A/N: This is Leroux-BASED, not a retelling or any sort of continuation.

Be very open-minded when you read this. That is my only request. I don't want to get millions of reviews saying, "Ooh, they're so OOC!" I am borrowing the characters and BASING them off the book, so I may do what I please with them. Hahahaha.

So, erm... Reviews?

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I do not love Christine Daae.

I cannot love like others can, I cannot feel that emotion that I see dripping throughout Parisian society. Unfortunately, I was born without that piece, just another fault in my extensive collection.

However, I am a master in the art of obsession. When I fixate on things, I devote my entire being to it in an indescribable way. I can tell you now that I am obsessed with Christine Daae. I have been obsessed with her ever since I first heard her wavering note outside her dressing room, ever since I heard her crying pearly tears, ever since I saw her precious face looking out over her audience.

.

Looking at her, she is sound asleep in the little bed I have provided for her. She comes down here several times a week for lessons, you see, and I give them to her most excellently. We are a good team, Christine and I. Together, we are beautiful.

Apart from her, I am not.

When Christine is with me, I feel beautiful. I feel as though there is someone who can truly accept me, like there is someone who I am level with, even if it is only on a musical degree. Poor Chriustine… She is beautiful even apart from me. When she sleeps, she is always twisted on her stomach, holding her pillow tightly to her face.

It isn't fair, but I do not resent her for it. Instead, I cherish her, and only become more obsessed with her.

I watch her sleep.

.

"Christine," I breathe, when I sense her in the doorway, watching me play. She watches me with her solemn eyes, and I set down my violin and bow and extend my arm towards her. "Come sit by me."

"You could have kept playing," she says as she obeys my command. "I want to listen to you."

"As you wish, as always," I murmur, and I lift the violin back up and continue playing. I think, only with Christine, could I be so comfortable with her watching so intently. Her eyes do not flutter away from my hand. I wonder if it is me she is enthralled with, or just the instrument?

"Erik," she says in a sweet, soft voice. "Can you teach me how to play?"

I give her a look while I continue moving my bow. "The violin is a very gawky, unlady-like instrument. Surely you do not wish to subject your pretty hands to such a task."

She looks disappointed. "But it's so lovely to hear."

"I will always be around to play for you," I say in a quiet voice, curious to hear how she will take it.

She hesitates for a moment, and then she smiles.

.

Let me tell you this, that I am a man. I am just a man! I have no unnatural superpower, I am not immune to the charms of a woman, and I grow flustered very easily. It's just that I do not mingle around people and I have never found a woman that I find particularly irresistible. Until I met Christine, of course. I do not understand what it is. She is pretty, of course, but there are other pretty women out there. Her voice is stunning, but she is not the only one in this world who can sing. I do not understand my obsession with her.

I wish it could go away. I want to be able to wake up one morning and feel that she doesn't matter. In a way, I want her to do something terrible so that I can despise her and she will not matter.

It is just so damned frustrating to feel so dependent on someones thoughts, opinions, and actions. I follow her like a child searching for sweets. She is so young, like a child herself, and it is insufferable to be so entirely in her thrall.

.

She improves every day with her lessons. Her voice is growing stronger and she is fixing little things that makes her tone so much more polished.

"I am very pleased with you," I tell her one evening. "It is time for you to go back up."

She is blushing, flattered by my compliment, but her brows come together when I mention going back up. "I hate being in the chorus."

"You must start somewhere," I say unsympathetically.

"I have always been in the chorus. If I have made so much improvement, then why am I still in the chorus?"

"Surely you do not expect to be the new prima donna, after only a few weeks of lessons?" I say in a clipped voice. I will not allow the girl's head to grow big, because I simply detest arrogant people. "You are very, very young. Much too young. You must be patient."

Her face is crestfallen, and I love how she looks when she is disappointed. Her eyes are so sweet and her lips pouch out like a baby's. There is nothing about that girl that I do not worship. She is like my favorite doll.

She sighs. "I just do not like it up there. I feel so… insignificant."

I laugh, because I know that feeling all too well. "Stop thinking about the rest of the world, Christine, and think about yourself. Go on back up, and you may come back this weekend."

I expect her to brighten up, but she still looks mopey.

.

She is sobbing uncontrollably in her room when I go to pick her up the next time. It panics me to see her like this, and I do not know what to do.

"Girl, what are you crying about?" I demand instantly, searching for any physical harm on her body. She says something in reply, but it is so completely incoherent that I am not even sure it is French. "Stop this right now," I say sharply, uncomfortable with this feeling of watching her cry right in front of me. "Stop at once or I will not give you a lesson today."

She tries to cease, but she continue to make little gulping noises and unattractive sniffles.

I am agitated now, not sure why I am so acutely bothered by her show of emotion. "Get up off the floor and come on. I cannot linger here all day."

She follows me down and we have our lesson, but her voice is muffled by the mucus in her nose and throat. Impatient, I dismiss her to her room to settle down for an hour, but when I press my ear to the door later, she is crying again.

.

She picks moodily at her food for dinner. "Why do you never eat with me?" she asks in a wounded voice.

"Because then I would have to take off the mask." It is in obvious answer, therefore a stupid question.

"Why are you hiding your face from me?"

"Because I am very ugly."

"Why must we have lessons down here? Can you not teach me upstairs? There are plenty of rooms and fine instruments."

"I like in down here," I snap. She still does not seem to recognize my tone. If she asks another question, I will surely snap.

"Do you teach anyone else? Why just me?"

"Damnit, Christine!" I yell, very angry now. She looks up, petrified. "What is this ridiculous interrogation? Do you have to nit-pick every little thing I choose to do? It really makes you very difficult to deal with!"

I storm off to my room for some quiet. Hell, she is crying again.

.

I watch her sleeping and muse that she looks even prettier with tear tracks down her face. I briefly consider making her cry more often before bed so I can see those lovely, glittery marks.

For nearly two months now, this has been going on, and she has never awakened once. For some reason, I wish she would.

.

I do not even know the name of the show—God knows I do not enjoy opera very much—but it was one where all of the women seem to be wearing as little clothes as possible. Only their essentials are bound in fabric, and the rest of their body is hidden only by sheer, lavender lace that cascades from their neck to their toes in a sweeping motion. I enjoy this quite a bit and love to watch them, their bodies moving to the steady thrust of the music, but it is not until Christine came out that I was genuinely moved.

It is not difficult for a man to bring himself to pleasure by using imagination, but this is the first time I am aroused by a singular human being. She is beautiful. She is like a giant doll. I am so suddenly aware of every heartbeat throughout my body and the nerves on my neck and fingers. I watch her move and I grip the sides of the chair painfully.

I watch her for as long as I am able, and then I excuse myself to go back to my home. There are some things that just cannot be done in public.

.

My ardent reaction to Christine sends me into a haze. I am confused by it, humiliated by it, and desperate to discover more about it. When I bring her down next, she seems to be in a better mood than last time, but still vaguely out of it.

"Christine," I say sternly. "You have not been yourself lately." Neither have I. "Is something the matter?"

I do not know why I should even care, but I would simply prefer her tell me so I do not feel bothered by my wondering.

"Oh... no, of course not," she lies.

"Your face has fallen. Tell me why you are upset, or you shall have no more lessons."

She looks greatly bothered by this. "Oh, please Erik, I am not upset! Please do not discontinue the lessons."

I frown at her, not convinced.

"I just..." She bites her lip. I have no patience for hesitation. If everyone hesitated before they did everything, nothing would ever get done. "I just feel..."

"Out with it."

She looks up at me with big, doe-eyes. "...Confused."

I frown at her again. Apparently, this will be a matter I am expected to delve into. "Confused about what?"

She is blushing. It makes her look more like a doll. I am wondering what she is thinking. I tell you, I am obsessed with her. I just cannot wish enough to invade all aspects of her life.

"Christine, I swear, I shall grow very angry-"

"Us," she says in a small voice.

"Us?" I repeat, now confused myself.

"Yes," she says, not looking at me.

"I do not understand. There is nothing confusing about us. I am myself, and you are you."

"But I do not know you," she persists. "You will not show me your face or see me any time upstairs, but you only come and give me lessons down here. I am not allowed to talk about anything but music, but you seem to grow bored with my conversations. You tell me I am better than anyone else, but that I must remain in the chorus. And sometimes I feel you are angry at me... and that makes me very sad."

I am aghast at her feelings. I did not know the simple girl was capable of so many emotions. "Christine, none of that matters. All that matters is that you continue to do what I tell you. Understand?"

Her eyes are filling with moisture, but we both pretend otherwise. "Yes," she says softly.

.

I am about to go into her room to watch her that night, but her light is still lit and I here little movements, so I know she is not in bed yet. It sounds like the scratching on parchment, and I must know who she is writing to. I must know everything about her.

I only stood there for a few minutes before the door opened. I sprang back in shock, my temper rising at her intrusion, even though I was the one intruding. However, she does not seem alarmed by my presence. She is wearing nightclothes that I have never seen before, that I did not buy her. She must have brought them down herself. They are... there is no other word to describe them other than mouth-watering. I can very nearly see through them. I have never seen a real woman unclothed before. My body has not caught up with my mind yet, but I know momentarily it will, and then I shall be in trouble.

"Erik," she says, and her voice is very flat and her eyes are very dead. There is something frightening about this Christine. Something about her is different.

"Christine," I say, calming my heart. I want to giggle.

"Are you doing anything?" she asks in that odd voice.

"No."

"Oh." She sways for a moment. "Good. Come here."

She turns and heads back into her room, and I have no choice but to follow. She has pulled the sheets back and goes and sits on the edge of the bed.

"Come closer."

I obey again. I think she has me under some sort of spell.

"Good," she breathes, in a dead, wispy sort of voice. I am still feeling alarmed, but I am anxious to figure out what she is doing.

Hands hardly trembling, no fear in her movements, she reaching up to my shirt and peels it away from my skin. I leap back at once. "What are you doing?" I practically scream at her, my voice strangled like a violent whisper. She has not even blinked.

"Come closer, Erik, please," she says.

I laugh. Perhaps I am losing my mind.

Her hand drifts up to the top of her nightgown. She pauses. "Do you want to see?" she asks.

Panic and excitement rides up in me like a wave and I take a step back as my heart begins its frantic pounding. I do not know what the hell she is doing or what she is asking of me - all I know is that I want to get away, touch myself, and pretend that this has never happened.

Her lips pouts. "I am pretty, am I not?" she asks. "Tell me I am pretty, Erik."

"Very pretty," I recite at once.

She smiles, like I have taken a great weight off her shoulders. "I am glad you think so," she says in a fluttery voice.

"Christine," I say in a very stern voice, marred somewhat by the adrenaline running through my veins. "Tell me what is the matter with you right now."

Her face screws up as if she is about to cry, and then she holds her arms out to me. "Do you not want me?" she whispers. "Doesn't anyone want me?"

I am trying so hard to not look at her in her sheer dress, and my eyes fall on her little table, where there is a pair of large shears that I have around for repairing little things. These are mine, and I do not appreciate her taking my things. This hardly seems like the moment to bring this up, but I cannot stop staring at them and I cross over to see them and find the pieces of note she must have been writing next to it.

It only takes me about three seconds to figure out this is a suicide note.

I snatch it up and turn to her, breathing heavily. "What is this?" I demand, feeling like I might explode.

She is crying in earnest now. "Nobody loves me," she sobs, clutching herself. "Nobody cares about me. Nobody wants me to sing. I just don't matter to anyone. It makes no difference whether I'm here or not. I just want one last opportunity to feel like somebody wants me!"

I slap her as hard as I can across the face, I cannot stop myself. "So you think, I might as well seduce Erik, because I have nothing else left to lose. Is that all I am to you? After all I've done for you?" I am so angry I cannot control myself. I want to hit her, I want to hurt her, I have no way to channel my emotions.

"I just wanted you to love me," she bawls.

In a surge of fury, I rip the mask from my face and grab her harshly. "Really? This is what you want to love you? This was who you wanted to spend your last night with?"

Christine lets out a hoarse cry at the sight of me, but she seems unable to close her eyes or turn away from me. I have never ever had her this close, and with my mask off, my face is so much more sensitive to everything around me. I have an unexplainable urge to be closer to her, to feel her face. Without thinking, I press my lips to hers.

It is a strange feeling. I do not understand why something as simple as this brings me a rush of new emotions. I feel... as if I am struggling not to cry, and I am not a man who cries. It is overwhelming, this rise of pressure in my chest. I pull away, dazed.

"Erik?" Christine says, as if she was not bothered in the least by what just happened. "You want me alive, right? You want me to stay here?"

"Of course," I say, still feeling odd.

She puts her head against me and doesn't move for a long time.

.

I took the shears, of course, and stayed with her the entire night. How selfish of her, to think that she could escape life so easily. I need her. I am obsessed with her. She makes me complete. I wish I could love her, like other men could. Perhaps then she would understand how much I need her. Perhaps then she could explain to me why I am still shaking and close to tears because of her thoughtless kiss.

.

I keep her with me for longer than usual, and she does not object. She is much quieter now, and I watch her much closer. Nothing changes in our lessons whatsoever, and for that I am grateful. Unnecessary drama should always be kept out of music.

"I do not want to be in the chorus when I go back up," she tells me firmly one afternoon.

"I shall see what I can do," I allow. She must never be upset anymore, I know that now.

She smiles at me, so beautiful. I just feel nicer when I am around her, and the feeling increases ten-fold when I see her smile like so. "Thank you so much. For everything."

.

When she is gone, I am petrified. I cannot see her, and I cannot watch her, and therefore I cannot know if she is safe. What if she is crying in her room again, feeling as though she has nothing to live for? I have already placed a very threatening note in the manager's office that will allow Christine an audition to be considered for mid-sized roles. How else can I help her?

It is because of all these rational fears in my head that I finally break down and head to the surface. I quickly created a sheath in the wall that I placed in with glass, directly behind the mirror in her room. It takes me quite a bit of time, and I must do it while she is not present, but when it is complete, I know I now have her under my gaze at all times.

It makes me feel much better, indeed.

.

I bring her back down and she is all smiles.

"Erik, guess what?"

"I could never guess, dear," I say warily.

"I am not in the chorus anymore! I am allowed to audition for roles in every show!"

"Oh, how wonderful!"

"So I must come down here much more often so I can do better."

More time with my lovely pet? How could I resist?

.

Christine practically moves in with me. Now free from the numerous choral rehearsals, she has ample free time that she evidently chooses to waste with me. I am not entirely sure why... but I am not complaining.

"I am so thankful for you," she tells me over dinner. I am starting to feel a little unnerved by all her little compliments. I have never encountered anyone who is so genuinely nice to me before- and after seeing me without my mask, no less.

"I am glad," I say stupidly.

She smiles for a little, but then she looks down at her plate, pushing things around. It definitely looks like she has something on her mind. I internally reflect on whether or not I am anxious enough to prompt her, but before I can decide, she has already formulated out her words.

"You know my father died quite some time ago, and my mother even before that," she says, looking down. "And even when Papa was still alive, he was very sick and usually resting, so I was always by myself. I have always been by myself. I always though I never minded at all, but now being with you, I realize how lonely I was."

I do not know what to say to any of this.

"I like being with you," she admits. "I feel better when I am around you. You make me feel different."

"I have never felt about anyone the way I feel about you," I murmur. She beams at me.

I am bewildered by this. Never in my life have I experienced someone like this. To think it almost seems like she is accepting me... If only I could love her like a real man, I would propose to her right now and keep her with me and make her happy.

But I am not a real man. And I cannot love.

.

She becomes incessantly curious about everything that I am doing when I am not with her. She follows me, most especially at night, wanting to know exactly what I am up to. If I am reading, she wants to read next to me. If I am playing the piano, then she is going to sing, no matter how late it is. It is flattering in a way, and I find myself growing so accustomed to her attentions that I am getting quite worried about what will happen to me when she goes back up. I assure myself with my mirror, knowing I can still watch her, but for some reason it does not completely fill the hole in me.

.

She comes into my room one night, without knocking and completely unannounced. I am dejectedly lying across my bed, simple moping for no particular reason, when I see her lithe shape suddenly emerge into my line of sight.

"Christine! What are you doing?"

"You said earlier that it is about time for me to go back up, and I can't stop thinking about what that might mean," she complains, sidling closer to me.

I cannot fathom how this could be at all unclear to any mind. "It means you need to go back up tomorrow lest your managers grow suspicious."

"Do you want me to leave?" she whispers.

I must be very careful with my very fragile girl. "Of course not, Christine," I sigh. "But you must go back up sometimes. It is where you live."

"I would rather live down here," she says, so quietly that I am almost sure I did not hear her.

"Beg pardon?"

"I would..." Her eyes are sparkling with tears, and I have that strange surge of emotion I cannot place. "I want to be with you. I hate it up there! I'm lonely! I just feel sad and upset for no reason, but with you, I feel so much better... You saved me, and I owe you that... And now when I am around you, I just feel so much more comfortable with you. I love you!"

I am shellshocked. I cannot formulate words to speak. My whole life has proven to me that I am unlovable and despised by all of society, and now this? I feel... like everything has ceased to exist. My mouth fumbles.

"Christine, a proper lady... that is-" I gesture pointlessly at nothing and pretend I am searching for words. "- I am afraid I don't understand at all, I-I am very glad that you are happier here, but..."

Real fear shines on her face now. "But I thought," she says in a nervous voice. "After all you have done for me, surely you love me too?"

I move my mouth wordlessly.

She is done with prancing around her topic. "Erik, do you love me?" she asks.

I can only stare at her in horror.

Because how can I tell my favorite girl, my obsession, my crowning jewel, my angel of music, that I cannot love?

.

She sobs hysterically on her bed while I stroke her hair and gabble nonsense to her. "You have no idea how much I care about you, or how I feel about you. When we sing together, it is so beautiful and so natural. There is something about us, I know that, you know that. I need you so badly, and I will always be here for you. I will always be here, Christine, we will be together forever-"

I want to love her so badly it hurts. But I have no idea how the hell to do it!

.

I am afraid to send her up to the surface, but she assures me bluntly that she will not attempt to take her own life.

"You had better keep that promise forever," I warn her.

"For you, I will," she promises.

.

Since I have refused violin lessons for her, she takes up with the notion of piano lessons, and I cede with good grace. I love watching her hesitant fingers play across the keys. There is something endearing about the way she tries to please me. She is a very quick learner, and having the advantage of already being able to read music makes her swift at her training. She is irreplaceable, so infinitely precious to me.

"Am I doing it well?" she questions.

"Very well," I tell her.

"It sounds so much better when you play. Smoother."

"I have had many more years of practice, darling."

She pouts. "You are better than me in everything."

"You are better in the looks department," I say unthinkingly, before realizing this is the first time since that night that I have mentioned my appearance.

There is a short uncomfortable silence that she breaks. "What happened?"

I stiffen- this is not something I wish to discuss with her. Christine makes me feel beautiful, and I do not need her reminding me that it is not so. "Who knows what happened? God thought it would be funny."

"Is that why you hide away so? Is that why you are bitter?"

"Why else?" I snap.

She looks surprised. "I have no deformity," she says. "But I feel scorned from the world as well. I want to hide away. I feel bitter all the time. Doesn't it have much more to do with what is inside than outside? If I am treated the same way you are, then surely it cannot be just because of your face?"

I stare at her, befuddled by something I have never considered before.

"I ought to be loathed for many reasons," I say. "I am just not a normal man."

"I am not a normal girl."

"But you are human."

"And you are not?"

I smile. "Sometimes, I do not know. I do despicable things that seperate me from the human race."

Out of nowhere, she leans her head against me. "You're a man to me," she says. "You saved my life, in so many different ways, and I love you."

.

I do not know what her master plan is, only that it must involve her telling me every day how much she loves me.

"Here is your breakfast, dear."

"Thank you, Erik, I love you so much."

"Do you like the new song?"

"Oh, very much so! I love you, I love you!"

"Good night, Christine."

"Good night, Erik. I love you."

It is beginning to befuddle my head. Perhaps the girl really is insane. Perhaps that is why she tried to take her own life. Perhaps there is something going on in this world I do not know about.

"Good morning, Erik. Are you walking me back up today?"

"Yes, of course."

At the threshold of the upstairs, she turns around and hugs me tightly around the chest, her arms around me, her little form warming me.

I do not want to talk about it, because I do not know understand how it makes me feel.

.

She crawls into my bed one night.

Yes, that's right: she flies into my room and plows herself up on my bed with her hands and knees.

"Christine, what the devil are you doing?"

She shivers dramatically. "Erik, you forgot to put the sheets on my bed! I tried to sleep without them, but it is freezing tonight!"

"Well, I-" I start to say, but then I notice what she is wearing- that black, sheer nightgown she wore that night.

"Where did you get that?" I demand at once, not able to take my eyes off it.

"I bought it at a thrift shop a while ago," she says in surprise. "Do you like it?"

"Oh, no," I say, throwing my own covers off me to get up. "I am not playing this again!"

"Oh!" She looks terrified. "I swear, it's just so cold! I am not trying to- to trick you or anything!"

"Women who look like that are doing nothing but trying to trick men," I grumble, restlessly staying on the bed, but unrelaxed.

For some reason, there is an odd expression on her face. I am getting tired of not being able to simply read her countenance anymore. When did she get so damn complicated? "Have you been tricked by many women?"

I stare at her, and then laugh. "Remember when we had our lovely conversation about being 'shunned from society'? That included women as well. As if any woman would choose a deformed man when there are thousands upon thousands of handsome men in the country!"

She frowns, very seriously. "Don't be so petty. You cannot choose love based on purely looks." When I say nothing, she says, "But you sounded bitter. There was a woman- maybe many- that you loved, but they broke your heart, right? Is that why you won't admit you love me?"

My mind has to work in tiny steps to correct her in all aspects of that sentence. "I am not bitter because of something as silly as women. I have much bigger things to be bitter about. There has been no women that I recall ever even knowing in the slightest communicable way, other than my mother and my nurse, and I assure you, I never loved either of them in any form. And Christine, I am not hiding anything! It is not that I won't admit to it! I can't love you!" I never imagined how much those words suddenly hurt me. Traitorous tears burn at my eyes. "Christine... I wish I could..."

I am afraid of her reaction, but she is only smiling patiently. "You can," she says simply. "You do."

"I-" I try to collect myself. "If only I could, Christine! I wish I could love you! I care about you, I worship you, I am upset when you are upset, I want you with me, I enjoy your company- but those things are not love!"

"Don't you hear yourself?" she whispers, almost excited now. I am so nonplussed, I do not even react when she reaches out and touches my mask with her fingers.

"I hear myself just fine," I say blankly.

"You care about me, you worship me, you are upset when I am upset..." Her eyes are sparkling with radiant tears. "That is love."

.

What is love?

.

"Christine," I say, my mouth very dry. "You must believe me..."

"Why do you insist you cannot love?" she demands, sitting up on her knees and putting her hands on her hips. "It is human nature!"

I want to pull my hair out in frustration. "I just know, Christine! I just know!"

"I don't believe you. You don't know. You can love. You do love me. I love you, and I know this because I care about you and I worry about you and I want to be with you. That tells me I love you. Because if I felt nothing for you, then why would I care about any of those things?"

"Obsession," I say stubbornly.

"Love is an obsession." She leans forward and kisses me on my masked cheek. My heart speeds up at her closeness and my body feels tight and tingly.

"I- how can-?"

"I love you," she murmurs into my lips. "And I want to show you. So you can believe me."

Panic overrides in me like never before. All forms of communication shut down in my mind to feel her this close to me. Her body heat is touching mine and I can feel her in so many different ways just through the air. A feeling rises up my chest and into my throat, and it comes out a strange sort of moan.

Her fingers peel off the corner of my mask.

"No!" I say, determined not to ruin this moment, whatever it is.

"Your face means nothing to me, and everything," she says softly. "To others, it may be revolting, but all I see is the face of the man who saved me when I had no where else to turn."

"Then you do this only in guilty repayment," I rasp.

Slight hurt and anger flashes in her eyes. "No, I am doing this because I love you. And-" She looks down a little. "Because I want you."

"This isn't how I wanted it to be," I gurgle. Hope sparks in her eyes.

"So you have imagined this, too?" she asks innocently, and I nearly groan. How do I explain to her that men think of this so constantly that it is almost not worth mentioning? Her figure is perfect, the perfect feminine form. She is short and her face always sparkles. Her curls bounce and when she smiles, one side of her lips is higher than the other. I have pictured our bodies together, of course I have! I can imagine sliding into her, I can imagine myself feeling that indescribable sensation that I have admittedly never actually felt before, moaning and writhing against her. I let out a weak whimper as she climbs on top of me. I am throbbing, I am on fire, I feel terrible and wonderful in the most terrible and wonderful ways!

She kisses me, and it shocks me so much that the feeling of her lips travels right down to my core.

I feel furious at myself for losing control like this, for allowing Christine to put me in this position. When I pictured it, I was always on top, I was the one making her moan, I was the one making her fill with that desperately unrelieved sensation.

"I know you love me," she whispers, drawing her body out on mine. I have never felt a woman's body before. Her softness pads me in all the right places and I unintentionally rise up against her and I cannot stop the rush of feeling when I do it again, and again. I tremble. My whole body tightens.

"Stop," I gasp, and I am on the edge and when she moves herself over me again, I come right there, fully clothed beneath her, shaking and writhing with complete abandon as I climax because of this obsession. She holds me down while I vibrate with burst need and longing, and she is nudging my face gently with her nose, so tender.

Seconds, maybe minutes pass before I am so humiliated that I can hardly even move. Tears have formed in my eyes and they well up again for no reason at all. My heart picks up again, only this time with horror. The most intimate of experiences, I just had in front of Christine. All she had done was speak to me, touch me, lay on top of me for not even five minutes, and I could not even last long enough for her to take her damned clothes off! What the hell was wrong with me?

"I love you," she says, her face still on my collarbone down, her voice muffled a little by my shirt. "Oh, I love you."

.

I let her stay and sleep beside me- what else was I supposed to do? I lay perfectly still until she is asleep, and then I get up and change very quietly. My entire body thrums with anger and embarrassment and... and... thankfulness? Relief? Just thinking about it again makes moisture gather in my eyes, which I ignore steadily.

Christine looks as though she will not wake, so I leave her and go and compose for a little while. I finally break down and cry. I cry because I am a horrible, ugly man who is nearly fifty years old and has never had that moment with a woman, ever- and I cry because I know Christine wanted to make love with me and I couldn't even do it. I couldn't even physically love her. I am useless. I deserve to die.

.

She rises for breakfast like nothing has happened, and I can hardly looks at her. I don't want to sing, I don't want to do anything but lock myself in my room and mope.

"Do you want some tea?"

"No," I say coldly.

Her face looks wounded, but she doesn't say anything.

We sit in silence until I can hardly stand it, and then she says, "I thought you would understand more after... last night. I thought I could help you see."

I am fuming again, because I can never admit to her what she did for me last night.

"My behavior was inexcusable," I say stiffly. And completely out of my control. "But so was yours."

She stabs her food. "Lovers make love. Everyone does it. I've asked around."

"FOR CHRIST SAKES!" I scream, lifting up the table with my arms and throwing it away from her. I have never felt such anger boil through every inch of my body. "I DO NOT LOVE YOU! WHAT PART OF THAT DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND! AM I SPEAKING TO A DEAF CHILD? I CANNOT LOVE YOU! I DO NOT LOVE! GET THAT THROUGH YOUR HEAD!"

She is crying, fumbling with her napkin to hide her face, and she leaps up and races to the door.

"Then I will never return here again!" she sobs, and she throws open the door and disappears.

.

Empty.

I am obsessed with Christine Daae.

And when that is gone... what is there to do?

.