Ramin Karimloo as the Phantom, Sierra Boggess as Christine.
For those that have read my Phantom fanfics and know that I support Raoul/Christine...
It's called fanfiction. For a reason.
Erik thought he was dreaming— or perhaps he was dying— when he saw Christine in front of him.
But it wasn't a dream. Christine never looked so conflicted or lost during his dreams, and she never hesitantly stood with five feet between them.
"Why have you come back?"
"I'm getting married to Raoul tomorrow morning," was all she said.
"Congratulations," he said, almost with an acrimonious air. He saw her flinch, but he continued anyway. "Isn't this what you wanted? To become a noblewoman, to become a Vicomtesse? To become your precious Raoul's wife? To be surrounded by beauty and light? Of course staying in darkness with a monstrous beast like me would slowly kill you." He spat out the words like venom, unable to control his anger.
To his— not complete— surprise, he saw her tearing up. "I don't know what I want!" she finally burst out. "I'm twenty years old, I don't know how to be a Vicomtesse, but I don't know if I want to stay here."
"Well then go back," he sneered. "You'll be taught how to be a Vicomtesse, I'm sure. And no one would teach you how to live with a monster."
"Angel, please stop!" she cried out.
He was scaring her, he could see. She had never been strong, and he was clearly terrifying her with his talk of her imminent responsibilities.
But he couldn't bear to see an angel cry.
"Christine— I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." The apology sounded strange on his tongue. "But you didn't answer my question, Christine. Why have you come back?"
"I—"
She hesitated.
"I had to see if— if you were still alive. I'd thought the mob had killed you."
No one had cared if he was alive or not, not even Nadir.
Christine had cared.
That had to mean she loved him over the Vicomte.
Suddenly their lips were touching, then hungrily pressing against each other, though he didn't remember who had moved first— he had a suspicion it had been himself, but he wasn't sure. The kiss was so very different from the one kiss they had shared, after he had kidnapped her from the stage during Don Juan Triumphant.
And Christine, after a few seconds, started crying, silently.
They somehow reached the bedroom that Christine had used during the times Erik had taken her down to the island, and tumbled into the bed. Christine hadn't stopped crying. Then their clothing were gone, and Christine was naked and lying beneath him. He couldn't believe that she was here, a goddess among common men— but no goddess had smooth, warm skin that responded to his touch.
Except she didn't stop crying.
When it was over, he laid beside her, trying not to look at the scarlet blood on the snow-white sheets. He almost hadn't believed she had been virginal— it was all too easy to guess that she had been with the Vicomte at some point— but the blood confirmed it. But he had taken her virginity from her, and it almost scared him, because though he was no virgin himself, he had never been with a virgin before. Had he hurt her? It had been hard to tell.
She murmured "angel" softly as she fell asleep.
Did she regret what they had done?
She had cried ever since they began kissing, which he didn't take as a good sign. And from what he could remember, she hadn't instigated the kiss. He had.
Had she gone to bed with him willingly?
What if what they had done— what he had done— was...
...rape her?
He had to leave. He had to leave now. He couldn't wake up in the morning to see her face and wonder, perhaps, if he had raped her, like the monster that he assumed he had become.
It was for her own good if he left. She could go back to the Vicomte, have her Ever-After Ending. And he...
Erik quietly rose from the bed without waking Christine and dressed quickly. Should he leave a note?
On second thought, she'd hate him whether he left a note or not. It would be better to slip into the darkness, into the unknown, without any traces left behind.
It was for Christine's own good.