Love was not blind when she recoiled from his face after snatching away the mask.
Nor when she cried as he forced her hands to touch the cursed disfigurement.
Nor when she later sought comfort with the boy. Raoul.
Love is blind.
Love was not blind when he had drawn the noose taught around Buquet's neck, and then overheard them on the rooftop.
Nor when he dropped the chandelier, setting the stage alight.
Nor when he disappeared for nearly a year.
Love… was wide-eyed with horror as he abducted his beloved again, drawing her far beneath the bowels of the opera, forcing the bag of life and death into her hands.
The scorpion or the grasshopper.
He could scarcely hear the echoing of the two souls stuck in the torture chamber, his eyes glued to her form as they were.
His mask wasn't on… and she had not fainted. Not yet. But she would, eventually. It was inevitable.
The veil was at his feet, and she stood directly in front of him. Her face was stained with tears.
Love is blind.
There was a ringing as the boy yelled from his spot in the chamber. The pause, the silence between the two of them must have increased his anxiety, he thought distantly.
And still… she did not tear her gaze away from him. He was terrible. Ugly as sin. Why did she continue looking at him? Why did she needlessly punish herself?
Her soft hands graced the sides of his face. He sucked in a deep breath.
Love is blind… her perfectly shaped lips pressed tentatively against his.
Her hands left their post to skirt around and clutch his shoulders.
He was stiff and unmoving. Tears ran freely down his sunken cheeks, onto her fingers, staining her perfect skin. He would surely soil her-- was soiling her-- but she did not move. She did not flinch!
Oh, how much he loved her. He loved her so very very much.
Erik wanted to believe so desperately that love was blind… and perhaps it was for a few, short, precious seconds. Seconds he would treasure for the rest of his miserable days.
But he knew better.