Her fingers hesitated at his back, scars lacing over one another, forming a network of impossibly white lines over his pale skin. She pulled her hand back and leaned forward, brushing her lips softly across the nape of his neck. He shuddered violently but did not move from his spot before her on the bed.

"Does it hurt?" she asked softly.

"No, not anymore."

Christine moved closer, positioning her legs on either side of him, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. Erik sighed deeply and leaned into the embrace, too overcome to make a sound. They sat for a time at the edge of the bed, each lost in the sound of the other's breathing. He was the first to move, sliding out from her arms. He stood and slowly made his way around the room as he turned down the lights. When he returned to her, he gathered her close and laid his head on her chest, listening to the rhythm of her heart. Something shifted in her breathing and he knew she had fallen asleep.

It was not the first time they had made love. This newfound intimacy was thrilling and frightening for Erik. He knew Christine was special. He felt she was a kind of kindred spirit. Music was their strongest connection, shadowed in lies as it was. Erik had not meant to trick her when he "appeared" to her as the Angel of Music. He truly felt his entire life had been leading him to Christine. When an opportunity presented itself to tutor her, to mold her into one of the world's greatest sopranos, he could not refuse. Though his lie continued to fill him with shame, he finds redemption in her voluntary companionship.

Lying with her, skin to skin, Erik could hardly think. Everything about Christine was intoxicating to him. Each sigh and shift of her body registered with him. He held his breath as he trailed his hand across her bare stomach, coming to rest at her hip. He had not meant to wake her but was slightly relieved when she opened her eyes.

She smiled softly and took his hand in hers, pulling it to her lips so she could plant kisses on his knuckles. She gently nudged him off of her so she could lay on her side and face him. Leaving his hand to play in her abundant curls, she cupped his face in her hand and drew him into a kiss. He was reserved at first but grew more ardent as Christine slid nearer, fitting their bodies together.

They were slow and spoke very little, preferring the sound of their shortened breaths to signal their wants and needs. She shook in his arms, crying out, just barely voicing his name and clutched him as he rode out his passion, always after hers. He buried his face in between her neck and shoulder, his breath ragged and thick with unshed tears. He blinked them away rapidly, not ready to show her the extent of his emotions, though he felt she had been aware from the beginning. They untangled and lay apart for a moment.

Christine turned on her side with her back to Erik, waiting for him to pull her into his arms, back to chest. Though she would have preferred to lie face to face, she soon understood why he held her so. With his hand on her stomach he could feel each breath, count them, breathe in time with her. It was only then that he could sleep, secure in the knowledge that she was with him, alive.

As he slept, Christine memorized every detail of his body. Tonight had been the first time he had let her see him, all of him, with the lights up. His face still gave her pause, but each encounter dimmed the horror she had felt when she first unmasked him. His body was ravaged – brutalized so long ago Erik no longer felt the pain. But Christine did. She could hardly bring herself to touch his most extensive wounds, fearing that she would rip open the long-healed scars and cause more damage. He was so fragile. Yet he wanted her hands on his body. He craved contact. He would never beg such a thing from her, but it was in his eyes. Always.

She knew her eyes reflected the same. She could barely believe how attached she had become. To him. To their intimacy. It was frightening powerful, but she welcomed the warmth and excitement it brought. She pushed against the memories of deceit that had brought them together and focused on the present. On his hand cupping her stomach, the tips of his long fingers brushing the underside of her breast. On his breathing, deep and calming, in time with her own.

A/N: Credit to Leroux. Just a little something to hopefully get me out of my writer's block! I appreciate feedback!