Title: Blemishes
Pairing: Erik/Christine
Rating: PG [or T] for some violence (also possibly some violins) and adult themes (nothing tasteless, I assure you)
Genre: Romance/Friendship/Humour/Fluff/Drama/Bits of Everything Really
Read Below for Further Notes
Blemishes
Chapter 1: There it Was
In nature there is no blemish but the mind:
none can be called deformed but the unkind
She sat in front of the vanity, her big blue eyes piercing into the reflection of her face – staring, glowering, glaring. Even when she was an adolescent growing into the woman she was now, she had never been met with anything so atrocious before in her life (and she had been met with some pretty atrocious things in her time). How could it be? Twenty years of age and yet there it was – glaring back at her. Christine moved her face closer, watching in abject horror as it grew larger. She pressed a finger onto it, and made a terrified noise in the back of her throat.
"This is awful!" she cried, placing her head into her hands, "How could this happen?"
Had she not been cleaning her face enough? No, she made sure to wash it at least once a day. Had she put anything different on her face lately – some lotion, perhaps? Or a perfume? Erik had gotten her a new perfume but it wasn't like she lathered it on her face. She started to wonder if maybe she had done something wrong and was being punished because this could not be happening – it simply didn't happen, at least not to her. And yet when she raised her head to peer into the mirror one more time, there it was: big, red, evil, and right in the middle of her left cheek.
She sighed sadly as she poked it a few more times – in the entirety of her life she had only had four, maybe five, and she'd gotten them only at her most awkward stages and, frankly, they were short of nothing compared to being a gawky young girl with the elegance and grace of an overgrown, disproportionate bird.
"Well," Christine mumbled, "there is really nothing to be done about it." And though she knew she would just have to get over it (and probably stop prodding at it)… she began to realize that what was truly bothering her most, no matter how silly it seemed, was what he would think. She was the pinnacle of perfection to him – everything about her spelled out flawlessness, what would he say about this new small, swollen flaw blemishing her usually smooth and immaculate cheek?
It had been over half a year since that day: the day she had promised to be his wife. He had released the Persian (and her Raoul) but during the time they had nursed them back to health (or at least enough health that they could leave) she and Erik had had a proper wedding ceremony. It was in a small obscure church somewhere at the edge of Paris rather than the grand Madeleine cathedral nearby the Opéra Garnier Erik had enthused about before – Christine did not ask why he had the change in plans, though she was glad for the extra time to prepare on the way. No one had been there, only she and Erik, the priest (who had been so fearful of her fiancé and was so frail and old that Christine had been worried that he might keel over at any moment, thankfully however, he persevered), and a single altar boy. She recalled how young he was – perhaps ten or eleven – and how empty his eyes were. He had been blind. She had entertained the thought that if she was blind, maybe she would have loved Erik without question. But even that little blind boy had been afraid of him simply because his superior had been... so maybe not.
She had expected everything to change after they were married – for Erik to begin overstepping the bounds that he was, by all legal means, allowed to overstep. But he had been just as reluctant to be close to her, only touching her if absolutely necessary (such as guiding her through the catacombs that he called home). She did not dare ask him why, she assumed perhaps he had forgotten or maybe he did not know, in any circumstance she was glad he didn't demand anything more of her than her company, he did not even kiss her as he had before – he would only stare at her sometimes, in such an intense and terrible manner. He would study every facet of her face, he would drink in every move she made, and he would gape at her as if he could not believe she existed at all let alone that she was really there in front of him. Sometimes he would ask her suddenly and sharply, "Are you there?" And she would furrow her brow and answer, "Yes."
It became clear to Christine that he needed to hear that every so often – that she was really there. Every time she reassured him, he seemed to relax and breathe again and she would only realize then how nervous and strung he had been before. She was not in love with her husband... as in, she did not think of spring and beautiful flowers and a quaint house on a hilltop with children running about when she looked at him. She could not picture their future, not like she had with Raoul. But Christine had accepted long ago that her amount of admiration and pity for him was so great that she could not find it within herself to fully hate him... and over the course of the last six months or so... she knew she loved him and had admitted as much to both herself and him, even if it was an unsure and unfamiliar sort of love. He could be so frightening, with his powerful, hypnotic voice, his hot temper, and his controlling demeanor.
She felt like a bird sometimes, clasped in the palm of his hand. He would look at her and think, "oh, what a pretty thing," and then he would squeeze. He did not understand how much it hurt when he squeezed, but the bird did and she would squirm and it would make him upset and worried and often he would hold her even tighter for fear the bird would fly away – and yet there was also a disturbing, mad part of him that grew excited when she squirmed because she was alive and in his hands. It was fascinating to own something living.
But he did not own her. He couldn't. And Christine had been trying so hard to help him understand that. Help him realize how much better it was to let the bird go and to have it sit on your shoulder willingly. To sing for you without any fear, to coo at you in true love and devotion. She had promised herself two months after wandering their home like a lifeless, apathetic ghost that she would begin to live again and she would try to love him as best as she could… she would try to teach him love… the biggest problem had been getting him to let her.
The times when he was usually most willing was after he would take her outside and she would come back with him… with her beautiful hand on his arm and that sweet, heart-melting smile on her precious lips. It was right after one of those outings that she had kissed him for the first time since that day. It was on his jaw – she could not have reached his masked-face without him leaning down and she had wanted to do it so quickly and as a surprise… like a gift (it felt strange that something as simple as a kiss from her could be perceived as a gift). It was a chaste kiss, and she had bumped her nose rather hard against his mask, but she did not mind, she was simply glad she had been able to do it. But he had been so flustered and happy, he cried a little but to her great relief did not wail or crumple into a fetal position on the floor; instead he patted her head in a rare show of unnecessary physical affection and told her she was a good wife to him and invited her to come listen to him play his violin (he had played a multitude of her favourites that night).
The first few months had been dreadful for him – for the both of them. It had been well enough in the beginning, but then she started to fall. She grew depressed and despondent, aware of how much she had lost and would never get back again. He had tried so hard to please her and then would turn quite cruel when she did not respond to anything… sometimes he would lock her away in her room or threaten not to feed her (he could never follow through), but she would only stare at the wall ahead, thinking of her Raoul, thinking of the life she could've known, thinking of her Papa, anything but the situation she was in. He would say horrible things and then he would beg her to say something, do anything – be angry if she needed to be, but she had to do something or else he would go mad… he laughed at that, one of his horrifying cackles, and then he had sobbed apologies and implorations at her feet.
She would not kill herself, no matter how miserable, but she felt she had the right – every right to hate him, every right to turn from him, every right to shun him, every right to be numb. But she began to realize that it simply wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth his tears, it wasn't worth his pain. He was so sad all of the time. And she had promised to be his Living Wife. But during their first 15 weeks of marriage she had been essentially dead. That was when she came out of her room one morning and asked him very softly if they could sing together. When they first married they had sung together every day, but during the last two weeks even he did not dare ask her for such a thing… not when she was soulless – it killed more than comforted him to hear her perfect voice while it was tarnished by her broken heart. So when she had made the suggestion, he felt at odds between wary suspicion and absolute joy. Oh, but then he had heard her – her angelic, superlative voice earnest and breathing emotion – and he could feel nothing more than bliss. And when they had finished singing, she had placed a hand on his own… he grew so bewildered by the action all he could do was stare at it.
"Erik," she said, "I am very sorry that I have not been… a good wife – your Living Wife. I have not kept my promise… but, allow me to try again, to be a true companion to you… to love you. I am so, so sorry, Erik. Can you ever forgive me?" She did not realize she had gotten so emotional, but there they were: tears, beginning to gather in her eyes.
"It's just," she continued, "it's just so unfair to you! All of it is just so unfair. You just want to be happy! That's not so much to ask for, is it? Just a little happiness. Oh, poor Erik. My poor, unhappy Erik." And then she hugged the baffled man, it had been the first time she had ever hugged him and she wondered if this was the first time he had ever been hugged. His arms were held limply at his sides and he just gazed down at the top of her pretty head, nestled against his chest, and then he could not believe it when she had begun to tremble with sobs.
"Forgive me, Erik. I'm so sorry," she repeated, "please forgive me."
"Christine," he whispered, "Yes, Erik forgives you, he forgives his little wife." How could this angel, this divine creature want his forgiveness when he had stolen so much from her? He'd felt utterly guilty that night, he could not compose and he could not sleep… he could do nothing. Thoughts had begun to swirl in his mind… thoughts that told him he did not deserve her and he should not have her and she could not stay here and that he was killing her but there were also thoughts that told him he needed her and could not breathe without her and that she had promised and so she was his. He moaned in his conflict and shame, pulling at his thin hair and grasping at his horrible face, weeping throughout the entire night. When she had woken up she found him sleeping in the middle of the drawing room.
"Erik?" She had asked softly, coming closer, "are you alright?" But he did not answer. He was face-down on the carpet, his long limbs sprawled everywhere. For a moment she pondered over the possibility that he could be dead. Her heart clenched painfully. What would she do if he were dead? He couldn't be dead. Not when she had just decided to live for him. Not when she had decided to finally try to love him. And how would she escape? Would she be able to find her way out of the cellars or would she fall into one of his many traps – would the Siren find her and kill her when she tried to cross the lake? But amidst her sudden worrying, she saw a finger on his right hand give a light twitch. She gasped, dropping to her knees beside him.
"Erik?" She said again, cautiously placing a hand on his shoulder. He grunted and turned over, moving a hand beneath his face as a pillow and curling up tightly. Sleeping, she realized. He's sleeping. She knew he had to at some point… she knew he did. She had seen the coffin bed; she had heard him speak of his dreams once or twice before. But to actually see him sleeping (and in the middle of his living room no less) was bizarre indeed.
He seemed so peaceful… and he was so silent... like the dead. She recoiled at that thought. No, I must not think such things. Yet something still twisted in her stomach as she watched him – and she battled with herself to not see the monster but the man she had apologized to yesterday, the man that she had promised to love better. She could not love him if when she looked upon his still and vulnerable form she thought about how such a sight was the sort of thing she would cry to her Papa at night over – worried that she might find it creeping underneath her bed or staring at her from her window. It's only Erik, she reminded herself, just Erik, asleep. But he was so ugly that it could not even be called ugly. A part of her wanted desperately to be able to hate and fear him, then maybe things would make more sense... sometimes she felt like she was going mad. But it was not just for his grotesque features but for all of the terrible things he had done… the torture chamber he had in his home and the traps he kept right outside of it and the people he had killed and the people he had threatened to kill, and kidnapping her and forcing her to marry him and hurting her friends, how was she supposed to reconcile with that?
The answer was a frustrating one: there was really no other choice.
There was no turning back now. She had still been holding onto the dream that perhaps someone might save her – Raoul would come for her and take her away. But she knew now that it was hopeless… she had to find a new dream, and she prayed to God that Raoul would never do something so foolish, because who knew what Erik might do if he did? Christine sighed, leaning back to sit on her behind. She had to find the good things in her husband – if not in his face then at least in his dark and warped soul. That distortion was something that had been made; it could not have always been there… could it? And perhaps it was something that could be unmade.
She regarded him again, all closed into himself with his legs pulled up close to his abdomen. It made him seem so much smaller. He's like a cat, she thought, or a serpent... in either case, he must be very flexible. He did not look unhappy as he slept, his face was expressionless… but it was not pained as it had been during the last couple of months. She couldn't bear the thought of waking him when she acknowledged that. So she left to retrieve some of her own blankets (she would not dare go into his morbid and sinister room) and a pillow. With as much care as she could muster she placed the pillow beneath his head, he did not stir, thankfully (she was afraid she may run if he had suddenly woken up). And then she draped two blankets over him, tucking him in and then leaving to make herself some breakfast.
He did not wake for another two hours and when he had he was extremely disoriented. Christine watched as his peculiar amber eyes drifted half-way open and then closed again, he stretched his long legs and then burrowed into the covers. She had struggled not to laugh at how incongruous it was for the fearsome, legendary Opera Ghost to curl up into a ball and clutch at his blankets like a babe. In fact, it took biting the inside of her cheek not to. But nothing squelched her desire to laugh more than when his eyes snapped open and a crazed, unsettled look stole into them. He touched the blankets cautiously - furrowing nonexistent eyebrows and then glancing around for her. He himself could not tell if he was more relieved or irritated when he found her there, sitting on his sofa with a book in her hands as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
"Good morning." She said – he did not respond, instead he decided to take in his surroundings a second time. "I... I made you some breakfast... if you're hungry, that is." She got up slowly, placing down her novel and taking a step towards him. He stood up so fast she flinched and moved away, afraid that in this state he may do something rash.
"No," he finally answered, "no, I think I will retire to my room." She nodded, watching as he turned and quickly fled to his chamber. What he did for the next four hours, she had no clue. She could not hear music; she could not hear talking (which he did sometimes, he would have a mad sort of chatter with himself, she could never tell what he was saying when he did)… it was silent. And when he finally emerged from his dark and dismal dwelling, she was disheartened to see his face covered with one of his masks. He rarely wore them around her anymore, per her sincere request that he did not have to... but sometimes, when he felt particularly threatened or domineering he would don one once more.
"Good evening, Christine." He told her.
"Good evening, Erik." She replied, "you don't need – " she started, but he held up a hand.
"Music, my wife? Would you like some music?" And so he played her a piece on the piano. It was not as tortured as his Don Juan Triumphant (he never played it in her presence again), but it was somber enough that it made her cry. The only thing that softened the blow of sadness was the hope, as weak and watered as it was by despair. That hope was hers, she would foster it and nurture it, and she would cling to it with all her might...
Author's Note: Yes, you read right, the beginning of this features Christine with a zit! How will it all play out? What will Erik think? What has happened over the past half a year? Well, my friends, you are going to find out! This started off as a very silly idea for a one-shot full of super random unplotted fluff but then it ended up growing into an over-20,000-word elongated one-shot full of super random fluff with a teeny (very teeny) bit of a semblance of a plot. And since it grew so long, I decided to break it up into chapters and polish each of them up and make it all nice and pretty and put a bow on top and offer it to you as a token of my undying love and affection.
It's essentially a bunch of cute Erik/Christine moments in a world where Erik does not (unfortunately or fortunately, who can say?) let Christine go after she promises to be his Living Wife and they have to learn how to live with one another and by live with one another, I mean be cute with one another. There are angsty moments - I want it to be semi-accurate and realistic (Erik's involved, there's no way for there not to be) but it will (hopefully) have a balance between the reality and the eventual adorable domesticity that will be Erik and Christine's life. I have a weakness for cute, what can I say? In any case, I hope you enjoy (and for those of you keeping up with Great Men, one) thank you so much, and two) keep your eyes peeled).
