Ye Olde Author's Note: I've been a Phantom fan (ALW; the 2004 movie can fall off a cliff) for years and finally got to see it live. I came away with the 2011 25th anniversary DVD and promptly fell head-over-heels in love with that Phantom and Christine.
I have also seen 'Love Never Dies' (really, ALW?), and my strong desire for seamless canon drove me a little crazy when I realized that Phantom has never been adjusted to create the (somewhat important) plot driving LND.
So, after seeing the sparks literally flying between Ramin and Sierra during 'Music of the Night,' this fic demanded to be written. I'm using the characters they created and this slots in right at the end of 'Music of the Night.'
I literally wrote this in about 3 hours and it hasn't been beta read, so **please** point out any grammatical/punctuation/spelling/etc errors. Also: I adore concrit. If you don't like the direction I took, fine; let me know. If you're disappointed with the ending, great; let me know. If you think I'm a horrible person for writing this, fantastic; don't let me know. Feedback on the story/plot is very welcome; personal attacks on me are not.
Now: on with the story!
Yearn
He yearns.
It is a new feeling, for him.
He has craved (the love of his mother), wanted (indifference from strangers), longed (to escape the fear and loathing of his youth (for he was never allowed to be a child)) and burned (for freedom from the living hell that was his enslavement in that eternity-damned 'carnival.')
But in the whole of his life, he has never yearned for anything.
The feeling is unsettling, because he does not know how to react to it (her), and so he responds in the only way he knows: music. And with each sweet, trusting response she gives him, his desire, his yearning, deepens.
When he finally allows himself to believe that she is able to see him, meet him, without running and thus leaving his music (him) empty and flightless, his entire being aches. And not just for her body, to his surprise, but for her heart and soul as well (though he truly has no idea what do with her heart, should she gift it to him). She is the only one in his entire existence to show him genuine trust and kindness, and she is also one of the few who truly appreciates his genius.
His emotions confuse him after their glorious debut. He relishes the lust even as he resents it (for still he wants what he cannot have), and possessiveness is a familiar companion, as is the urge to strangle that brazen, obnoxious vicomte. He cannot blame the boy for being dazzled by her, but he will be damned before he allows anything to come of it.
She is his.
No, these feelings are not new, but this . . . satisfaction he feels at her performance under his tutelage is puzzling. It is not an unpleasant sensation, but it is one he doesn't understand (how could he? He has never had occasion to experience pride.). The deepening of that emotion when she refused the boy unsettled him further, and so he finds himself berating her for the vicomte's actions instead of offering praise for her magnificent performance. Her genuine remorse soothes him, and her heartfelt plea for him to come to her causes that same unnerving feeling of . . . he would call it 'longing' but that is woefully inadequate for the depth of his emotions.
He yearns.
And when she comes to him, willingly and gladly — albeit with a little reluctance (fear), because some part of her knows he is a predator beyond anything she could imagine — he wants. As their voices twine together in sweet harmony, the way it was meant to be — male to female, low to high, dark to light — he burns. When she obeys his wordless demand to sing, he has the desperate thought (hope) that she is his match. His mirror opposite. The one who will meet him in the middle and create perfection.
And as she sings for him (always for him, only for him), he begins to wonder. Was it possible that she . . .
When that clear, trusting, adoring gaze comes to rest on him, he realizes that he can no longer stop himself.
At first, she is enthralled with the world he is singing for her. Unsure, but captivated. She is no helpless innocent, his Christine, but she is still unaware of the darkness in her that allows her to take his music to the heavens (for night is where all of his music begins). But as he coaxes her hidden desires to the light, his come spilling out with them. Their unfurling emotions twine around each other the way he longs for their bodies to do and the sensation is so intoxicating he actually feels dizzy, and the intensity of his emotions throbs in the song of his heart.
Her radiant face as she experiences the first taste of ecstasy only he can give her nearly brings him to his knees and he cannot stay away any longer. He draws her into his dark embrace as much for his sanity (he has to touch her, now, or go mad with the lack) as his balance. Her eager submission only stokes the flames of his desire, as he seeks to fill her every sense, her every thought, with him. And though he cannot bring himself to let her touch his face (she has the darkness he craves, oh yes, but even he cannot shatter his own heart to appease her innocent curiosity), he will give her anything else she wants of him.
He yearns.
He catches her wrist in a grip that is made rough from his own desire, and as she looks into his eyes, hers are glowing with arousal . . . enchantment . . . trust.
In return, he gives her his want, his desire, his soul-deep need for her, and takes the breath he needs to finish his song. But he has drawn too much out of her and she crumples in his arms. He is torn between bitter disappointment and tender amusement as he gently picks her up, only to catch his breath when he sees that she is still awake . . . and aware. And still showing him, telling him with her heated gaze and pliant body, that she has succumbed to her desire. She has succumbed to his.
She yearns.
And so, as he slowly lowers her to his bed, he croons the last of his song into her ear as he settles behind her, curving his body to fit hers.
You alone can make my song take flight.
Help me make the music of the night.
He touches her with shaking hands, unable to believe that this is happening, that she is letti — no, giving herself freely to him. His emotions are so fragile and tender — and his control so tenuous — that he does not dare try to undress her. He is truly afraid that if he actually lays eyes (much less hands, lips, and tongue) on her sweet flesh, he will become the ravaging beast he pretends he isn't and take her. Hurt her.
So he caresses her with his sensitive musician's fingers, soaking up the song of desire that she is singing to him in the form of soft whimpers, gasps of pleasure, and throaty groans of delight.
All he has touched is her neck, arms, and upper chest, but he has always craved information, and so he has studied the art of lovemaking. It was with the full knowledge that he would never experience such joys for himself, but he has always been more than a little masochistic. And now, her beautiful, responsive body is ripe before him, beckoning him, and he cannot wait any longer.
In the merest breath of a voice, he begs for her permission. Her surrender is given just as softly, but freely and with no hesitation.
As he carefully, tenderly, eases himself into her sweet, luscious heat, he knows that he will shatter from the ecstasy, because surely no mortal form can contain such joy. His studies of the act of love and his innate drive for perfection mean that he is able to give her the same pleasure but only a little of the pain, and her instinctive move to push against him is his undoing. With a hoarse cry that he muffles against her hair, he finds his completion. The sensations are overwhelming and it is only the barest thread of sanity that lets him bring her to the same glorious end she has given him.
Her choked cry of pleasure is the most beautiful song he has ever heard.
After he recovers from the blinding pleasure of her body, he reluctantly disentangles them and leans over her, fearing to see her face but unable to stop himself.
And goes completely still when he sees that she is sleeping. But her lips are curved in a contented smile and her body is relaxed against him in utter trust.
It nearly kills him to leave her, but the music that never stops haunting his thoughts is calling to him. It is the siren's call that he cannot ignore or resist, even more than her.
But she gives it (him) life, and now she has given him herself.
And he yearns.
{PC} {PC} {PC}
She thinks it was a dream.
He is struck with this soul-crushing realization when she strips away his mask (his protection, his hiding place) with childish, innocent carelessness.
And when he meets her eyes after his terrified flight, he sees no fondness, no remembrance . . . not even revulsion. The only things he finds are fear and a bewildered hurt (he has always been a harsh taskmaster, but never cruel. Not with her.). And then there is nothing but horror when he forces her to see the truth she has so thoughtlessly revealed.
He finds himself begging pathetically despite himself, pleading with her to remember the love, the trust, she had felt only hours ago, only to have his heart shattered by her fear. But as he takes his mask from her trembling fingers and sees compassion and pity in her tear-filled eyes, he does not know which of them he hates more in that moment.
She can't be here. As much as he loathes what she has done, he knows that if she stays, he will harm her (not physically. Never. But he knows her, sees her better than she could ever imagine, and he can devastate her with a single phrase.). He is not yet that lost to sanity.
His rage at her for forgetting the only beautiful experience in his miserable life cannot be contained, though, and so he is rough and cold when he drags her out of his sanctuary (hiding place). With a dream and one gesture, she has destroyed him.
And still he yearns.
{PC} {PC} {PC}
He would have forgiven her everything had she returned to him. He did not begrudge her reaction to his face; even now, there are times he flinches from himself. But had she been willing to see past the monster to the soul of the poet (who's heart beats only for her, if she would only hear it), he would have given her the world.
Instead, she runs to the illusion of security and lies of never-ending light made by that fool vicomte and in his fury he curses them both when she turns away from him again to cling to the pillar of safety that will only crush her. It takes him far too long to calm enough to see the future she is so recklessly chasing.
For the handsome young vicomte sees only her beautiful exterior and that alluring, tempting innocence. He sees someone to rescue. And she . . . she refuses to acknowledge the darkness in her soul, clinging to the artifice that light can exist without dark. But in refusing to accept her own dual nature, she also fails to see her would-be rescuer's. It is benevolent, yes, but still very much there, for he thinks her weak and helpless, and will cage the songbird with the justification that it is for her protection. And the songbird, forbidden to fly or sing 'because she doesn't need to, he will take care of her', will slowly fade away until there is nothing but a limp cloud of feathers crumpled on the plush carpet of her luxurious gilded cage.
She will rot from the inside out, dying from a life devoid of his music, and he will burn the world before he lets that fate befall her.
So he will take her back. She does not love him now — indeed, she fears and loathes him — but he promised her that she could and he has always kept his word to her. And even if she hates him forever, she will always have his music.
Their souls are bound at the deepest level by the music that is more a part of them than the blood in their veins, so he turns to the opera he's been struggling with for months and in a sudden, unnerving burst of inspiration, he finishes it with a duet meant only for them. Every note is written to enflame, to entice, to tempt and seduce. To draw the truth to the surface. And as they come together, she will see her master, her maestro, her Angel of Music.
She will come to him.
And he yearns.
{PC} {PC} {PC}
Her final betrayal doesn't crush him. It turns him to stone.
(He does not know that his music has cleared the haze of that night, and his touch awakened her memory when it roused her body)
{PC} {PC} {PC}
Even after her own passion and desire have been revealed to her, she refuses to accept what her own heart is crying out for. And in her fury at her heart's betrayal, she turns on him. He is standing before her, his heart in his hands, offering her his soul, and she shatters him like a glass chandelier.
The agony of her treachery overwhelms him and he finds himself consumed with the desire to force her to see him, see what he is willing to give her (the music of his soul) if only she will come to him.
He is too enraged to be gentle and coaxing with her now, but because of that, he cannot help but be brutally honest, and that strikes a chord in her, he can see. She is softening, considering . . . and then the man he has come to hate even more than he loathes himself blunders in and she runs to him again. The one thing in his existence that had any life in it, and she brutally yanks it from his desperate grasp because she is terrified that the beauty of the moon will overshadow the glory of the sun.
He is caught in a trap of his own making. In forcing her to see her true self, he has also shown her just how twisted he was becoming. She does not (want to) see that she had stopped his downward spiral and given him a reason to seek the sun. She bitterly rejects that she is his Angel of Music just as he is hers.
And when she chooses to save her would-be rescuer (and captor), he tastes desire in her kiss . . . and despair in her tears. She loves him, and she can no longer deny it. So she denies him instead. And, finally, he realizes that she will never be his. She is too afraid of herself to trust her own instincts and her handsome young suitor has never shown her anger (disregard, yes, and dismissiveness, but never anger).
The Phantom of the Opera (not Erik. Never Erik. It is not a name he was given out of love or even for his own identity. It is a moniker applied only because they couldn't write 'monster' on the birth record. And he has never needed a name for himself.), though . . . he has molded her, trained her, and brought her level with the sun . . . only to throw his dark shadow across it like an eternal eclipse.
Is it any wonder that she rejects her love for him?
So he lets her go with her new captor. She is strong, his Christine, and he will cling to the hope that she will see and stand up to the gentle dictator he will become. Without his music, her soul will wither, but keeping his music means loving him, and that is a fate she cannot bring herself to embrace.
His dreams shatter around him when she walks away and he collapses in the ashes of hope, giving in to his anguish. The faint sounds of Masquerade suddenly reach his ears and he twists around, voice breaking as he sings the words that have defined and destroyed his life.
Masquerade! Paper faces on parade.
Masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you.
And then she is there. With love in her eyes and indecision on her face, she offers him the ring he has longed to see her wear. But they both know she could have returned it without him knowing, and he swallows, holding her gaze and daring to let an ember of hope flare . . .
. . . only to extinguish it a heartbeat later, closing her fingers around it and pushing her back. She loves him, yes . . . but she is not ready or able to accept what loving him will cost.
His resolve shatters when she asks him the question he had begged of her, and he surrenders to his own weakness. His music cannot live without her.
He cannot live without her.
Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime . . .
But her new captor lures her to him with talk of summertime and guidance, and she goes to him, too hungry for light to see that she is destroying soul of the music of the night.
She is gone.
He is empty.
And still he yearns.
~~~
fin