Slight Fluff, takes a more Butler/Crawford approach to Erik. Thanks for line goes to Tracy Grant. And, incredibly, I do not own Christine, Erik, Meg, or any other of the original characters.
It was the sort of night that cloaked a multitude of sins. The moon was full and heavy, though it was obscured by endless rolling clouds sweeping across the dark sky and swallowing the moonlight. Streetlamps burned a thick gold, brightly illuminating the space around them but little more. The rest of the street was encased in velvety twilight. A warm wind blew across the cobblestones, bringing with it hints of an indistinct future. The air tasted of secrets and of promise. This was a night that could belong to anyone.
Christine Daaé gazed at her reflection in the mirror placed in her dressing room. Absently she brushed a lock of hair back into place behind her ear. Her reflection did the same. Lately, her mind had been dwelling anywhere but the present. Christine hummed a gentle tune under her breath. It was one that her Angel of Music had taught to her the previous evening. This saving grace, this ethereal voice which has gently guided Christine through the darker hours of her youth was like a faceless, bodiless deliverance. For the past year, the Voice (which she had wonderingly dubbed "Angel of Music") had been a tender comfort, easing her sorrow, giving her reason to live. Yet, as of late, Christine had found that another quality had quietly become infused in the Angel's voice. Perhaps she had been naïve, or simply unaware of this hidden timbre which now resonated soulfully every time he sang to her. It throbbed now with need, a throaty intensity. It was filled with sentiments that Christine hardly dared to comprehend, sentiments that caused her breath to catch in her chest and her blood to quicken in her veins. Often, Christine found her mind slackening into reverie whenever she thought of that voice…
Sighing, a long-held breath, Christine reluctantly dragged her mind back to the present. Atop her wooden dressing table lay her mask. A delicate gold piece, it was simple and elegant, with tiny seed pearls sewn along the edge. The mask itself was painted a rich gold, and brought out the bright flecks in her eyes. Christine picked it up and fitted it snugly across her delicate features. It covered only a small portion of her face, from midway up her forehead down to just below her eyes. Deftly she tied the black silk cord across the back of her head and, rising, she looked critically at her reflection in the mirror.
The simplicity of her mask provided pleasingly strong contrast with the intricacy of her gown. Madame Giry had been kind enough to supervise the choosing and purchasing of the cerise-colored silk ensemble. Christine was merely a chorus girl and dancer, and relatively low in the ranks of the Opera Populaire. She did not particularly mind…all the more time she was able to spend with Meg, her longtime friend and confidant. Alas, such a position paid very little, and while it provided ample funds for her to get by on a daily basis, her wages were not nearly sufficient to fund a gown suited for a masquerade ball. The final product, however, was exquisite. Christine could not help but notice gleefully how the yards of silk flowed smoothly across her breasts and abdomen into an artfully draped skirt.
She nervously adjusted her corset, tugging it upward slightly. Though not nearly as uncomfortable as the English-style corset she was used to wearing, this contraption was designed to display a woman's features rather than conceal them, the fact of which Christine was still slightly uncomfortable with. Though she was blessed with generous curves, Christine had very little knowledge of men and was for a very long time quite unaware of her softening body. Madame Giry, however, had insisted on the cut on the basis that such a gown was in style. She pointed out the fact that Christine could afford to dress slightly more provocatively, seeing as she did not have the promiscuous reputation of most dancers. In the end, Christine had agreed.
"I suppose it is a masquerade" she mused aloud, toying with the beaded edge of her mask. "It might be fun to behave more…more daringly for once… and after all, who will recognize me?" she smiled resignedly to herself and gave up tugging on the neckline, though, she supposed, it was not as low as it could be. The tastefully cut scooped neckline flattered her neck and shoulders, leaving plenty of her body to imagination. The deep red set off her ivory skin nicely, bringing out the roses in her cheeks as her heartbeat quickened.
She scanned the mirror, frowning, attempting to peer within rather than at her own reflection. She sensed, rather than saw or heard, some unseen presence in the room, though she could not be sure…something was different about this evening. She did not know what made her so certain… it was just a feeling, really. But it was a feeling she knew was right.
"Christine!" a breathless voice cried out from behind her door, and she heard knuckles rapping on it frantically. The door burst open to reveal a breathless Meg Giry, dressed in layers of buttery taffeta, her golden curls in elegant disarray. "Christine, if you carry on like this the masque will be over before we even arrive!" Meg bleated in dismay, panting. "The doors are already open, and the Marquis di Napoli is already here, and…. oh…oh Christine you look so lovely!" she giggled resignedly, "I do believe that you will turn quite a few heads tonight!"
"That makes the two of us!" smiled Christine, plucking a hairpin from her dresser and tucking one of Meg's wayward tresses back into place. Meg pirouetted coquettishly, giggling. "You look lovely," Christine said, giving her a mockingly appraising look. She crossed the room to the door. "Shall we?" Meg rolled her eyes then clasped Christine's arm as the two dashed like hoydens through the dark passageways of the dormitories.
They picked their way through the beams and props of the backstage area, choosing the quickest – if a little ungainly in their gowns – route to the theater. Eventually they made their way into the larger, airier and beautifully decorated hallways of the actual theater and arrived at the top of the main staircase that lead into the foyer-turned-ballroom.
Christine hesitated for a moment to gain her bearings and attempted to smooth her dark hair that she wore loosely tied back from her face. She looked over at Meg, who was smiling nervously, though she looked as if she were close to fainting. "Ready?" Meg asked, pulling a face in attempts to lighten their nervousness. Nodding apprehensively, Christine stepped forward and pushed open the vast doors into the hall.
For a moment, both were speechless. The hall was nothing short of spectacular. Both girls had only been to one Masque the year before, but it had been a sedate affair in comparison to this. This year, there had been rumors of the impending retirement of Opera manager Monsieur LeFevre, though nothing was confirmed. It was only whisperings, really, of ballet rats between rehearsals. This being his last Masquerade ball, though, would certainly account for the majesty of the event. It was apparent that no expense had been spared. Entertainers of all sorts were to be seen in various areas of the room; fire-breathers, acrobats and others. The erotically entwined statues of brushed gold shone brightly, illuminated richly by the glow of thousands of candles. They were accompanied by several newly purchased sculptures of angels that had been unveiled for the occasion. They perched below the vaulted ceiling as though prepared for flight, some with wicked smiles and some with cherubim expressions, all peering down at the room below. The soaring view was so beautiful and intimate that Christine's eyes misted over with unshed tears. Endless red velvet curtains had been hung around the perimeter of the hall, in part to mimic the setup of the stage, and perhaps also to create darker, more intimate corners (both within the ballroom as well as outside the curtains) for wayward lovers in search of a more secluded atmosphere. Candles in wrought-iron brackets and candelabras stood at intervals across the room.
Meg's grip on Christine's arm tightened steadily, though Christine knew her own grip on Meg's arm could hardly be more comforting. With an apologetic smile, Christine released her friend and looked about the dancers.
"Meg!" she gasped, "Look over there, is that Sorelli with that group of men? I wonder what your mother would say, she's always disap—" but as Christine turned to see Meg's reaction, she was embarrassed to see that her friend had already walked off on the arm of some dark-haired gentleman. Flushing, Christine turned to make her way down the stairs, quickly forgetting her embarrassment, eager to immerse herself in the masquerade. Several admiring pairs of male eyes followed her nervous yet graceful descent – as did many envious female ones.
Obscured in the shadow of the staircase, however, was a pair of eyes that watched Christine, unbeknownst to her. A pair of burning, green-gold eyes that reveled in her every step. A pair of eyes of infinite depths…. eyes that wanted Christine, and only Christine. The gleamed with unspoken purpose and intent, flashing warmly as she neared. The fire flickered out, however, and turned into a cold fury as they watched, calculating, while several eager young suitors approached Christine, all eagerly vying for her attention. The eyes narrowed as a young man took Christine's hand and kissed it, murmuring some insipid praise no doubt. The eyes changed to fiery slits like a cat's…and, with a dark swirl of a cloak, they were gone.
"Ah, so you're a chorus girl with the Opera, are you?" A silver-haired, middle-aged gentleman was asking a cornered Christine, eyeing her appraisingly. He went on before she had the chance to reply. "Ah, yes, I remember you now….you played that fetching young gypsy in last season's "Carmen"! How very splendid you were. I should hope to see more of you in future…performances…"
Christine, who had done nothing of the sort, frowned inwardly that the insinuation, but nonetheless smiled prettily as she excused herself. Though young and naïve in the ways of men, she knew a tacit invitation when she heard one; growing up in the opera house had made sure of that. It was a positive breeding ground for amorous intrigue.
Sighing, Christine made her way to the edge of the room. What an evening! Never had she been in such an exciting atmosphere. The abundant drink, the whirling dancers, the sweet euphonies rising from the violins…. there was a constant air of intrigue and romance surrounding each ornate mask she saw….every face a disguise and innuendo, painted or masked, uttering anything from love to secrecies, speaking truth or breathing lies. It was very nearly overwhelming, but she loved it. She could allow herself to become swept up in it, to forget who she was.
Christine looked up and saw Monsieur LeFevre hurrying down the stairs and across the room, when he spotted her and gave her a blustery hello, accosting her from halfway across the room. He had always been kind to young Christine, taking pity on her when she had come, newly orphaned from the Conservatoire. Clasping Christine by the hand, he pulled her to a prominent section of the room where several distinguished socialites were standing.
Flustered and slightly uncomfortable, Christine smiled demurely and curtsied as she knew was expected of her, exchanging pleasantries. But it was only at the approach of La Carlotta, resplendent in gold, that Christine was allowed to slink back into a certain level of anonymity.
"Toad!" the diva muttered viciously in Christine's direction. She shot Christine a supercilious glance before slipping back into the simpering demeanor she put on in front of the Opera's patrons. Conceding gratefully, and ignoring the haugty remark, Christine stepped quietly back out of the limelight and melded into the crowd as just another mask. Just for tonight, Christine preferred it this way.
She stood back, coming to rest just in front of a man standing in the shadows. Where is Meg? Christine wondered. She cast an eye about the room and caught a whirl of yellow. She smiled to herself. Meg was clasped in the arms of a dashing young nobleman whom Christine vaguely recognized as the Marquis di Napoli. Meg looked as though she were in a blissful trance. Perhaps Meg's dreams of marrying a foreign nobleman are not so very far off, thought Christine warmly, judging by the enraptured look on the Marquis' face.
Christine turned to make her way over to Jammes, another dancer who was busily entertaining a group of giggling young women, but something caught her eye. She could not for the life of her explain what had made her turn, but some force far beyond her had compelled her to pause and turn her head to follow the progress of a certain man. He brushed tentatively past her, moving towards the other side of the room. Christine was fairly certain that he had been the same man previously standing just behind her. His tall form moved with an assured, catlike grace. He turned a corner to disappear beyond her line of vision, but just as he did so he turned his head towards her, a fraction of an inch, and in that moment, their eyes locked.
The intensity of his gaze sent a shock of adrenaline rushing through Christine's body, knocking the breath from her lungs. The right side of his face half obscured by a black velvet mask, his eyes were like liquid heat, watching her. Christine was warm. Trying desperately to pull together some cogent thought, she returned the man's momentary gaze, unable to tear her eyes away.
"Champagne, mademoiselle?"
A young man appeared at Christine's side as if from nowhere, bearing a thin crystal flute of the sparkling drink.
"Wh…what?" The eye contact between Christine and the man was broken as she turned distractedly to the expectant gentleman at her shoulder. Her eyes flickered for a moment back to the place where the man had stood just before, but he was gone.
"I apologize monsieur. Pardon?" she said with an apologetic laugh. She felt ridiculous. He chuckled good-naturedly.
"I was merely wondering as to whether or not you would care for a glass of champagne? I saw that you had none, and though that perhaps you were thirsty!"
Christine then turned her full attention on the young man before her. Her eyes danced at the sight of the champagne as the accepted the glass. Ohh…
She smiled gratefully as she took a sip, letting the cool liquid flow between her lips. Christine had only tasted alcohol on a few sparse occasions (as Madame Giry made no secret of her adamant disapproval of the consumption of liquor); champagne at last year's masque, and once some dark, vile spirit when she and Meg had stolen Joseph Buquet's bottle when he had fallen asleep at his post. Conspiratorially, the girls had each taken experimental sips of the strange, biting liquid and been sick for hours afterward. Christine shuddered at the memory.
Instead, she studied the swirling dancers before her, and found herself almost sighing. She loved to dance. Of course, dancing at masques or in the opera did not match her newfound love or talent for singing, but she did love the rush, the sweep of a gavotte, a waltz, a valse!
The man beside her must have sensed this in her, because, after taking a sip of his own champagne, he raised an eyebrow hopefully.
"Perhaps you might join me in a dance, mademoiselle?" Beneath a brightly decorated green mask, his eyes were friendly. Suddenly, unbidden, the image of the strange man's intense gaze rose to her mind's eye, lingering. Why am I thinking of him? She thought desperately.
Forcing these thoughts from her mind, Christine smiled genuinely at the young nobleman,
"I'd be happy to, monsieur!"
Accepting the arm he offered, she followed him into the throng of dancers just as the orchestra began playing a spirited gavotte. They fell smoothly into the dance, whirling and prancing. Christine laughed delightedly as he lifted her bodily and twirled her around. God, she missed this! Dancing without the harsh choreography of Madam Giry was truly a blessing. The gentleman's hands rested chastely on Christine's waist as he lead her through the steps.
She smiled up into his pale eyes, though her eyes kept straying from him… drawn incredibly to the tall, powerful figure of her strangely reappeared – companion? Acquaintance? Counterpart? She felt an odd connection with this mysterious and sensual man dancing only a few steps from her, as though she knew him, intimately – though she was certain she had never seen him before.
The man watched Christine as though memorizing her every feature, her every secret and desire, even her soul. The dance had turned into a stately sarabande, allowing Christine to watch the man more easily. She guiltily snuck a glance over her partner's shoulder, watching him. He was dancing with a woman with apricot-colored hair, though he did not seem to be particularly focused on her now. As Christine circled her partner with the slow, deliberate steps, rather ignoring him. Their eyes performed an elaborate dance, like fireflies…. watching the other, then delicately flicking nervously away as their eyes were met… only to be met again for an instant before turning away once more.
Christine's heartbeat quickened as the dance brought them closer. However, a swell in the music found her whirling in the arms of her suitor, and she lost sight of the man. More disappointed than she would have though reasonable, she tried in vain to ignore the effect he had had on her warm face, her flushed cheeks, and her thumping heart. Christine smiled with trembling lips up at her partner, more so to reassure herself than him. Why did that man have such an effect on her?
As the music drew to a close, he bowed respectfully.
"No one man can hold such a lady's attention tonight" he said genially. She curtsied low and blushed, his comment more telling than he could have known. She smiled and turned away, but halted as her eyes rose slowly over the dark, beautifully tailored tailcoat, the gleaming scarlet waistcoat, the intricately folded cravat, and the black velvet mask into the dark, impossibly telling eyes of the man of before.
For a moment, all she could do was stand there, looking at him. She regarded him fully for the first time. His rich cloak (certainly not out-of-place among the rather fantastical costumes at the masque) flared gently with each step that he took, clasped under his throat and draped over broad shoulders. His oiled hair gleamed darkly in the candlelight. He bowed slowly, taking her trembling hand into his own and kissing it softly, still watching her face. His lips were smooth, cool, yet the shiver they sent down Christine's spine had nothing to do with the cold.
The two stepped into their places as the dance resumed, Christine dazedly acting on instinct. He stepped closer to Christine, closing the gap between them, the power of his presence radiating from him. She trembled, not from fear, but for some reason she did not understand. Slowly, tantalizingly, he brought a hand to slip around Christine's waist, gently taking her hand in his other. His hands were broad, long-fingered and graceful. They were decidedly cool to the touch, yet Christine knew she could feel some secret heat that seemed to emanate from him. It intrigued her mightily, though her faltering logic compelled her to resist feebly as he proceeded to pull her body even closer to fit into the curve of his larger one, but the dance began, and she remained silent.
The orchestra was playing a slow allemande again. Christine tilted her head up and watched the man, transfixed. Who was he? His face was tipped downward, his gaze fixed on her…searching her, probing, making her feel as if she were being stripped to her barest and most vulnerable. His gaze created within her a mixture of fascination and discomfort. Christine's rationality reared up inside her, aghast and disarmed by his silence and assuming confidence in her compliance to him. Yet, she was also intrigued and strangely, filled a heady power, all churning beneath her breast. She… wanted to comply with him. Though his every move was like human fire, this man behaved by no means indecently. He was the portrait of gentlemanly decorum, yet his slow, possessive touch acted like a narcotic on her. Every feeble attempt at reason was calmly beaten back by her instincts as she was pulled deeper into the torrent of the moment. As they danced, Christine could not help but notice the subtle elegance in his movements. His steps were not showy or overstated, as were those of most young men, but were elegant, telltale of a quiet power and of physical assuredness. His lips were set in rather knowing smirk.
The piece ended, catching Christine (and apparently, her male counterpart as well) off-guard. The end of the music had caught them in a step of the dance where they held one another in a mock lovers-embrace, he standing behind her with his arm wrapped loosely round her shoulders. They stood there, still for a moment, neither seeming to know quite what to do. The other dancers were applauding politely, and Christine snapped to her senses. She stepped quickly forwards and turned around – not far or quickly enough to cause any discord, but just far enough to disentangle herself from his arms and to give herself back some semblance of power over her own actions and desires, rather than allow herself to ease back into succumbing to her own foolish instincts that he seemed to unearth. Yet, maddeningly, Christine knew that she couldn't be sure of anything at the moment…. except for the way his hand on her waist and his warm breath, so close, made her heartbeat quicken…
He stepped slightly away from her, an inscrutable expression coming over his dark features. Christine stood there awkwardly for a moment, though he seemed perfectly at ease. She stood there, face burning, her eyes staring at a point somewhere by his knees.
Christine barely noticed that the orchestra had begun to play once more until she felt her heartbeat begin to echo the throbbing tempo of the piece. The Volte; she recognized it at once. The exotic, slightly syncopated rhythm brought back beautiful memories of swirling black satin skirts, of heavily kohled eyes, and of ruby-red lips. This had been the primary ballet spectacle in Verdi's "Il Trovatore," performed last season. A thoroughly non-traditional choice to be danced at the Opera, the Volte was a sensual, provocative dance that Christine had loved. Dancing it had made her feel so…so free, so wild, such a difference from the demure, naïve girl that she felt like so often.
Almost unconsciously, she felt her feet subtly replicating the familiar, intricate steps. Looking back at the man, she studied him surreptitiously from beneath her lashes. Quelling her faint misgivings, Christine met his eyes and allowed her lips to curve into a sly smile. He hesitated, lips parted slightly, his eyes widening then darkening to a molten gold. Almost unwittingly (though she guiltily realized that it was not unwillingly) Christine moved closer to him, dancing the steps almost imperceptibly around him. She leaned into the still motionless man's body so that her own body melded gracefully into his.
Suddenly, he was no longer motionless as his arm locked around her waist. Breathless, a frisson of anxious thrill rising in her chest, she met his fathomless though reassuring eyes and, comforted, she slid her own hand across his waist so that they stood opposite, hip to hip, their free arms curved out gracefully behind their backs.
The violins struck a chord, and Christine felt their bodies begin moving together in the familiar steps, as naturally as if their souls had merged and become one will, linked with an inextricable, passionate energy. Slowly, they circled one another, their faces mere inches apart when, in perfect form, he grasped her quivering hand with his broad one and spun her around, slamming her into his chest as they began the dance.
As soon as they met, all thoughts of reason or propriety fled from Christine's mind. This was no longer her, she felt almost to be an observer, acting through the power something beyond her. They stepped and glided, and Christine saw out of the corner of her eye the other guests had gradually dispersed to the edge of the room to watch their roving progress.
He whirled a giddy Christine in his arms, her heart leaping to her throat as her head whipped around, her skirt flaring out as she spun. They parted, the sly, tripping steps bringing them around one another. Christine whirled and pivoted, sway of hips, turn of head, clapping her hands in hypnotic abandon, frankly enjoying herself. He, likewise, stamped and clapped with a brimming intensity, his eyes never leaving her face. They danced back towards one another, an invisible rope of tension wrought between their forms, bending and swaying, coiling and stretching and pulling them forward and back as they moved. It inextricably connected them, lending to their dance that same passionate energy exuded with their every step. Back as one, they faced one another and he lifted her high into the air, holding her there for a moment. The light dazzled her. He lowered her and she slid down his body, pressed against him as her feet touched the floor. Her cheeks burned with a potent mixture of triumph, self-consciousness and turmoil. As he stepped against her receding steps, Christine found herself longing for him to speak, but she found that no words were needed.
The dance was coming to an end. The music slowed, its insatiable pulse quelling somewhat and becoming silkier, more seductive. Christine could barely think, much less speak. She averted her eyes; uncomfortable under his burning gaze and still fearful of the rising heat within her own body, that heat that was making it difficult for her to breathe properly. His eyes beneath the black velvet mask were eyes of tumultuous depths, eyes swimming with unspoken secrets and questions and mysteries, distrust and pain and infinite depths. It made her head swim trying to understand them.
As she heard the piece come to a close, Christine gasped softly as he ran a heated hand down her back, smoothing down her thigh to her calf, bringing her leg to wrap snugly around his waist and leaning against her so that her head was tilted back. Christine knew that her leg was pressed around him largely of her own volition. As her back gently arched still further, Christine's eyes slid closed as she felt his breath travel down her milky throat. His free arm locked around her waist, the man leaned Christine back, her arms snaked around his neck, their bodies bending together. He bent at one knee, his other leg outstretched, to follow her progress. She let her head fall back, her body in a perfect crescent, her dark hair brushing the polished floor. A thousand muddled, incomprehensible thoughts were flowing through Christine's mind, forming a hazy wonder for the man in whose arms she so trustingly lay. She was only dully aware of the final smattering of applause rippling through the throng of observers.
With effort, Christine brought her head up to regard him once more. He opened his mouth as if to speak, yet after a moment, simply exhaled deeply and dropped his head once more, burying his face in the curve where her neck met her shoulders. When he raised his head again, the transformation was incredible. His beautiful eyes were laced with such a helpless ardor and a sorrow that she could not name that it made Christine want to weep.
"Christine…" he breathed in a low whisper, his lips barely moving.
That voice. That low, hauntingly, indescribably beautiful and ethereal voice. It seemed to thrum with a delectable intensity, alighting a secret thrill to whisper through Christine's veins. And it was somehow, insubstantially familiar…
But just as she opened her lips to speak, the two were swept up in the flow of dancers now retaking the floor, sweeping across the room. Christine swayed slightly, thrown off-balance by the surge of people. She clutched at his sleeve in attempts to steady herself, gripping his arm in the process. She straightened abruptly, abashed for possibly hurting him and for acting so…so wantonly during the entire affair.
The musicians had begun to play again. Christine could faintly discern the eerily lovely notes of Fauré's "Pavane." It brought them slowly across the room, their attention on one another. At this, Christine sensed, more than heard, the man's throat tighten, relax, and begin to vibrate, releasing a quiet melody inaudible to any except herself. It glided across her skin as he sang: a wordless, poignant air. She could feel his lips against her hair …it had all the pathos and delicacy of the pavane being played, almost a slow harmony…. yet it possessed a quality, a darkness quite beyond anything she herself felt capable of creating. It held an unrequited passion that Christine recognized somewhere deep in her mind; this song that teemed irrepressibly with fire, with pain, with love and solace, distrust and shadow.
Comprehension nearly dawning, Christine allowed the man to guide her through the blithe dancers, along the curtained wall to whirl softly through a gap into a softly lit alcove, at which point he ceased to dance so much as hold Christine in his arms, gently rocking her, still singing his wordless song. For a moment he seemed to be in another world, lost in a private reverie, holding Christine possessively as though afraid she may dissolve into nothingness at any moment.
Obeying her soul rather than her logic, Christine gave in to his dark embrace. The melody begged her to stay. Though she could barely remember where or who she was, Christine felt inexplicable secure in arms, couldn't remember a time when she had felt more…cared for. Safe from Carlotta's haughty insults, from Joseph Buquet's prying eyes and sweaty, filthy advances in the dark corridors, safe even from her own dark pain and fears, lodged within the recesses of her mind which habitually threatened to consume her since her father's death. She leaned into him, hardly daring, but allowing a strange fire that had quietly erupted in her soul to burn, and to compel her to rest her temple on his cheek, engulfing herself in his intoxicating presence. As she did, she could sense him tensing, his dark brow furrowing… but then it gradually slackened, and he hesitantly leaned reciprocally. At this, his singing trailed off, ended with a quiet cry as he buried his face in her hair. All Christine could do was rest there, her eyes shut, enveloped in him.
She heard singing once again, a lulled, responsive melody. It was pure, pitched slightly higher, with no particular direction or consciousness – only a profound desperation for solace. It was several moments before Christine realized that the sound was issuing from her own lips. Releasing her, the man raised his head slightly and peered at her calculatingly.
Barely aware of her own rapturous expression, Christine watched, her breath quickening and her chest rising and falling with every breath as his eyes darkened once more, a small, dark smile creeping slowly across his face. The flickering light cast shadows across the panes of his jaw, cheek and brow on the visible portion of his face. Completely powerless to his touch, Christine's eyes slid shut as, almost imperceptibly, he leaned forward and his cool lips brushed against her right temple. A quiet sigh escaped her.
Christine, wake up! Leave! She silently berated herself, but found that halfheartedly, all she wanted to do was stay. She felt his lips drag lightly, ever so slowly across her smooth brow down the left side of her face. She stood motionless, a storm raging inside of her as his hot, damp mouth met the skin of her neck and rained slow kisses across her skin. Her neck arched back as he reached her throat. Her fading voice became a musical sigh as his attention became burning and more feverish than before, laying open-mouthed kisses along her collar bone and in the hollow of her throat where her heart pounded. She felt his teeth bite gently – almost inadvertently in his urgency, it seemed – at her flesh and let out a low and frankly audible gasp.
At this, she felt him pause, resting his forehead against her shoulder. A part of Christine was frankly relieved, these sensations being so desperately new to her (though not entirely unwelcome.) Never had she felt so conflicted…here she was, closer to any man than she had ever been, and he a perfect stranger! Yet while her mind resisted, her soul, it seemed, was in complete and utter surrender to the bliss that was this man's inquisitive touch. Her traitorous body's reactions did not help to amend her confusion, either. Christine felt her lips practically aching, yearning for the feel of his lips upon hers.
Stop! You cannot seriously wish him to kiss you, Christine! Madame Giry would be horrified at…at your…indecency…
Yet…(she rolled her neck as he began to lightly kiss the skin of her shoulder once more) this man, this embodiment of her Angel's ethereal voice or her father's dying love, whatever he was…. looked at Christine with such reverence that…
All such conscious thoughts were banished from her mind as he raised his head to gaze almost inquisitively at Christine's flushed face. Mullioned eyes again met velvet blue as he gently brushed his thumb across her lips, tilting her face to towards his own. He bowed his head, claiming her mouth in a soft kiss.
He kissed her mildly, chastely, as if only to take pleasure in the sensation of their lips as one. He gently parted her lips with his own, as though testing her, almost curiously. Christine's own lips parted of their own accord soon afterward, pressing to meet his own. He groaned deep in his throat and slipped his tongue languorously into her mouth, kissing her soundly, with devastating thoroughness. Christine moaned powerlessly and responded to his kiss, deepening it. His arms, while before they had been merely resting on her hips, now wrapped around her like steel, crushing her to him. He fisted his hands deep into her hair, angling her head back as he kissed her, fondly and powerfully.
After what seemed like an eternity – a beautiful, unsettling eternity – his lips gentled their kiss until they were barely against Christine's. To her immense displeasure, he lifted his mouth from hers, breathing heavily.
For a moment, both remained still, their faces still touching, the edges of their masks brushing against one another's.Reverently, he pressed warm, lingering kisses on her closed eyes before straightening slowly. He seemed to come to his self as his eyes cleared from desirous and primal to that clear, controlled, deep green pooled with tawny gold. Christine finally summoned the strength to open her eyes and watched a knavish smirk steal its way across his features. She watched him with a curious churn of feelings inside her, fear and desire among them, as he stepped back, still with that satiated, masterful air. Drawing his cloak out, he swept into a debonair bow, his dark hair gleaming. Roguishly the man raised a finger to his lips in tacit supplication. He looked at her one last time with that profoundly burning gaze and disappeared behind the curtain back into the hall, leaving behind a positively limp Christine in his wake.
She sank bonelessly onto a carved bench by the wall, having been all-but consenting prey of this man's virginal seduction of her. For a moment, Christine attempted to fathom the man who had just disarmed her so, though she knew it would be folly to try to comprehend the incident fully. Be he an embodiment of some divine, hedonistic spirit, or even of her own Angel of Music, she had understood some deeper knowledge of that man - of that she was sure…and somehow, it was enough. Stepping back into the ballroom, she knew that the stranger would not be there. And true enough, when she quickly scanned the room she saw no trace of him. Yet that night, and for her days at the Opera Populaire following that, Christine had never felt lighter or more solaced and protected than she had in the arms of that man or in his seemingly perpetual presence.
Safely concealed in the shadow of the staircase once more, the eyes, green-gold, watched Christine once more. Only this time, they were alight with a fire that did not die, but burned with a searing will. He was well aware, now, of his desire and intentions. He did not yet know how, but she would belong to him. Her voice, her purity, her perfection. What music, what triumph and beautiful genius his soul and her voice would together conceive! What they could educe... Beyond the design of any mortal realm, to rise up and above the sundries of both man and the heavens. Christine….
The Phantom of the Opera smiled discreetly to himself, and with a swirl of his cloak, he vanished.
Fin
Please review, I know that this story is far from perfect and would like to improve it -I do accept constructive criticism gladly. Thank you for reading.