A/N: Here it is: my very first angst phic – not a powerful, explosive one, I have to admit, but still an angst phic. This story takes place one day before the infamous masked Ball. I decided to play a little with the inexact timing in the originals and insert a more intimate encounter between Erik and Christine before that tempestuous one in the masquerade took place. I've never seen a true fog, so sorry if the descriptions are weak. Do let me know what you thought about this story; like any other writer, I appreciate reviews!
Disclaimer: These characters belong to ALW, Gaston Leroux and Susan Kay; I just borrowed them to write some harmless E/C :)
"What is obscure attracts more than what is clear. Between two explanations to a phenomenon, people instinctively choose the darker one. Because the other, the truth, is simple and cannot make your hair stand on top."
– Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in letter to Reneé Saussine.
"Damn it! Damn this fog!" Christine cursed impetuously, now more than certain that it hadn't been wise to cross the Rue Scribe's threshold at such an inconvenient night. This path was familiar to her, but with the fog even denser down here, it was a miracle that she hadn't stumbled not even once.
That increasing necessity of his presence would any day put her into trouble. It wasn't about mere music lessons anymore; in fact, it had never been. With Erik, nothing was that plain. While searching for the door of his house, she squeezed gently the adorned key he had given her during one of their first lessons downwards. Even unaware of the true meaning of that gift at the time, she had known it should amaze her.
This key gave her absolute access to his refuge. Erik had certainly been aware that it wouldn't take long for her to learn both her way behind the mirror and beyond the Rue Scribe entrance. This key was a remnant of the trust she wanted to regain.
She often wondered why it had taken a whole painful process for her to realize that, no matter the circumstances, Raoul's promises were never as thrilling as Erik's subtle confessions of love. Never had she treasured the hours spent underground as much as when she had found herself suddenly deprived of them.
Raoul's readiness to set her free as soon as they had set foot in Paris – one week after the managers' invitation arrived at his family's estate and only one day before the masked Ball – still astounded her. He had told her with a secretive grin that he had arrangements to do. Perhaps he had tired of her at last. God grant he did; she couldn't put up with his forced familiarity for much longer. His attempts to protect her from the Phantom's threat had appeared harmless and even moving at first, but soon she had grown tired of that make-believe.
Their relationship now was that of two strangers. It had been a mistake to count on their childhood memories to restore the bond that had once existed – time had slowly turned that strong tie of trust into a thin thread of lies. He had paid no heed to her true feelings, so she had hid them from him for six months without feeling the faintest prickle of remorse.
Instead, she had busied herself daydreaming of her reunion with Erik. The simple thought that her prolonged stay in Raoul's estate could cost her that reunion was terrifying. It pained her to imagine Erik abandoned with only his disillusions for so long, but she prayed that he hadn't moved on, and that she could repair in one night the damage caused by six months of separation. Not that she had come up with an easy way to do so. If things weren't as changed as they had seemed in her nightmares, she knew he wouldn't accept her apologies. And she wasn't willing to apologize.
It had been overwhelming joy for Christine to find herself alone in her flat once again. As night had drawn on, her resolve to see Erik before the masked Ball had only strengthened, in spite of the rising fog. She had the feeling that he would attend to it; even if simply to frustrate the managers' hopes that he was gone for good. It seemed vital to see him sooner, without a hundred eyes following their every movement.
She was oblivious to his gaze for the first time since he had entered her life through the mirror. Erik had immediately distinguished her vacillating form amongst the mist, and had taken it as an illusion, before remembering with a shudder of unexpected delight that illusions couldn't make his alarm ring. He wondered what brought her back to his side after what had felt like ages of absence – surely Fate wouldn't favor him like this for nothing.
Once his heart resumed its normal pulse, he decided it was time to warn her of his presence.
"It is really a surprise to see you back, Christine," he murmured from a safe distance, his voice icy in her ear.
She halted and turned instinctively to where his voice seemed to come, but only white haze greeted her sight. She shivered at her vulnerability. How could he manage to disappear faster than her most instant reactions? Was it magic, or purely his shockingly swift reflexes? His voice had left her inebriated with its transcendental beauty, but the disappointment for not catching a glimpse of Erik knowing he was so near outshone her awe.
"I can't see you, Erik," she said, with the unnerving knowledge that she would have heard him chuckle should other sounds than the pounding of her own heart reach her ears. He was deliberately taunting her, and her statement undoubtedly amused him.
A grin escaped his lips. He had expected to baffle her with his ventriloquism. How differently she would have reacted to that trick just months ago! She had once trusted blindly in his voice, loved him in his invisibility. Having her beloved Angel a little bit closer would have thrilled her so much… even if that precious closeness were just another lie. A long time after that damned morning, he was eventually confronted by the realization that the brusque abolition of her ideal of the Angel of Music must have changed her concepts more drastically than he had feared. Now, he could hardly fathom which frightened her the most: the sight of him or not seeing him at all.
"Tell me what brings you here," he demanded, ignoring her implicit request.
She sighed. There was always something between them – the mirror, his mask, the fog…
"I'd like to talk to you," she said firmly, as though these words alone could solve their problems.
"Yes?" he inquired, voicing his resentment with a hurtful sarcasm born amid grieving months. "Isn't the Vicomte a better listener yet?"
Though she had always intuited that Erik had witnessed every part of her conversation on the roof with Raoul, this first allusion to that night still hurt like little whips on her heart. How many times hadn't she felt her cheeks burn with shame at the memory of her betrayal? How she wanted to end his pain in an instant, yet knew he would suffer as long as her destructive words waded through his mind… Ironically, the closer she could get to take that bitter memory away was precisely by reviving it, and justifying herself.
"I was frightened," she began tentatively, striving for the accurate words to define sentiments that not even she had fully recognized.
As you are now. He smelled her fear. He wondered how she would react should he touch her at that very moment. Would she think his arms tenderer than a foggy embrace? Erik forgot all caution, surrendering for an instant to his longing to reach for her. He was scarcely aware of his first actual steps toward her, but the certainty that his touch horrified Christine as much as his visage crossed his mind. It stopped him in time, before she could sense his keen proximity.
He clenched and unclenched his fists in pure suffering. He couldn't bear to be so defenseless around her. His love for Christine blinded him; he could see it clearly now, after that time apart. He was her puppet; just the thought of her warmth, her hair and her skin under his fingertips gave her perfect hold of his strings. This weakness enraged Erik; for how long would such forbidden desires torment him?
"Stop playing games, Christine," he roared, his voice echoing in a maddening circle around her, as if coming alive with his frustration. "I don't need to hear your rehearsed excuses. You need not hide anything from me, child."
"I am not hiding," she hissed, too exasperated with the mocking sympathy in his tone to notice his trick at once – still, it sent shivers down her spine when she did. "It isn't my fault if you never listen to the truth."
"Isn't it a little inappropriate to speak of truth so vehemently when its meaning is still new to you?" he wondered venomously.
"At least it isn't meaningless to me, as it seems to be to you " she retorted.
"You forget, Christine, that if I lied to you once, it was to fulfill your own fantasies," he quietly reminded her. "I never meant to be unfaithful to you, though I know that, when it comes to faithfulness, I disappointed you beyond words."
Silence was the only response to his heartfelt words. Deep, spellbinding silence – at least for Christine. There was no irony in Erik's speech, nothing to which she could make an immediate reply. He had told her the simple truth when she had expected everything but loving sincerity. That sudden change in his tone left her even more susceptible to the torrent of diffused feelings he woke in her.
"Erik…"
She whispered his name with such need that the least he could do was answer her.
X
She gasped as the coldness of his hands on her shoulders reached her skin, the thick fabric of her cloak ineffective against their deftness. His warm breath caressed the nape of her neck as he murmured restrainedly, burying his face in her hair, "You shouldn't have come so suddenly, Christine." His arms encircled her possessively, his heaving chest pressed against her back as he chuckled at the absurdity of his own words, "It almost makes me think you were missing me." Every tiny part of her tingled with the faint emotion she had fought relentlessly to drown in the depths of her subconscious. She had never known his passionate touch. Her breath grew rapid as she finally realized that she craved it, longed to dare turn and meet his lips with hers.
All these sensations surrendered her body the moment she closed her eyes and let that overpowering epiphany sweep over her. In a lapse, she found him standing stiffly in front of her.
They stared at each other in wordless communication until apprehension forced them both to avert their eyes. She marveled at his dark, heavy clothes, which concealed him so well in the shadows, but turned him into a tangible specter in the fog. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Erik was looking inquisitively at her.
"I was frightened and confused," she broke the silence with an unasked explanation. "Joseph Bouquet hanging up lifelessly on stage shocked me. I mindlessly seized Raoul's waiting hand and carried him with me, perhaps thinking that his soothing presence could dissipate my dread…"
He started at the word "dread", infinite sadness rushing through him. She had no reasons to be afraid. Erik would rather kill himself than hurt her. Everything, even the threatening fall of the chandelier exactly before her, had been dexterously calculated in his instants of fury. He was the last person in the world who would hurt her, despite his temper and his uncertainties. He was her protector. Her true protector. His silent, dismayed protest traversed his expression, and she trailed off, searching his eyes.
"I know, Erik," she said gently, hoping that she could communicate with these unadorned words what was going on deep within her soul. Her hand twitched as pity and regret impelled her to caress his miserable face. Would he reject even a voiceless apology?
Erik had never done her any harm. He had never tried to hurt her, not even when she had torn his mask away. His utmost ire hadn't been enough to incite him against her. That morning, what had scared her away weren't his harsh words or any physical menace. She acknowledged long ago that deception was indeed the only possible result to her childishness – unjustly, his deception. She had been cruel to blame Erik for feeding her hopes and bringing happiness to her miserable heart. After all, how many times hadn't she called out for her Angel? At that remembrance, Christine lowered her eyes in shame and went on, gazing at her own hands, wet with cold sweat, "I thought I knew why Bouquet died. He had seen too much, and so did I. The thought that I could end up like him was too overwhelming to let me think reasonably. I not even recalled who you really were. I simply let Raoul decide how much you meant to me."
"Don't try to blame your Vicomte for everything. You don't know how it hurts to think you chose his watery protection, his false pledges of love instead of me, who'd walk through fire for you. I relished every single moment beside you, and dared hope you valued my company too, but you threw it all away and spent six months with him, Christine!" this time, his jealousy spoke louder than each sentiment – good and evil, sinful and divine – that crossed his expression as she talked. On the next minute, he already regretted this outburst, cursing inwardly his irrepressible temper.
Despite his angry stare, feeble hope reached her heart. What was that uncontainable jealousy? Its sting certainly wouldn't have wounded him should he find her as unworthy of his forgiveness as Christine herself did.
"You might have not noticed yet, Erik, but I wouldn't have come back if I really wanted to spend such a long time away. I dreamt of the Opera every night," she said earnestly, her eyes locked on his. "Raoul thought I was traumatized. He didn't mention the previous happenings not even once and I was never left alone. It wasn't what I wanted at all."
"Sometimes your wishes are too strange to conceive, Christine," he remarked inaudibly.
"I wanted time to think as calmly as I couldn't do here," she kept talking hastily, immersed in her redeeming declaration of guilt. "I thought my childhood best friend could offer me that. I was wrong, Angel. And I…"
Erik silenced her with an elegant motion of his gloved hand, noticing her flushed cheeks for the first time. His heart nearly ceased to beat as he interpreted that unpredicted display as a consequence of her words. Closing the distance between them, he tipped her chin, his eyes smiling to hers. After all, perhaps six months had been enough to show her how tiring her charming prince could be.
Christine then watched him disappear briefly in the fog, and heard as he pushed the door open. The gas lamps' welcoming clarity bathed the haze. Would he make her fantasies yet again come true? He wouldn't have to lie to her this time…
A few steps away, he gazed at her with caressing eyes, holding out a hand to her, beckoning her to come close with his soft, irresistible voice,
"You shan't get a cold, my dear. Come and drink a cup of tea."