Notes: Hello! This story has been on my mind for quite a while. It is based upon the 1990 version of Phantom, starring Charles Dance, Terri Polo, and Burt Lancaster. I will try and post new chapters regularly, I'm thinking this will turn out to be rather short but detailed (I hope!). It will not follow the 1990 version exactly, especially in regard to specific characters but I hope it will entertain nonetheless.
Rating may go up in later chapters.
The title, "Fantasy in Desire" is taken from the Mozart piece Fantasy in D which sadly remained unfinished, but from what I've read was ground-breaking in its time. It inspired me as soon as I heard it years ago :)
I hope you enjoy, and please do leave a comment or review!
Disclaimer: I don't own POTO, or the Phantom of the Opera 1990 release.
Fantasy in Desire
By: Arianna
"Love is the only gold."
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson
Chapter One
Laughter echoed in the dark, carried on a myriad of chilly breezes that constantly rushed and ebbed throughout the bowels of the opera house. The winds seemed hushed this night, as though they too were in awe of such novel sounds; they whispered softly and allowed the laughter to fill the cavernous spaces that were their usual domain.
Yet, unable to abandon their master's side completely and drawn to his strange enigmatic presence tonight, they stretched out with cold fingers and played with the solitary flame that lit the table where he and his protégé were seated.
Christine's smile was radiant, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright in the aftermath of such joy; it was a joy to laugh with him, to hear his impossibly deep voice usually so controlled and measured give way to happy abandon.
She searched his face—yes, he looked happy—but more than that, she felt it. A flush of pleasure warmed her cheeks and she continued her story as her Maestro leaned back in his chair and regarded her with bright, laughing eyes.
"How ever did you escape?" he asked, his musical voice the perfect match to his gentle gaze.
"Oh, it was quite simple," she said. "First, I gathered all the hay I could, and pushed it over the edge of the loft."
"Aah," he said, nodding with understanding as Christine beamed at him and they both began to laugh again. "Very clever."
His praise was like the purest sunshine, and warmed her from the tip of her head to her toes.
"Well, I certainly thought so at the time. After pushing what felt like every last straw of hay onto the barn floor, I'd made myself a decent enough place to land. So, I took a running jump and…" she spread her arms wide, as though in flight. His eyes widened, clearly riveted by her daring.
"But that wasn't the best part," she said, bringing her arms back to lean onto the table. "The best part was when I landed in one piece, I heard a sound. A clomp, clomp, clomp…and the voice of a very angry neighbor, demanding who was in his barn!"
Her Maestro studied her, clearly bemused beyond measure. "And this was the best part? Were you not terrified he'd discover you, and the hole you'd so expertly made in his roof?"
Christine smiled, and if her Papa had been there to see it he no doubt would have said "Lord help us, she's wearing her little imp's grin!"
"I was terrified; but I have always found that as a child, the imminent threat of unpleasantness always inspires bold feats of resourcefulness. In my terror, I surmised that my only escape would be to borrow one of the farmer's powerful steeds, and make my escape like the knights of tales gone by; sword drawn, charging forth. Unfortunately, in this particular barn there were no steeds to be had, and I had to…improvise."
He couldn't contain his mirth. "With what? A particularly robust chicken?"
Christine shook her head, biting her lip with giggles. "A donkey."
He tilted his head back and gave a bark of laughter. "And did it come with a sword?"
"It barely came with a pulse, the poor dear thing! He looked older than dirt and recently ploughed, but he let me clamor my way atop his back without comment. I think he was probably still asleep, now I think on it!"
"How ever did you escape on an unconscious donkey?"
"Well, most working animals have a special word that only their master knows. A word that rallies them into immediate action. While climbing onto the poor beast's back, and hearing the farmer thundering closer and closer, I'm afraid I let slip one of the only blasphemies I'd ever heard my Papa use."
His eyes widened. "You? Why Christine…I'm shocked!"
"So was the poor beast. I don't think he'd ever counted on being called back for duty, but when he heard that word he bolted out the stable door and straight into a very livid, very red-faced farmer! I remember thinking as we galloped away how the man must have regretted not cleaning out his stables more thoroughly, but I suppose the abundance of muck helped break his fall."
He clapped his hands together in delight. "I'm sure you made a sight that will haunt him for the rest of his days! Hair whipping behind you, battle cry upon your lips, mule at full charge!" he bowed his head and shook it, his shoulders shaking with mirth.
"Oh my dear…what a vision you have given me, and I'll treasure it always! What an adventurous child you were. It is very commendable."
Christine felt her cheeks flush, and she let her gaze drop back to her plate of as yet untouched pastry. "I think my Papa felt the same, although to this day I'm not sure whether they were tears of laughter or despair when I explained why I was late for supper, covered in muck and hay, atop an ancient and confused looking mule."
"How dearly I would love to have seen you in that moment."
Her gaze rose of its own will to meet his, for his voice held no trace of laughter now. It was soft, reverent, and something else that made her feel quite light-headed, although she had only indulged in one glass of red wine. Her stomach fluttered in a delicious sensation as a familiar tension began to build within her.
"Are you chilled?" his voice had returned to its smooth, gentle cadence, but she could still discern an undertone of something tremulous hidden beneath its glass veneer. His concern made her heart feel buoyant and weightless, as though the only thing anchoring it in her chest was the steady gaze of his pale eyes.
They were a particularly beautiful shade of stormy grey tonight, and she noted how the deep charcoal of his dining jacket and the soft blue of his cravat amplified their contrast against his pale skin. Straight, broad shoulders tapering into long, well-muscled arms and large, strong hands with equally long fingers. Always gloved, yet how she yearned to free them from their casing and press her lips to each fingertip…! So reckless. Her Papa had always been right about her.
"You're shivering…" he noted, and although all hint of their previous frivolity was gone from his demeanor, it was replaced by something equally, if not more stirring.
Fire…
It was everywhere; a warm rush that began whenever his eyes met hers, trailing a heated course through her veins until her entire body felt dizzy and feverish.
No, she wasnotshivering from cold. She was trembling with emotions she could no more control than the moon or stars.
"It is nothing…" she began with a shy smile, but as always he was too swift and light of foot. Within seconds he was at her side and carefully, tentatively, he placed his dinner jacket around her. Was it her imagination, or had she felt his fingers graze her bare shoulder? It was barely a touch, but it made her muscles react like a taut bow string—and without thinking, she reached for his gloved hand.
"Thank you," she breathed, her fingers resting lightly atop his. Her intuition more than her eyes told her the effect her touch had on him. It was a slight stiffening in his posture, as though the air around him and time itself was standing still in the moment any part of her made contact with his body.
"I'm afraid it does not become your dress," he said so softly she was reminded of the feather-light touch she knew she hadn't imagined upon her bare shoulder moments before.
"It's perfect," she smiled up at him, and his answering smile was so full of gratitude she couldn't resist bringing his hand to her lips and brushing them across his gloved fingers.
A sharp intake of breath; Christine felt his hand slide from hers, and suddenly he was back in his seat across the table from her, as though he had never left it.
"It is a pity the air has become so unfavorable this evening. Now that you have so kindly entertained me with your past adventures, I had hoped to take you for a moonlit stroll. I know of a beautiful glade, which is particularly situated for star-gazing."
Her hands wrapped themselves in his jacket, which was warm and smelled so much of him that she thought her heart might burst. His tone was gentle and attentive; he always spoke to her with fondness…but it was business-like once more. As though the art of wooing her was an undertaking of the utmost seriousness and he was bound and determined to do it by the book, without deviations.
A sudden thought occurred to her—were they courting? She had no previous experience to draw upon, so she was completely reliant upon her own observations and gleanings from his behavior.
What he said, and what he left unsaid.
She knew what her heart felt; excitement, joy, and a fluttering whenever he gazed at her with those soulful eyes and intent expressions. And there was the fire—an intensity that left her breathless and feverish for a cure she was only beginning to understand. He was unlike any man—no, anyone she had ever encountered and although she knew most respectable pillars of society would be aghast and scandalized at her Maestro's...eccentricities, she found she did not mind them at all. She was not considered 'respectable' either, and she was certainly not a pillar of Paris society.
She was simply Christine, with no gold nor fine dresses or connections. She did not need such things. She had her childhood memories, and they were filled with laughter, love and above all, music.
And that was what they shared…what bonded their souls. Christine felt her cheeks begin to burn anew at her last thought: Our souls are bound by music…and our bodies are the instruments. How can we deny the instrument, yet play the symphony with such passion?
And she knew of his passion. She saw it, like a storm raging beneath the surface of his finely crafted manners and civility. Only when he was seated at his piano, or holding his violin did the storm breach the walls of propriety. Only through music had she felt his touch, bold and unhindered, demanding her surrender to him, only ever him…
Sometimes, she even wondered if he was aware of his effect on her. He was always so composed, so buttoned-up and infuriatingly, frustratingly calm. Even after making him laugh so, he was able to smooth himself back into the picture of decorum. How could she ever peek inside his heart, if he was always guarding it, protecting it with his genteel control? And a wild, untamed part of her consciousness wanted him to lose control. Just once, just long enough for her to find a crack his respectability and draw out the passionate man she knew resided within.
Christine gazed at him from across the table, wanting nothing more than to tell him everything that was burning in her to say. She was tired of rules and restrictions. Tired of expectations, definitions and the barest of touches. Tired of his eyes, his presence bringing her to the brink of ecstasy as he drew more and more passion from her body, her voice…
Only to have him slip away when she tried to give that passion a tangible existence. It was maddening. She didn't even know his name. Did he have a name? He must, and yet he had never given her any hint in their prior conversations of a life, a family before he came to be at the Opera.
When you sing, I live in heaven. When you don't...I live below.
Always avoidance, so flattering in its simplicity. She felt at times he were a magician, distracting her with his slight of phrase, drawing her curiosity away from himself with such pretty, sincere compliments. But all the pretty words in the world couldn't conceal the fact that after knowing him for all these months, the music lessons and conversations, she still didn't know where he lived, or how he had gained access to the underbelly of the Opera's catacombs.
How had he come to know the theatre so well?
The little alcove in which they now sat was the perfect place to have a candlelit dinner in anticipation of her debut in Faust. He had known she was far too nervous for a crowded restaurant, so he had created their own little world with a pretty little table and chairs, silver cutlery and a hot, delicious meal. An expensive meal she noted—pheasant soufflé and exotic vegetables. A beautiful tapestry hung on the wall beside them, covering the cold stone beneath and keeping away the chill.
He must have hung it there himself, and she had no doubt his efforts carried the same majestic effect as any private dining room did in those expensive restaurants she passed on the Rue Scribe. More so, seeing as he had made sure to add personal touches he knew would please her. She was touched beyond measure that he would have gone to such trouble for her.
He sat across from her now, so familiar and yet still a complete mystery; she knew he was as lonely and anchor-less as she was, so why couldn't he trust her?
He waited patiently for her, as though he knew she was in the middle of some deep internal debate; he always knew. He could read her better than anyone she'd ever known besides her parents, which still frightened her a little.
Tilting his head to one side quizzically, he chuckled.
"Little bird, little bird, come back to me…" he sang gently his warm, rich voice full of affection.
As it always did, his voice acted like a steady hand guiding her back to wherever it willed—back to him.
"Forgive me," she said with a smile, unconsciously pulling his jacket more tightly around her shoulders. "The supper was so delicious, I find myself lost in a daydream. A stroll sounds lovely. I'm sure I'll be warm enough. I have a dashing knight's kind favour to protect me after all."
She couldn't help the mirth that escaped her as he practically preened in delight at her praise. The palpable tension she'd felt between them momentarily faded into the background, like an empty set on a grand stage, waiting for the players to resume the performance.
Taking them back to the playful mood of their earlier conversation he gracefully rose from his seat and with one step of his long legs was at her side once more, kneeling in all reverence at her feet.
"Sweet lady," he intoned with his head bowed, one arm crossed over his heart in an impassioned salute, "wouldst thou bestow upon me the unparalleled pleasure of your enchanting presence, and favor me with a stroll this eve? I have no steed, nor donkey to offer; only my arm, and my utmost attention."
Burying her face in the folds of his jacket, Christine giggled in delight at his antics. Her embarrassment only seemed to amuse him further, and in one smooth motion he swept a hand behind his back. Christine watched in fascinated delight as with a flourish, he presented her with a beautiful long–stemmed rose, conjured seemingly out of thin air.
"If I had a flower every time I thought of you," he said earnestly, "I could walk through my garden forever…"
He watched her intently as she accepted the flower and brought it to her lips. It smelled glorious. Its petals felt velvety soft against her skin and she breathed deeply, closing her eyes and savouring its sweetness.
"Oh, Maestro…how beautiful," she sighed, touched beyond measure that he had remembered her favourite flower—and quoted her favorite poet. It had been one of their earliest conversations after a particularly intensive singing lesson, revolving and gliding through various topics they both treasured—art, literature, poetry and above all, music. Christine remembered the way she'd spoken so freely, without a thought to propriety or decorum. Waving her hands about enthusiastically, she'd talked of her homeland, her dreams and her family.
She'd told him of her father; of how he always used to read Tennyson's poems to her at night and how much she loved the sound of his voice. Fervently, she'd said that nothing save her Maestro's voice had ever comforted or soothed her that way before, nor since. He'd said nothing but reached out with one finger and stroked it from her temple down the length of her cheek, lingering just beneath her bottom lip…that deep, steady gaze so focused and intent. She remembered blushing fiercely with surprise and delight at his unexpected touch.
How badly she'd wanted to kiss him, then. How much she wanted to now, and with the thought of his lips on hers the plush petals of the rose suddenly felt intimate in a way that made her ache with longing. A kiss wouldn't be so wrong, would it?
Opening her eyes, she could not have prepared herself for what she saw.
He was staring at her—specifically, his gaze was transfixed on her mouth. His lips slightly parted, his chest rose and fell visibly, his entire body radiating the same raw desire she knew must be mirrored on her own face.
Licking his lips, he said in an unusually husky voice, "Beautiful, yes…yet I cannot help but envy it with every part of my being at the moment."
A thrill of excitement shot through her at his passionate admittance, and within the span of a few heartbeats she nearly tossed reason aside and launched herself into his arms. She would have done so had he not drawn back slightly, his expression suddenly grave and solemn.
"Please forgive me, my dear," he said quietly, and there was such profound sadness in his voice that Christine found herself once again reaching out to him instinctively. Grasping his shirt sleeve, she rose from her seat just as he rose from his knelt position, his jacket slipping off her shoulders. In the process, she unintentionally brought them so close that she felt the bare skin of her upper chest—the soft skin revealed beyond the top of her bodice—brush fully against his arm.
A sudden inhale of breath; and this time he wasn't quick enough to stop the moan that escaped him. The sound only fueled her desperation. She knew it. She knew he'd felt it too! The fire, pulling them ever forwards toward each other.
"No…Maestro, there's nothing to forgive!" she said urgently, gripping his wrist and hoping with all her might that he didn't pull away. "Please…you never have to apologize for wanting to touch me…as I want to touch you."
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them—and she wouldn't have held them back for anything. This was who she was; passionate, unguarded and utterly improper. She was not ashamed of it…it was the truth. If only she could reach past the mask, that barrier that kept him the unattainable Maestro to the man she quickly realized she was adoring more and more each day.
His eyes were fixed on where her hand grasped his wrist, and she felt the tension in his body like that of an animal poised for flight. He swallowed reflexively, and a stab of remorse coursed through her. He was so dignified…there was something tragic and heart-breaking seeing that control diminish and be stripped away.
Ashamed at her lack of compassion for his plight, Christine was about to release him and give him the distance he so obviously needed when he bent forward, bringing them even closer… and caught her hand, which still clutched the rose. His touch was feather-light, yet the contact sent such a torrent of shivers throughout her body that she nearly dropped it.
His hand encasing hers, he drew it towards his mouth and brushed the petals of the blood-red bloom against his own lips just as she had done. His eyes drifted shut, and a shudder ran through his body.
"I wanted so badly to prove to you…I could be good..." he said in a low, desperate tone she'd never before heard him use. He sounded as though he were in physical pain, and for a moment he squeezed his eyes shut as though he truly were suffering a physical hurt. "…that I could overcome this…selfishness, this weakness in my blood."
The rose was still against his lips, as though he spoke to it—as though it understood. "I do need to apologize, my dear. I have so many things I am sorry for…" his voice trailed away, and he swallowed thickly.
"Don't be sorry, Maestro…" she said softly, edging closer to him and gazing up into his masked face. "You are good. Your heart, your mind…these hands," and she leaned forward, unaware of the way his eyes darkened as she pressed her lips to his fingers as she'd wanted to do from the moment they'd sat down together. Keeping them there, she spoke into his gloved hand as he had just done to the soft bloom. "These hands are my kingdom. They create worlds for me, worlds where there is no loneliness, no suffering… only music. I can feel your music, and it is so beautiful!"
As the words poured out of her, straight from the depths of her soul, she realized he had gone completely still. Raising her head, she tilted her mouth towards his imploringly. The only clue that he had not turned to stone was the way she heard his breathing come fast and tremulous.
He was shaking, but so imperceptibly that he seemed frozen in place. Then, he was capturing both of her hands in his—but instead of granting her wish for more contact, he took a step back from her. Holding her hands briefly in the space between them, she realized it wasn't a gesture of affection—he was making sure she could not touch him again. Christine felt a sting of hurt cut through her like thin wire, deep and scarring.
What had she done wrong?
"Ah, my dear one, how truly kind you are to say such things to me," he said, his voice unnaturally full of bravado as though they were rehearsing lines in a play. "And with such loveliness…yes, you leave me no choice but to be left overwhelmed with grateful admiration!"
"Maestro…?" she began questioningly, making to move toward him whether to apologize or try and kiss him again she didn't know. All she knew was that she couldn't stand the deep hurt that coiled within her heart at the thought that despite his earlier admission, he didn't want her near him. He squeezed her hands in his, halting her movement and keeping the invisible barrier firmly between them.
"Do you play games?" he suddenly asked, his voice light and full of quizzical interest. Christine stared at him wide eyed for a moment, her brain madly trying to catch up with his sudden detour off topic.
"I…I do not know," she managed, gazing at him in confusion. He seemed oblivious to her bewilderment. "Of course you do!" he smiled at her cajolingly. "You must have played many games as a child—why, I'm sure you did! You who had so many adventures…Yes, I have envisioned you so clearly; a wild little urchin with tangled golden hair flitting here, there, and everywhere in search of fairies and trolls! A nymph of nature, defeating rogues and pirates with a mere quirk of her inquisitive brow…"
His expression softened for a moment, and Christine thought she saw a flash of pain flicker and die upon his features. It came and went so quickly she barely caught it, and before she had time to question its appearance he was back to playing the part of jovial host, dragging her playfully behind him as he made his way from their make-believe dining room.
"W-where are we going?" Christine asked his retreating back, noting in spite of her confusion the way his broad shoulders cut straight elegant angles, his movements radiating a power he seemed unaware of. He was extremely tall and their differences in height became more acute than ever as he jogged ahead, tugging on her hand and pulling her along in his wake.
"It is a secret," he said merrily.
In spite of herself, Christine couldn't help but smile at his antics—he was striding with such purpose as he lead her back into the caves.
"Maestro?" she asked with the hint of a laugh as he spun about to face her, eyes dancing.
"Let me forgo the role of Maestro tonight, little nymph! Tonight, we shall play a game, just you and I. Would you play a game with me, Christine?"
Christine hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Relief rushed over her as she considered that perhaps she had no reason to feel hurt at all—perhaps this was an attempt at letting go of formality…perhaps it was just what was needed. Before she had time to muse any more on it, he had deftly reached around her head and plucked the butterfly hair-pin from her chignon, causing her curls to tumble across her shoulders.
With a mock cry of outraged modesty, Christine made a lunge to get it back—and found that his height was indeed a truly unfair advantage. Dangling it tantalizingly beyond her reach, he warded off her efforts with an ease that awoke within her that same little child who had refused to play princess with the other village girls in favour of soldiers and pirates with the boys.
Her Maestro knew her well.
Giggling despite her undignified jumps to try and reach her pin, she was about to execute a non-lethal yet effective method of negotiation—namely stomping on his toes until he released her prize—when he twirled away from her nimbly, his laughter both a challenge and a dare. Christine didn't hesitate this time; gathering up her skirts she gave a little growling snort of defiance before dashing after his silhouette.
His laughter floated back to her in clear, rich notes and the sound only spurred her on as she continued to chase him through the increasingly darkened tunnel. Finally, after cursing inwardly at her cumbersome attire for the umpteenth time, she saw it—the stark white of his linen shirt just inches away. Reaching out, she expected to grasp his elbow or forearm. She expected him to turn about and admit defeat. She expected to hear his laughter soothe the sudden feeling that bloomed within her chest…the feeling that something, was not right.
Quicker than a heartbeat, his hands encased her upper arms and she was being gently but firmly pulled towards the wall. Alarm gripped her, but as he pulled her she heard the groan of gears and light poured through a crack that was steadily growing wider and wider.
A door.
And then he had released her and she was on the other side of it, her momentum causing her to stumble and trip on the thin, worn carpet of her room beneath the stage. Before she could muster up a cry of surprise, she heard gears grinding into place behind her, and the sound of the hidden door being locked shut.
Halting her stumbling progress against the wall of her familiar room, she pressed herself against it for a moment, breathing hard.
The sound of the lock echoed in her ears—she could not get back to him. Not tonight. Perhaps never. Cold panic, unlike any she had ever felt before gripped her. Turning, she knocked against the innocent wall where the hidden door had disappeared, and tried to keep the fear from her voice.
"Maestro? Are you there? I…I thought we were playing a game…you said we were just…please, I don't understand. Are you angry with me?"
She waited, hands pressed to the wood, staring at it imploringly as though she could see through it to where he stood. Just when she began to think that he had indeed abandoned her he spoke, and his voice was so near she knew he must be as close to the wall as she was.
"No. I am not angry with you. You were not the one playing a game Christine…I was. A dangerous, foolish game. I fear for the second time this evening I must crave your pardon and beg forgiveness. I...I am sorry our night had to end so, but trust me when I say it is for the best."
Christine pressed her cheek to the wood and hot tears began to burn behind her closed eyelids.
"It is alright," she said gently, "I understand."
She didn't understand at all, but she would try. For him, she would try anything.
"You stole my hairpin, you pirate," she teased, smiling in spite of the threat of tears. She thought she heard him chuckle, but when he spoke his voice was strangely strained and thick.
"So I have."
"I would have it back, please."
"Well, then you will just have to meet with me tomorrow and we shall see if we can work out an acceptable compromise."
Christine felt the smile tug at her lips, a warmth spreading through her limbs and calming her at the thought of seeing him again—the thought that he wanted to see her so soon. "I would have my Maestro back too, sir. Or else I shall begin to take singing lessons with Carlotta."
She definitely heard a gasp of horror this time.
"You wouldn't."
"I might."
"She couldn't teach a rat to beg for cheese, let alone sing for it!"
"I hear she's decided to help train the chorus…to inspire us by shining example!"
"Chorus!?" his incredulity was palpable and Christine giggled deviously.
"My mercenary angel!" she heard him breathe, as though mortally wounded. "You win! You shall have your trinket and your Maestro. Just promise me one thing?"
"Anything."
"Promise you will allow me to call upon you tomorrow. Promise me I haven't ruined our evening. I...wanted it to be perfect. You deserve nothing less."
Christine wished with all her heart to sink though the wooden barrier and into his arms.
"You may call."
"Goodnight, Christine."
"Sleep sweetly, Maestro."
She stayed pressed against the wall for a moment longer, then turned to press her back against it. She heard no more sound from behind the hidden door, and with the realization that he must have already departed, she gazed at her bed and suddenly felt exhausted.
Crossing the threadbare carpet, she didn't even bother changing into nightclothes, but stripped off her gown, folding it carefully and placing it back inside her dusty armoire. Then, she curled up beneath the covers of the bed and fell asleep almost instantly.
She dreamed of green hills dotted with red roses and a noble donkey grazing lazily on lush sweet clover. She dreamed of a knight in tarnished armor, singing Tennyson to her while they lay upon the soft grass, his head in her lap.
Erik watched her sleep with an ardent tenderness that bordered on complete insanity. He was insane. He must be to ever even entertain, let alone court the notion that he could ever be more to her.
Christine...
His fingertips ghosted across the surface of the two-way mirror, equal measures of desire and regret filling him to the brim, but only one emotion was powerful enough to overflow and wash away all else.
He regretted having to trick her, cutting their evening short. He'd had no choice; it was either he let her go, locking her away in the safety of her room or…
His fingertips curled into a fist. Yes, he could regret the violence of his want. But when she was safe, safe from him, he could strain and tear at the invisible chains binding him behind the glass knowing he would never betray that simple truth. She was safe. It was both his talisman against the beast, and his curse.
He couldn't regret keeping vigil over her, not for one second. Any moment he was near her was a precious gift, a reprise from the never-ending world of illusion and shadow that was all he'd ever known. His home, his career, his very identity was a finely crafted imitation. A simulation of a real life, a copy.
Looking out for her best interests gave him purpose. She was his reality. His moon and stars, his sun. Her expressions the seasons, her mouth a perfect bloom. Her touch was love; her smile could open up heaven. Her eyes were his sky, her laugh his air. Everything he could ever need, ever hope for or dream of.
My love. Oh, my love…come, dream within me.
Gloved fingertips stroked the glass, smoothing over the crest of her head as though he could truly feel those silken strands. He wanted to sing her a lullaby, to protect and guard her slumber as sure as her slow, steady heartbeat.
A deep, yearning sigh left him.
If she only knew how close he had come tonight. How close he had come to losing himself utterly in her soft arms, forsaking everything, kisses and secrets tumbling from his lips. He knew he would not have been able to let her go until she was beating beneath him, the culmination of all he had ever felt, thought and dreamt of in his life.
His life, its meaning and purpose laid bare to him in smooth skin and tremulous curves. She would speak his name as they soared higher, too high to the sun, all crackling energy, undeniable gravity and ravenous thirst drawing him ever within her, his answer, his muse…
His body immediately answered his fevered imaginings with an ache that tested his every ounce of control.
If she only knew! If she only knew how much—but no. No, that could never, ever be. For if she even felt a fraction of his devotion, nature itself would demand she forsake his sacrilegious worship.
His forehead joined his curled fingertips against the cursed but necessary barrier between them. Oh yes, it was quite necessary. An ironic smile twisted his mouth. How fitting to be trapped within reality, watching his dream's desires so sweetly laid before him. Closed lashes, crescents of lace against such pale delicate skin that seemed to glow from within. She was made of purest stardust, an unearthly being, not mortal or angel.
His Christine was so far above such mundane imaginings. His Christine. His, indeed—but only in shadows and the deep, treacherous waters of his mind. The memory of her rushing into his arms the day he had told her she was ready to sing for the managers of the Opera, so soft and pliant wrapped around him haunted his every moment. At the time, he had been too overcome, too stunned to even hold her back.
And tonight…tonight she had kissed his unworthy fingers and then turned her glowing face up to his, burning him away to ash with her unconscious beauty and seduction. Light of heaven, how innocent she was of her own power! It was intoxicating. He was existing under its perpetual influence, and yet tonight he had failed to hold her when given the chance.
Surely, one kiss could not be a sin?
But it was; it would be. No, it was far too risky. His physical reaction to her was too strong, too overwhelming. Too many fantasies swirled within his imagination, fantasies where he held her and oh, how they burned! Her softness all around him, his hands molding it into something that would cradle every part of his body, every hard edge and unrefined contour.
He wanted too much…and therefore, he must refrain.
His eyes drifted shut, the sight of her curled up on that sawdust mattress still branded upon his eyelids. Then it gave way to another image. The sight of her soft mouth, caressing blood-red petals.
His blood stirred. So innocently, so sensually done! Such beauty. He ached so deeply it was part of his own heartbeat. How badly he had wished to kiss her! But her mouth was a salvation he was undeserving of, for if she only knew the darkness, the obsession that ruled him…
His throat constricted, hot pressure building behind his closed eyes.
She would fear him.
How she would fear him now, if she only knew how many times he had watched her in sleep...burning, aching, the brutal evidence of his need unbearable. His body, his want was the enemy. And he would protect her from its treacherous longings.
The only purpose he believed was his, body and soul was that he was meant to use all his knowledge, skills and talents to design heaven on earth for her. And he would not defile it with his own deficiencies.
A soft sound suddenly drew him out of his dark musings, like the brush of a butterfly's wing against his cheek. The object of his thoughts had flipped onto her back, one arm raised above her head, face tilted unconsciously toward him. Eyes open, wetness gone, every nerve and fiber of his being now focused on her expression, the way her mouth pulled downward slightly, the crease in her brow. Her chest rose and fell more rapidly—too rapidly.
She was having a nightmare. He recognized the symptoms all too well. Taking a deep breath, his lips parted. Melody, quiet and soothing flowed from his heart and into song.
He watched transfixed as a soft smile grew on her lips and she nuzzled into the bed covers, turning on her side to face him though she could have no notion he was there. He couldn't help his head spinning slightly, she was so achingly lovely! His heart broke and was mended, given new life and an eternity of possibilities, promises whispered with her every breath. He was so enraptured with the vision of her that he hadn't realized he had stopped singing until he heard her sigh, a name falling from her lips.
"Maestro…"
He closed his eyes. Torture. Pure and simple, sleeping soundly and dreaming things he could only guess in his fever.
"Christine," he whispered miserably. To hear his real name upon those lips…!
The fever raged within him, and in his delirium he heard her call to him over and over. But he was determined that she never, ever know his secret.
Erik was defective. Erik was unpredictable, and destroyed all he touched. No…her gentle, Maestro, always a gentleman was who she needed.
Heart pounding in his ears, he pressed his lips to the glass.
But oh, if she only knew…
TBC