A/N: Perhaps I am merely a hopeless romantic, but I love seeing symbolism in things, especially when it echoes in real life.
Enjoy!
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oOoOoOo
The fire in the grate had burned low, its embers serving to ward off the late October chill. The room was in mild disarray, with mounds of crimson fabric thrown over various armchairs and a well-worn dressmakers' mannequin bedecked with a half-stiched doublet standing erect near the mantlepiece. Crumpled letters and sheets of old ink-stained stationery were strewn across the Oriental rugs. Empty glass bottles dotted the exquisite furniture, glimmering in the hazy gaslight.
The subterranean house by the lake was now witnessing the first silence it had heard in days as the Opera Ghost slept, slumped against the front of the piano in the center of his sitting room. Large stacks of sheet music were piled high around him in varying states of organization, and the loose pages fluttered as he snored.
Erik was dreaming.
...As she leaned back, the Sunday afternoon sun caught her hair and highlighted the hints of auburn and gold within the chocolate brown tresses.
Christine was so beautiful.
Her kind hazel eyes reflected the shocks of autumnal color that lit up the trees of the Bois de Boulogne. From the modest bench where they were both seated, they could see a swan gliding across the water of a pond and a family of ducks chasing the bread crumbs tossed to them by a passing boy. She laughed softly, a melodious sound which carried on the breeze.
He sighed shakily in spite of himself, and closed his eyes. She turned to him, puzzled.
"Is there something wrong?" she asked, taking in the slightly worried expression on the exposed side of his face. "I know that being in public is...well, we needn't stay if you don't want."
He opened his eyes to see her looking at him with concern. He avoided meeting her gaze, and instead focused his attention on the park around him, bathed in the sun's glow.
"No, I am quite alright. It's beautiful here," he assured her, taking in the light he had always craved. He took a deep breath and turned to meet her gaze, choosing his words carefully. "...But when I asked you to accompany me, it was not without reason."
The breeze picked up slightly and blew a stray orange leaf into her hair. It clashed with the red of her scarf. He resisted the urge to pluck it from her hair, to touch her perfect curls.
She raised her eyebrows slightly and a hint of a smile played across her lips.
"You see, Christine," he savored the sound of her name, though his mouth went dry, "There is something that I would like to ask you, if I may."
"I trust you, Erik," she said, eyes bright but unreadable.
With another deep breath, he got to his feet, his grey wool coat falling into place around him. He removed his hat and gloves, and held out his hands to Christine, who took them immediately. She could feel them shaking, and stood up to face him.
His grey eyes twinkled in the dying sunlight as she looked up to him, and slowly but determinedly, he lowered himself to one knee.
Christine's breath caught in her throat.
As he fixed his eyes on the hem of her dress, studiously taking in the cobalt accents rather than meet her eyes, he spoke slowly.
"Christine, ever since I was a child, I have dreamed of your voice and of your eyes and your smile, and wondered if anyone in the world could be as perfect as that dream," He swallowed with difficulty. "...And yet, as you stand before me, you eclipse the dream, for you are truly my very own Angel of Music."
His hands began to tremble in earnest now, and tears began to run down the nose of his mask.
"You have my whole heart, and from this breath until far beyond my last, it will always be yours."
Erik reached into the pocket of his coat and retrieved a small wooden box, the top engraved with a meadowlark in flight. He gathered his courage and looked up to find Christine's own eyes swimming. She held her free hand in front of her mouth in shock. He opened the the box to reveal a silver ring, inlaid with a single perfect diamond.
"I know that am imperfect and difficult to love, but though I may be far from the man you deserve, I promise you, my heart will be yours, forever and a day, if you'll have me."
Christine smiled at him, tears running down her cheeks. The fresh wind caught her hair and in that moment, she was the most breathtaking thing Erik had ever seen.
"Erik, I-"
Without warning, his elbow slipped from the piano and his center of gravity was flung to the right. Startled awake, he reflexively scrambled for a handhold as the piano bench tipped over with a crash. A minor sixth sounded as his left hand found support on the keys, and he quickly righted himself, heartbeat racing and temperament poor.
Erik savagely put the piano bench upright once more and dropped into an armchair devoid of gold appliqué and red material, trying to recall the dream he had been forced out of. It seemed that lately, the good dreams always left the fastest.
He snatched a nearby wine bottle which still contained liquid and shot his piano a glare.
He paused, though, when the unintentional minor sixth ghosted through his head again, and he realized that it had been comprised of an E and a C.
E and C.
A melody began to weave its way into his mind which swirled around those two notes, two letters that formed unquestionably perfect harmony.
Leaving the wine bottle behind, Erik walked back to the piano and began shuffling through the messy pages of Don Juan Triumphant, looking for a clean sheet of parchment.
A rare smile flashed across his face as he took up his quill and began to compose once more.