A/N: The idea to this story came to me during a Portuguese class, when my teacher read some sentence with the word "birthday" and, as any obsessed and bored phan would do, I thought immediately of POTO. Well, I never read anything about Erik's birthday, nor phic nor official version (Leroux, Kay and ALW never mentioned it, I think). So I thought it would be a good idea for a phic. There are no definitions of Erik's age; you think which age is best for our dear O.G.. The story takes place sometime after the unmasking and far before the end. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing and please tell me what you think about this story – constructive criticism is always welcome.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned here.
The public's ovation lasted for several minutes and Christine had to bow her thanks many times before hurrying to her dressing room. She gathered the customary bouquets of flowers conjecturing if he would be there, waiting patiently for her even tonight. How would he react? Smiling inwardly at the thought of pleasing her Angel, she turned the doorknob and crossed the threshold, into the small room.
To her satisfaction, not even Denise, her talkative dresser, had arrived. Taking advantage of that temporary privacy, she went straight to the front of the mirror, smiling openly at its cold surface. However, there was something different then, an uncharacteristic blankness that made her frown slightly, since she was accustomed to the sensation of being under Erik's watchful gaze. Usually, he would not speak until she called him, so she would have to talk to know what was changed. She was preparing to say what she had rehearsed over and over earlier when a curt knock on the door reached her ears and the words died on her lips.
"Come in," she commanded and watched as a handsome young man entered her dressing room, her smile fading as soon as he returned it. "Oh, good evening, Raoul."
"You were divine as always, Christine!" He greeted her warmly, handing her a dozen of lilies without noting her disenchantment. "It must be celebrated, don't you think?"
"I don't know, I'm very tired and would like to rest," she said, glancing at the mirror one last time before turning in his direction. "Besides, it was not even a premiere."
"I wasn't aware that you only dined with me after the opening nights," he retorted, frustrated with her rejection to a proposal he thought irrecusable. "These last times, you didn't dine with me not even after them… And you can rest tomorrow, that's what Sundays are for."
"I'm sorry, but I can't," she touched his arm, apologetically. "Not tonight."
Although the utter disappointment on Raoul's bronzed face was not agreeable at all, what else could she do? There was nothing wrong with him, true, except that he wasn't with whom she really wished to be.
Erik stared sadly at the book that lay on his knees, knowing his efforts to concentrate on its story were useless just when they were more required. Throughout the years, reading had always been the most effective way to forget his solitude, but there were days when it didn't work and he felt as lonely as a book out of the shelf . Dostoievsky's White Nights hadn't captivated him even in its original Russian version. The sympathy he had felt for the nameless "dreamer" who could only find fulfillment in Nastenka, an unrequited love that came to him every finite night, was not enough to bring his mind to the this imaginary St. Petersburg. Naturally, he comprehended the Dreamer's craving for contact in a life of isolation and his passion for a woman who was his only reason to live after dawn, but contrasting to the book, he would meet no Nastenka tonight; only the familiar thoughts of the unimportance of his birthday.
After all, it was just an annoying date, one more period of twenty-four hours marching to an unavoidable end. In these twenty-four hours, no one ever wished him good tidings, whether because almost no one realized that he too had a birthday or because the birth of a deformed being wasn't something to celebrate.
Yet, he remembered how he had spent his bitter childhood dreaming of the possibility of walking on the crowded streets without being pointed as a freak of nature, or turning his face to the sunlight without fears at least during one day of the year. Countless times he had tried to escape from the darkness that surrounded him with foolish dreams of clarity – a simple happiness that everyone could get so easily. But only at the opera he came to know happiness; when a crystalline voice sent him to Heaven, a place within his reach exclusively during those instants of delight. Tonight, however, he had been kept even from this brief contentment. Had Christine missed him at the end of the presentation, once no sound came from behind the mirror?
Of course not. He sighed heavily; drowning in the depressing atmosphere of his study; and so absorbed he was in his own misery that he couldn't sense the presence of a visitor, standing in the doorway.
She entered the room with a fond smile and noiselessly approached his armchair, whispering softly, close to his ear,
"I hope you didn't think I would forget."
Their faces were mere inches apart when he turned and recognized Christine. She read both joy and incredulity within his black eyes, denouncing his shock with her presence tonight. He stood up stiffly, scarcely believing as she walked dreamily toward him, hovering closer than usual.
"I can't recall anything you should remember, my dear."
Indeed, why would she breeze into his house if not because of…
"And you seem so clever… I thought you'd guess immediately," she said with simulated disappointment, stepping forward and throwing her arms around his neck without warning. "Happy birthday, Erik!"
The fact that he hadn't told her anything about his birthday lost its significance with this sudden display of affection. The warmth of her body extremely close to his and the sweet scent that now floated in the air filled his senses as he cherished each second of that rare moment of contact, which he was convinced was nothing but a product of her politeness. Feeling the sudden need of delaying the moment knowing they would inevitably separate again, he wrapped his arms around her waist with timidity, inquiring softly, "How did you know?"
"Madame Giry told me last week," she said idly, a warm look in her eyes.
"Always Madame Giry..." he muttered to himself, remembering the attempts the quiet ballet mistress had made to discover as much as she could about him in the course of their tacit companionship. He hadn't expected her to tell Christine and wondered how she had managed to notify his apprentice. Yet, this detail didn't surprise him either. Doubtlessly she thought it was the best gift she could give him – and she was right.
"Since then, I've been searching for a gift for you, but only today I could find the perfect one," Christine went on, not seeming to hear his grateful statement or note his joyfulness, for she apologized sincerely, "I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier."
Her rosy cheeks and the way her chest rose and fell were consequences of a rushed departure from her dressing room and didn't escape from his scrutiny. Erik concluded fondly that they only added charm to her beauty and even dared to think that amongst the chaos that reigned in the backstage at the end of a performance and the irritable task of changing her costume to ordinary clothing, she had made an attempt to look gorgeous just for him. Underneath a dark-blue cloak that conferred even more radiance to her eyes, she wore a white dress he recognized as one of the many he had purchased for her and her hair cascaded down her back in glorious freedom from the elaborate coiffure she had to wear as a part of her costume. Pretending she didn't notice his approving look to prevent her face from redden even more, she pulled gently away from his embrace and took a small parcel from her cloak pocket.
"To my angel," she handed him the parcel with a comic flourish, smiling dazzlingly as Erik began to open it.
Early in the morning, she had left her flat to search for a gift for him until noon, when she had returned in dismay. She hadn't found anything close to what she had in mind – not even the biggest or the most traditional stores had the ideal gift for Erik lying on their shelves. She had remembered that her father used to say that the best present was the one that was given with love and no other memory had been necessary to help her find what she was looking for between the other remembrances of her dear Papa.
The day he had given her that angel wearing a dark-blue gown and playing the violin was unforgettable. She recalled her own amazement at the pair of black eyes painted on its gypsum face and nearly felt the same childish ecstasy that had risen in her when her Papa revealed the scrimption engraved on its basis.
"'The Angel of Music'," Erik murmured, as if reading her mind. "There's a date too…"
"Yes, it was the last festival Papa took me with him," she replied absently, still lost in memories.
"It must mean a lot to you," he stated, touching his fingers to the sculpture's glass wings with all the lightness his trembling hands could muster. "Are you sure you want me to have it?"
"Of course," she said with conviction and hope flooded his heart with the next words. "You mean a lot to me either, Erik."
"You flatter me," he said, putting his hand up to stroke her cheek unthinkingly. The only time he had gained something had been when his mother had given him a mask the day he was born, too long ago for him to consider. Christine's action meant a lot; unlike his mother's, her gift denoted a kindness that no one had ever granted to him before.
Christine held her breath at the shadowy emotion in his eyes and the brush of his long fingers on her cheek, much more expressive than his whispered "thank you". She wanted the time to stop at that very deep moment, but soon Erik withdrew his hand, as if waking from a trance.
"Do you like it?" she struggled to find the words; still under the intriguing effect his touch always exerted over her.
"Of course," he breathed, relishing with a strange anticipation each inch that separated them – just a few steps to have her in his arms once more… "I think, however, that my real Angel of Music is standing right in front of me."
"Nonsense," she laughed and Erik closed his eyes, delighted with the sound. "You are the Angel here, Erik. Try not to confuse me at least this time."
He waved her words aside. "This is a matter that shall be discussed in another opportunity, child," he said, walking to the shelf he usually placed Christine's favorite books and cautiously putting her gift on an empty corner. "Now, I presume you did not dine yet."
"As always, you are right. But first I want you to come with me at once," she said cheerfully, holding out a hand to him with astounding trustfulness, "there's something I'm certain you'll love to see."
He did not question as she guided him through the few hidden passages she knew or when they exited her dressing room, but couldn't inhibit his curiosity when she made a motion to stop right at the Opera's main façade, an extremely exposed place.
"What are we doing here?" he asked, directing a questioning look to her.
"Don't worry, Erik. No one will see us," she replied gently.
"Why wouldn't they?" he glanced at the nearly fifty people parading the stairway of Garnier's construction, frowning at the fact that they were outside at such an hour instead of chatting nonsense in the foyer. He identified immediately the blond, elegant man drinking champagne with André and Firmin as the one Christine referred to only as her "childhood friend", even though he suspected that this fact alone wasn't reason enough for her to dedicate to him much more than the usual courtesy she had towards all her proclaimed suitors. He knew this young man had other charms in addition to his good appearance; he was a member of the aristocracy and the suitor every woman dreamed of. It wasn't unexpected, after all, that he should attract Christine's attentions.
Still, a gentle squeeze on his hand reminded Erik that she was by his side now and not even seemed to have taken notice of her friend, looking in awe at the sky as she was. He followed her gaze and soon had his answer. He had lived in such woe in the past hours that he had forgotten the pyrotechnic show the management would offer tonight to the noblest part of the audience. Not that he would have come to watch it had he remembered, but in the company of Christine the things always changed. He heard the festive blasts that followed the firecrackers' throwing to the sky and watched as they exploded in a myriad of colors and shapes before his eyes with the amazement of someone that was witnessing a show of this kind for the very first time; as somehow he was, for he had never seen the Avenue de l'Opéra from that majestic façade this early in the evening before.
"Wasn't it worth the risk?" Christine regarded him with her most triumphant smile.
"Yes, I'd have never guessed," he smiled back at her.
"I thought you knew about it," she stated, uncertain if she should be puzzled at the fact that the ever-present Opera Ghost was uninformed of an event that had been gossip even between the corps or amused for genuinely surprising him.
"I did, it's just that I was very upset this evening and forgot… many things," he confessed, dropping her hand reluctantly and averting his eyes to an abstract flower in the sky.
"So that was why you haven't come to me after the performance? Do I displease you with my presence, Erik?" she questioned, lowering her eyes in shame for invading his privacy.
"No, not at all, Christine. Your company is far from displeasing," he answered hastily, seeing her cheeks blush instantly in response to a declaration he knew had been voiced too devotedly. "But I imagined it would be better not to cause you any distress with my bad disposition," he justified honestly, "I was wrong, after all. You were the one to change my mood completely, and for better."
The applause coming from the pavement warned them that the show was over.
"Now, to the dinner," he gestured for her to follow him into another passage, oblivious to the enthralled gaze that pursued the Opera Ghost's dark figure during their trip downwards.
Christine took the charge of preparing something for them gladly, leading Erik gently away from the kitchen when he tried to protest.
"Wait here like a good boy," she told him teasingly, leaving him alone in the living room.
There wasn't plenty food in the storeroom, which reminded her just how easily Erik set aside his most human needs. He could spend days without food or rest, and she assumed that he did this only for his musical works' sake, knowing many – if not all – of his works were somehow related to her. Even the blindest could see his adoration for her. She was positive it wasn't merely a teacher's dedication and had nothing to do with celestial designs like she had thought in her past naiveté. Yet, she wasn't able to identify a feeling so intense she had never seen before, not even in Raoul's eyes. She couldn't distance the young suitor's beautiful words from Erik's behavior without noticing the total contrast between them. Which one corresponded to the sentiment so many people called real love? I shouldn't be thinking such things! Was her first, embarrassed thought. Erik would never come to love me. She shook her head with certainty. How would he forgive her betrayal the day she had torn his mask away? His rage, a grief she had caused with her own thoughtless acts, had frightened her, but once the initial trauma and distress were gone, he adopted an attitude worthy of a gentleman, playing with her emotions whether he wanted it or not. After all, he was as unexpected as the fireworks they had just seen; an enigma she would give everything to decipher…
When Christine left the kitchen, she found that Erik hadn't been waiting comfortably on the couch, but instead had transformed the darkened dinning room into a pleasant candlelit place. The table was already set with a lovely dishware and he was filling two crystal goblets with red wine when she stepped in. The familiarity of that gesture and the agreeable warmth that emanated from the whole scene washed away the rest of her previous apprehension. The rightness of it all didn't admit any fears.
"It's your birthday, Erik," she said playfully, placing their simple meal on the table. "I was supposed to do everything tonight."
"I insist," he replied quietly, finishing his task to take her hand and courteously conduct her to a chair.
"Thank you," she whispered as he bowed his head, still feeling the heat of her hand in his.
They spoke of various subjects, from the current opera to his numerous travels. Erik's disposition to listen to her, devoting his attention to whatever she was saying, made her feel comfortable to talk about everything, even her most silly memories.
He lost himself in thoughts of her, prey to a longing he hoped she could not read in his eyes. She was so close… With only the table between them, he could easily reach out for her hand, dared he do so. How he wanted to kiss those fingertips, have them pressed to his face if only for a minute before she could recall what horrors the mask concealed.
He was painfully aware that she would never touch him this way; it was a miracle that she still came to him at all after what had happened. How could she still think him worthy of a smile or touch him willingly like she had done earlier? Out of sight, out of mind, he thought, fantasy flickering and dying in his heart. She still called him her Angel. Had she forgiven his reprehensible manipulation? And much more than this, could she forget the abhorrence of his visage? Maybe it was exactly the mask what kept her around and if he was to wear the mask to regain her integral acceptance, he decided, so be it. On the other hand, Christine's sense of loyalty might be the only thing that gave her strength enough to bear his dreadful presence for pity's sake. Maybe that was what this evening was all about – pity for a man who had tried desperately to win her love, even though they both knew such a thing would never happen.
"What's wrong?" she asked, forgetting the sentence she had left unfinished as she took notice of his downcast look and her features softened immediately, in what he took for a confirmation to his view.
"Nothing," he shook his head melancholically. "I was wondering if you have any idea of how beautiful you are."
She averted her gaze to the candle that burned before her, studying the flames that slowly consumed the wax. Her thoughts whirled back to his misshapen features, which she was certain had caused that subtle sadness within the dark ocean that agitated his eyes. His anguish for having his face bare for her to see was as vivid as a bad dream; but the shock of seeing him, devoid of any impossible fantasy, had gone permanently. It had been the reason to his unhappiness for too long; he deserved at least one day without these bitter memories.
"Oh, Erik, don't be silly," she said and met his gaze again thoughtfully, close to touching his hand when he stoop up, candlelight gleaming on the mask's porcelain.
Christine stood up too and obtained his silent help in a combined effort to clean the table. She joked with his awkwardness, another indication that he didn't dine frequently, and he simply smiled wearily at her liveliness. In a rapid bittersweet contemplation, he knew he had to savor every moment, before it was too late and she would be forever unapproachable.
It was automatic to the both of them to follow to the music room, where Erik started to play the piano, yielding to Mozart's cheerfulness and making his way through many other pieces as he decided over the countless scores.
Christine's capacity to detect his state of mind through the music warned her that whatever had caused the previous bitterness had vanished. Relived, she surrendered to the amusement of watching Erik at the piano. His fingers caressing the keys with simultaneous power and lightness, his eyes shut, indicating his complete absence, along with his passionate expression and matchless posture as he translated each note on the paper to a transcendental private world of emotion; every single detail fascinated her in a way she could hardly fathom. She was dragged toward him without even realizing it.
"Erik, would you teach me how to play this song someday?" she asked during the brief pause between a finished piece and the one he intended to play next. "It's beautiful. Is it yours?"
"Yes," he replied, amazed that she should recognize his works so easily and failing to convince himself that he wasn't making up an excuse to have her close to him once again. "I can teach you now, if you wish, Christine. It is quite a simple melody."
She nodded her assent coyly and sat by his side on the bench as he instructed her, correcting her fingers at times, savoring the brief contact during the parts that required more ability. With his teaching skills and her natural curiosity, she was able to play his elegant composition after very little practice and let him prolong his playing for a long time.
Erik became intensely aware of her slow approach; his shuddering intakes of breath growing useless to bring his mind back to the music. His fingers hovered upon the keys for an imperceptible second when her curls brushed his neck and he marveled at the surreal feeling of her head on his shoulder. It took the time of his beating heart slowing down for him to realize that Christine had dozed off, mesmerized at his soft song, a barely audible lullaby he had begun to sing without conscious thought in an effort to keep her leaning innocently against his shoulder.
This moment of wonderment didn't last for long, for she woke with his insecure movements and he was able to murmur, "Time for bed, my dear."
"No," she protested sleepily and rubbed her eyes, not motioning to distance herself. "I want to stay until the last minute."
"Of what?" he inquired, brushing a lock of hair off her face.
"Of your birthday," she whispered, clutching at his sleeve to secure that his warm presence would remain with her, and yet letting her grip loose enough to allow him to continue playing uneasily.
There was no more need for discussion. After some time, he gradually stopped playing to make sure she had fallen asleep again. He gazed lovingly at her sleeping form clinging to him, her peaceful face glowing in the firelight. One small hand moved to his lapel as he shifted a little, accommodating her head on the warmth of his chest, and she curled in his arms, sighing blissfully against his shirtfront.
The clock registered ten minutes to the end of a day that, perhaps, was an especial one and Erik didn't see Christine's lips form a faint smile as he risked a kiss on the top of her head.