A/N: This is the sequel to my other one-shot, "Without You Things Go Hazy". It is not necessary to read Hazy before reading this one, but it certainly helps. Mostly Kay and ALW based. Erik is from the musical, most other major things are Kay.
Disclaimer: I am not Leroux, or Kay, or ALW.
His song beckoned me through the dark tunnel. His black-clad form was invisible amid the darkness of his realm. It was as though he were the personification of night itself: inevitable as nightfall, unstoppable as the forces of nature, mysterious as the witching hour.
My hand rested in his. His leather-covered fingertips barely touched my skin, but it was comforting to know that he was there. The music around me did not emit from his mouth; in fact, I could not be sure that it was physically there. Every time I stepped into the tunnels with Erik, I could feel an inconspicuous yet tangible hum in the air, like unwritten melodies waiting to be coaxed from nonexistence, to be given life and sound.
Upon reaching the well-lit underground house, Erik let his hand drop from mine. I could not feel him slip from my grip. I could have been grasping at shadows for all I knew, but his absence was tangible. Erik unfastened his cloak and laid it over a chair. Despite the careless movement, the cloak fell like a work of art, like the fabric that pooled among the feet of Greek gods on canvases.
"Are you tired?" He spoke for the first time throughout our journey. I shook my head. "Hungry?" He was anxious to confirm that all my human needs were satisfied. I recalled the time when a particularly long and tedious rehearsal, followed by a particularly long and rigorous lesson, had rendered me exhausted and famished. I had not dared to voice my discomfort, as Erik did not appreciate any disruption to his lessons. When I reached the point where I physically could not carry on, Erik had helped me to a chair and brought me a much needed meal, chastising me for not letting him know. I could see then in the furrow of his forehead and the agitation in his movements that he was hiding his worry with reprimand. That incident marked one of the few times I had glimpsed something akin to concern beyond his aloof demeanor.
Another time was, of course, when he had kissed me on my brow. There had been something in the liquid golden depths of his eyes that I interpreted as affection, even adoration.
But any degree of affection towards me disappeared after that afternoon. It seemed as though it had not happened. In fact, I could scarcely convince myself that it had indeed happened. That it was not a dream; not a product of my imagination, derived from my desperate yearning for the unspeakable.
"Christine?" The sound of my name called me back to the present.
"Oh! - No, I am fine." I replied quickly.
Erik was watching me with some emotion that I could not discern. His guard had dropped by a fraction, and he seemed about to impart something gentle or personal upon me. Ayesha chose that moment to streak into the room and run against Erik's leg. The Siamese left short tan hairs on Erik's trousers, an act that would have earned annoyance even in his best moods. However he paid no attention to it. Instead he bent to stroke her, his expression softening at the sight of his beloved. As she purred and rubbed her lithe shape along his hand, Ayesha sent a triumphant glare towards me with her icy blue eyes.
I have never hated an animal do vehemently before, and cats are among my favorite creatures. But how I dislike Ayesha!
Erik stopped in his fondling of his cat and turned to me. "Come; we can have our lesson now." I nodded and followed him to the music room. There was something graceful and feral in Erik's gait made him appear like a feline himself. Not a housecat like Ayesha, but something magnificent and fearsome. Like a tiger, a predator of the night, wild and proud.
Entering the room, Erik motioned for me to take my place at the side of the piano while he sat on the bench. "We shall start with your warm ups." He intoned. "And then move on to the pieces for your upcoming role."
We worked for several hours before Erik decided that it was enough for an evening. As I insisted that I could carry on, he said: "You have rehearsals tomorrow morning. I do not want you to overwork your voice."
My heart protested in disappointment, though I did not know why. I was not tired; his music gave me a strength that lifted my spirit. But the ending of our lesson should not herald such a potent disappointment. It was more – it was him. I dreaded the moment when I would leave him and return to the surface.
Perhaps it was only me, a silly girl who entertains childish dreams. Perhaps angels have no emotion, no capacity for love. Perhaps he saw me as a girl, a child, and no more than that. Perhaps I was but his protégée, and that was all I could ever be. Not even a friend, or a companion. No more important than Ayesha. No; even less than Ayesha.
And most definitely never, ever, what I desired beyond my own understanding.
He would be furious if he ever knew of these innermost musings. Although he had revealed himself to me as a man long ago, there are times when I still believe him to be an angel, with his collected composure; his removed attitude; his casual coolness. How could this magnificent being, dressed in garments so dark that they must have been woven with the essence of night itself, be made of the same mortal matter as I? How could the same red-hot blood pulse beneath his skin, the same fragile bones build his frame, the same heart to long and ache with feeling?
Of course I had liked other men before; there was no shortage of handsome boys in the cast. But never had those pursuits grown beyond my childish affection. Never had it been anything like this – this burning fire that I felt for him. It was dangerous, I knew, to let a flame guide my heart. It could flare out of control, destroy both of us in its ire. But it could also be nurtured into something warm and bright, something both exciting and comforting. The spark of ember had been there long before I realized its existence. But Erik's kiss, his lips on my skin, had ignited it. I wanted more.
"Christine?" Erik was looking at me. "Why are you so distracted today?"
"Are you occupied on Christmas Day?" The words blurted out of my mouth before I could stop them, and I stood, dumbstruck. I wished desperately to scoop them from the air and return them to my throat, never to have touched Erik's ears. But it was impossible. The words, deceitfully innocent little syllables, were spilled like water from a glass, blood from a wound. My ears burned. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what –"
"No." Erik was staring at me, a most curious expression in his eyes. If I were not restricted by the context of who I was talking to, I would have labeled that look as hopeful. But this was Erik; why would my embarrassing question lead him to feel hope? He did not experience the same silly emotions as I; did not entertain the same foolish dreams.
"No?" I repeated like a dim-witted child.
"I don't have any plans for the day." His voice lacked its usual confidence. He seemed almost vulnerable.
"Would you..." I licked my lips, acutely aware of his intense gaze and my own awkwardness. "Would you like to spend it with me?" I finished with a sheepish smile. "It's perfectly fine if you don't, I never really expected you to agree, I know you have better things to do than waste your time on me –"
"Christine." He breathed my name, cutting off my frantic rambling. "I would be delighted to share Christmas Day with you." His golden eyes, magnificent and otherworldly, glowed with unguarded sincerity. "Do you have something in mind, or should I make our plans?"
It was on Christmas Eve that he sent word to me. It came in the form of a red rose and a letter on the vanity in my dressing room, with his customary seal of red wax. Fingers trembling from excitement, I ripped open the envelope and read the writing in his spikey penmanship:
My dear Christine,
I shall meet you for dinner tomorrow evening, after the show. I will pick you up at half-past seven in your dressing room.
Yours,
Erik
And then tacked on under, as though it was an afterthought:
Dress warmly. The night is cold.
"Where are we going?" I asked as Erik led me through unlit tunnels. My hand was once again securely in his, and I gripped it like a lifeline, my Ariadne's thread through this labyrinth. Erik had been punctual to the minute, and then whisked me through his domain, on a pathway I was sure I had not set foot on before.
"Be patient." Erik's reprimand was gentle. "We're almost there." And it was within minutes of that statement that he pushed open an unused-looking door and we emerged into the crisp night air.
This was the rooftop of the Opera Garnier. The theatre stairwell exited to the front of the roof, above the front of the theatre. From the passage I had just emerged from, however, the door opened to the opposite, seldom visited side, behind the statue of Apollo. A table was laid out with freshly steaming dishes, all my favorites. Multiple candlesticks adorned the table, casting off warm light. The table was set for two.
I looked upon this setting in awe. I turned to look up at Erik, simultaneously wanting to marvel over it and question him. Words fought over my tongue, and in the end the only one that manifested itself was the whispered syllable: "How…?"
He chuckled at the look of pure wonder in my eyes. "Let's just say that I arranged for it, and I have various acquaintances who made it possible." He shook his head. "But that is unimportant. Do you like it, Christine?"
I nodded immediately. "This is incredibly…" I managed to stop the word romantic on my tongue before I blurted it out like a great fool. "Thoughtful." I settled on. "You are the only one who knows that the roof is where I go to escape from people. Thank you for going to the trouble." I said sincerely. I looked up at him, and was surprised by the tenderness in his eyes. His features were softened and more open, almost like the time he kissed my forehead in his music room.
"Well, as long as you like it." He said with his usual gentlemanly demeanor. He gestured to the table. "Shall we?" He pulled out a chair for me. It was strange; despite the darkness and mystery that surrounded him, he had the manners of the nobility.
Throughout the delicious dinner, we chatted frivolously over everything – music and books and distant tales. After I had eaten so much that I was convinced that another mouthful would burst my stomach, we stood by the edge and looked out at the sparkling city. I sighed, setting my elbows on the stone wall and resting my head in my palms. Erik stood next to me with his hands clasped behind his back.
Paris was beautiful on Christmas night. There were warm yellow lights glittering throughout the city, giving every street a sense of holiday cheer. Fine white snow powdered the rooftops and streets, reflecting the glow of the lights. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower was illuminated. The inky skies were clear overhead, without a single cloud to break the crisp night air.
"Imagine," I whispered. "All those people, celebrating Christmas with their loved ones." I smiled up at Erik. "When I was young, my father would play the violin, and I would sing for him. There's only been the two of us, as long as I can remember, but I never felt lacking in anything. I never felt lonely, he was my only companion, my only friend… when he died, it was my whole world that died with him." The memory of him, the pain of the loss, was still so fresh after the years. I forced a smile onto my face; it was Christmas, I was standing on this snow-covered rooftop, looking over Paris. I would not feel unhappy for my father's death today. "What about your childhood Christmases?" I asked Erik.
He tensed. His golden eyes were hard as they regarded the minuscule specks of light that emitted from the hundreds of windows in the city. "There was never Christmas." He said bluntly. The warmth he had shown me during the night was gone; in its place was a terrible, unfeeling coldness. Something about the way he spoke and looked – so indifferent and bitter – beckoned a deep sorrow from my heart. I was about to ask him what he meant when he continued: "There was only the day when I was forced to wear my best suit and behave civilly for a richer than normal dinner, before I was allowed to escape to my books. It was a twisted, perverted, mocking parody of Christmas." Erik turned his gaze back to me.
Looking up into his inhuman golden eyes, I was suddenly aware of how much they had seen, how much suffering his body endured, how much rejection his heart had known, how much anguish had battered his soul. He was alone, as I had been after my father's death. But in his case, that terrible loneliness was there his whole life. He lived under its dark shadow, never knowing what warmth there was in a pair of accepting arms.
Before I could contemplate the consequences, I was embracing him. I looked up at the pure shock on his face. His trembling arms came up to hold my frame against his own. Holding his gaze with my own, I declared: "You are not alone."
He was embracing me, like I had often wanted him to. But unlike the hugs I had envisioned in my mind's eye, this was nothing amorous, nothing romantic. This was purely platonic, a simple human need for comfort, and it was so much more powerful than I imagined a single embrace could be.
Erik was clutching me to him as though I were his lifeline, his one hope of not drowning in the darkness of his past. He took several deep, shuddering breaths. Each time he exhaled, I felt his warm breath on the bare skin of my neck.
He released me after an eternity. The cold seemed more acute without his warmth next to mine. "Forgive me." He said in his usual composed courtesy. "I should not burden you with details of my troubled past."
"You deserve a shoulder to share your burden as much as anyone else – probably more than anyone else." I offered a weak smile.
He shook his head. Despite the barricade he had put up within him, I could sense the presence of his emotions, more potent than I thought possible, powerful as the ocean's waves. "No man wishes another to see him at his weakest."
"You've seen me in my most vulnerable moments." I argued. "Again and again, you've been my comfort, you've given me hope when I thought there was none. All I want is to be the same to you: a companion, a friend, a partner, whatever it is you need."
The barrier in his eyes disappeared, and this time I could was sure what emotion dominated their fluid depths – hope. "You would be all that to me?"
"Yes. We have long ago crossed the threshold between master and pupil; why can we not be more?" My heart was fluttering wildly in my chest. This was it; this was the moment when he would either allow me within the fortress he had constructed around himself, or reject the offer and fling me off like an inconsequential tick.
"I would like that." He said softly. My lips released a soft breath; I felt as though I could breathe again. "Though… there is something more that I wish from you."
"Yes?" I peered up in expectance. He could not possibly wish for me to… to belong to him? For us to be each other's as I have wished for, even before I learned that he was not an immortal angel, but a man? A mortal man, with the same gushing blood; the same delicate frame; the same loves and griefs to plague his heart.
"I wish for your permission, Christine, to consider you not as a child, but as the young woman you are."
For a moment I felt light-headed, giddy with joy. And then I nodded fervently. "Yes. You have my permission to think of me in any way you wish." He extended his hands almost shyly, and I placed mine into them. His long fingers encased my small hands as he drew me close. "Although... I have one request to make." I added, sneaking him a demure look from beneath my lashes.
"Yes?" He breathed. A puff of smoke emitted from his mouth.
As I spoke, the vapour from my breath joined with his, forming white, translucent mist between us. "I should like to claim that kiss now."
The visible corner of his mouth quirked up at the memory. "That kiss."
"Yes." I confirmed. "The one you promised me."
He angled his head and bent towards me. One hand cradled my jaw with melting tenderness. My eyes fluttered shut and my lips parted of their own accord. I was acutely aware of the blood rushing in my ears; our heavy breathing; his proximity to me. And suddenly, that space between us disappeared. The gentle pressure of his lips was on mine and I returned it with an instinct I did not know I possessed. I was weightless and soaring like a feather, connected to this world by nothing but the lightest of touches of another's lips upon my own. It was passion and tranquility, sound and silence. It was pure ecstasy. It was pure bliss.
Erik pulled back from me, and I looked up at him, awed by what we had shared. He was gazing back at me with undiluted adoration and amazement. I knew then that the kiss was as breathtaking for him as it was for me.
As I looked up at the man before me, I was no longer intimidated by his darkness or his mystery or his power. Instead I knew that this spark that I unknowingly fanned, this fire that had burned in me for so long, this flame that threatened to engulf both of us – this was love.
Behind us, beads of red and green and gold shot through the night sky. We beheld the spectacle of fireworks in silence for a moment, still wrapped in each other's arms.
"Merry Christmas, my dear Christine." His voice brushed my ear like a velvety fabric.
"Merry Christmas, Erik." I replied amid the muted thunder of fireworks. I set one hand against the nape of his neck and pulled him down to kiss him again. "Merry Christmas, my angel."
A/N: Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you liked the fluffiness of this, because I had SO much fun writing it.
To all the readers of All I Want Is Freedom, I am not updating that story today because I want to upload this Christmasy one instead. The next chapter of AIWIF is a little boring, especially for Christmas day. AIWIF will be updated as usual next Tuesday.
Anyway, please leave a review as a Christmas present?