the Prima Donna & her Opera Ghost
e r i k / c h r i s t i n e
o1. ghosts
The dampness is ever-crushing around her, ever-stealing of a breath that seems too hard to grasp in the first place. Light races to fill up the darkness, and for a flash of a second, shadows contort in the abandoned hall, solidifying. A gentle gasp falls from pale lips as golden, burning eyes survey her for a long, draining moment.
Something crashes to the floor and it takes a moment to grasp it is the lantern that she held not milliseconds ago. Surprise forces her gaze to the floor, and too late she realizes it is a mistake.
By the time she looks up, he is gone and the name on her lips dies as the embers fade at her feet.
"Erik."
--
o2. scars
Her fingers are gentle, gentle against his skin. He can feel her hesitate, and then the feather-light swipe of her hands tears a soft hiss from his lips. Doe eyes glance up, luminous and curious in the semi-darkness. "What happened?" she whispers quietly, and for a moment, he can pretend she cares.
"Whips," he says simply, "from my childhood."
She seems to understand; the room falls into an uncertain silence yet again. Somewhere, water drips a slow and steady lullaby, cradling his thoughts in a blanket of the finest fleece. The edges of his vision begin to blur, and his eyelids seem a moment from closing when she speaks yet again.
"I'm sorry," she tells him, and this time, he believes her.
--
o3. proper
It is the shuffle of silk slippers that finally distracts his attention to her- twisting her fingers anxiously in the dimness of his home. There is a long and tense moment where he watches her inner battle, before forcefully turning his gaze away.
"Why do you stare, dear Christine? Is this not what you have chosen?" He returns his eyes to the gentle clapping of the music box before him, trying and failing to quell the rising hope within his heart. Angry voices echo off the walls but he pays them no heed as sudden, shaking fingers grasp his hand, placing a shining diamond within its depths.
Every vestige of optimism dies with the gesture, and with eyes closed tight, he turns away.
"Wait!" she calls desperately, and he stills at the pleading tone in her voice. Dark eyes glance up then away, almost ashamed, from the gentle depths of her own.
"Is it not proper for the man to place the ring on his betrothed's finger?"
--
o4. slumber
"Christine, Christine…"
Erik watches as the dear woman that has stolen his heart breathes, enraptured. The slight, steady rise and fall of her chest is like the most gentle of lullabies, and he does not dare move in fear of waking her. Someone, somewhere – he knows – is searching for her, but he can't bring himself to let her free. Not yet.
A mutter works itself free of her dreams, and only barely can he understand. "Erik…" she murmurs, and then falls silent once again as a slow smile stretches his lips.
Gloved fingertips brush the hair from her smooth forehead, a kiss following soon after. He watches her toss for a moment longer, then backs away and disappears into the darkness.
He has plans to complete, after all.
--
o5. sufficient
She can't help but notice their voices fit together as if created to do so. His burning baritone clashing beautifully against the bright soprano of her own makes for a pleasant sound, and they both know it. It's for that reason she returns to him night after night, wishing and hoping for the Angel of Music she was promised from childhood and receiving none other than the devil himself.
And it's for that reason she feeds his desperate hunger for affection--if not for him, then for the magnificent melody they share.
And somehow, it's enough for them both.