She hardly knew anything about him. He hid his personality behind shadows, cloaks, masks. He kept so much of him concealed so much of him that she craved to know. She knew so little about him, when she desired to know it all. Perhaps he didn't see it that way and that was why so much was kept in riddles and obscure clues. His face was masked, but from what? She had once pried the porcelain mask away from his cheek, but saw nothing in the feverish haste to push her away and shield his exposed cheek. He'd misread her terror as terror for the tainted flesh and not as fear for what he might do to her. She trusted him with her life but in that moment she thought that she saw death in her future. To die at the hands of a man that she trusted and knew little of.
His hands. That was the only clue that gave her some information of who he truly was, his past, his present. They were beautiful hands which captured her attention whenever he played. His fingers; delicate, slender, long, and elegant hypnotized her as they magically played a piece of music that completely took control of her. But his beautiful hands were marred, they were far from perfect. Riddled with tiny rigid scars, each which gave a story of his past. Had he been beaten? Had his hands been caught in a trap of sorts? She'd seen similar scaring on a stable boy at the de Chagny Manor as a child, when her father was tutoring Raoul. The stable boy had explained to her that his hand had been mangled when he was fighting a bear trap to release its grasp on a de Chagny hunting hound.
She didn't dare to ask him where the scars had come from. She didn't even dare to touch his hands without some sort of permission from him. He would jerk away from her touch, that she was sure of. Sometimes she felt him tremble beneath the pressure of her touch when she would place her hand on his shoulder during a lesson. It made her ache inside; she desired to touch him more than she would let herself to admit. His music stirred something within her that she scarcely knew existed. All because of those beautiful hands that haunted and tempted her.
Amber had always been one of her favourite colors. She had first been introduced to the rich golden tones as a very young child. The rosin that her father used for violins was very similar to the exotic looking gems. It was a vivid memory that clung to her when she first noticed the color of her strange Phantom's eyes. They were Amber, rich and golden and yet unlike the stones she forced her father to buy for her – they were alive. There was light and fire that burned behind them. She vainly believed that before she arrived in his life those eyes lacked the luster of life and fire behind them and instead resembled the stones she once fondled. Now, with her by his side to tutor his eyes turned from stone to reality. It was a childish thought, naïve and foolish, and yet real to her. She could not picture his eyes looking so vivid without her staring into them. Even in their beauty his eyes were not perfect, the eye that sat incased in his stark white shield seemed to be paler than the other, but did not lack the light behind it. She dare not look too hard at his masked cheek, terrified he would roar in anger at her like he had when she removed the mask. She saw residual hatred for what she did every time her eyes crossed paths with his, when she lingered too long on the porcelain stain on his face.
If only she could see what lay beneath! So many questions would finally have answers. She had sung for him for months, revealing so many secrets about herself through song and through the trivial conversations they had. But she sat beside him on the piano bench, listening to some new, beautiful, melody and did not sit beside him as equals. Perhaps that was how he wanted it to be; maintain the student and pupil aspect. The student reveals her life to the teacher through what she answers, how she answers, what she writes, and how she retains and the teacher reveals enough to connect at the very top level and then pulls away, afraid to invest too much in a pupil who will eventually move on.
She was left knowing only two things for certain. His hands were the graceful objects of her desire and his eyes were the golden haze that she let herself be consumed by. His power over her was stronger than she ever knew compulsion to be. Body and soul. Control over her was completely his for the taking and yet he kept his distance. He brought her to a state that left her tightly sprung and ready to be released and yet he carefully wrapped her in soft packaging and placed her on a high shelf to insure that no one touched her or broke her. Yet his distance broke her more than words ever could reach her. She wanted to see his amber eyes close as she pressed her lips to his lips. Though she could see that his lips were not perfect, not like Raoul's, they were what she desired. The mask concealed much, but she knew that something he thought of as hideous lay beneath the shield. He protected himself from injury in the highest form. Rejection.
"Kiss me." Christine muttered as the piece of music came to an abrupt halt, stilling her from her gentle haze of passion and desire that was merely innocent and youthful. His fingers hovered above the keys, uncertain of what he just heard. It was an anxious pause between both of them, before he brought his hands back to his lap, forgoing continuing the peace as if nothing had been said.
Christine after all was his innocent blossom that had yet to bloom. He had to nurture and care for it. Give it carefully chosen soil to grow in, water it regularly, and remember that not all blossoms enjoy the agony of the sun. She had faire skin and he knew that she would burn, especially now that she spent more time beneath ground than above. After a while your skin forgets what the sun is and gives you the most painful sunburn.
Hesitantly he spoke, eyes glued to the pages of sheet music in front of him and ignoring the beautiful angel of a woman beside him, begging to be kissed. "What do you mean?"
"Upon the lips."
"Upon the lips! But why?" He sounded incredulous as he finally turned his fine head to face her, his eyes narrowing and searching her face. There was certainly no sign of a fib or false statement. She was telling the truth! She desired to be kissed. By him!
"Because I have thought of nothing but this for several months now."
"Don't be so cutting with me. You cannot pretend that there is not something between us." She took his hand in hers for the first time without him lunging away from him. "Now kiss me."
He gulped, closing his and contemplating each outcome. To not kiss her meant that she would leave, he knew that she was bold enough to leave out of annoyance for the situation. She would never return. But, if he kissed her, she would know. She would see what lay beneath his well-guarded defenses, not just his disfigurement, but his weaknesses. Never once had he felt a compassionate caress, never once did another human's hands touch his bare skin. The only hands he knew were his own, his own weak and emotionless touch.
"What if I do not know how to kiss?" The innocence in her tutor's voice broke her heart.
"We all must learn some day." Christine brought his hand up, close to her lips. His amber eyes shot wide as she lowered her lips to his pale, scarred hands.
"Christine." He begged her to stop as her lips descended. He was not strong enough to handle such a touch! As her warm luscious lips came in contact with the flesh on the top of his skin, he felt a shudder wrack through his body. Her lips lingered and the sensation that overwhelmed him lingered. He could barely take it, barely comprehend the situation. His beautiful pupil, the object of all of his desires, both moral and immoral, sat beside him on the piano bench and gently kissed his bony hand.
"Why are there such beautiful scars on your hand?" Finally! As the contact of her lips vanished some sense was once again able to flood his body.
She had said beautiful. A word he scarcely thought could describe any part of his skeletal body. "Beautiful?"
"Let me rid you of this mask." Christine boldly reached out to touch the protective barrier, but his hands caught hers with a painful grip. "Please monsieur, I mean you no harm."
"Erik." His name? He'd let her know his name! Perhaps this was why he had been depraved of human touch, it muddled your brain and made you foolishly weak.
Christine's doe like eyes opened wide, "Erik?"
Raw desire ebbed and flowed through his veins at the sound of his name coming from those plump red lips that taunted him. Her soprano voice caught him by the heart with a deathly, strangling, grip. She had said his name, not maestro, monsieur, phantom, angle, guide, tutor. But his name! He reached his hand out, silently begging her to take it. He brought her hand up, close to his lips, in much the same fashion as she had. Pressing his deformed misshapen lips against her soft, silky, petite hand. Her hand felt perfect in his, as if it were meant to cradle in his large, bony, hand. Her skin was lovely beneath his lips, but he craved more.
He was naïve when it came to all of this romance and the overbearing sensation it brought. He was certain his tactic was all wrong as he dropped her hand suddenly and brought his hands around her waist, jerking her towards him. Her cry of surprise sent a shiver straight to his core. His lips hovered just above hers, trying to find the best way of approaching this situation.
"Monsieur? Mademoiselle Daae?" Giry's voice echoed through the organ room.
"Cursed." Erik hissed, prying himself away from Christine and straightening his clothes, smoothing his hair. He had come so painfully close to finally tasting those tempting lips and yet, no he never would. He could never revisit that moment.
"Here, Madame Giry." Christine called, watching her tutor with wide, worried, eyes. He seemed disturbed by the whole situation. How out of line had she been? The poor man hid himself from the world, hid his cheek from her, hid who he was – why would he give her something as an important as a kiss. She would convince herself that the passion she felt between them was a passion for music and song and not a passion for one another.
"You are needed for rehearsals in under a quarter of an hour, it is best you return with me now."
"Ah, yes, very good." Erik retorted, shuffling sheet music nervously. "Your notes are becoming significantly purer Christine, continue the work. Remember, scales and arpeggios when you are not here or in a lesson."
"Yes Monsieur," Christine bowed her head and followed Madame Giry out of the organ room. She turned her head back to get one last, lingering look, at her strange angel. His amber eyes bore into her skin as she left his side. It felt wrong to leave him, "Erik."