EDIT 6 AUGUST 2017: this is different from my usual writing style but I believe I might stick to this style because I like it more and feels so much better. Also some errors have been corrected.
"Another restless night," Christine thinks to herself as her husband was once more missing from their bed. Her legs shifted aimlessly in the sheets, feeling the emptiness and absence of Erik. Cinnamon, doe shaped eyes blink close, every now and then opening in search of Erik's and the solemnity of his sleeping form . The soprano finds peace and never fear or hatred in whenever he slept by her side.
"Where are you?" The heart cries as the eyes open again to find the emptiness staring back at her.
Gentle cries and quiet sobs seep through the nothingness and Christine rises up in alarm. The sheet clutches tightly to her skin, her petite form moving down the bed and peering into the room where she heard the noise. Collecting the sheets and rising from the bed, she moved off the bed and tiptoed over to the room. Her tired arms are tightly wrapped around the sheets that cling to her form. Steps quiet, her breathing gentle, she comes upon her husband weeping before her.
"Erik…" Her sweet and innocent voice calls to him.
"Poor unhappy Erik!" The tenor voice cries with a thousand unsung pleas and wishes behind it.
Christine stands firm and walks over to him with firm stature. She knows it is concerning his deformity. She approaches him from behind and touches his shoulders with gentleness, her soft rosette lips gently kiss his clothed shoulder. His stature rises in alarm of her sudden, but yet gentle touch. Chocolate curls gently brush against his pale, scarred shoulder in which her small, soft fingers touch with ease as she massages his skin, allowing him to become used to her touch.
"Dear…" Her voice is no more than a mere whisper as she rests her head on his covered shoulder. He turns his head to her, mismatched eyes bloodshot from his tears.
"— Oh Christine." He speaks her name like a prayer, more tears roll down his cheek and touches her chin. "The boy would have been so much easier to love than Erik." He doubts himself. He always had despite their three years of marriage.
A small, thin finger presses against his bloated, cracked lips. "Hush." Her dulcet tone coaxes him. "Raoul is dear to me as a friend, beloved. But, our bond is indestructible compared to Raoul and myself. We were childhood sweethearts. He was the boy who fetched my scarf in the ocean, read the dark tales of the north as my father played the violin. As dear he is to me, I loved you and married you. You are my maestro, made my voice take flight, and I am of your eternal gratitude. I do not like that you were denied a mother's love and shunned from the world for your face." Her voice reaches to him through the barrier of his sorrow; his mood alleviates through the widening of his eyes.
"Erik—no, I am thankful to have your love in return." He stutters, as he did not have the energy to sound his words with fluidity as he always did.
"As do I with yours." She says, offering her petite hand for him to hold.
He takes it and rises to his feet with her assistance before he is guided to their bedroom to lay down. His breaths even as he walks with her, his mismatched eyes look upon her every feature as she walks behind him in a still silence between them. He likes it very much, though to hear her voice would bring him absolute solitude from his distortion. Her soft skin to the sweet taste of her rosette lips lingering on his malformed lips. His sense of smell, certainly not the best of his senses, are captured through the sweet fruit of her lips and the waft of her perfume.
Christine watches how he looks at her. It was almost innocent as she sees the small curve form on his lips as they arrive in their bedroom. Her own innocent mind crept through as a smile appears on hers. She pulls the sheets back and looks over to him. A tender moment floods the mind as her mind wanders on their first night as husband and wife. They did not consummate on the first night as Erik was fighting his insecurities of her seeing his full scarred body and Christine still had a childish innocence pertaining to such intimate matters.
She remembers Don Juan Triumphant. Aminta and Don Juan at the Point of No Return before she had unmasked him.
In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent the words fell off her tongue as she was to seduce the Phantom—He was not Erik the man behind the mask nor the angel that gave her hope.
Let her mind wander she tells herself as she sits up next to him. The innocence has left her and Aminta makes her return. So long ago she had held the role but yet a voluptuous prowess inside the role had left a mark on her. Perhaps for the better she thinks.
That night Erik had explored her body and perhaps now was the time for her to repay the favor. Her fingers drag across the material, her hand leading up to cup his cheek. His eyes express confusion though a pale skeletal hand meets hers. Her touch was always warming—he was always cold.
"Christine…" Tenor tones hush as his eyes close feeling her touch against his skin.
Christine's hand slips between the clear buttons of his shirt but she is stopped before she could manage to push the button through its slit. Erik's heartbeat races; fear surging through his veins producing an erratic heartbeat surely to be mistaken for a heart attack!
"No, no…you mustn't see how scarred Erik's body is." His voice is timid, fingers curls into the gaps between her fingers.
She persists. "But I already have seen your body." Christine lifts his hand, adjusting hers to align with his despite her hand being much smaller than his. "Please, let your wife explore your body as you once did with her." She closes her hand.
He allows her— his hand slips through hers. She leans in, kissing the corners of his lips trailing up to his deformity with her hand gentle caressing the mangled flesh gingerly to not cause him pain. Christine circles back finishing with a gentle kiss upon his lips. Her hands trace the buttons of his shirt. Her eyes peer into his with a silent request to continue. He nods insisting her to continue.
Pushing each of the buttons out of their silts, Christine settles her hands on his shoulders to push the shirt down to his waist. Her eyes look over his chest—her fingers traced over the scars. Erik's mismatched eyes watch her fingers his mind always saw pain whenever he saw those scars. He sees the marks as a permanent etching on his skin—a permanent reminder of his past playing into his present and perhaps his future. But her gentle touches as her fingers move from scar to scar like ones of an explorer in ruins. She gives new meaning to his scars, a remnant of the past no longer to affect him.
Christine adjusts her positioning to kiss his scars. Her lips melt away the ice of the past and now leaving a warmth of the present. He is shocked by the action though certainly not repulsed. She always kisses him; each kiss rejuvenating and dear to him as they as to her. But these kisses. They moved him. A kiss of forgiveness and humanity was given to him by her but now…what could he call this kiss?
A kiss of acceptance and understanding. He had told her of his tales of the rosy hours of Mazandaran though the most gruesome and cruel details were left out to spare her the visuals of such times, the torment of the freakshow, his time with his mentor and close father figure Giovanni, but most of all he told her of the cruelties of his mother Madeline. He cried that evening and through his tears, Christine was shown more of his humanity. No longer did she see the Phantom of the Opera or the angel of music that her father promised her—she saw Erik, her Erik.
Christine moves around him to kiss the scars on his back, her hands caress his sides. Her lips trail up to his shoulder, trailing across the nape of his neck to his opposite shoulder. Her legs move around to face him once more. Her fingers tiptoe their way down to his trousers, her face becoming a bright shade of pink. She has seen him undress before and allowed him to undress her before but the concept was still very foreign to her.
"Allow me." Erik breathes—skeletal fingers slid underneath hers to hear the buttons pop from their hold.
With slight embarrassment, the soprano notices that she was still clothed as her husband was now lacking in. She takes in a deep breath as she loosens the ties of her night gown before pulling it over her head. She looks down at Erik and lies down on the bed with him. She pulls herself into his lap, feeling the scars on his legs and gently caressing his legs. Her sylph form presses against his skeletal frame.
Joined in the flesh, a physical connection between them. Her fingers tiptoe across his skin, her hips moved gently against his, and his eyes look into hers with love and adoration. His hands shakily glide against her skin—almost afraid to touch her. A silent approval was given to her through her eyes and as his hands gingerly lace around her skin caressing it. Christine leans into him, lips touching his neck and leaving a few kisses across his neck and shoulder.
Erik's hands outline her body with little stops as his breath unevens, causing his hands to shake with gasps leaving his lips. He pulls in closer to rest his head on her neck, his lips leaving kisses along her neck and shoulder. His fingers lace into the curls of her hair feeling their softness. His hand pushes through the mass of curls with his hand now resting on the back of her head.
Time passes, the moment reaches its peak and descends peacefully. Erik lays on her chest—mind finally at peace to gain rest. Simple exchanges of 'I love you.' are said. Nothing more as enough words were said though in a different exchange. Through actions words were exchanged passionately and had made their impact. A kiss of acceptance and understanding was made with Christine's lead to show him more. She is already fast asleep with her arms around his back and her head resting on top of his. A few more seconds pass, he closes his eyes on a thought giving him solace.
She saw him human and full.