No, I did not forget Slip into the Night, but I wanted to write a happier little "what if" interlude between all of the angst and separation from that story!
Just a note: Begins right after the performance of Il Muto with a few differences. The managers heeded Erik's requests for fear of what would happen to the opera house lest they ignore the evasive Phantom, casting Christine as the Countess and leaving box 5 empty. Erik never had to make Carlotta croak like a toad, nor did he have to watch from the rafters and become chased by Buquet all because he had his beloved box 5 to enjoy the performance. Because Buquet never dies, the All I Ask of You scene never happens… well, not the way you would think. For sake of the Christmas theme, I am moving the dates around so that Christmas Eve is the night they perform Il Muto.
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Christine was flushed, her nerves buzzing with energy from the stage she had just walked from, still feeling as if she were soaring right above the opera house and into the Paris air. She had felt him watching minutes after singing her first lines, seeing the ripple of a red curtain up in his box, and, that one sight alone had immediately sprung life and clarity into her previously hesitant voice. It was the first time Christine had performed without his preparation and sensing him there filled her with the desire to please him, prove that she was still his Angel of Music.
Having already dashed back to her dressing room past every flower, bough of holly, and rambunctious man of the press with their lights seeming more blinding than the ones on the tree in the grand foyer, she was now working vigorously with a cloth and basin of water to rub off the rouge and paint on her face as well as the pesky black of the music notes that decorated her collarbone and shoulders. The performance tonight had occurred earlier than usual so that they could give the annual Yuletide program for the families and friends of all of us boarding, performing, and working at the opera house soon after. Christine had to quickly change costume and then report back to the stage for a hurried rehearsal before the audience could stream in with the impatience always tied to the excitement of this season. Meg burst in the door, the chiffon of her white ballet skirts barely fitting through the width of the entranceway, closed it behind her, and then leaned her back to the wood with a puff of relief. The smell of roasting chestnuts and the sharp crisp of berried evergreens that had wafted in like a storm with her slight figure had disappeared when the door shut.
"Mon Dieu, Christine! You would think they meant to break the door down!" Christine giggled at Meg's ever-present vibrancy.
"Let them try with you as my guard."
The past two weeks, since the night of Hannibal, since the night of seeing him, had passed by in a melancholy blur. He had become silent, the encounter had trailed her thoughts endlessly, and Meg had been the only contender to possess the ability to draw a smile onto Christine's troubled face. She never questioned, just remained her constant bubbly self that acted like a remedy to Christine's wandering mind.
Meg smirked at this before walking forward to help with her dress and hair. The songbird had already shed the stiff and voluminous top layer backstage as well as the wig, though the rest of the gaudy ensemble had remained impossible to discard without assistance.
After a warm bout of praise from friend to friend, the two were soon talking in fervent whispers about the private performance to commence within the next hour and the large feast and party that would ensue the strike of midnight. The Yuletide program was always Christine's favorite and, trumping that annual eagerness, this was the first year she actually played a large role as opposed to linking her voice with the others in the chorus. She was nervous as always, the prospect of being the center of all eyes and ears not having lost its intimidation, but her voice was thankfully still warmed up from Il Muto. Would he watch this one as well?
"There," Meg proclaimed with pleased nod. Christine looked down at herself and then spun to look in the mirror. The dress was a dark evergreen silk and gathered in a cascade down the back with the sleeves draping from her shoulders in a sheer gold fabric. Gloves of a deep red were slid up just past her elbows, and where her hair had before been unflatteringly plastered to her head from the wig, it was now in a soft chignon at the nape of her neck, a few ringlets falling to brush her rose cheeks.
"My work here is finished. You look beautiful, like a queen of Christmas!" Christine gave Meg a radiant smile in reply before lifting her hand in a regal air.
"Merci, my humble servant. Now, go get yourself ready! I can manage the barricades of this castle myself." Meg gave a quick and hasty curtsy, throwing a mocking smile over her shoulder before twirling out the door. Christine heard her pause to first speak to someone and then smelled the fragrance of the holidays again rush in and out with a burst. The chefs seemed intent on filling every inch of the Populaire with their sweet aromas.
Christine stared thoughtfully at the floor-length gilded mirror for a moment before she saw Raoul stride through the door in the reflection, his tawny hair slicked back behind his ears and his finest suit on. In his hand was a gathering of pink roses and Christine turned, giving a little smile at his presence before rushing to meet him at the door before he could walk over to her. The thought of having Raoul fully in her dressing room had given Christine unease ever since the night of Hannibal and she worked hard to keep him out without seeming too cold or transparent. With a question in his eyebrow at her blocking figure, he spoke.
"Lotte, you sang wonderfully tonight. It really is a gift alone that we all may hear you again in the concert."
Christine and Raoul had remained friends after the night he first tried to invite her to supper, though Raoul could not help but feel as if Christine were pushing him away. Her words were always kind, but her mind constantly remained elsewhere.
"Thank you, Raoul," she replied, smiling warmly at her friend.
When Christine made no move to step aside, Raoul cleared his throat and handed her the flowers.
"I will not keep you from rehearsal." He turned to go but then hesitated in step, angling his head back to Christine and opening his mouth slightly as if to speak, before closing it and walking out of the door.
Christine stared at the pink roses in her hand guiltily before turning back to the dressing room, intent on setting them on the table by the mirror to then find a vase. But, she froze from her walk when her eyes met the table, dropping the flowers when a single red rose tied carefully with a black ribbon was seen glistening on it.
Glistening?
Christine gave a little run to the table with a thudding heart and took the rose gently in her satin-gloved fingers. The rose lifted, though a gold chain slid from the ribbon and remained on the mahogany surface with a soft clink. In her left hand Christine fingered the necklace curiously and gasped. A large crystal teardrop pendant hung at the bottom, licked with a side-lining of gold, and small garnets, a perfect match to her gloves, gathered in little bursts around it before trailing up the rest of the chain. Strings of the garnet draped from the clasp to connect to the crystal pendant and two smaller crystals in-between like gathered curtains in breathtaking elegance. Christine did all but stop breathing.
Putting the rose softly on the table, she faced the mirror and strapped the delicate necklace around her neck, the pendant hanging perfectly above the ribbon-adorned neckline of the dress. In the silence of holding her breath, she thought she heard the soft billow of a cape and the barely audible scuff of a step, the sound causing her to immediately scan the mirror with hope. Was he there?
Though, it was to no avail. All Christine could see in the glass was her own searching expression and the blush pink dressing room behind her. She had not heard his presence once in the two weeks that had passed since he had revealed himself. Sometimes she could almost feel him near, but he had made no attempt to contact her or see her at all. This rose with the necklace was the first time since Hannibal...
At first, Christine had thought herself glad of the absence from fear of their last encounter, but that fear had blossomed into sadness, which then plummeted into a hole caused by his absence— one filled with regret. She should have shown him that her fear had not been for his face as opposed to just sitting there, speechless in her muted tears on those stone steps. She had not had the right words to reply with and, therefore, kept silent. Now, Christine regretted that morning, how she had handled it, but he shunned her. Well, until now.
With fingers to her rose and the other hand resting on the necklace she smiled into the mirror, feeling a small bubble of warmth stream into her from the spot the cold pendant rested on her skin.
The rose… he was proud of me tonight, she thought in wonder.
The necklace… she quirked her lips at the memory of how excited she would be every Christmas Eve, knowing there would be a gift waiting from her Angel. Her smile began to fall as she thought back to this morning when she had woken with such certainty that nothing would be waiting this year after what she had done to him. She did not care about the gift, but the notion that he cared she did very much so.
Christine lifted her fingers to the mirror as if to reach through it and to him, who she still felt behind the glass surface like a tickle at the back of her neck, before a knock resounded on the door and made her nearly jump. Christine turned quickly while grabbing the rose like a safeguard just in time to see Madame Giry peek in the door all the while speaking curt words and waving her cane at those still waiting for the prima donna to come out and "just give a few words." With a click of the door and the pleased swivel of her foot at the reporters' retreat, she turned to look at Christine, glancing down at the pink roses on the floor and then to the red rose in her slim hand. Her gaze then honed in on the necklace before flicking to the mirror behind her, a hint of a curious smile lifting one corner of her lips.
"Come, you are wanted onstage for rehearsal," she stated briskly before adding in a softer voice, "you look radiant, my dear."
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The private concert was going smoothly, every performer bursting at the seams with the spirit of the Yuletide. Even Carlotta, the warbling brat, seemed to have toned down her ear-piercing shrills to fit the manner of the season. Erik stood in his box, holding the curtain open to a slit with a gloved hand, and watched with narrowed eyes as the actors, singers, and dancers sung and twirled and spoke their hallowed words of praise for the Yuletide.
He believed none of it. In fact, stopped believing the moment he had ran from his forsaking home as a boy.
Who was this "bringer of light" born to save them all? This king who had never once touched Erik's life, condemning him to his living hell? The words… he did not give in to the rosy notion, but a rosy notion it was.
Finally, Christine emerged from the cluster onstage and sung Il est ne, le divin Enfant with palms open to the sky. Reyer had the orchestra mellowed to play angelic symphonies and they flowed around Christine's every note, warring in beauty with her voice on their ascent to the heavens. The ballet corps moved with poetry around her and the small audience of families and friends were gathered around the stage, enthralled and leaning over their seats so far you would think them mad. Erik curled his lip at the sparkle around Christine's neck, shining brilliantly under the stage's lights.
Oh, how lovely, oh, how pure
Is this perfect child of heaven
Oh, how lovely, oh, how pure
Gracious gift of God, to man.
He had been behind the mirror earlier, hoping with a withering hope that she would accept his gift without tossing it to the ground in repulsion.
Her playing the Countess in Il Muto had been a crucial decision, one which filled the theater to the seams when word broke out. And, if Erik had been worried at all about her voice from the two weeks it had undergone without his instruction, him being her teacher, it had been diminished the moment those clear, perfect notes had sprung for her mouth. She had not disappointed, and no matter the more recent events, Erik had felt obliged to give his token of adoration.
Much to his satisfaction, Christine had actually dropped the Vicomte's dull roses to the ground when her eyes had seen his single red one and a wicked smirk had emerged at the sight. Erik had never witnessed such a reaction on her face and, upon watching her response change further when she lifted the necklace, he had almost given himself away. Of course, he had wanted to see her. That blazing desire had never been diluted and, strangely, she had seemed to reciprocate that need… but, after the cruel way he had treated her and the fear so apparently held for him, Erik thought it unwise. It was painful, but he had only stood against the rock wall of his corridor behind the mirror and watched her reach and touch the glass, her large brown eyes darting across the surface. All he had to have done was slide the mirror to the side and she would have been touching him.
Focusing back on her slim form, the vision in green, and out of his troubled mind, Erik leaned his ear closer and gripped a velvet seat before him, pulling the curtain an inch further to the side. A tinkling of high notes were flowing from her pink lips and her face, now upturned, appeared as if she stared straight at him.
Jesus, Lord of all the world
Coming as a child among us
Jesus, Lord of all the world
Grant to us Thy heav'nly peace.
The song ended with a joyous lulling from the orchestra and, as the heavy curtains fell shut in front of the stage, Erik let his own velvet drape drop and conceal him back into darkness.
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Christine had felt him watching… hoped it. Again, she had seen the curtain, even the white of a mask, but it might have only been reflections playing tricks on her eyesight from the blinding stage.
It was only a few inches from midnight and the Réveillon, the night-long feast, would soon begin. The bustling around the opera house had grown even grander, even with the crowds more sparse and personal, and colors and decorations flew by to fill the halls with merriment. Many of the stagehands had left, though families of those who board, benefactors of the opera house, and friends of the managers remained in the halls and corridors to exchange gifts and marvel at the sights. Christine walked through with a sad smile past every mother and father she saw before, like a godsend, Meg drifted to her side. At that moment, the clock struck twelve. Christine and Meg stepped down the marble staircase together, the sight of the grand foyer in full swing breathtaking to all of the senses. Holly tickled her fingers on the banister in her descent while the wafting fragrance of the feast tickled her nose, the warm air with bursts of wind from any open window pushed into her face with its familiar feel, and music resonated from every corner of the room.
"Come on, we need to get a seat. Oh, there's maman!"
Men playfully grabbed their wives in a quick kiss beneath mistletoe and chefs maneuvered through the raucous to wheel out their gold carts filled with various platters and drinks. Andre and Firmin held conversations with half of the women's bosoms and Carlotta's screeching Italian was heard above every light conversation with a frazzled Piangi glued to her side. The table was unending and thin, stretching almost the complete length of the foyer with a red tablecloth draped in elegant folds and candelabrum stood in increments with their warm glow casted on every glint of silverware. Christine smoothed her fingers down the silk of her dress and touched her necklace absentmindedly while the two made their way over to the far end of the table where Madame Giry sat. Right near Raoul. Christine bit her lip with a slight feeling of dread. She enjoyed being around Raoul, how it reminded her of those happy days by the sea, but that boy had grown and begun to make his feelings more apparent. And, Christine had grown as well. Too much had happened for her to think of him in that way right now and she could not help but begin to grow unnerved by his company, unsure if he would try any advances, hoping he would not construct a situation where she would have to voice any feelings on the matter. Raoul was handsome and caring, yes, but there was just something… missing.
Upon reaching the table, Christine watched Raoul turn from his conversation with another aristocrat and move to pull the high-backed chair out for her. Her heart wrenched a modicum with guilt. Oh, she wished she felt for him the way he clearly felt for her, longed for how easy it would be.
Meg nudged her hand once everyone had taken their seats and glared at her with the inquisitive eyes so notorious for friends that knew the other far too well. Christine gave a little helpless shrug and Meg nodded. She had already told Meg of her predicament with Raoul, of course leaving out the more shocking details of what else boiled in her mind for the past two weeks, and she understood how Christine felt, though she thought her mad for not wanting a noble man. Maybe she was mad, but before she could think about it too hard, the courses began to present themselves full of very distracting smells.
The feast was astonishing and filled with wine, oysters, hors d'oeuvres, a stuffed goose— well three, with the company so large—, Christmas pudding, roasted nuts, cranberries and sprigs of holly adorning practically every dish. The tree stood incredibly large and bright, and one would think it could light the room alone with its brilliant candles filling the hundreds of branches. Wine glasses clinked and conversation was light and happy with hopes for the new year ahead. Christine was merry with the spirit of the yuletide, the magic of it contagious and warm, but something pulled at her mind no matter the adored and familiar traditions she sat in. The last time her angel had given her a rose, it had been because he wanted to see her…
The last course had been served, the guests had risen to socialize, and Christine found it the perfect opportunity to slip away. Uttering a few words to Meg about needing air and nodding politely to those near her seat, she broke away from the table and melted into the throngs of people dancing and walking about. Lifting her skirts, Christine trailed back up the staircase, her skin buzzing with nerves and her throat too dry to swallow.
She wandered first into to the chapel, for deciding to do so now rather than later was only logical. On Christmas Eve she would always light a candle for her father, close her eyes, and pretend he was there to be with her on the holiday before quickly running back to her friends so that the reality of the fact wouldn't have time to surface until later. Tonight, though, she had a different agenda. Christine touched the picture of Gustave Daae and gave a small sigh, a few spoken words echoing against the stone walls telling her that she was either truly alone or simply ignored.
After calling to her angel, the phantom, whoever he now should be called since she knew not a name, and being repeatedly met with silence, Christine left the sacred room with a heavy heart. Again, she rubbed the necklace's pendant between her thumb and forefinger as she retreated back to her dressing room all the while whispering to the walls like a mad woman. Each step brought her further into her mind and memories of that night, reliving all that had occurred the morning after that dreaming night of song. Did he not trust her enough to ever show himself again? Did he even care? He left the rose… That had to have meant something.
The whispers had turned to quiet pleads long before she reached her hall, and the door of the dressing room now stood before her. Christine slipped in, grabbed a wrap for her shoulders, and stared at the mirror for longer than necessary before snatching the rose from the table and leaving with a heave of defeat. Maybe I do need fresh air, Christine thought.
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Snow fell in soft flurries like bursts of light on the dark roof of the Opera Populaire and Erik stood behind the statue of the winged horse, battling a raging war in his mind so futile and triumphant all at once.
Christine had stepped onto the roof minutes earlier, much to his dismay, and was now singing softly to the lights beyond.
He had heard her calling for him in the halls, listened to it like a repeated stabbing of a dagger. She had held the necklace, her voice a plea that had weakened his determination to keep away from her. A look at her... All he felt was the burst of cold air once her soft fingers had ripped his mask from his face, all he saw was the fearful look on her face when he had cursed her for it. But that was a lie, for it was not even a modicum of all he felt or saw. She was so beautiful that the heavens must weep with jealousy, her figure so slight and delicate, and her voice such a sweet torture… Ah, but he could not do it— could not have just left his place of hiding in the halls and go to her. But, seeking solace on an empty roof where the snow and wind could pierce sense into him, make him forget how he felt around her, proved to only dig the hatchet deeper. She had burst onto the roof leaving Erik with all but two seconds to disappear from sight. He saw the trapdoor only feet away… but, then she had begun to sing.
Your voice filled my being with a strange, sweet sound
In the night there was music in my mind
Through your music my soul began to soar.
The note turned into a small sob and he turned in time to see her bow her head to the rose in her hand. Erik shut his eyes and leaned his back against the statue, gripping his cloak as if it held the fault where all of his angers should lie.
And I heard as I'd never heard before,
Those eyes, I thought they did adore…
Her voice cut into Erik as she drew out the last word and he leaned further still around the statue's rough stone, drawn out by the pure sound of those bittersweet words, the ones he never would have imagined she would use to describe that night.
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"Those eyes, I thought they did adore…"
Christine let the wind whip her hair from its pins while touching the petals of the rose, smoothing her fingers over the satin of the gift from the one who had abandoned her. She had been angry at him after the night of Hannibal for deceiving her and had at first feared his temperament, of course. But, his defeated words of apology after he had cursed her for taking his mask wrapped with all she had felt when he had sung to her and held her had echoed through her mind for days until she began to understand. Christine no longer feared him, and the anger had long since dissipated. Now, she just missed him. Logic went with the wind, but she missed him dearly.
Suddenly, Christine heard a sound behind her, muffled like a step in snow, and she whirled around in time to see a shadow. Or, at least she thought it was a shadow. Her imagination was vast and, when mixed with her sadness, loved to deceive.
"Is that you? Is someone there?" Her voice sounded so small in the wind, so childish, and Christine cursed herself for it.
There was no reply.
The snow was cold and felt like needles on the areas of bare skin unprotected by the wrap but she walked slowly to where she had seen the shadow by the horse winged statue as silent as she could. If he was there, there was no where he could go. They were on a roof! And, even if she truly was alone, there still would be no harm in looking. The large sculpture was cloaked by the night sky and close to the roof's edge, but not completely in darkness.
Christine reached the stone of it and peered carefully around the side, willing herself to not make a sound.
Erik stood completely still and without a breath, currently out of sight, but not for long. He would need to keep it that way. He would need to.
She huffed in dissatisfaction before beginning to walk around the other side of it, knowing now that she was not crazy. She had heard someone. It could not have merely been her imagination.
Erik detected the direction of her step and quietly slinked the opposite way, playing her carousel game of cat-and-mouse. He was the mouse.
Christine had already walked around every facet to the statue and was about to give up, but then something cut into the silence. A large bird that had been previously perched on the gargoyles that edged the roof flew right near an unsuspecting Christine who had gotten too close with a loud caw and she yelped, running backwards, forgetting that the edge of the roof was only several feet away in her panic, until she hit a wall. She should have fallen clean off of the building!
But, it was not a wall of stone.
A warm, solid chest was felt behind her back and two hands clenched her upper-arms so that she stood frozen, one of the fingers tucked into the top of one of her gloves. Christine's heart fluttered like the wings of the bird that had now disappeared into the night and, once he loosened his grip, she turned to face this wall. Two startlingly blue eyes peered into her own before giving her form a once-over, an innocent act that sent shivers down her back. She looked to the side and grew dizzy at the sight in front of her of the fatal drop she would have fallen had he not been there. Her knees weakened at how close she had been to death and he gripped her tighter until she could stand upright, Christine finally looking back into his eyes. He let his hands drop quickly after, but she still felt them there like a pleasant burn.
Christine could not breathe.
"Are you all right?"
The question came out like a strained growl and Christine opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. She felt his breath on her upturned cheek and closed her eyes at the sound of his voice, the sound she had not heard for two weeks now, " You saved—", before opening them in renewed anger.
"No, I am not all right!" His expression had less life than the statues on the roof at her words.
"You reveal yourself to me, speak of all of the hope you have for us, and then discard me the minute after!" Christine grabbed a fistful of his silk vest and waited for an answer.
"How could I think you to care after—," She did not let him finish.
"Do you think I fear your face? You are highly mistaken, Monsieur. Your winning personality was what frightened me that morning!"
He grimaced in reply, his mask crowning one of the two eyes that bore her down.
"What of this rose? If you meant to ignore me forever, why would you give me this?" She brought her other hand up to thrust the rose at him like a weapon wrapped in every question that had tortured her mind after he had led her back up to her dressing room without one single word, her other hand still clenched at his chest.
He brought two gloved hands up to gently encircle both of Christine's little wrists, pulling one from his vest and the other down to her side and then hesitated before bringing one of his hands up to wind the curl that whipped into her eyes around his finger, tucking it gently behind her hear, all the while speaking, the combination a large threat to her anger.
"I was your teacher once. Can a teacher not show that he is pleased with his student?"
His words were melodic, logical, soothing… Christine closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, fighting to regain anger into her voice.
"What of the necklace? You only needed the rose to show your satisfaction with my… with my performance."
Christine choked on her words when she felt his other hand trail a finger across her collarbone and down to where the pendant lay, and looked up into focused blue eyes, troubled ones. They were staring at the path his finger made with intensity, with confusion. He began walking and with being in such close proximity, Christine was forced to walk backwards until her back reached the stone of the winged-horse and away from the exposure of the roof's edge.
His face was closer now, eyes staring at her lips with a look of wonderment and gentle curiosity swirling into the specks of grey and blue.
"What of—"
Christine felt his lips brush softly on hers before she could finish, a ghost of a touch that sent her nerves there tingling, so soft like a bow brushing the strings of a violin.
Almost immediately he pulled back, his eyes looking into hers with shock and vulnerability, the pain read clearly. This most certainly was not the fearful Opera Ghost that terrorized the Populaire. This was someone else entirely.
"Christine…" Her name was both an apology and a question, also a song, the answer to which came in the form of a nod and small twitch of a smile, the look of awe on her face.
Slowly he brought his lips back down to hers, his fingers turning her jaw up gently as his mouth covered her own. She fit her lips to his, untried and curious, and felt a jump of his chest against hers as she pressed them quite firmly, reaching her hand up to wind around his neck and draw him closer as she had seen other girls do. The crackle of energy that had ran down her arms like skilled fingers down the keys of an organ and into her stomach like a thrumming of drums deepened and Christine gasped against his lips. He pulled away slightly, the beginning of a question spoken against her lips before he shook his head, fitting his lips again to hers deeper, moving them in a harmonious tune with hers and letting a hand delicately grasp her waist. Christine reached her other hand to rest on his shoulder, dropping the rose to the snowy floor of the roof while she smiled against his mouth in their music of the night.
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Merry Christmas, everyone ;)
A/N: The lyrics from the song Christine sings in the Yuletide program are from the French Carol, 'He is Born, the Divine Christ Child.' What she sings on the roof is my own twisting of the words she sang to Raoul at the end of 'Why Have You Brought Me Here.'
As always, please leave a review and let me know what you think!