disclaimer: i do not own the characters/music/lyrics to love never dies.
a/n: i have never actually seen love never dies, okay. i've only seen snippets that people have posted online. this is just – after listening to a lot of the music – how i've envisioned the scenes to play out in my mind.
Erik stood stiffly at his desk, his mask resting next to him, his hands balled into small, tight fists. He turned around swiftly, his cape billowing as he did, and stalked towards his piano. His long, lithe fingers stroked the keys with a look of distaste and immeasurable longing. His hands turned to fist and he began to smash the keys with his fists, fury rising up from deep, deep within him.
"Ten long years, living a mere façade of life!" He punctuated the end of his words with another slam on the piano, furiously unaware of the damage he was conflicting to the keys and the strings, "Ten long years, wasting my time on smoke and noise!"
He moved through his office like a madman, shoving things off of shelves and hurling whatever he could get his hands on across the room, "In my mind, I hear melodies, pure and unearthly, but I find I can't give them a voice…" Erik stopped at a curtain that hid the mannequin he'd created years after he'd left Christine, years after he'd finally reached the point that he could think of her. Years after her wedding, years after his flight from the Opera Populaire.
"Without you."
He pulled open the curtains, staring at the lifelike figure of the woman he loved.
The woman he wanted, so desperately to appear again. "My Christine, my Christine…"
He reached forward to touch her face, but withdrew, ashamed of himself, of his horrible face, "Lost and gone, lost and gone."
The constriction in his chest was staring, the pain welling up from deep within. Erik forced himself to take deep breaths, to focus, to get his mind off of her – off of Christine. It was hopeless, and he knew it. There was nothing that could stop him from thinking about her. Erik ran his fingers along the disfigured side of his face as he stared at her, trying to convince himself that he was not worthy of her. She would never look upon his face again, and it was for the better. Wasn't it?
"The day starts, the day ends, time crawls by…" Erik reached out and gently caressed the side of her face, his hand trembling, "Night steals in, pacing the floor. The moments creep, yet I can't bear to sleep." He took a tentative step backwards, still staring at the lifeless figurine of Christine, the woman he loved, the woman he craved more than he had ever craved anything. He wanted her more than he wanted beauty, he wanted her more than he wanted beautiful music, he wanted her more than he wanted the breath in his lungs and the project in his yard. Christine was his muse.
"Till I hear you sing, once more."
He had given up hope, of her finding him on her own. She didn't even want to see him, and Erik knew it. She was busy with her family. Her beautiful son and her drunken husband. Oh, what had Raoul become? When Erik let them go, he had expected great things to come from them – that mad had tried to hard to save her, and this was what it was for? A life of gambling and drinking away their fortune? "And weeks pass, and months pass, seasons fly." Erik stalked along his office, circling the mannequin, never taking his eyes off the pedestal in which he sat, her eyes when he passed her face, "Still you don't walk through the door. And in a haze, I count the silent days, till I hear you sing once more."
Was there any way he could get her here? Get Raoul, their child, anything – he just needed to hear her, needed to see her one last time. He would be content after just one more glance, one more song. How he ached to hear her voice, ached to see her lively face, not the face of this woman.
"And sometimes, at nighttime, I dream that you are here, but wake holding nothing but the empty air…" Every shadow, every sound played tricks on his mind, reminding him of the things he'd lost. Every shadow was Christine, ever sound was her voice, her whispering, her singing, her crying, and her longing. Always Christine. Even his mind, when asleep, worked against him. He would see her, dance with her, hold her. She was laughing, singing, joyful, oh, always so happy. And then he would wake up in an empty bed, in an empty room. Her voice would drift from his mind, and he couldn't even remember it.
He couldn't remember his muse's voice.
"And years come, and years go, time runs dry, still I ache down to the core!" He whirled around, grasping at his face, falling to his knees in front of Christine, "My broken soul can't be alive and whole, till I hear you sing once more!" Erik covered his face, desperately hoping, praying, begging for her to come alive, for her to be there. He wanted to hear her, needed to hear her, just one more time, please. Erik began to rock slowly on his heels, and he could feel the liquid begin to seep from his eyes, "And music, your music, it teases at my ears… I turn and fades away, and you're not here!"
A desperate cry escaped from his throat as he sang, and he stood up swiftly, placing both of his hands on mannequin's face, "Let hope pass, let dreams pass, let them die! Without you, what are they for? I'll always feel no more than halfway real, till I hear you sing…" He let out another distressed cry from the very center of his chest, the pain of not having her overwhelming, like a wave crashing over his very being.
"Once more!"