AN: I own nothing but the ideas in my head. First try at writing PotO. This is a one-shot…Maybe.
Chapter 1: The Only Way
She held her breath, impatiently waiting for the soft thud of the front door closing. When it started, Christine had caught a few handy men oiling the hinges, and even a carpenter installing a new door, frame and all, but no matter how hard Raoul tried, he could not make the door be completely silent. He was no magician, after all.
Which is why, after eating their supper together, and, afterwards, retiring to the study to read and talk, Christine watched closely as Raoul slowly started to fidget, progressing rapidly into a state of unrest, doing his best to pay attention to his wife, who was amusedly acting as if she didn't notice her husband deeply sighing, as he repeatedly glanced at the grandfather clock that lay nestled between the stairs and the hallway to the kitchen, beyond the study doors. Finally, she took pity on her husband, yawning widely and rubbing her eyes vigorously, feigning a sleep she did not feel.
Years of falling asleep after having cried for hours, grieving over the death of her father, and later as she got tutored by him, had made Christine a bit of a night owl, used to staying up well into the night.
Five minutes later, Christine heard the second sign of her husband's departure from their home, the slowly trot of horse's hooves on the pavement, as Raoul did a wide loop around the back of the house, to its front, so as to hide that the horse and rider were coming from their stables. Just then, the clock struck midnight, and Christine threw the covers off of her body, climbing out of bed to reveal that she was still wearing her corset and daytime underthings. She pulled on her blue practical dress, tied her sensible brown boots, and wrapped her warmest cloak around her shoulders, as she headed downstairs.
All the household staff had gone to their homes for the night, so Christine made little attempt to be silent, although, years of ballet training and having to sneak about the Opera Populaire, had given her feet a graceful tread that was barely heard. She made her way outside, closing the door behind her with a louder click than Raoul's, and spotted the carriage waiting for her behind a tree, on the other side of the gravel road.
Christine received a brief nod and a "Madame," from the driver. He already knew to be discreet and where to go, as Christine climbed into the buggy without a word.
It was once she was inside, sitting on the soft cushion, rubbing her hands along the velvet fabric running along her thighs in a soothing manner, and also to dry her sweaty hands, that her heart began to pound a rapid drum inside her ears.
After much persuasion, begging and years of crying, her Angel had repeatedly refused to see her. Madame Giry finally took pity on the young woman slowly crumbling in front of her, and revealed what she had been able to gather from the Persian, about his "comrade's" whereabouts each night. The three of them formulated a plan, that would, hopefully, bring them together, at last.
Utter insanity, Christine thought, as the driver made his long way to the center of the city from the outskirts, where the De Chagny Chateau was located. She did not worry or look back. Raoul wouldn't be back until shortly before sunrise. It was enough time.
As the cab, made its way through the cobbled streets, Christine pulled the hood of her cloak low over her face, hiding her thick, dark curls, and eyes from view. As much as she was willing to risk everything, she could not be recognized.
Her destination was a small, demure house, shadowed by a church. Its nondescript appearance, so unlike the rest of the ostentatious houses of the street, that most peoples' gaze skipped over it as if by magic. The tired driver, wanting to go home to warm up and rest, deftly maneuvered the horse to the back of the house, and with an agility that deceived his old age, climbed down, and knocked on the back door in a series of 3-2-4 taps, as Christine made her way out of the carriage. The door almost immediately opened as if by itself, and the driver barely glanced at Christine blankly, before quickly making his way out of the driveway.
Christine, forcing herself not to think about what she was doing, automatically entered, and unconsciously followed the plump woman with unnatural flaming red hair in front of her, focusing on regulating her breathing and quieting her pulse, as she was guided to the farthest room n the back of the establishment.
The room itself was nothing special, all the furniture was of a deep cherry wood, a rickety table in the corner, a lamp with no shade on top of it, with a simple chair next to it. A twin sized bed, with a faded gold comforter, and a large dresser perpendicular to it. On the back corner was a door ajar, with the light on inside, leading to a small bathroom. It was all thoroughly clean.
Christine was startled out of her reverie of the room, when the lady closed the door firmly behind her. Madame Canelle knew his routine better than anyone. He had been coming here for close to six months.
When she had first heard that her Angel, (Erik, call him Erik, Christine!), was visiting a modest brothel in the middle of the city, Christine was surprised to find that she all felt was relieved. It meant that he was still here.
Monsieur Kahn had made sure to reassure her that it wasn't what she was thinking.
Christine remembered the exact instructions she was to follow. She walked to the chair, and sat on it to bend over and unlaced her boots, which she placed under the table. Next, she took off her cloak, dress, corset and stockings, draping them over the chair. In nothing left but her chemise, she quickly turned off the lamp light on the table, lighting a lonesome candle, before making her way to the bathroom. On the sink she found a tiny bottle of rose water, the humble brand that she herself could afford while she was a ballet rat. She placed a drop behind each ear, in the crook of her elbows, and behind her knees. She didn't bother looking at her reflection in the mirror. Christine was terrified of what she would find, the elation and guilt she felt coursing through her veins threatening to overwhelm her as it was.
She was ready.
She made her way back to the room, turned off the bathroom light, and laid down in the bed on top of the covers by the light of the candle. As she leaned back and touched the cushion headboard, embroidered with delicate flowers, a clock somewhere in the brothel chimed one in the morning, and a wind that had no origin, blew softly in the room, blowing out the light from the candle, and instantaneously every nerve in Christine's body came alive. Without having opened the room's door, he was here.
Here.
In the same room as her, after four years.
Christine was very shocked to find that the girl he frequented here was very similar to her. Almost the same height and dancer's built, except that her hair was black and straight, which he demanded she curl on his nights. The biggest difference was that the girl just didn't smell like her.
It didn't take much persuasion, thankfully, a hefty price, all that was needed for the girl to take the night off, after departing with the precise directions that were given to her the first time Erik requested her services.
Be silent, he won't like it if you talk. He'll direct you how he wants you.
It isn't what you think.
Christine laid completely still. Hiding her face beneath her curls as her legs slightly opened, and her arms rested by her sides. She stifled a gasp as she felt the mattress dip, a knee between her knees, and his arms trapping her beneath him. His nose dove into her hair, which Christine struggled to swallow a moan but couldn't help but to arch her neck to give him more access. They'd never come close enough to touch like this, and a burning hot jealousy suddenly scorched her, as she imagined Erik doing this with any woman but her.
Mine.
She was startled as she felt hot tears coursing down her cheeks, but was grateful to find that they weren't hers. Lord knows what he would think if I start crying on him. Instead, she felt him intimately cradle the disfigured side of his face between her breasts, and lay the complete weight of his body on top of hers, as he gathered her in his arms, his body shaking as he pressed his sobs into her skin. This was her cue to wrap her own arms around him.
Delicately, like the touch a feather, she started to comb his downy hair behind his good ear, which she gently rub the shell after each stroke with her thumb and point finger, while holding him close with the other arm.
This was all he ever asked for when he came here, just to be held by someone that would feel and smell like me, Christine brokenly thought.
How precious the moment was, she couldn't put into words, but she felt the blinding pain of each new rip her heart received, when she felt his clawed like hands, desperately digging into her ribs, a refusal to let go.
"Christine. Oh, Christine!" Erik choked out on an exhale.
Christine, miserable that she couldn't tell her Angel that it was her, his Christine, for fear that he would run from her and hide where she could never find him, pulled him closer to her.
She could feel his heartbeat, pounding away at her chest, her own heart, answering the call of its mate. Because she knew that to be the truth now, had known since the moment she had woken next to Raoul after their wedding night, the sun angrily piercing her eyes through her eyelids. She was not waking up from wedded bliss next to her soulmate.
But what was she to do when the ring that represented her marriage to Raoul, was heavier on her mind than on her finger? She wanted to be a proper lady, and everyone was making sure to tell her again and again that Erik was gone.
But he's here. Now.
Again, the house echoed with the chime of the hour. Two o'clock, we have one more hour.
Erik had quiet down, and Christine tried to subtlety look down at him, but the room was in utter darkness. Only sound and touch. Christine could quietly hear Erik's even breathing and felt his heavy weight settle on her even more. He was dead asleep.
The girl had never talked about him falling asleep on her. She had said he would usually have her hold him first, and then they would settle on each other's side, his front to her back, and an arm draped lazily across her stomach, but that she could always tell that he was awake. This was unprecedented.
Christine tried to settle more comfortably with Erik on her, but even that slight movement caused Erik to tighten his arms around her. They had one more hour before she had to go. Madame Canelle had made it very clear that Erik only paid two hours, they could only stay two hours, so to make sure to leave before the Madame had to come in and demand they leave, and risk Erik finding out it had been her all along.
He can't know yet. He'll make sure I never find him again.
He had been so adamant that he never wanted to see her again.
If this is all I can have, this is all I will take.
There was a sharp but soft knock on the door, signaling that there were fifteen minutes left, but Erik did not stir. Christine had to act, and she had to do it fast. Delivering one last kiss to his high forehead, and as slowly and gently as she possibly could with the clock ticking, Christine managed to steer and angle her body away, replacing herself with a pillow, that Erik hugged close to him.
She felt the immediate emptiness within her own bones almost buckle her to ashes.
Not daring to try to touch him again as much as she wanted to in the darkness, Christine blindly made her way to the chair, only donning her cloak and gathering the rest of her clothing, before silently making her way to door, that was framed by a rectangle of little light from the hallway. Barely opening it, so as to let as little light as possible, she once again, swiftly made her way downstairs, only managing a small nod towards Madame Canelle in thanks. She found another carriage waiting for her right outside and made herself muster up the strength to leave the little house without looking back. As soon as she had closed the passenger door, the driver quickly drove away.
She could finally let the tears fall in her loneliness.
—
In the brothel room, Erik woke suddenly, Christine on his lips, but he found himself desolately alone for a second, before the Madame knocked and told him his time was up. Erik made to get up, and go through his own trap door in the brothel, but he got a whiff of rosewater on the pillow, which froze his departure. It smelled so much like her.
—