A/N: Just a little Christmas fic (well, Christmas-centric; it extends a little bit beyond just Christmas). I also found the idea of Erik wandering into a church irresistible. Hehe.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Phantom of the Opera; the characters belong to Gaston Leroux (and I've taken great liberties with them, I'm sure).

Summary: Lured by the music, Erik enters a church during its Christmas mass. There, a certain girl in the choir catches his attention. Intoxicated by her beauty and her angelic voice, he decides that he must find a way into her life. EC. AU.


Ange de Noël


Chapter One: Divine

Erik huffed, his breath fogging up the air. His arms remained tucked against his side, his fhands in his pockets, even as his trench coat whipped at his long pant legs thanks to how quickly he walked. Christmas was in the air. There were cheerful decorations and happy faces everywhere. Lampposts got bedecked in twinkle lights and garlands with large, red bows; window displays beckoned shoppers in. It disgusted him. He felt especially bitter around Christmastime because everyone else was so happy; everyone had warmth in their hearts and people to be with while he had nothing. He had perhaps one person, but Erik didn't think that he counted. The Middle Eastern man was annoying, and Erik pretended that they weren't friends (when, in fact, the man was his only friend). He put up with him because the man had rescued him from a tricky situation in Paris, helping him get to the United States. He even helped him earn citizenship in the country so that he could stay legally. It started with earning asylum. He earned it practically just by unmasking. That had been over twenty years ago.

He lived a rather peaceful existence—peaceful but lonely. He left his trouble and his past back in Paris.

He minded his own business and stayed out of trouble. More often than not, he wore a flesh-toned mask that covered the majority of his face, leaving his jaw bare since it appeared normal. The only other normal thing about his head was his ears; his ears were perfect, part of God's cruel joke on him: horrible face; genius with music. If people didn't look closely enough, it could be difficult to decipher that he wore a mask since the color looked like skin—made to match his particular shade. He was as white as a ghost everywhere except his true face, which was horribly discolored.

At home, he favored something that adhered less and was, therefore, more comfortable. The rest of his so-called face looked like Death, so he covered it up so that no one would have to see the atrocity. He always wore a wig to cover up the fact that he had no real hair to speak of—just a few strands here and there. Since the few strands that he had were black, he wore a black wig styled with short hair.

The only things that he had to keep him content were a single-bedroom apartment in a complex that assured great privacy and his music. His music was the one aspect of his life that kept him going, the only reason that he still bothered to live and breathe the icy, night air.

A man dressed as Santa rang a bell, calling for charity for his little bucket. He asked of Erik to donate; Erik ignored him, brushing right on past, sneering once he was past. He abhorred pity, and charity coincided with it. No, he just wanted to get home and get away from all the glittering lights and laughter, the chattering voices and hand-holding. He'd made a mistake venturing out to eat dinner with his mentor at the man's home. True, the food was delicious, and the company was mildly appreciated, but he still longed for a real companion—in particular, a female companion.

He'd never known the love of a woman, and even his cold, bitter heart dreamed of experiencing at least one kiss before he died. He wanted what most men throw away: a place to call home instead of just shelter; someone to come home to; someone to love, who would love him back. He didn't feel like he belonged anywhere; he felt as if he had no purpose. He was quite sure that no one would ever hear his music, which was depressing for the fact that it was his greatest dream for the world to love him for his music. However, the world would never hear it. He didn't even play it for his mentor.

There was still that little boy in him that dreamed of kindness, of sweet angels smiling at him with mercy, regardless of his horribly disfigured face. He longed for even just a hug. His only connection to society wasn't the sort of man to hug. No, that wasn't true; he probably just felt uncomfortable—or thought that Erik would be uncomfortable—with a hug. Erik vaguely recalled that perhaps he'd once attempted one, around the time that he rescued him from the trouble in Paris when he was a young teenager, but he'd ruined it by pushing him away. The man hadn't tried since.

He was about halfway through his walk home when he came upon a church. The building sat on his right. He stood and admired the architecture; it was perhaps one of the few decent ones in the city. The Americans knew nothing of great architecture; their buildings were cold and empty shells, but this church was beautiful. It in no way rivaled Notre-Dame or even Sacré Cœur, but it was respectable. He wondered if the architect was an American or if the person hailed from someplace like Rome or Paris—someplace with culture. He highly doubted that this lovely building was built by an American; if it were, they must have been influenced by Europe.

Erik turned, preparing to resume walking when music poured out through the open double doors at the top of the cement steps. Curious, he rotated his body back so that he faced the doors. Like a siren call, the sound of a choir singing drew him in. He couldn't begin to think why it attracted him. He'd heard many choirs before, many of which were abysmal. This one was surprisingly decent; they blended nicely. From the sound of it, which was the only thing that mattered with music, the organist wasn't bad, but the musician wasn't awe-inspiring, either.

He let the music pull him in, figuring that he could afford to take a little time off before heading home. As he stood in the foyer, he checked his new wristwatch—a Christmas present from his only companion—in the dim lighting. It was a digital thing with a screen that could light up if one pressed a button on the side. Apparently, it was waterproof, though he doubted that he would have a need for this particular attribute. He suspected that his friend bought it because he knew that Erik wouldn't favor a metal one. After all, he liked to be as invisible as possible, and light glinting off the metal tended to give one away.

The time read 11:36 PM. He deduced that the choir singing was the opening to the midnight mass.

Cautiously stepping into the sanctuary, he told himself that he would only stay a few minutes. He slid into a pew in the back, glad to find it empty. His heart rate quickened at the sight of the massive pipe organ up against the front wall; his fingers itched to play it, so he pinned his hands to his lap. Regardless, he soon fingered along on his thighs and a little in the air; his feet worked invisible pedals. Someone coughed, and Erik gritted his teeth. It wasn't the man's fault (necessarily), but it did ruin the song for a moment.

While his hands and feet worked on playing along with the organist, his eyes roved over the choir with the idle intent of discovering who seemed to really enjoy singing and who did it for the attention gleaned just by standing in the public eye. The choir had both male and female singers, young and old, from teens to the elderly; they appeared to be arranged by sections: soprano, alto, tenor, and bass—very typical. Each member wore a white robe. It was both amusing and irritating that many of the young singers looked like zombies. Granted, it was late at night; however, he felt that they should all have the decency to force some energy to have corresponding facial expressions for the respective carols. Currently, they sang "Angels We Have Heard on High" or, as he knew it, with its proper title, "Les Anges dans Nos Campagnes". Even after all this time in America, he couldn't get used to hearing the English versions of French carols—such as "O Holy Night". To him, it would always be "Minuit, Chrétiens".

He had to admit: he liked Christmas carols. Almost all of them were beautiful. Despite his hatred of his creator, he preferred the religious ones more than the secular pieces; their styles were more classical. He was quite a stickler—quite a purist—when it came to music. He couldn't stand most of the garbage that others dared to call music. In his mind, nothing could ever top classical or opera. Other styles could be enjoyable and downright entertaining, but none could match the grace of the aforementioned genres.

Deep down, he wanted to like Christmas. Unfortunately, his bitterness concerning his miserable solitude prevented him from enjoying it. If he somehow miraculously found someone to share it with, he might let himself bask in it.

In the lull between songs, his eyes finally came down to sweep over the front row—the ones who stood on the stage itself instead of the risers. His breath caught in his throat; he just stopped breathing altogether for a few seconds. His whole body stilled. There, in the center, stood a demure girl who looked to be in her teenage years. Her face was rather long and slender, making for an odd contrast with her petite and slim body. She couldn't be more than five feet in height. Her golden locks fell nearly to her decent-sized breasts in waves; her blue eyes shone with a warm, gentle light. She appeared to wear no make-up, and he loved her for it; she didn't need it. If she were wearing some, it was very light.

She was gorgeous without it. Her lips and cheeks were naturally rosy, complimenting her eyes. She had a very nice complexion. She had a beautiful smile.

Clearly, she had the most heartfelt expression. His eyes remained glued to her throughout the program—even as the preacher spoke. She so distracted him that he stopped everything in his mind, his body remaining still, just to regard her. His higher functioning disappeared as he drank in the sight of her and the sounds floating to his ears. He'd never felt this way before, but he wanted to be near her; he wanted to hear her sing; he wanted to speak to her. Since the choir blended beautifully, he couldn't begin to pick out one voice from another. He couldn't imagine her voice, because he felt certain that his imagination wouldn't do it justice. He knew just from the pure joy in her eyes and smile that she truly loved singing—loved music in general.

He liked it when the choir picked back up near the end of the man's speech. He didn't like listening to all the religious talk; he wanted to sit and listen to the music. He wanted to watch her perform more.

They began "O Little Town of Bethlehem". He recognized it as the one most popular in the United States, which made sense. It became one of his favorites simply because the dear little singer seemed to love it so tenderly. He noted that she raised her eyebrows every so often. Unlike some of her companions, she kept her hands at her sides instead of moving some hair out of the way or scratching an itch. She struck him as dedicated and professional.

Following this, they did "Ding Dong! Merrily on High," which proved to be another favorite of hers.

The one thing that really disappointed him about the performances throughout the evening: there were soloists, but his favorite singer never stepped forward and sang by herself.

He told himself that he was foolish for assuming that she had a beautiful voice; his mind pointed out that maybe her outer beauty intoxicated him, and it could turn out that her voice was mediocre…or worse. Church choirs weren't always professional. However, this one seemed like its singers were carefully groomed, so he let himself come to the conclusion that she must have a heavenly voice. He didn't even have the chance to ask himself where she might be section-wise; the answer butted in immediately: soprano; she's a soprano.

The choir performed a few more carols before they sang "O Holy Night". For a moment, it seemed as if she might step forward to sing solo; bitter disappointment soured his stomach when he found that she merely shifted to allow a fellow soprano easier access down to the microphone.

"And now, performing 'O Holy Night' with the aid of Miss Phillips on the organ and our choir, Miss Carlotta Guidicelli." Everyone applauded except for Erik, who sneered, certain that she would be awful.

The soloist looked full of herself, and she wasn't even terribly attractive. If people's voices could sound how they looked, hers would be mediocre. This got him musing that he'd be a very handsome man if beauty were based on voices.

Ironically, this Carlotta's voice matched her face: not quite ugly but not very attractive. He knew that the little angel with the golden hair and sweet, blue eyes would have done better—would have brought tears to every eye in the room, including his own. Instead of watching the soloist, whom he basically ignored (or tried to), he watched her.

He noted immediately that she loved this one as much—if not more—than "O Little Town of Bethlehem". It drove him mad that he couldn't hear her sing individually. He wanted to hear her sing this one especially, because it had always been one of his favorites. In his mind, he questioned angrily as if speaking to her, as if he knew her at such a personal level that he could scold her, 'Why aren't you singing the solo?'

His disappointment had turned to frustration mixed with irritation. If the piece had a soloist, and the blonde beauty clearly loved the carol well, why wasn't she singing the solo? It began to infuriate him. The organ and the choir were just background—important for the song but not the main event.

The soloist began to grate on his nerves more and more as the song progressed; her voice wobbled with forced vibrato; her high notes were forced. She pushed out the all-important high B-flat near the end so that it was barely sung at all; it was more like she screamed it. At the end, she simpered and bowed at the audience; as she bowed, her dark hair slid forward like a curtain closing. In his head, Erik cursed her in his native tongue. His cursing turned to heart-wrenching lamentation as he mentally begged the blonde why she hadn't sung. Even without knowing her, he felt it in his gut that she had it in her to do it, which made everything all the more frustrating.

The night wore on; the parishioners were encouraged to sing along as more carols got performed. The final one of the night was "Silent Night". He spied that this was another favorite with the little angel in front.

Before this final carol, the pastor's tone of voice warned that things were winding down as he stated, "Please join me in thanking Miss Phillips for her lovely accompaniment; unfortunately, tonight will be the last night that we will have her aid. If anyone here can play the organ," a few chuckles arose, "please feel free to volunteer your services. We shall sorely miss it. Granted, we do have the piano here, so we shan't be too forlorn, but it will be a profound loss. Thank you, Miss Phillips. We pray that your move goes smoothly, and that your mother will feel God's healing touch."

All too soon, "Silent Night" ended. He was quite saddened when the pastor thanked everyone for coming, signaling that the event was over. People began to stand in preparation to file out. He hastened to get up and hide in the shadows of the foyer in order to avoid the inevitable staring. It tore his heart out that he had to leave the room that contained his object of admiration, for he knew well that he would probably never see her again.

When the coast was clear, he slipped back into the sanctuary. His heart skipped a beat. His angel remained in the room, smiling as she listened to an old woman converse with her. The two females were alone in the room; even the pastor had left. The old woman was dressed in a very nice, black dress with long sleeves; she also wore her winter coat and high heels to match the dress. A gold necklace bearing a small cross glittered at her chest. She had her white hair slicked back into a French twist so that the delicate, dangly earrings were more easily visible. She struck him as very wealthy, which he found odd when he took in the teen's appearance: a plain, white dress with three-quarter sleeves with smaller heels to match. She wore a silver cross, which sat upon the bare skin of her chest revealed by a modest V-neckline. The best word to describe her, he decided, was modest. He could tell from her little closed-lip smile that she was quiet and demure.

"Christine, you should have sung that solo! Your voice would have blown everyone away. You would have made me cry! That Carlotta's much too full of herself; she sings for the glory and not for the love of the music! You sing for the music, and it shows!"

'Christine… What a perfect name. Christine, Christine, Christine…' He sighed, soaking it in like a hot bath. His brain went silent when she spoke. His eyes almost stung with tears at the sweet, gentle, soft-spoken voice that tickled his ears. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg her to speak to him. He'd settle for a simple, kind 'Hello,' though he certainly wouldn't mind a 'Merry Christmas'.

"Mama Valerius, you know that I have horrible stage fright. If I had gone through with it, I would have stood there, and nothing would have come out, and I'd have been mortified! I'm much happier being in the choir, hidden; at least no one's attention is solely on me."

He didn't even process her words at first, so his smile remained until he frowned darkly. Her speaking voice alone told him that she had a pleasant quality to her tone. She enunciated her words, speaking with precision. Even as she used a low volume, her voice reverberated around the open, silent room. How dare she want to hide it? How dare she?

The elderly woman (Mama Valerius, he reminded himself) sighed, complaining, "Christine, my dear, God has given you a tremendous gift, and it's like you're throwing it away! Whatever happened to your desire to be an opera singer, hm?"

His heart began to race. She wanted to be an opera singer—an opera singer! An opera singer! It so excited him that his giddiness made him dizzy; he gripped at the pew near him for support. He frowned anew when the girl murmured, "That's just a vague dream. I'm getting too old for it, anyway."

"Nonsense! You're sixteen! You'll be seventeen in four days! Three now that it's past midnight! You're only a junior in high school! Most opera singers are much older. I don't know much about singing, but I do know that it takes time for a voice to mature, and it must take years of training to become an opera singer. You still have plenty of time!" She paused before commenting, "I also know that you have the most beautiful voice I've ever heard." She abruptly commanded, "Now, sing!"

"What?" the blonde laughed. "No… Mama Valerius, let's just go home. I'm tired."

"You heard me! Sing! I want you to make up for how I had to sit through that other girl singing what should have been your song. No one's ever sung 'O Holy Night' as beautifully as you do, and I'm not leaving this spot until you make me cry like you always do with your angelic voice! Now, sing!"

Christine shook her head, murmuring, "I can't. I'll…cry. You know how hard this time of year is for me. I'm amazed that I held it together tonight. I had to practically dissociate to do it."

"Christine, I do know how hard it is for you, but it's been almost three years since your father passed away—God rest his soul. You love Christmas; you should open your heart and enjoy it. He stuck around until the New Year, I believe, to see that you had a merry Christmas and a happy birthday, so you shouldn't dwell on how sick he was at this time of year. You've always loved Christmas, and you made us all love it, too. Your father would want you to be happy; it's supposed to be your favorite time of year! In fact, he'd be horribly disappointed right now. I'm sure he's saddened at the fact that he has yet to hear his beautiful daughter sing for him."

She tiredly retorted, "He can hear me sing at home. He can hear me sing anywhere, really."

"Yes, but you've told me countless times that you love the acoustics here. Why not sing here?"

Blinking tiredly, she murmured, a hint of a sigh in her tone, "Normally, I'd indulge you, but I'm tired. I feel like I'm asleep on my feet—my eyes aren't even focusing anymore."

Heaving a sigh, Mama Valerius conceded, "All right. We'll get you home, then…but tomorrow we'll come by, and you'll sing for me."

"Here?"

"Yes, here! The acoustics are better than what we've got at home."

"That is true," the singer conceded, beaming. "Tomorrow, then, after everyone leaves, I'll sing for you."

The woman looped their arms together, patting Christine's hand as she smilingly replied, "Thank you, dear. Now, let's get going. I think that the endorphins are starting to wear off. I'm beginning to feel the fatigue now, too."

Erik slipped away before they could notice him, again hiding in the foyer. He waited for them to pass before he crept across the open space and peeked around the doorframe to watch them descend the steps. Christine very conscientiously helped her companion down the steps without a word; she merely smiled at the woman. Conversation resumed as they walked along the sidewalk; they spoke of their plans for Christmas morning—stockings, opening presents from each other, going to church, going to brunch, the general relaxation of the holiday. Although he wanted to, Erik refrained from following them; thus, their voices became fainter the farther that they traveled, disappearing altogether after an unfairly short amount of time.

"Did you enjoy the mass?"

Erik jumped, horrified that someone had managed to sneak up on him. No one ever sneaked up on him. He couldn't believe that he let himself get so distracted. Rather than get snide with the kindly pastor, Erik decided to use this moment to his advantage. He inquired, a hint of a French accent clinging to his words, "Are you truly looking for a new organist?"

The man blinked, undoubtedly taking in his mask; his lips parted with a bit of surprise. "Yes…we are."

"I should very much like to fill this position."

The pastor blinked some more. "Ah, yes, well, we would very much like to have you—no matter your skill level."

Erik demanded with a hint of danger to his tone, "Why do you assume that I lack skill? Is it because of my mask? Do you think that I'm ashamed of my awful playing, which is why I hide my face?"

He didn't bat an eyelash; he just replied, "No. I was just stating that your skill level doesn't particularly matter in the instance that you lack strength in it. …If you don't mind me asking, why do you hide your face?"

His defenses rose. "Because God never gave me a proper one. Is it going to be a problem?"

He shook his head. "No, no. I'm sure that the congregation won't mind. There might be some gossip, but it shouldn't be too terrible. If you'd like, we can keep you a mystery—keep it so that your back always faces everyone."

Erik pursed his lips, replying appreciatively, "I'd like that. Thank you."

"Come by tomorrow morning. I'm interested in hearing you play."

"Thank you. I will."

Smiling, he squeezed Erik's shoulder. As Erik flinched, the pastor wished, "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas." He was always uncomfortable and never sincere with offering any sort of greeting or farewell back—no matter what it was: hello, goodbye…anything, really.

Taking this as his cue to go, Erik headed down the steps, tucked his arms against his chest again, and quickly strode back on the path to his apartment complex. His mentor's house wasn't far from it, and he preferred walking to driving, so he left his car in its parking space. He glanced at the black Lancer upon passing it, checking on it before he stepped into the hall. He sighed as he waited for the elevator to come down. Sometimes, he took the stairs (since no one ever really took the stairs), but it seemed silly to do so all the time, because his apartment was literally right next to the elevator. He couldn't avoid people all the time, and everyone in this complex minded their business well enough where he could deal with a few seconds of staring. It was the insensitive, busybody questions that bothered him—the glib comments; the well-meant advice.

He did his best to limit his interaction with the outside world. For income, he made things—trinkets like jewelry boxes, music boxes, the occasional porcelain figurine (though this required seeking out a kiln), and especially wind chimes. He got most of his revenue from the wind chimes and boxes. People loved the music and the beautiful craftsmanship of the stained glass or the décor of the boxes. He had his supplies delivered to him, just as he had his groceries delivered; similarly, he used a service to come pick up his packages to be shipped. He loved the Internet simply because it made his life so much easier. Prior to it, he'd been reliant on his mentor or going out in public himself.

He sighed again as he hung his keys upon a hook next to the door. His heart ached as he dwelled upon Christine while removing his coat, which he hung in the nearby coat closet. He reminded himself that, as the new organist, he would have more opportunity to see her—possibly interact with her—but his feeble heart feared that tonight was a one-time blessing.

As part of his nightly ritual, he brushed his teeth then removed his wig and mask, both of which he placed upon a bust on his nightstand. In the spring and summer, he wore nothing but boxers to sleep; in the cooler weather, he bothered with pajamas, most of which were gifts from his one friend.

He went to bed with a heavy heart, dreaming that the blonde sang the solo for "O Holy Night"—only she sang it as "Minuit, Chrétiens".Unfortunately, the sound was muted. He heard the organ, and he heard the choir behind her, but no sound came out of her mouth. Her ethereal image lingered in his brain even as he awoke in the morning. He couldn't get her smiling face out of his mind. It made him crave a smile from her.

Part of him wanted to pretend that she sang only for him last night, but the rational part of his brain reminded him that this was crazy—they didn't even know each other.

He planned to rectify this in the near future.


A/N: In what seems to be a theme for me, I started out writing this as a one-shot, but it grew to massive size, so I've chopped it up.

Enjoy!

Please review!

Kagome-chan