her supple skin through the thin fabric of her drawers. “Would you mind if I stripped
you, petite?”

“I think that I may die if you don’t,” she whispered, well beyond the point of worked up.

At that, he chuckled, charmed by her exaggerated need. “Ah, well we can’t have that, now can
we?” he teased, hardly fending off the laugh he felt inclined to give at her frustrated whine. “Lift
your arms for me, then, ange.”

Timidly, she did as was asked of her, desire pooling low in her belly as he gingerly brought the
garment over her head, taking in every inch of her bare skin with an appreciative groan on his lips.
In a matter of moments, his hands were everywhere; at the curve of her waist, her shoulder blades
that shifted and quaked beneath his touch, the swell of her breasts, the soft plains of her stomach.
“Erik,” she whispered, entirely too content as he trailed kisses along her collarbone and lower,
eventually bending to wrap his lips around a rosy nipple.
And then she was beneath him, his hands at her hips as he flipped her onto her back. “You are the
single most exquisite creature that has ever blessed this earth,” he sighed, hoisting himself onto the
bed and readjusting her so that she laid comfortably amongst her downy pillows and heavy quilt.
“The golden rays of the merciful sun in a world bathed in unforgiving darkness.”

“Gods, Erik,” she whined, tangling her hands in the thick, glossy locks of his hair as he
experimentally cupped her sex through the final barrier between him and her folds.

“May I take these off?” he asked, tracing a delicate line along the waistband of her drawers with
his middle and ring fingers. Feverishly, she nodded, eyes half-lidded as she lifted her hips to
accommodate his efforts. Bare before him as the flimsy cotton fluttered to the floor, she nervously
drew her thighs together, reminded once again of her lack of experience in the face of her
fretfulness.

Her bashfulness was short-lived, falling to the wayside as he set to sucking a bruise into the
underside of her breast, his fingertips just barely ghosting over her knee. Sighing beneath him with
her hands fisted in her heavy quilt as he coaxed her legs open with gentle nudges of his knee against
her ankles, she timidly let her thighs fall to either side of him. “Lovely,” he sighed, lowering
himself over her lithe form to dust feather-light kisses across her chest and ribs, arms winding
around her thighs as he paused just above her navel. “So very lovely for me.”

“Erik,” she breathed, his name a prayer on her lips as she brushed the mussed locks of hair from
his eyes.

“Yes, my love?” he murmured, pausing his ministrations to tend to any need she may have with
that attentive gaze of his, chin dropping to rest lightly atop of her stomach.

She sighed a laugh at that, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I don’t know,” she
admitted, still running her little fingers through his hair as she watched him. “I think that I said
your name just to say it, to feel it sweet like honeysuckle on my tongue.”

“You’re terribly endearing,” he chuckled, gingerly relinquishing his hold on one of her thighs to
snake a hand up her stomach and to her sternum where her hand lay curled in a loose fist. Slowly,
he settled between her legs, peppering her milky skin with open-mouthed kisses as he traveled
south. “Mon ange,” he mused, threading their fingers together as he planted a tender kiss to the
crease of her thigh, his lips coming away damp with her arousal. “Christ, you’re soaked for me.”

Her breath hitched at the comment, though any embarrassment that had begun to stir in her died
with the first tentative brush of his fingers against her glistening folds. “Oh, God,” she whimpered,
arching her back as she watched him take the tips of his fingers into his mouth. “Erik, please–”

“Patience, my dear,” he murmured, bringing the calloused pads of his fingers back down to her
cunt and watching rapt as her jaw slackened with the first pass of his middle finger over her clit.
“Let me ease you into it,” he whispered, giving her dainty hand a reassuring squeeze and
marveling at the way her thighs fell open around either side of him to allow him ample room to
work. “Good girl.”

The breathy moan she gave at his praise was rewarded with a gentle swirl of his fingertips around
the bundle of nerves at the top of her sex, her hips bucking upwards of their own accord when he
began to circle her entrance with a solitary finger. “Heavens,” she sighed, tossing her head back
against her pillows when he carefully dipped into her slick heat with just the tip of his finger. “
Please Erik, I need more.” And with that he was inside, curling against her walls in pursuit of that
place that would have her writhing against his hand.

“So very good for me,” he murmured, admittedly having expected for quite some time that praise
was quite the sweet spot for her– though he had never guessed that it would have her mewling on
her back as he fucked her with his fingers. “ Fuck, you’re so tight, petite; so tight and wet for me.”

As if on cue, her walls fluttered around his finger, the clench of it sending a rush of arousal
shooting down to his cock as he groaned and took her clit between his lips, rutting his hips into the
mattress with her answering cry. Her free hand tangled in his hair, her breaths tremulous as he
darted his tongue out from between his teeth to lave at her. “Oh my God,” she gasped, bucking up
and into his face as he lapped at her glistening sex. “God in Heaven, Erik, that-”

Her words tapered off into a breathless whimper when his finger finally curled just so inside of her,
stars dancing across her vision as he met that spot again. Bottom lip caught between her teeth in
some fruitless attempt to preserve some semblance of modesty, she rippled around him once more
when the pressure of his tongue at her swollen clit increased, the speed of his ministrations
following close behind as he now fucked her in earnest. Just as quickly as his mouth was upon her,
he pulled back to chide her attempt to stay silent.

“No,” he choked out, breathless as he slid another finger into her cunt, carefully watching her face
to ensure that he had brought her no pain in doing so. He was relieved to instead find her thrusting
her hips into his hand. “I taught you to sing, sweet girl, and I’d be terribly disappointed to be
denied your voice now,” he encouraged her, swallowing a low groan when she all but wailed at the
next drag of his fingers against that spot deep inside her. “Yes, just like that. Remember to breathe
for me, darling– yes, that’s it. Good girl, you take my fingers so well, love.”

With another keening whimper from the back of her throat, he gingerly lowered himself back down
to her neglected clit, once again tasting that tangy sweetness of her as she moaned and writhed
beneath him. Carefully, he built up to that point he had reached just before she had tried to quiet
herself, his tongue flicking quicker still against her slick cunt and his fingers tirelessly driving into
her core as her thighs began to shake against his linen-clad shoulders.

The build to her release had been a looming shadow from the moment his hand had first slipped to
cup the swell of her breast– but now, as that coil low in her belly wound ever-tighter with every
swirl of his tongue around the swollen nub of her clit– each snag of his fingers against that spot
inside of her that turned the drafty air in her lungs to crackling flames, it was tangible, threatening
to sweep her under its tide. All it took was one carefully-timed brush of his thumb against her
knuckles and gentle nip at the bundle of nerves between her thighs.

Feeling her frenetic heartbeat mirrored in the walls of her cunt as she cried out, Erik redoubled his
efforts, effectively intensifying and prolonging her orgasm as she trembled and cried out beneath
him, reducing her world to a singular, sinfully divine spot between her legs; to the blinding
pleasure coursing through her veins, the contractions of her abdomen as she pulsed around him, the
feeling of his hair twined between her quaking fingers and his hand squeezing hers in some silent
encouragement to let herself fall with the wordless promise that he would catch her.

He slowed only for a moment as the throbbing of her cunt ebbed around his fingers, allowing her a
breath of reprieve before he resumed his work, the kitten-licks he had taken to as she slackened
against the bed turning to sharp, quick strokes of his tongue as he once again curled the pads of his
fingers against her walls. “God, Erik, please ,” she all but sobbed, his ministrations just gentle
enough to ensure that her pleasure wouldn’t border on pain as she arched into him.

“Do let me know if it’s too much,” he panted, just barely coming up to assure her that she could, at
any point, put an end to his efforts if she so wished before diving back down between her legs.
Thinking only that she may die if he stopped now, she fisted his hair in her shaking hand and
reveled in the appreciative groan that he gave against her dripping sex. He had, at no point, let go
of her hand.

“Heavens, yes– fuck, love, right there, oh, sweet, merciful Lord,” she babbled, Erik shooting her an
amused look at her profanity; her eyes were screwed shut. Certain that she had been engulfed in
the dancing, prurient flames of wildfire as she teetered on the precipice he’d brought her to once
already, she unabashedly cried out as he lapped at her, her moments of true lucidity few and far
enough between for her to think not of anyone who may hear her ecstasy.

All too soon, her climax reared its head once more, hair sticking damply to her forehead with her
sweat and a strangled cry of his name on her lips as he thrust into her mattress to find some
semblance of relief at the sheer eroticism of her coming undone around his fingers, her taste on his
tongue and her thighs drawing up to frame his face as his attentions tapered off into little more than
lazy stripes licked from entrance to swollen clit. With one feather-light kiss pressed to her sex as
she began to squirm and whine with overstimulation, he slipped his drenched fingers from her
entrance and rested his head in the crease of her thigh as she came down from her high, watching as
the heaving of her chest evened out into steady, deep breaths as though she were some empyrean
daydream sent from above.

Absently, she shakily combed her delicate fingers through his hair, slowly garnering enough
strength to sit up and watch him. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice rough as she gradually
returned to herself, reeling from the force of her pleasure.

At that, he offered a thoughtful hum, eyes slowly drifting closed as he leaned into her touch; the
sensation of her hand curled around his and her fingers carding through the light, glossy mass of
his hair– the warmth of her supple thigh beneath his distorted cheek. “Better?” he asked, sweeping
his thumb over her knuckles in a simple gesture of affection that deepened the flush in her cheeks
to a deep crimson.

“Much,” Christine agreed, giving a soft smile as her eyes fell on him lax against her thigh.
Opening one eye to meet her gaze, he mirrored her smile, hopelessly endeared and utterly lovesick
as he took her in, angelic even after being thoroughly debauched. “You can come up here with me,
you know.”

Not one to refuse an opportunity to lay with her, he wordlessly relinquished his hold on her hand in
favor of wriggling his way up the bed, unceremoniously wiping the remaining wetness on his
fingers away at his pant leg before pulling her into his arms. Laying sprawled atop of him, his
nose buried in her chestnut curls as she listened to his steady heartbeat, she finally took note of the
straining erection brushing against her thigh. With an embarrassed flush of her cheeks, she
fumbled for the button of his trousers, an apology for not considering his need sooner at the tip of
her tongue when he halted her with a hand curled firmly around her wrist. “You don’t have to,
Christine,” he murmured, pausing to press a slow kiss to her hairline. “You needn’t do a thing but
relax, tonight is about you. I’m quite content to merely lay here with you; you’ve had quite enough
‘firsts’ for one night, don’t you think?”

“I don’t mind,” she breathed, trying futilely to worm her way out of his grasp. “Truly, Erik, I want
to make you feel some piece of what you gave me, please, I want you to take me-”

“Enticing as that sounds, there will be plenty of time for that another night should you feel so
inclined,” he promised, smoothing the calloused pad of his thumb over her pulse-point in
reassurance. “For now, let me hold you– enjoy the afterglow.” Tentatively, she melted back into
his arms, boneless against him when he let her wrist fall from his grasp. The kiss brushed against
her brow was appreciative, adoring as he always was. “...Would you still care for your walk? I do
believe that fresh air would still serve you well.”

She hummed at the suggestion, nosing at the column of his throat as he drew her closer. “Another
 night,” she whispered, eyelids fluttering closed as he languidly traced shapes into her bare back, her
skin silky beneath his fingertips. “Do trust that I’ll hold you to that, a stroll along the Seine at your
side sounds wonderful.” Absently, she undid the last few buttons of his shirt, eager to feel the
warmth of his skin against hers as she lifted her head to pull it open.

He gave a contented sigh at the feeling of her settling back down against his bare chest, coffee-
colored curls tickling his shoulder and dainty fingertips trailing along his lean waist. “Another
night, then,” he agreed, giving her arm a gentle squeeze as her breaths grew shallow with the
promise of sleep. “I love you so very much that I ache with it,” he sighed, feeling that familiar,
pleasant clench of his heart as he watched her slowly succumb to her exhaustion.

“I love you too,” she mumbled, words slurring together as she nestled into the crook of his neck.

“Sleep, my love.”

Chapter End Notes

As always, I sincerely hope that you enjoyed and look forward to your feedback <3

End Notes

Little niche and self-indulgent, but I was relatively happy with how the first chapter turned
out. Feedback is more than welcome <3

Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!