A/N: Finally, I got rid of that old and embarrassing author's note. Thank heavens.
For eternity they are in the sweeping embrace of the Don Juan dance, and they are not separate beings at all, but one entity, and there is nothing in her mind, absolutely nothing at all. The world does not exist. The fact that she is to expose him does not enter her mind; the fact that she loves Raoul is something of a shadow belonging to another plane of existence.
All she can think of now is how frighteningly wonderful and beautiful is the weight and heat of his hands on top of her own as she stands on top of the fiery-painted bridge with him behind her, pressing her memories into blankness.
He cannot think of anything except Oh Christine and after that the world is nothing beyond the soft springiness of her hair beneath his cheek and lips and the feel of their bodies pressed so tightly together they might as well almost be one, heaving, heated body, as his own chest heaves with desperate desire and he struggles to breathe.
The music dies. He is no longer Don Juan, he is only the Phantom, and he wants to be the Angel of Music, but more than anything, he just wants to be Erik. And his fingers caress the smoothness of her neck as he sings words of love to her.
Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime
Lead me, save me from my solitude
And oh, how heartbreakingly he sighs the words, and she is still in the place of dreams, with her eyes closed and her hair yielding as he gathers it in his fingers and lets it go again to feel her skin.
Say you want me with you here, beside you
She wakes, suddenly, and one thought enters her fevered brain—Raoul.
And as the Angel of Music spins her around to face him, his hands on her shoulders, a desperate, obsessive worship in his gaze, she thinks she might go mad with the turmoil that has been heaped upon her soul—the music swells and his pleading voice nearly breaks her frenzied resolve—
Anywhere you go, let me go too!…
How her heart breaks for the anguished, passionate Angel in front of her, the genius of a thousand compositions and the victim of a tragic obsession—
Christine…
Her hand is on his face. She nearly wilts with the deception, for he thinks that she is doing it out of love.
That's all I ask of—
Oh, Phantom, she mind-whispers, as her eyes well up with tears, wishing he could hear, Forgive me.
She rips off the mask. Now, Raoul.
He hears, dimly, the screams below, and stares and stares at her, and there are no words to express what he is feeling at this very moment, for to do that would be to invade the entire French dictionary—no, every language's dictionary—and spread them out page after page to try and put into words the extremity of anguish, horrified sadness, and the overpowering sense of…utter…betrayal.
There are a plethora of frenzy-thoughts, but after all of them tumble and tumble through his head, the one that echoes after all the other thoughts are gone is, Oh, Christine.
For eternity she is staring at him and he cannot stand the pity and sorrow on her face as she tries to make him understand without words how utterly wretched and miserable she feels at this moment for having done it.
But yes, she feels a horrified sort of pity, and it shows on her face, and he cannot bear it because this is what she feels instead of love.
The rage builds. Christine was the catalyst, but it is not Christine at whom he feels rage. It is at the world. And right now, the world is contained in the screaming audience and the French police running down the aisles with their guns, ready to shoot the monster they see standing on the scenery-bridge holding Christine.
He thinks of all this, and feels a deep, bone-crushing madness and frenzied, purposeful hate. One thought directs him and it is this: Bring the chandelier down and the world will die.
And with this thought, the thought that sends the gorgeous, vicious, burning threads of awful satisfaction that thinking of revenge will always bring, he rips his sword from his sheath, trying not to harm Christine, although he is feeling broiling resentment towards her as well, and in one swift movement, the Angel of Music becomes the Angel of Death as the chandelier comes loose from its moorings and quivers, and shakes!
And then the Angel of Music tightens his grip upon the horrified and frightened Christine, and kicks violently the lever that opens the trap-door beneath their feet.
The screams and shouts of the panicked audience grow louder as they fall, clinging tightly to each other, he out of possessive purposefulness, she out of fright as the world gives way beneath her feet. It is instinctual, but she immediately wishes as they fall under the Opera House that she had let go and broken both her legs from twisting out of the way of the gaping "fire" hole and falling on the stage.
Oh, anything to be out of the mad grip of her wicked, dominant, possessive Angel.
And into blackness of the underground, they fall.
And the chandelier falls, and the red upholstery turns to blackened, gaping rags as the fire consumes skin and hair and skirts, the bodies of the Opera-goers beneath the broken crystal beauty.
And in the orchestra pit, white pages bearing the words Don Juan Triumphant with a score of music beneath begin to brown at the edges, and to flutter, and to burn away, and they are hot and scorching, like the Phantom's passion and rage.
He has "cut the fun short." But the world is far from dead.
It is evidenced in the enraged dancers and singers and the ever-ready gendarmes with their rifles and immaculate blue hats. They are coming for him, but he does not know this. They will not find him, but they do not know that either…and they run towards the destiny they think they'll find, as the Phantom and his pretty captive run in spurts toward his secret place beneath the ground, beneath the burning Opera House, which has already begun to boast exploding windows and wreathing flames encompassing it about.
And somewhere in the corridors backstage, a frantic young Vicomte de Chagny is begging a completely distraught ballet directress to show him "where they've gone."
"Come with me, Monsieur—I will take you to him!" she says quickly, gasping for breath in the rush of the mob, "but remember—keep your hand at the level of your eyes!"
And as Marguerite Giry holds back the crowd, they descend together into the dark stairway, Raoul and Madame.
Inside a dark and splendid-gloomy cavern, the Phantom waits.
Inside a tiny dressing-room, Christine tugs off the costume of the passionate Aminta, and slowly watches as her hands move without a breath of command from her brain, as if they are alive, possessed, taking the lush white wedding dress—a symbol of the purity she is sure will be shortly stained beyond repair—and those same hands pull it on over her head.
The Music of the Night will soon be over, but none of them know. None know that everything they expect will never happen, and everything that happens will be something that they would never, ever expect. They do know, however, and in this one knowledge they're correct, for once, that whatever happens, this night will be burned into their brains forever…forever…and forever.
And when destiny inevitably takes its course and Raoul and Christine are sailing away into the lake-corridor when all is finished, and the Phantom yells his pain into the shattered mirrors at what just happened in a blur of broken, frenzied thoughts and a sweettaste upon his lips, the music dies, a final time, and darkness falls forever.