Chosen Chapter 2, a phantom of the opera fanfic

A/N: First things first...I realized that I posted the last chapter without making a few things clear. I've taken a bit a a liberty with Erik's age, making him a bit younger, as you will see below. Consequently, Erik does not have a heart condition. I also forgot to credit Oscar Wilde with Christine's quote (the "If you give a man a mask" line). Thank you Mr. Wilde. I owe a big thank you (and some jeweled weaponry) to my beta, Skoteinos Metamfiezomai. Apologies for the delay in updating, you know how troublesome real life can get. Ok, I think that covers it.

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Christine slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, trembling more with anger than with fear. How dare he? she raged. How dare he goad her into this farce, then dismiss her in the midst of his tantrum like…like a wayward schoolgirl! She kicked back against the door in frustration, hoping he could hear her. If he could storm, so could she, although she had not seen him so angry before. There was an air of danger about him now that she had never before seen.

Bolt your door…A series of small, fresh scratches caught her attention, marring the marred the glossy finish of the door. An intricate series of heavy bolts had recently been installed; they had not been there a week ago. How did I not notice these before now? she wondered. She must have been distracted by her illness. The shiny fastenings seemed to mock her, and her fingers trembled as she slid the bolts home.

When did he put bolts on the door? Why? A simple latch had been the only hardware on the door. Erik had never bothered with a lock, since during her first days in his home, she could not even find the front door; he had seen no reason to lock her in her room. Christine had never really been bothered by it, as he had never presumed to approach her. Now, staring at the bolts gleaming back at her, she was suddenly afraid. Obviously something had changed, if he saw the need to provide her with the means to lock him out.

Sobbing, she backed away from the door. Never again, she vowed to herself, frantically unfastening the dress. Her fingers were as inept on the buttons as they had been on the bolts. I will never come back here again. The satin burned her skin. She couldn't get the hated thing off fast enough. It had quickly gone from a queen's robe to a reviled set of rags. Christine yanked at the bodice, ignoring the beadwork she'd admired only moments before. Some of the buttons popped; she never heard them bounce across the polished wood floor. The sleeves ripped as she yanked her arms free. Wiggling the gown past her hips, she kicked out of it. Her petticoats tangled around her legs, making her stumble clumsily, so she untied the strings and tossed them aside.

No more. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her nose was running. Strange, she thought as she finally realized she was crying. Christine fell to her knees and tried tear the dress to pieces, but despite the damage she'd already done to the seams, the pieces remain stubbornly intact. She threw it into the corner and collapsed across the bed, ignoring the liquid dribbling across her face.

He doesn't deserve tears. He isn't worthy of them, the…the…cad. It was the worst thing she could think to call him at the moment. I never should have…never…This only brought more tears- she didn't even know what she had done to make him react with such violence!

Gradually, her sobs quieted, and she buried her face in the soft counterpane. Her anger cooled somewhat, leaving her achingly confused about what had just happened. Erik could swing from praise to coldness with a swiftness that left her baffled, and she had not the courage to question him about it. Christine could not endure his wrath, his displeasure. It frightened her.

But it is more than that, isn't it? a small, treacherous voice inside her mind asked.

"Stop," she whispered, as if the voice were something outside of herself. I may be a coward, but I refuse to think such things.

She rolled over. Tomorrow…tomorrow I'm leaving, and I'll never come back. If I can simply exist this one night… I simply cannot continue this farce any longer.

Instantly, Christine was assaulted by a hammer of guilt: Erik threatened to kill Raoul if she abandoned ever abandoned him. But Raoul had not remained faithful to her, so how much loyalty did she owe him now? She would never have suspected that her old friend could harbor such base desires. In her mind, she could still see Raoul clamoring up from the cobblestones, calling after her, and she groaned aloud, turning her head side to side to erase the vision.

Unbidden, the image of Erik chasing her through the snow came to her. He had trusted her with his secrets, given her his music. The blue and gold canopy seemed reproachful. I owe him honesty, at least. I should tell him why I won't come back…

Have I ever been truly honest with him? Tears rose again to her eyes. With Raoul? She groaned, and rolled back onto her stomach. I have done wrong all this time. And because of my weakness—my duplicity—I've hurt us all. Please, God, I never meant to…

Christine sat up and put her head in her hands. She noticed music coming from the parlor and wrapped a pillow around her head to block the sound.

I don't want to listen anymore. I can't listen to his music anymore and hope to stay sane.

The pillow was a sorry barrier to the sounds emanating from the piano, and she sat back up, listening closely. The piece was unfamiliar, yet she instantly recognized it as Erik's work. Part of his Don Juan? Something about is called to her, spoke to something deep within her, although she wasn't sure exactly what. She closed her eyes, leaning her head to one side as she listened intently. What is this?

Christine was confused, and tried to identify the different emotions to music represented. Passion—that is certain…longing…violence…perhaps? But not like a-

Her eyes snapped open and she gasped. Oh, dear God. Her fingers unconscious clasped the crucifix dangling from her neck. She did not have the words to describe the music, but she was sure of the story the music told. It was the same one the ballet rats whispered, the one men and women told when they slipped into the plentiful shadows around the opera house. The one condemned by her Church unless the proper sacraments had been performed, and even then…

I should not be hearing this. Christine squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will away the sound. I must find some way to…But she couldn't ignore it, couldn't make it go away, so she sat and listened, despite her better judgment.

The music made her bold, curious. Her hands shook as she stepped in front of the pier glass and unlaced her corset. She pulled her chemise over her head, blushing, and untied the strings of her drawers. Closing her eyes as they fell to the floor, she rolled down her stockings. She'd never seen herself completely undressed before.

Taking a breath to steady her nerves, she opened her eyes, studying her reflection. Was this how she would appear to a lover? To Erik? She turned away in shame at the thought, the blood rushing to her cheeks. How could she think such things? Regardless of what Raoul had done, he was still her fiancée. No other man should be in her thoughts, unless she truly was a harlot.

Christine shook her head and turned back to the mirror. Neither man was there with her, so she need not think of them now. She was only looking at herself to satisfy her own curiosity. It might be immodest, but it had nothing to do with them.

Her breasts were small, that she knew, thanks to some of the snide comments from some of the other girls at the Conservatory. Her belly was flat and her waist was small, leading to a slight curve over her narrow hips. At least her legs were shapely, she thought, twisting critically from side to side. Her buttocks were nicely rounded, and the skin of her back was smooth, she noticed with satisfaction. She was not voluptuous or beautiful, but she was…passable. While she wished she had the hourglass figure so embraced by fashion, she was pleased her appearance was not worse. She had seen some of the other chorus girls with angry red pimples on their backs, large birthmarks, or jiggling rolls of fat, and felt guilty at her relief her flesh was firm and unmarked.

I'm not ugly, she thought. I'm not pretty either, but—

She stopped and stared at the mirror in dismay. My face… She had the body of a woman, albeit a slender one, but her face…

My face belongs to a child. Her eyes were wide, frightened, and her mouth was slightly open, like that of a child who takes a deep breath before they start to cry. Christine rubbed her hands over her eyes roughly, hoping to somehow replace their childish expression with something, anything else.

Her eyes stayed closed. What was it her mother had once said about mirrors?

Sometimes, when you are off guard, a mirror will show you not what you are but what you can become…Suddenly Christine missed her mother very much, knowing she could have helped her sort through her muddled feelings… that's what mothers did. After so long, she could not remember her mother's face. Strange that she could remember her mother saying that—she could even remember standing near her dressing table, feeling very important as she handed Mama her pins...she must have been feeling usually well to be out of bed. She had pinched Christine's nose and laughed.

Christine sighed and turned away, not bothering to look at the mirror again. It seemed she was destined to always remain a child. Just as Papa would have wished. She wondered if he had ever imagined her married, her children sitting at his feet as he played on his violin. He would never see them, if indeed she ever bore any. Would things be different if Mama hadn't died? It was a question she'd asked herself over and over again, but could never answer. A feeling of loss settled over her; she'd mourned the past, missed both of her parents desperately in the present, but had not thought of how that loss would continue to haunt her into the future. Fresh tears threatened, but she shoved them away. She did not want to think of anything more tonight.

She bent to retrieve her chemise and then, by accident, caught her reflection.

A woman looked back at her. Christine stood still, barely breathing, lest she frighten away the apparition before her. She blinked once, and the image vanished, replaced with her usual self. Christine straightened and approached the glass.

You see what you can become.

Suddenly she understood something else as well. Whether woman or child looked back at her from the mirror, whether she reveled in Erik's darkness or walked in the light, it did not matter.

She was Christine, and her soul was her own. And that knowledge was a great gift.

The music had gone quiet. Christine hurriedly pulled on her nightgown and wrapper. She had to see him, to thank him, though she didn't know how she would find the words.

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Erik sat slumped over the piano. He'd sworn to himself he'd never play that with her in the house, never. The stillness from Christine's room spoke volumes. He pictured her cowering in the corner beside her dainty bed, tremulously watching and listening for the slightest sound at the door.

Never had he imagined the sight of her would affect him that way. The countless fantasies he'd had of her coming to him in that gown should have fortified him somewhat, made him immune. It was only to be a game of pretend, like the many others they'd played before. He would be the expectant groom, and she would be his loving bride. It would be acting, nothing more. Just acting.

Erik was wrong. It was not often he so grievously miscalculated. There had been no pretense—he had wanted her. He, Erik, had wanted her, Christine, with an intensity he had felt only a few times before. The same intensity had led to violent death in the past; now it turned against Christine. He wanted to posses her, devour her; her consent was immaterial.

Praying the sound of her voice would summon the part of him that had been her angel, he commanded her to sing. It did not work. He couldn't really hear her, with his mind full of her curves, her softness. Erik swore under his breath. He had even imagined he could smell her the way an animal smells its mate, a mix of lavender and warm welcoming flesh.

Erik leapt from the piano, disgusted with by his weakness. The piano was a weapon now, instead of the one place of peace in the house. His small packet of morphine called to him from its place of honor beside his coffin, but he refused to answer. He did not deserve that sweet oblivion. Perhaps just a little, just enough to— He quashed the desperate addict's voice. Staying sober, aware of the crime he had committed was to be his punishment, but he also knew he was not strong enough to resist the morphine's siren song. Very well—he must leave the house. Settling his mask securely against his face, he turned and grabbed his cloak from where he'd tossed it over the easy chair.

He jumped back as if he'd been faced with all the demons of hell. Christine watched him quietly from her bedroom door, her arms wrapped around herself. Erik turned away and hastily gathered the cloak around him.

"Where are you going?" She took one halting step into the parlor. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

Erik grunted stumbled towards the door, his usually graceful stride deserting him in his desperation to put distance between them.

"I wish you would stay," she continued, keeping her voice low. She moved to the piano and stretched a hand out towards it. Erik hesitated anxiously, but she did not touch the score scattered across the instrument. Instead, she let her hand fall and leaned forward, gently blowing out the candles. "There's something I would like to say to you."

Erik felt the muscles of his body clench. Was this how he was to atone for the way he had violated her earlier? He wanted to run, run from the house and never return. Never look at her again and see all the things he was not, all the things he would never have. He had come dangerously close to hurting her, even raping her, perhaps. I am due this punishment, he thought, although it would be the end of the games they had played for so long now. Sighing heavily, nodded once before staggering to his chair, covering his eyes with his hand. He could not bring himself to look at her, but he would stay, although everything in him railed against it. He owed her this. The morphine would make it easier. Just a little…

She moved behind him, extinguishing the candles that flickered on the mantle. Her nearness made him even more uncomfortable, and he still imagined he could smell her.

"I realized something tonight," she began, biting her lip.

"Christine," he gulped, "I should never-"

"Don't," she whispered. "Do not apologize. Please, just…just do not say anything now, or I'll lose my courage- and it's fragile enough as it is." She paused, the soft crackle of the dying fire the only sound.

"They—the stagehands…I know they talk about me." Christine drew a deep breath. "They talk about all the girls, I mean. Madame Giry tries to stop them, but…sometimes they do it where we can hear them. They say things like…like what…those," she stopped. She could not call them "gentlemen", even referring to them as "men" seemed insulting. "I never expected to be called those hateful, disgusting things I was called tonight, especially not when…when the man who claimed to love me watched. And when you played…" Christine was uncertain how to continue. She turned her back to Erik and fixed her eyes on the fire, watching the flames dance. She could not speak if she were looking at him.

"I had always thought…that the…the…" she fumbled nervously, "What passes between men and women was repulsive," she rushed the words out, running them together. Christine sighed with relief. At least the worst part is over. Perhaps. "But when you played, I realized that perhaps…perhaps…I was wrong. That such things are not…do not have to be…humiliating or degrading. That loving…sharing does not have to make me…it does not mean that I…" she twisted her hands helplessly. She wasn't exactly sure what she was trying to say, but she was sure she should not be speaking to him about it. "I just want you to know that…I'm…I'm grateful. To you, I mean…I'm not sure that if you had not played, I…" She shook her head, lost.

Erik sat stunned. He thought he had anticipated all of her possible reactions to his music: horror, disgust, terror… but it seemed that he had miscalculated once again.

He slowly turned to look at her but she heard him stir, and quickly laid hand on his shoulder.

"No, please, don't…don't look at me now. I'm afraid you must think me…" Christine's voice faded away.

Erik sat frozen, both afraid to move and afraid to stay. Her small hand on his shoulder was comforting and warm, but utterly foreign at the same time. It was the first time anyone had touched him voluntarily in… How long? How long has it been? He felt guilty for misleading her, letting her think his music was some kind of revelation when in fact it been an outlet for the pure desire he'd come so close to turning on her.

"Christine," he rasped. Erik reached up to bat her hand away, but instead she surprised him, grabbing his hand and twining her fingers with his. The warm feel of her flesh against his hand was his undoing. How did her little hand become so strong?

"Oh, Christine," he sighed. "You don't understand…that music was dangerous. You can't know what it means—" He tried to pull his hand away, but she only tightened her grasp.

"Can't I?" she interrupted, her voice holding the slight hint of a challenge. "I've heard people talk…some of the other girls…I think I do know what it means. That's why I'm grateful—it's not…I'm not…I don't have to be…I am still me, in either case. It does not determine what I am." She sighed. "I know I'm not explaining it well, but…does that make any sort of sense?"

Erik kept his hand still and thought a moment. He was confused; no, it did not make sense. Or perhaps it did.

Oh hell. Is she…or we…is she talking about herself? Her body, her…

He felt foul for even thinking of such of things, but she stood behind him, discussing it not as something of shame, but as a secret they shared. He groaned to himself, feeling his own body grow even stiffer in response to the thought.

What is she doing? Why is she telling me this? Erik clenched his fist. She could not understand what she was saying. Or at least what is sounded as if she were saying.

Erik leapt from the chair and stepped away. "Stop," he gasped. "Stop, Christine, please."

He turned as he heard her moved around the chair. "Why?" she whispered. Her quiet voice held the same hint of challenge as she advanced on him.

Erik backed away until he hit the wall, the same wall he'd forced her to the night she unmasked him. Still she kept coming, stripping him of his defenses as she had that night. But these defenses were not material—and were all the more fragile for that.

As she moved slowly towards him, he felt another surge of desire as he watched her slowly move towards him, belt of her robe accentuating the curves above and below her waist.

I'll show her why. His hands clenched at his sides, his breath coming in short hitching gasps. She carefully moved within his arm's reach. At any moment now, he could grab her by the throat and choke the life out of her for teasing him so- he could pin her to the floor and rip the covering from her body, and she would be powerless against him.

Does she not understand what sort of monster she is dealing with? His golden eyes narrowed. She would learn, but tonight it would be a different sort of blood he spilled. He pictured her pinned beneath him, the light from the fire dancing across her white skin, her face…her face contorted in terror and fear as he lay atop her.

Erik closed his eyes, turning his face away from her, as if he could make her disappear by sheer will. He was a magician- he should be able to perform this one trick when the safety of them both depended on it. No, he thought, clenching his fist even tighter. No, I will not…I cannot…Go away. Go away, please, please…

Haltingly, Christine reached down for the hand he'd so carefully offered to her earlier. Her fingers brushed tentatively over his fist before grasping it firmly with a confidence she did not feel.

What…what if he thinks me wanton? What if he thinks…Tears started in her eyes. She'd die if he ever thought those crude things Raoul's friends had called her tonight.

What if this is what he wants? I know it is. Somehow, she was certain he longed for this, longed for a simple touch. But she was unsure of how to go about this, how to comfort him without offering more than she was ready to give.

She lifted his hand and turned his wrist over, wanting to see the veins whose pulses reflected his heartbeat, wondering if it raced like her own. She pushed his sleeve back slightly and bent her head to study him.

A wild tangle of scars stared up at her, faded but still visible. Still ugly. She could not make out the throb of his heartbeat beneath the marred flesh. Christine glanced up at his face, still turned resolutely away from her. Her breath stirred the tiny hairs that grew on the normal skin above the scars, as she hovered, uncertain.

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Erik froze when he felt Christine's fingers clasp his hand, her flesh warm, almost hot, against his cold skin. He had not replaced his gloves after he'd played; part of the glorious experience of playing that piece was the feel of the keys under his fingers, the ivory like smooth, cool, satin. Like the satin of the wedding dress he'd bought for her.

His mouth moved, but his throat was dry and closed. Any thought of hurting her was gone now, replaced with fear.

Please God, he prayed. Just… He wasn't sure if he prayed for her to release him or prayed for her to stay just like that, gently holding his hand, her small fingers warming his.

Erik did not resist when Christine slowly raised his hand and turned it over. She remained still, her breath moving over the pulse point there, over the scars that marked him.

The scars. He'd forgotten them. He waited in resignation for her to drop his hand and turn away in disgust. What a fitting punishment she had devised; how wonderfully cruel. He felt anger stir in him once again. He had not asked for her to take his hand, particularly his ungloved hand.

I did not ask for any of this!

Christine felt the tension increase in the hand she held.

I've angered him, she thought wildly. She didn't know what she had done, but she could sense she was dangerously close to losing him, that he was about to pull away from her. His lips, the lips that had been moving silently, were now drawn back in a snarl.

He will turn on me. Oh, no…

She acted on instinct, dipping her head and pressing her lips to the inside of his wrist, moving them gently along the marks, not wanting to cause him more pain.

Erik started, she felt it, but continued to move her mouth against the inside of his wrist. After a moment, she glanced up and the fear on written in the lines of his mouth wrung her heart. His eyes were still closed, his shoulders hunched as if he expected a blow after every gentle touch. The hand she held was still clenched in a tight fist.

She trailed her mouth down the back of his hand, enjoying the contrast of his cool skin against her warm lips. Christine turned her attention to his knuckles, kissing down his index finger towards the tip, hoping to loosen his fingers so that they would twine with her own.

Erik was confused—she was supposed to turn from him in revulsion, but instead she had changed the rules, the entire game. He was at a loss. Their interaction had followed a careful pattern for so long, he could not find a response.

Her mouth moved from his wrist over his hand and down to his knuckles. Unconsciously, he moaned in response. Christine was startled this time, scraping his middle knuckle with her teeth.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…" she stammered, raising her head. Erik shook his head fiercely, not trusting his voice. Christine studied him a moment. His eyes were still closed, but perhaps the hand she held was a little looser.

Should I continue? she wondered. Christine laid his hand against her cheek a moment before her lips resumed their work. Erik moaned again, and she smiled.

She is willing…she is touching me, of her own will…Erik marveled. All thoughts of grabbing her, showing her what he, a monster, was capable of were gone, replaced by a simple, innocent sensation that also incredibly intimate. Thankful tears streamed down his cheeks, working their way into his mask. He felt her repeat her ministrations to each finger before the cold wave of reality hit him.

She only came after the music…only after you assaulted with that horrible music. Erik's euphoria vanished. She must still be under the influence of his Don Juan. This was not truly Christine.

"Arrrghh!" Erik jerked his hand away as if burned.

Christine glanced up at him, her eyebrows raised. "What—?"

He shoved her back. Christine stumbled and tripped, falling to the floor.

Erik took two long strides towards the piano and began to rip the scores that rested there, knowing that even if he destroyed the copies of the music, it would still be in his mind. You've corrupted your own angel, he raged to himself. Turned her into something almost as foul as you are.

"Erik, what…what is..?" Christine pushed herself up into a seated position. "What did I do? I—"

"I not like those fine gentlemen your young man associates with," he snarled. "I don't want some sort of whore who allows herself to be seduced by a bit of music." Erik, in fact, had no qualms about using music to sway Christine's emotions. Or so he had thought. But to see his angel so polluted angered him. They were both disgusting.

Erik picked up a delicate vase and flung against the wall. He had only himself to blame. After all, he had played that piece tonight. He braced himself against the mantle and groaned. The tenderness she'd shown was baseless. Christine had been under the influence of a drug, just as if he'd poisoned her. She was supposed to be better than that.

She was supposed to be better than him.

Christine pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, trembling. He was frightening her now. She rocked back and forth, tears streaming down her cheeks. Was she destined to hurt every man she touched? Her Papa worked himself into an early grave to support her, Raoul had turned to loose women, and Erik seemed to hate her now that she had gathered up her flimsy courage and approached him as a man. In trying to appease each of them, she had only driven them further away.

She would be alone again, a frightened child once more. Dear God, no, she prayed. Do not give me some glimpse of comfort, only to take it away. It is too cruel. You are a merciful God, show some compassion.

"You think me a whore," she whispered. She buried her face in the cradle of her knees a moment. "You think me a whore." She looked up abruptly, her voice louder, stronger. "You've had no problems seducing me using music before! You've been doing it relentlessly for months now!" she spat, scrambling to her feet, wanting to face him as an equal. She had meekly accepted more than her share of insults tonight, but something in her refused to let her cower now. It hardly mattered if she angered him; she had already thrown away whatever regard he may have had for her with her shameless behavior. Being hurt, killed even, would be better than returning to the despair she had known without her angel.

Erik jerked his head around, his gold eyes glowing. With his arms braced on the mantle, his muscles rigid with anger, he was a threatening sight. Christine was challenging him in his most menacing form: the Phantom. He pressed his lips together into a thin line.

"Go to your room," he hissed, turning his gaze to the fireplace.

"No. You called me a whore," she said, stepping forward and twisting her lips cruelly around the word until they were a strange reflection of his misshapen ones. Christine thought she saw him flinch, and taking a perverse pleasure in his pain, repeated her words. "A whore. By God, Erik, you will answer for that!"

Christine was unsure how, exactly, that would be, but she would find a way. She folded her arms across her chest, and paced in agitation. "So who is the bigger fool—the one who spends months seducing—"

He whipped his head around to glare at her again.

"Yes, seducing," she continued. Her tone sounded almost mocking. "Could you possibly think I did not notice?"

Erik bent his head. Yes, he thought. A part of him had hoped she had not realized how he used the music to manipulate her. Then when she remained unresponsive, he could comfort himself with thoughts of her naïveté, tell himself she simply did not realize what he wanted from her. That way it was ignorance, not rejection.

He had constructed a whole world, a fantasy word. Now she was coming after him, hunting him as she tore his dreams down around him.

"I did notice," she stated, more quietly this time. "And not only that, I allowed it to continue. I did nothing, nothing to stop it."

What? Erik was puzzled; he could hear her pacing behind him, but did not dare turn to question her. "Perhaps that was wrong of me," she continued. "Almost certainly it was wrong. But…I did not want to stop. Neither of us turned back. And I see now there is no good end. If I…if I do not response, I ignore you, your pleas, your…needs…mine… I hurt you," she whispered. He could scarcely hear her words. "I hurt us both." She hadn't realized the truth of her words until they left her mouth. "But if I succumb, I am a whore."

"I was wrong tonight," she said, shaking her head. "If I do not respond to a man, I am…all manner of vulgar things. And if I do, then I am a….a...," she fluttered her hands, unable to say that word again. "You said so yourself. I'm a thing to be used and then despised. And if you, of all people, feel that way…" she sighed. "I thought that perhaps I could just be." Her outburst drained of all emotion. She didn't have the words or the tools to fight this battle anymore. It was pointless in any case, a battle she could not win. "I was wrong." She dropped her arms to her side, defeated. With heavy footsteps, she made her way towards the dim glow of the few candles still burning in her room.

It's finished now, she thought. All of the pretense was over. She only had to dress and make her way back to her cold little flat, and she'd never hear from him again. After this, she could not, would not, sing again in his opera house.

Will he find someone else? Her legs shook beneath her at the thought.Someone braver than she, someone who was not caught between the dreams of her childhood and the adult world...someone worthy, who would recognize what he offered before it was too late? The bitter taste of loss sat on her lips, but still, she hoped that he would. That such a woman existed and that he would find her. Christine would be lonely, but she would not sentance him to more of such pain. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to draw strength and comfort from her own embrace.

Erik painfully turned his head to watch her go. "Christine…" His voice was barely a whisper. "Christine…" It was more a sigh than an attempt to get her attention.

She stopped at the entry to her room, but did not turn around.

"Oh, Christine," was all he said. But it was enough.

Christine turned. Shakily, Erik pushed himself away from the mantle. He avoided looking at her, keeping his head bowed as he slowly approached. Strange, she was only halfway across the room, but she had never seemed so far away. His posture was one of submission as he bowed his head before her.

"Forgive me," he rasped, kneeling at her feet. "Please." He laid his hands on his thighs, digging his nails into his flesh. "Please forgive me… so much…so much you don't even know. Oh, Christine…" His body shuddered as he quietly sobbed.

Christine looked down at him, a forlorn, cast-off figure at her feet, his usual majesty gone. She sank to her knees before him and put her arms around him, bringing his head to rest on her shoulder.

Christine didn't know how long they stayed kneeling on the floor, her hands gently stroking his hair. His sobs quickly ceased, but she could still feel wetness at her shoulder.

When the feeling of stiffness grew intolerable, she raised her head and looked around. The fire had, in essence, died, and the few candles that still burned in her room gave little light to the gloomy parlor. It was a quiet secretive place. Christine was reluctant to move—why did she ever fear his touch? She wanted to hold him for hours, but she was cold and stiff, her body demanding that she get up.

Christine leaned back slowly. Pins and needles shot through her calves, and her knees ached. Gingerly, she got to her feet, offering him her hand.

At her movement, Erik jerked away, scrambling backwards across the floor. "It's quite late," he said. Christine could hear the agitation under his matter-of-fact tone. "You must be quite tired, and you are to return to the opera in the morning." He climbed to his feet, ignoring her hand, uncomfortable under her steady gaze. "I will prepare a sleeping potion, if you like." He took two uncertain steps backwards, avoiding her eyes.

"Well," he paused, drawing himself up and instinctively wrapping himself in authority. "Goodnight, then."

"I'm not ready for bed."

"But," he turned to the piano to avoid her eyes, "you must be tired, and you have recently been ill."

Christine wavered. She was tired, but she sensed that if she obeyed his command now, they would once again be locked into the roles of teacher and pupil. She knew he was comfortable in that role, but he also wanted more. Until tonight, he had been too uncertain to press the matter.

She had been unsure as well.

"Sit with me, just for a little while?"

Erik stood awkwardly at the piano. "I'll play for you instead," he said, seating himself. "What would you like? Brahms, perhaps?" He began to play softly.

Christine sighed and picked up the blanket that had occupied the sofa since her illness. Wrapping it around herself, she moved to stand behind him, and put her hands on his shoulders.

He immediately stiffened.

"Please," she murmured. "Just for a few moments…"

Erik sighed heavily, his fingers reluctantly slowing on the keys. He took his cape off, draping it neatly on the back of his chair before seating himself. Just let me remember how beautiful it was to be with her, he thought. Hopefully she would retire soon and leave him to the bliss of his memories, the feel of her small body curled protectively over his. He could die happy now after knowing such tenderness.

"No." Christine shook her head, interrupting his thoughts. "I want you to sit next to me." She settled herself in the middle of the sofa, her feet tucked beneath her.

He bent his head in defeat. Being close to her was sweet, beyond sweet, but he was afraid she would burn him if he got too close. He would have thought he'd be rapturous at the thought of sitting so near her, but he was afraid his passion for her would ignite him like a torch.

Dear God, he feared her. He didn't want to burn.

Carefully, he sat between her and the end of the sofa and laid his clenched fists in his lap.

"Would you like to share the blanket?"

"No, thank you."

"You must be cold."

"I am used to the cold."

"Oh."

After a few moments of silence, Christine leaned over and rested her head on Erik's shoulder.

"Put your arm around me," she urged softly. "Please? I'm cold."

Erik drew a shaky breath, lifting his arm and cautiously laying it across her shoulders. Christine reached up and laced her fingers with his.

She's holding my hand. He leaned down and let his cheek rest against her hair, not even resenting the barrier of his mask. She responded with a slight squeeze of his hand and Erik relaxed, tears of gratitude clouding his eyes. He did not understand how they had come to this, but she was resting against his hateful body. For these few hours, he refused to think about what would happen when she returned to the opera tomorrow. And to that boy…

The pair sat in gentle silence, Christine absently stroking the back of his hand with her small thumb. "Tell me a secret." Her voice was quiet, sleepy.

"A secret?" He shook his head. "You know all of my secrets." Except for those that are too horrendous to tell.

"Tell me something no one else knows, then. A secret from you heart."

A secret from his heart? He thought, turning over forty some-odd years of memories.

"I'm an abysmal tailor."

"What?" Christine looked up into his face, startled.

"It's true." He shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot even sew a button. I send out all of my mending. It's the one thing I haven't been able to master."

She laughed. It seemed incredible there was anything Erik could not master if he were determined to do it. "And do they file the orders under O.G. or Erik?" His face is so near, she thought hazily.

Her mouth is so pretty when she laughs…

They didn't know who moved first, only that their lips brushed together lightly, hesitantly, before springing back as if they had been shocked by an electric current from one of his experiments. Christine moved first the second time, and they gingerly brought their mouths together, each unsure of the other. They gave each other short, gentle kisses that slowly became longer. He instinctively moved his tongue forward slightly, just enough to taste her lips, and was surprised when her mouth opened, allowing the tip of his tongue to slide inside. The analogy to another act was not lost on him, and he growled in his throat as he explored her briefly before reluctantly withdrawing. To Erik's surprise, her tongue followed his, tasting him as he had her.

Once the kisses started they didn't seem to end, even when they had thoroughly explored each other's mouths. Christine moved her lips in a slow progression alongr what of his jaw line was not covered by the mask, up to his ear, then down his neck, trying to identify what exactly he tasted of, unable to draw herself away from his heat, his scent.

Somehow, she made her way into in his lap. Erik wound his hands in her hair, carefully moving it aside to stroke her neck with his fingertips. He found her ear and traced the soft curve, toying with the small earring in the lobe, a gift he'd given her. He let his fingers trail across her throat, noticing her shudder as he did so. Erik froze, waiting for her to push him away, but she only squirmed a bit, then seemed to press herself closer. One of her hands moved to caress the back of his neck. Taking her gestures for assent, he let his touch move down her throat to the soft hollow between her collarbones. Pressing lightly, he could feel her pulse.

Inspired by his touch, Christine moved a hand from the front of the formal jacket he still wore and slipped it inside between his shirt and waistcoat. Her kisses slowed as they sat in the dark, feeling the rhythmic beats of each other hearts. She nuzzled his neck, drowsy but content.

"Erik," she whispered, on the edge of sleep.

"Hmm…"

A soft snore answered him, and he smiled, feeling strangely drugged and languorous himself. He should be wide awake, aching with desire as her weight pressed into his pelvis. But this had been enough, this tentative exploration, and he had no other desire tonight than to cradle her while she slept.

Morning would come soon enough, and the dream would be over.