A/N: So I'm not dead (mostly), but it's been a while, so have some Charoga that's been sitting in my WIPs, that I've finally managed to finish.
Voices are Nadir's undoing.
It was so with Erik, dark and infinitely deep, the spectre at the crossroads drawing him further, further from the road well-travelled. He had no ear for music back then, still can't say that he does now, but one didn't need to, to lose all sense to the smooth-scaled chill of it that wound around the throat like something venomous. Dark, so dark in just the right way to block the eyes and play at something comfortable.
Voices are Nadir's undoing. It was so with Erik. It is so with her.
But she is different.
Christine Daaé is something bright as she sings through the joy, the upward curve of her lips bending the notes into something lilting, lifting. Lifting the same way she lifts Nadir's hand to her lap to brush thumbs over his knuckles, lifting the way ocean spray lifts to form clouds for only seconds to make way for more. Something Swedish that he doesn't recognize but that brings to mind thoughts of footprints in rougher sands, sunlight, things so intrinsically her and so intrinsically light.
He doesn't realize that he has been staring at his knee, where his hand had been before she confiscated it, until the song stops in lieu of a cough that shakes him from his thoughts. He blinks at the squeeze of his hand before turning to face her and the crook of lips in affected exasperation.
"Are you paying attention?" She reaches for his other hand and he gives it readily, crease between his brows softening. She brings both to her lips, kissing the backs of both, and the play at annoyance melts away into a dimpled laugh. "You're meant to be learning." At this, he offers a smile.
"You know that I can't sing." She kisses both hands again, shaking her head before placing them on each cheek.
"Most anyone can sing," she says. She says it often and he wonders just as often if she, with all of her training and all of her work and all of her heartache, truly believes such a thing. He sweeps thumbs over her cheekbones.
"Not as beautifully as you can." Another laugh in that gentle, patient voice, and another shake of the head before she turns to nuzzle into his palm. He doesn't realize how hard his shoulders had tensed until she noses his thumb and it all turns to down.
"Does it matter?" He has no answer for her and so he only tucks her hair behind her ear. Even so, she waits for a word, eyes more glittered with amusement with every second that passes before she gives one last kiss, this one to his wrist, and begins again in concession.
The same song, from the beginning, slower now in pointed intent, but he can hardly focus on the words.
He searches, at times, for the influence. It had been strong, the winding of black smoke in the crystal, something not quite her and not quite right that made the notes resound in a way that brought out the discoloured circles under her eyes. He knew she was aware of it by the way songs would end on hard syllables and a grit of the teeth, the way she would take to mumbling and humming as though to remind herself of the sounds that belonged to her. She shared it with him, when she found herself, happier arias and livelier tunes.
Years later, the blackness is gone and only she remains—in voice, at the least—and for that, he mouths along to what she sings, aching at the glee that flushes her cheeks.
"Just one verse?" she asks at the finish of it, twining her fingers with his. "And then I'll leave you be."
"Why would I want that?" he asks in return. Another laugh, another laugh in that blessed voice, and it is as welcomed as the lips she presses to his own. He sighs against her mouth, feels hers move when she speaks.
"Just one verse?" A whisper, and that too is bright. He chuckles, presses his forehead to hers, opens his eyes to find hers urging.
"Just one. But cover your ears."
She doesn't obey, but she sings for him, and it is his undoing.