A Masqued Proposal
A One-Shot in honor of Raoul/Christine Week
Raoul is quite certain that before he reaches the ballet dormitories he will have soaked his entire masquerade costume through with sweat. His hands are sticky as he fiddles with the small box in his pocket with one, and wipes at his forehead with the other.
"Come now," he tells himself softly, stopping just short of the door. "This is Christine, there is certainly no need to be panicked over speaking to her."
Yes, that voice in the back of his mind tells him. But you aren't just going to have a chat, are you? You're asking the girl to marry you. You've seen the flowers left around the opera house for her ever since her performance in Hannibal, the men of Paris desperate to woo her. She could have anyone she liked, why should she choose the boy who rescued her scarf from the sea all these years ago?
Raoul shakes his head, breathing in deep and straightening his shoulders.
He can do this: if he can face battle in the French navy, if he can sail for months at a time, unsure of what might lie ahead, he can propose to the love of his life.
He can propose to Christine.
He will.
He recalls going out the door of the de Chagny Paris residence, Phillipe's hand warm on his back.
"Welcome Christine to the family for me," he'd said, grinning broadly. "Good luck, my boy. You'll do just fine, you are ever the romantic."
The memory of his brother's encouragement bolsters him. It had taken Phillipe a bit to come around to the idea of Raoul marrying Christine; he liked her certainly, but the burden of the family had been on his shoulders ever since their parents died, and as he himself was not yet married, it looked as if the title might well pass to Raoul after Phillipe's death. Therefore, a marriage was not something to be taken lightly. But after long discussions with Raoul, with their sisters Adelaide and Marie-Claire, who insisted that Raoul had already lost enough in his young life, what with being orphaned at such a young age, that he should at the very least marry a girl he loved. His sisters and Phillipe had always doted on him in the wake of their parents' passing when he was a child, but Raoul was utterly thankful for their support.
But no matter what their opinions were, no matter how much he loved them, he would have asked for Christine's hand nevertheless. The mere thought of his beloved sent pure joy rushing through him in hot, unceasing waves of pure ecstasy, his soul irrevocably connected to hers like the stars uniting the constellations.
With that thought in mind, he knocks.
He jumps back a bit as the door is nearly immediately wrenched open, Meg Giry's face appearing in the doorway.
"Vicomte!" she exclaims, looking gleeful. "How are you this evening?"
"Quite well thank you mademoiselle," he says, refraining this time, from bidding her to call him Raoul as he has dozens of times in the past six months. It's Madame Giry and her influence, he thinks, that stops Meg from doing as he asks; her mother is nothing if not proper. She's a ballet teacher after all, and there are rules in ballet as there are rules in society, even if Raoul sees fit to flout them. "And yourself? You look lovely, if I may say so."
"Thank you monsieur," she says, a blush tinting her cheeks. "And I am well! Looking forward to the evening for certain, I'm so pleased to have been invited. Christine, unlike the other girls, is actually ready, so just let me fetch her for you."
Raoul nods in thanks, and Meg dashes off, returning with Christine in a matter of moments, giving her a sly, friendly shove out the door.
When he sees her, Raoul nearly loses his breath.
Christine's pink and purple dress fits her perfectly, tiny, ornate designs dotting and swirling upon it in varying shades of silver. Her dark chocolate curls hang loosely down her back, a few small pieces pinned back by her tiara made of the moon and stars.
"Hello," she says, smiling at his expression.
"You look beautiful," he whispers, unsure if his voice can function properly just yet.
"You look very dashing yourself," she says, reaching to place a stray strand of dark blonde hair behind his ear from where it's fallen loose from its tie.
"Come up to the roof with me for a moment?" he asks, taking her hand and interlacing his fingers with hers, feeling her affectionate squeeze.
"The roof?" she asks, a playful gleam in her eyes. "Whatever for?"
"It's a surprise," he tells her, trying and failing to maintain a serious expression.
"Lead the way monsieur," she says, teasing, laughing as he takes off at a run through the hallway.
"You are not wearing these heeled boots you know!" she exclaims, still giggling.
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," Raoul says, spinning around. "We'll go slower up the stairs."
"So polite," she replies, following his lead. "I daresay your manners have improved since we were children."
"Oh," Raoul says, placing a dramatic hand on his heart. "I'll have you know that it's been said I have the best manners of any young man in Paris!"
"I said nothing of your manners now, Raoul," Christine says, smiling wide as they reach the roof. "I was only thinking of all the times you managed to get salt water in my hair by the sea-side when we were children."
"And after the trouble I took, retrieving your scarf, and you say I had bad manners," Raoul says, pouting slightly until Christine leans in, kissing all the air right out of his lungs.
They break apart, patches of red popping up in their cheeks from the cold. Raoul feels for the box in his pocket, drawing fourth his courage.
You love her, he tells himself. And she you. That's all that matters.
He looks in her eyes, seeing them devoid almost entirely of shadow, replaced with a happiness he thought nearly forever gone when she lost her father. There is no hint of fear concerning the opera ghost who was so present in their minds last they were on this roof.
"You said you had a surprise?" she questions, drawing him back into the present.
"Yes," he says, swallowing his nerves, finding that as he looks at her, his voice no longer shakes as it had when he practiced earlier before his mirror, feeling foolish but know he'd rather be prepared than stumble through this.
He is so entirely at home in her presence.
"I brought you up to the roof because this…this is where we first professed our love," he begins, holding tight to her hand. "Even if perhaps that feeling was cemented long ago before we could even give voice to it, because that day by the sea, something etched in your smile told me you would be important to me for the rest of my life."
He meets her eyes, seeing starlight sparkles that match her dress lighting them up.
He gets down on one knee and she gasps softly, happy tears brimming over the edges, hesitating to fall on her cheeks.
"All of that being said, Christine Daae, I love you with every piece of my soul, and I would be honored to share my life with you. Will you marry me?"
Raoul scarcely has time to think before her arms are tight around him, kneeling with him in the light dusting of snow on the rooftop.
"Yes," she whispers into his jacket, delicate and sacred as if she were praying, voice emanating with emotion. "Yes Raoul, yes I will most certainly marry you."
Raoul thinks his heart might very well explode.
He pulls back from the embrace, and Christine places her hands on his neck, looking at him as she has never looked at him before, as if she is memorizing every crevice, every feature of his face. He cannot help himself; he kisses her full and passionately on the lips, and she returns, holding to him as if he is her very tie to this earth.
He pulls the box out of his pocket, sliding the ring onto her finger.
"Does it suit you?" he asks. He's not well-versed in picking out jewelry, but when he took his sisters to help him choose a ring, this one immediately jumped out at him, blue diamonds that matched Christine's eyes.
"It's the most beautiful ring I've ever seen," she says, smiling so that the light bounces into her eyes. "It's perfect."
They stand up straight, embracing again, melding into one.
"Might we return to the dormitories just for a moment?" she asks. "I need to retrieve a chain from my jewelry box."
"A chain?" he asks. "Whatever for?"
"To put the ring on of course!" she exclaims. "To wear around my neck."
"Is the tradition not to…wear it around one's finger?" he questions, bewildered, trying to ignore the hurt he suddenly feels after such an onslaught of utter joy.
"I thought we might keep it between the two of us for now," she says, smiling again, but this time it doesn't quite reach her eyes; Raoul knows her well enough to see that. "Just for a time. Like a delightful game, Raoul, like we played as children. A secret engagement!"
Raoul pauses, thinking on how to phrase his words. "Christine, if I have…if I have pressured you, I do not wish to do so…if you are not ready…"
"I am," Christine assures him, placing one hand to his cheek. "I promise you, Raoul. I love you, I want to spend all my days with you. Just…it's just for now. I promise you. Do you believe me?"
"Yes," Raoul says, though he still feels a sense of disquiet, the same disquiet he'd felt on this roof six months ago, as if a pair of angry, melancholic eyes were watching their every move. "Yes of course."
Raoul looks at her once more: the shadows have returned, the fear edging into her eyes like an oncoming storm.
And as she leads him back down the stairs, quieter than before, free finger running back and forth over her new ring, he solemnly swears that he will protect her, will do whatever is in his power to make her smile forever as she had just moments ago.
He will not let the darkness steal her away.