A/N: Please note that this is a snippet from a world in which Christine Daae is the troubled creature haunting the Opera House, and Erik is her promising young student.
His new dressing room didn't feel like home. The other boys were always chatting, and in spite of the constant bickering and backstabbing, he missed the noise. Sometimes the girls would sneak in between scenes, and they'd all try to be quiet between giggling fits. Madame Giri always broke things up, but it was wonderful while it lasted.
In comparison, this room felt small and stuffy. A line of dressmaker's forms mimicked a crowd. They were dressed in his costumes for the scene changes, but they were headless and a little eerie. Even the flowers, bright against the dark brocade of the dressing gown hung on the back of the door, made him feel off. Lotte had sent them over as equal parts joke and congratulations. He'd laughed, and been touched, but now he just felt lost.
He pulled his chair over to the full length mirror in the corner and sat looking at his reflection. It didn't look triumphant, the way he'd imagined he would be if this day ever came. His face looked a little sad and a little tired. He felt a little sad and a little tired.
And if he was going to be honest with himself, he was a little afraid. Everything was different now. Lotte was proud of him, but would they still be friends when they shared the stage? He'd seen fights break out between actors before, and Lotte was desperately proud. Meg hadn't been able to keep her mouth shut about his "hidden talent," but he wondered how much of that was jealousy. He wasn't really any older than she was, but she didn't have the voice for solo pieces. Even Madame Giri had nodded at him, but she frowned as she did so. His sudden jump into the spotlight felt more like a tumble. He loved his friends. He didn't want to lose them.
What would his teacher think of his performance tonight? There had been a bad moment when he thought he'd forgotten his cue, and another when the notes he was supposed to sing dipped just lower than his comfortable range. He needed her. He needed her guidance. All she had promised was to teach him to sing. She hadn't said anything about how long. What if the goal had been to get him into the spotlight? What if she started looking for a new protege? Young Paul's voice had finally settled into a very nice tenor, and Erik thought that the boy's range would be better than his own. What if his teacher, his Angel, decided she was done with him and turned to another? What if he hadn't sung well enough tonight and she threw him away in disgust?
He put his head in his hands.
"You should be proud. You did very well tonight, Erik." Her voice came from everywhere and nowhere, as though she stood next to him and across the room at the same time. "How does it feel, to achieve your dreams?"
He scrubbed at the back of his head with one hand. Had he achieved his dreams? It didn't feel like it. "I was weak on the low notes," he pointed out.
"You were," said his tutor. "But you did not disappoint me. The low notes can be practiced."
She had said nothing about continuing their lessons. "I wasn't sure you'd find me, now that they've given me a room."
She laughed. It was a beautiful laugh. He basked in it. She was always so serious. It was wonderful to hear her laugh.
"Am I or am I not your Angel? No one can keep me from you, certainly not by moving you a few rooms down the hall."
He felt relief well up in him. His Angel. "I was afraid that you might be finished with me."
There was a long silence - long enough that he began to worry again. When her voice came again, it was both quieter and closer: a murmur that thrilled up his spine. "My student. My sweet, sweet Erik. I will never be finished with you."