A/N: This, I think, is very personal. I don't know whether you will understand it or not. I couldn't hesitate to write it very long, the thought about it overwhelmed me. Please review it, I am curious to find out what you think about the random my mind makes up in lonely hours.
Someday
A story about the Phantom's thoughts about his love, his life and the ending itself.
I feel your breath on my skin. Your eyes are closed and your chest plays the melody of untouched beauty. I'm leaning against the wall, feeling the cold stone of your bedroom wall. The window leads the way for the soft shining sunlight. The room is bathed in its peace, and some silent noises are to be noticed from the streets around the Opera. Outside, the cold air freezes some French man walking to work, and the trees freeze with him. The sky is light and has an icy colour that makes my cheeks shiver.
In these moments I have to think about us. Your head is on my lap, my fingers are wrapped around yours to protect them like a spring flower that just raises out of the earth. Somewhere in this city are French women flirting in a café, their lipstick is jealous of another women's lipstick sitting on another chair. The men they are looking at smoke their cigars in an American way, but nobody cares. In two minutes the grandmother of some baby will die in her bed. But nobody cares. The man with the cigar will let the smile on his lips vanish for a second to frown about what the woman will say - the smile will come back and vanish again some moments later. Until then, the grandmother's dead body will begin to get colder, and colder, and colder. I will be here with you and your beauty. Over the years I've noticed how your beauty grew with every wrinkle that appeared around your eyes, my Madame. Someday you will be old, and so will I. I won't be able to hold you like this, neither will I look out of the window and watch the French man freezing. I will be old, too tired to think about life and the tricks it plays on us. I won't climb the stairs up to your bedroom in the middle of the night, silently, so that no one of the sleeping ballerinas will notice your guest. Nobody wants to see the Phantom. At least that is sure not to change.
Sometimes I like to remember how me met. The look in your eyes, how your hand touched mine. I touch your hands. You breathe out loudly and I am careful not to distract you from your dream. I remember how you danced for me every night, how your small feet danced in the pointes, how you imagined the music - and how I could hear it, too. Though I always told you not to waste your talent, that was nothing to discuss about for you. So I fell silent. That passed. I won't talk to you about it. I won't ever see the expression on your face when I first told you how I loved you. I remember.
I will always remember. The memories keep us alive, I think, maybe I dream. They fade away but they come back. Yesterday I put on my clothes and thought about how you taught me to walk around the Opera without being seen. "You've got to be careful, their eyes are everywhere and they have no mercy to see what they're not supposed to." I remembered.
These thoughts burn on my mind. It hurts. I cannot think about the past, neither can I bring it back. I loved every piece of it with you, every look you gave me, every time I followed you through the Opera. It hurts.
This morning, you will sit up and smile at me. You will stand up, strech your body too beautiful to be true, and you will sit down to comb your hair. My favourite moment of the day. How carefully you touch your hair, how much attention I pay to every movement of your fingers. I watch you through the mirror, overwhelmed by your beauty, my Madame. Someday I won't be able to. Someday, when the grandmother is already six feet unter the earth, when the cigar of the man is totally swallowed by other memories, and when the flirting woman's lipstick is already thrown away because la mode wanted it so.
I have this moment. Nothing but you in my arms. The freezing snow outside. I will remember, if I don't forget. How could I. So intense. You, in my arms. I am so attracted by this moment my whole chest aches.
You move, your eyes open and you look at me.
"Good morning, Madame Giry," I whisper and kiss you softly. I love you. That won't change. No matter how old we will be. No matter what you'll do to me, or what I'll do to myself. This takes my fears away. I will always love you. May death come and take me, may old clouds run around my iris, may everything be taken away. I love you. I'm not afraid.