DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, Erik, Christine or Raoul. Damn.
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My lips still tingled from the kiss I had given him. I knew I was foolish, thinking of a kiss as my fiancé held me in his bleeding, sore arms, cradling me protectively as we watched the Opera House burn to the ground.
Smoke invaded our noses and we coughed harshly, choking on a stumbling breath once every few minutes, sneezing whenever the smell grew particularly strong in our presence. Screams could be heard from the outside of the building, screams of relief, pain, sorrow, frustration, anger, they intermingled into a blurring mess in my ears, sounding like white noise, static. My normally compassionate and empathetic nature was hardened then. They had not suffered as he had, as I had. They did not know and for that, I envied them.
Pieces of rubble swirled menacingly around our heads; little shards of a life that would soon be left behind singed my dress and hair, clinging to my arms and legs. My face was gray with soot and his was gray with exhaustion.
His white shirt was ripped and the wound from the swordfight had ripped open anew, bleeding freely, staining his shirt an ugly brown color. My hands were stained from it, but I could not bring myself to care. My dress, once so beautiful, was soaked, waterlogged and heavy about my ankles, weighing me down in an anchor of silk, lace, and chiffon.
We both looked like we had been to hell and back. I almost laughed at that morbid simile to our experience. Perhaps we had.
He moved to take me further from the burning building, but I stayed him with a quick motion, pulling him closer to my body, seeking his embrace desperately. How I longed to drag myself away from this! From all of it! But I could not and I watched the blaze rear its impressive head and destroy my home. No, I corrected myself. My home was with him now. I love him. He is my heart and my home. He is where I belong!
I thought all of this fiercely as I reached up to touch my lips. That mutinous tingle! It wouldn't leave me, no matter how hard I tried to rid myself of its presence.
He had taken off his jacket sometime earlier, I realized, and we were both shivering, though I still cannot fathom why. Even as I look back on the events of that day, years later I do not know the reason. I knew intuitively that it had nothing to do with the cold, but could never figure out why he was shivering. His chin rested on the crown of my head and his arms wrapped about me comfortingly as this inferno blazed about us, leaving a trail of ruin in its wake.
The night was beautiful, terribly unfitting, I thought bitterly. The stars above us twinkled like taunting sprites of fire.
Look Christine, they called. Look what you have done! You broke him! You broke it all! They sounded like bullying children to her and she tried to not to shrink at the imagined accusations. It was my fault. I would have wept if I wasn't so maddeningly emotionless at that time. If I had not lead him along, if I had refused to perform in Don Juan! Perhaps, I could have prevented this tragedy.
But it was in the past, and as much as I would have liked to, I could not change it.
He whispered lover's whispers into my ear and I sighed, leaning back into him, letting him support my weight. He was so safe, so warm. He was the knight in shining armor. He was the noblemen with the heart of gold. He was everything I had ever dreamed of! So why did I still question my choice?
I tried to rid myself of such thoughts by thinking of Christmas together, the stolen kisses between rehearsals, the rooftop on the disastrous night of Il Muto. Yet even in his embrace and the embrace of my memories, my lips betrayed me by yearning for those of another! How treacherous! What had he called me? Oh, yes! A lying Delilah! How fitting! A snake I was, a serpent in my double crossing ways! How I loathed myself for my rebellious thoughts! How I wished that I was loyal to the man who held me so close, so caring, guiding me, loving me so wonderfully!
I could not but help asking myself if I had made the right choice. I turned and looked him in the eyes, urgently searching for reassurance, something to help me soothe my battered heart, my divided heart. Wench, I cried in my mind, still you doubt! Doubting wench! Lying witch! Oh beautifully cruel one, look upon your stupidity, foolish inablitiy to choose, to grow a backbone, look and weep!
I looked into his eyes deeply. His blue eyes, not outstandingly beautiful in their ordinarines,s met my plagued and teary eyes evenly. He lifted a hand to caress my cheek. I leaned into it gratefully. His warm hand soothed me, soothed my doubts. I knew then. I knew my choice. He understood. His cerulean orbs held love, confusion, weariness, pain, but above all, understanding.
Erik had been willing to die for me, I had seen it in his every move, his words, his songs, and I had seen it.
But Raoul had been willing to live for me, and with that thought, I led him by the hand away from the past, and into our future.
I had made my choice.
No, I had made the right choice.
The building let out a great shudder and collapsed inwardly as we rounded a corner, out of sight.
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La fin.
Please don't come after me with pitched forks and burning torches! I was listening to my iPod on shuffle and "All I Ask of You" came on three times in a row. It was a sign, I believe from my muse. The idea had been floating around in my head for a while and I finally decided to put it to paper, so to speak. In another small while I'll decide to not like it anymore, and severely edit it. I'm rather pleased with the way it flowed, actually. Its movie-verse, just to let you know, with the small exception that I use Erik's name.