Christine was trying her best for Don Juan Triumphant. She didn't like being in the show, didn't like the idea of catering to the Phantom's whims, didn't like the dissonant score for that matter, but she knew she had no choice. And honestly, she was trying. But. That dress.

In some ways, it was a very nice dress. It was a golden orange color with a layered skirt and red and black in the lace. It was properly Spanish, and properly gorgeous. It was also the most sexualized thing Christine had ever found herself wearing, and she had prior to this been a ballet girl.

The skirt was fine with its layers and frills, until you realized it stopped halfway down your lower leg, purposefully baring the ankle and foot, almost, if you leaned a certain way, uncovering your knees. The bustle was fine until you realized how much it jostled every time you moved, calling attention to your hips with every step. The corset was the same as the corset on any dress except it was so dark against the gaudy colors, so blatant, and the colors so freakishly bright, all of it putting her on display for any man in the audience, and not in the elegant way her costumes in the past had displayed her. She was supposed to look like a tart, and she did. She certainly did.

It wasn't like she couldn't play the part of a more promiscuous character—those were common enough and she'd been bound to get one eventually.

But she'd looked at the notes sent to the costume department, seen how exactly the Phantom had described every frill. He'd wanted her to look like this. And his eyes would be on her during the show, not just evaluating her as always but gloating over her, taking in the spectacle he had created of her body, perhaps lingering on the low neckline or trailing down her exposed legs…

"You can make the skirt a bit longer," she said to the costume department hopefully. "See, it is not long enough like this. Perhaps just another inch…"

They shook their heads and made her read the note again. It was very specific.

It was two weeks until the debut of Don Juan Triumphant, and rehearsing in costume was standard now. So she put the dress on (it was only for a couple scenes of the play anyway) and tried to focus.

It was fine backstage, where no one could see her. The dress she was wearing barely seemed to matter. All that mattered was performing, after all. And she had performed this duet many times before.

So she went onstage as calmly as possible, mechanically following her blocking, listening to Piangi sing those same lines she had heard a thousand times by now.

And then, halfway through Piangi's verse:

"Bravo, bravo, bravissima…"

She gasped. But no one else reacted. She was hearing things, she was sure. But he was watching her. Of course he was watching her—this was her first time performing in his little costume, and he wanted to see it all. She could feel his gaze on her chest, constricting her ribs more than her corset did. She couldn't breathe.

"What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn…"

Piangi's voice floated back to her. His voice was safe, the seductive lyrics caged within thick accent and lilting tone. He was the practiced seducer, his words had no intensity, and he was expecting her to respond only because it was two weeks before the show. He had no stake in these words, no stake in her voice.

She opened her mouth to sing…

(But the Phantom did have a stake, did want to hear her. He was pulling the words out of her, pulling, pulling…)

Pulling the air out of the lungs as she stumbled back into Piangi's chest and gasped and gasped and gasped and…

Piangi caught hold of her.

"Miss Daae."

She focused on his voice. She was making a fool of herself, and he still expected her to sing. She opened her mouth, pushed the words out. "You have brought me to that moment when words run dry, to that moment when speech dissolves into silence, silence."

The piano swelled again, but she could not sing the next line. She staggered out of Piangi's arms, glanced back to see him looking at her in concern. And his gaze was focused on her face, but she could still feel the focus of the Phantom admiring those apricot curves of cloth that pressed against her body, against her skin…

"Miss Daae," said the chorus director. "Your line is—"

"I know my line!" she said. And she didn't want to hear it, from his mouth or from her own. The words were still the Phantom's, no matter who spoke them.

Everyone was staring at her.

"And can you sing that line?" the chorus director said.

She shook her head. "I cannot rehearse today."

"I'm afraid we cannot hold up rehearsal for you any longer. This scene must be played out."

"I…" She knew she couldn't sing those lines. Not in this dress, not in full view of the Phantom, watching from Box Five or maybe a peephole in the walls or up among the lights—who knew where he chose to sit himself. It had always been a mystery. "I must have some time to myself. I will return in an hour."

"A full hour, Miss Daae?"

"A full hour," she snapped. "And send the Vicomte de Chagny to me. I will be in my room."

She walked off stage a little too fast. God, she was acting just like Carlotta!

/…/…/

She was only waiting in her room for a few minutes before Raoul came.

He rushed in as out of breath as she had been a minute ago, but far more aware than she was feeling even now. His eyes pinned her in a more stable way than the Phantom's, and she came to herself slowly, realizing she had been fiddling with her hairbrush for some time now, poking her fingers against the still bristles without actually raising the brush to her hair.

He scanned her over, possibly looking for injuries. Christine almost laughed. The only person in this opera house who would hurt anyone was the Phantom, and he would never hurt Christine. Not as long as she played his little game. And God knew she was playing.

"They said you needed me," Raoul said, closing the door which he had left open when he came bolting in. He looked back at her, brow creased.

She nodded, out of words.

He walked over to her side and pulled up a chair. She had a few scattered in the room, for entertaining guests. "You have a new dress. The one for the seduction scene?"

She nodded again.

He put a hand on her knee. The warm weight felt incongruous against the ruffled lace and satin. "It's a nice dress."

"I don't like it."

"Oh." He glanced down at the length of exposed leg, causing her to blush. Not that it should embarrass her—they'd been together for some time now and he'd seen a lot more of her than that!—but still, somehow it did. Because she hadn't intended for him to see her legs, not just now. Which was the whole trouble with this dress, really.

"It's too short," she said angrily. "Even my character—why would she wear a dress so awkwardly short? And all this lace." She picked at the lace near the waist of her corset. "She's putting herself on display for every man in the audience."

Raoul shrugged. "It is a seduction scene, after all." He squeezed her knee. "I am sorry that you have to do it. But you have sung through it beautifully before. Even your body language is, well, fitting."

Raoul had watched about half of her rehearsals, even though there was no need for him to be there. He was constantly at the opera house lately, either watching her or talking to her or making arrangements for the performance with the gendarmes.

"It is an ugly dress," she said.

"Can you ask the costume department to make adjustments?"

"No. It's exactly as he intended it."

Raoul said, "The Phantom."

"Yes."

He leaned back. "They said you choked up onstage today. Is this why?"

She felt he understood everything, even without her explaining it. She explained anyway. How she had felt the Phantom watching, how she knew he must enjoy seeing her in the dress. "I am the puppet who dances on his strings," she said bitterly. "I can feel them. They are sewn into this dress. They jerk at my arms, my legs…"

As she trailed off, Raoul nodded. "I see. So this dress is the Phantom's mark on you."

"Yes." Like he needed one. He was already in her voice, her posture, in every move and lilt of tone he had coached into her singing. He was already in her mind, infiltrating her dreams. Now he chose her clothing and the songs she sang as well. Perhaps it made no difference.

"And yet you must sing in it."

"If he says I must, then I must," she said. "But I do not like to think of him."

"Do not think of him," Raoul said. "Think of me."

Such a sweet and earnest boy. She leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. "You are sweet. But when I am onstage, you will not be there."

"I will be. I will watch you through all of it. I will keep you safe, and I will not leave you."

"But the words and the notes and the actions…Those are all his, Raoul. You cannot go there with me."

"Can't I?"

His voice had hardened. Christine watched, surprised, as he got to his feet. He held out a hand. She took it after a moment, and he pulled her up too.

"Now," he said. "Stand there." He pointed across the room. "That is the correct distance, right?"

"Raoul, what are you doing?"

"Stand there."

And so she did.

Raoul smiled and took a deep breath. "You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish which til now has been silent, silent…"

Christine almost laughed. He wasn't warmed up. His voice was scratchy and lacked the depth of Piangi or the man she had considered her angel. But he continued, undeterred. "I have brought you that our passions may fuse and merge. In your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped your defenses, completely succumbed to me. And now you are here with me." He paused and smiled. "No second thoughts, you've decided. Decided…"

It was the same smile he'd worn the night they'd first kissed, when he had told her he wanted her to be with him forever. Succumb to him? Yes, she had. And so had he succumbed to her.

She stepped towards him as his voice began to twine around the refrain. He sang it softly, partly because they were in her dressing room and not on a stage, but also because that was just typical of him. To take a song that spoke of fire and sing it so tenderly that you imagined a hearth.

"What warm unspoken secrets shall we learn?" he sang. She took his hand as he finished the line. "Beyond the point of no return."

She licked her lips. She had almost forgotten she was expected to sing at this point. She stuttered through the first line, remembering earlier, onstage. "To that moment where speech disappears into silence, silence…"

But where she had stumbled before, he wrapped his arms around her waist. Now her back was square against his chest, and the awareness sent prickles down her spine. She looked up at him, and he was still smiling, and the words flowed out of her. Although of course she knew the reason why she came to him, why she would always come to him. Because he was…

…Raoul.

Her Raoul.

She smirked. "In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwined, defenseless and silent." She rubbed her back against him as she sang and felt him stiffen. Poor innocent Raoul. After all their time together (and they had spent it well) he still cringed at any mention of sex. "I've decided," she sang. "Decided."

Now she let her voice drop into insinuation. Raoul would sing to her tenderly as always, but she wasn't afraid to up the ante. She took his hands and placed them on her hips, where the lace gathered, where the fabric was tight against her curves. He stared down at her back, unable to meet her eyes. She tilted her head back and up and whispered her song in his ear. "Past all thought of right, or wrong, one final question."

She pulled back, then, and feeling his grip tighten on her waist, sang the next line full volume. "How long should we two wait, before we're one?"

"When will the blood begin to race?" She pulled his hands up—now they were right under her breasts, almost cupping them. "The sleeping bud burst into bloom?" And one more inch, and she pushed them against her breasts. She could feel him breathing hard, fighting to stand still. Poor, poor boy. "When will the flames at last consume us?"

She jerked away and out of his arms to face him as she continued to sing, locking eyes with him. "Past the point of no return, the final threshold." His voice was ragged, not merely scratchy as it had been before. "The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn. We're past the point of no return."

They were both breathing hard, Christine from singing at such a volume, Raoul (who had been singing somewhat breathily all along) for decidedly other reasons. At this point onstage she and Piangi were supposed to pause and allow the audience to applaud. Here, in the privacy of her room, she had no desire to stop.

She grabbed hold of Raoul's cravat and dragged his face down to her level. He'd have to wait to catch his breath until later. Now, she captured his mouth in a strong, solid kiss, slipping her tongue between his lips. His hands cupped her cheeks. But she took hold of those warm, strong hands and, still kissing him, moved them down to the laces on the back of her dress.

Thank God it was made for quick changes.

As he untied the knots she hurriedly undid his buttons and pulled his jacket off him. When she was done she stepped out—still had her hoop on though, and she turned to let him take that off as well. While he was at it he took off her corset, which was nice, but she really hoped he would help her put it back on later. Lacing your own corset wasn't exactly fun.

She slipped off his vest, and they both took off their boots. Now, he was just in pants and shirt and socks, and she was just in her petticoat and shift and stockings. Much, much better.

"Care to rehearse again?" she said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

"I thought the dress was the whole point," he said.

"Well," Christine said with a smirk. "I think we're past that point."

Raoul looked unimpressed. She finished his buttons and pulled off his shirt. He glanced nervously towards the door and she, rolling her eyes, pinched one of his nipples. That definitely brought his attention back.

"We should lock the door," he said.

"No one's going to come in."

"We should still…" He trailed off as she leaned in to kiss his collarbone, long and hard.

"Am I going to have to do all the work?"

"Just let me lock it."

"Fine."

He came back a second later and, making up for lost time, immediately kissed her again. That was his favorite part, kissing. He wasn't bad at it either. Having kissed her lips he moved on to her neck, and she grabbed at his back to steady herself. Noticing, he maneuvered the two of them over to the wall, and she leaned back gratefully. It wasn't the first time she'd regretted the fact that her dressing room lacked a bed.

"Past all thought of if, or when," she sang breathily in his ear. He squeezed at her hips before reaching down to pull up her petticoat—and her shift. "No use resisting. Abandon thought and…"

And then she really did abandon thought.

/…/…/

Behind the full length mirror, the Phantom of the opera house stood watching with weak knees.

/.../.../

/.../.../

/.../.../

AN: And so this fic starts. I'm about four chapters in with the writing and trying to stay ahead, so I'll be posting periodically. Not every chapter is going to be as soft core smutty as this by the way...We're just starting with a bang. :)

I'm attempting to write E/C/R, but it's gonna be an uphill climb! I've never written an OT3 before, and it's not likely to end with, I dunno, all three of them buying a house in the city and staying together. I can't see anything ever going that smoothly with the Phantom involved. But you know. We can have singing and kidnapping and obsession and making out, though. At least, I'm pretty sure we can have most of those things! My outline is kind of rough.

Let me know how you imagine E/C/R working, and how you think this fic is going so far. Reviews are my fuel.