I'm not really sure where I got the idea for this, but it's here, now. Enjoy!
Erik had never had a home.
Not even as a child living with the poor unfortunate woman he had called 'mother,' whom of which refused to look at his face without the protective cloth. His first christening had been a mask, endowed to him before even his own name. Just as now, he had been a ghost then, trying his hardest to appear invisible and be forgotten. His mother had hated him, so he had left. Erik had given her home back after stealing it away, soiling and ruining it with his presence.
Indeed, that dark house where his first few depressing years had been spent was most definitely not a home.
A home was something warm, safe, a place to be cherished.
The gypsy caravans were not a home either. The splintered wooden bottom of his cage, sparsely covered with bits of itchy hay, as well as the cold iron bars and the mocking leather whip that hung beyond. He recalled the vicious hatred gleaming in his captor's eyes. No… that had not been his home. That had simply been another prison. Another punishment for his existence.
He chose not to dwell on Persia. Those hellish years had not been his home. The only things he had felt there were agony and misery, and the sharp spike of pleasure morphine had brought. Everything in between was blurred from years of suppression, and the fog had only begun to clear upon his arrival in Paris.
The deepest cellar of the Opera Garnier was the closest thing he could call a home. It was comfortable, warm (with a fire in place,) and he knew he would have to be rather hard-pressed to give it up.
Especially since more often than naught, Christine accompanied him down there. Her angelic presence was a blessing to his sinful self, as well as his dark abode.
Erik could not fathom why such a perfect being such as her would even wish to spend time down there, with him, of her own free will, but the foolish girl persisted upon it. A small part of him often wondered if she even enjoyed being with him, but such a blasphemous thought often produced a snort of amusement. What a ridiculous idea.
Christine was light, perfection, an embodiment of everything good in the world. She smelled of vanilla and roses, and whenever she hugged him (in those short blissful moments, he felt like a thief, stealing what he did not deserve,) Erik could feel her radiance, her joy. He envied her ability to always see the bright side of things. She was a "half glass full" sort of person. He was not.
Christine was a Goddess. He was a demon, an underworld being. She was Persephone and he was Hades.
Yet however much he did not deserve her beauty, he was too selfish to let her go.
The scent of wax always incensed the air down in his caverns, yet this time there was none as Christine approached. The house on the lake was silent, shadowed and looming as she rowed forward on the small gondola he always left behind for her use. Brows furrowed, she steered the boat to a halt, only pausing to tie it up so it would not float away during her visit.
Quietly she pressed the panel that revealed the hidden door, stepping forward into the quiet hall. Before, the lantern hung on top of the gondola had illuminated her way, but once the door closed behind her there was nothing.
She fumbled through the darkness with only her hand on the wall to steer herself. "Erik?" Christine called out, but there was no reply. Something was wrong.
She found him in the parlor, sitting slumped in his favorite armchair. His bone-white mask lay in his hands, a dying fire flickering in the fireplace, barely alight, yet enough to allow her to make out his figure in the gloom. He turned the porcelain slowly in his palms, his forefingers curled in the eyeholes.
Christine took a few steps forward, and her slight sigh must have alerted him to her presence. Hurriedly he reapplied the mask, tightening the straps around his head. He turned in his chair, his amber eyes apologetic.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted. Her voice was soft with worry, he had never allowed her to see him like this before.
"Erik, is something wrong?"
The question had been hanging in the back of her mind for days, weeks now. Lately, he had seemed so terribly distant at their lessons, and she could not bear his coldness for much longer. She missed their friendly banter, their (more oft than not) discussions on philosophy over a cup of tea, the way his eyes would light up with excitement when he talked about his music-and whenever she sang.
Erik did not respond immediately, closing his eyes for a few beats, his elegant yet scarred hands clenched into fists. He did not wear gloves
"Christine," he breathed her name like a prayer, as he always did. His voice was magnificent, curling around her and making her heart beat fast, not with fear, but something else. Something one hundred times more powerful, and still more terrifying all the while.
"I...I was not expecting you so soon. If I had known, my dear, I would have lit more candles. Forgive me for my insensitivity." he stood at this, appearing as if he were about to bow, but she took a few steps forward before he was able to. The bottom of her dress lightly skimmed the floor, only coming to a halt once she stood before him.
"No, there's nothing to forgive," she assured him, reaching down to clasp his hand within hers. Christine noted how he flinched slightly at the contact, his gaze flickering down to their entwined fingers, appearing shocked that she was willing to touch him on her own volition. She had been visiting his home for a month now, and yet he was still disbelieving every time she did so much as walk through the door.
"I simply wanted to spend more time with you before lessons. That's all." Christine offered a small smile, and his mouth suddenly felt very dry.
The fire chose this moment to extinguish, the encroaching darkness now covering them with a thick blanket. The only illumination was the gleam of his yellow, cat-like eyes.
"Oh, Christine," he exhaled, his thumb rubbing slow circles over her wrist. "I do not deserve you. I am surely ruining you, you are a creature of perfection and I-" a finger was pressed against his lips, effectively silencing him.
Nonsense, she thought, taking another step closer. Only slightly apprehensive about what she was about to do, she focused on the feel his breath as it fanned her face. She only paused for a moment to look into his eyes, before letting her finger drop and standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss against his lips. They were thin and stiff against hers, and while she could not see him, she felt him go stiff beneath her palms as her hand abandoned his, instead reached up to cup the sides of his masked face. Her lips pressed pleadingly for a counterpoint, her hands softly kneading the coat on his shoulders after a few moments. His breath was warm as he exhaled through his nostrils, his breath uneven and deep. She tried to get his mouth to move against hers, but to no avail.
Christine pulled back to blink up at him, her face pale with worry at his lack of reaction. Had she done something wrong? They had come so far, she could not bear to lose him for good now. "Erik, I'm sorry, if I was too forward I-"
He cut her off by tugging her back against him, this time meeting her stroke for stroke. His lips moved against hers, his arms reaching to pull her close, the warmth of her body reaching through and melting his cold, frigid heart. Tears pricked at his eyes, yet he dare not let when fall in fear of this moment ending. If he were to die now, he would die a satisfied and fulfilled man. There would be nothing more to ask for in this life, having undeservingly experienced the exquisite feel of her lips against his and her soft arms wrapped around his neck, clinging to him as if her life depended upon it.
While the first kiss had caused her heart to skip a beat, this one ceased her breathing altogether, his now-warm lips molding against hers perfectly, his hand cupping the back of her head as she opened her mouth slightly, her tongue darting out to touch his lip. Erik's exhale was ragged and audible as she shifted, the friction causing pleasure to spike up through both of their nerves.
Needing to regain her breath, she pressed a small kiss to the side of his mouth before resting her chin on his shoulder, sighing softly with content. Her unruly brown hair tickled his chin, but he did not mind, pressing his masked, revolting face against her curls, breathing in her scent.
I love you, his heart soared. I love you more than anyone can ever imagine.
Erik desperately tried not to weep, but a lone tear managed to escape and he cursed it with all his might. It felt as if floodgates had been open, and silent sobs soon wracked his body and he pulled her closer, if that was even possible. She tilted her head up, and for a moment he was afraid he had hugged her too hard, and that she was now going to pull away, her face twisted with horror as she was hit with the realization she had just kissed a monster, twice.
He knew what would happen. She would begin to cry, her hands covering her delightfully soft mouth, and she would begin to gag as it set in that she had actually embraced him. Christine would curse and hate him, and he would not- could not blame her.
But instead, she reached and brushed the tear off his masked cheek.
"Don't cry," his angel murmured, smiling softly at him once more. She did not move her hand, and he swore he could feel her warmth through the porcelain as she pressed a kiss (his third!) to his mask. Her other hand reached up to lightly run her fingers through his hair, and they slowly rocked side to side, locked in a comfortably tight embrace. Together, like two lost souls in a tumultuous storm, with only each other to cling to. She was his life-raft, the only one to notice his struggle beneath the waves and to even think of saving him from drowning. Christine had pulled his dreadfully cold hands out from the depths and hugged his miserable form tight to her, promising that he would never, ever be alone again.
And there, in her safe and comforting arms, he knew he had finally found his home.