A/N: So heyyy, I guess I lied when I said that this piece was a oneshot! This chapter started out as a drabble for Tumblr, but when I realized how well it fit in with this particular AU-verse, I decided to write it as a follow-up. I plan to write one more chapter to make it a trilogy of scenes.


It's the first time she has lingered after a voice lesson.

She slips the sheet music into her bag, as she always does when the pair of them wrap up, but instead of donning her coat she runs her fingertip across a row of spines in his bookcase. "You have so many books," she says. "What sorts do you read?"

"Everything." He stands stiffly beside the baby grand, long fingers resting on the console. They grip its edge tighter with every title she touches.

She smiles. "Well, what's your favorite, then?"

"I could not possibly choose."

When she emits a huff of mock exasperation, however, he indulges her. He moves to the bookcase, keenly aware of the discrepancy in their heights—he has at least a foot on her, he estimates—and he plucks a tome from the shelf to hand to her. "This one, I am rather fond of."

"Blindness?" She flips through the pages. "I've never heard of it."

"Dystopian thriller. A city is struck with an epidemic of blindness, and society quickly unravels, as you might imagine."

"It sounds...bleak."

"Yes, it's terribly bleak and gruesome. There are moments, though…" He trails off, preoccupied as she is with his untidy scribbles and underlines and dog-eared pages: a habit for which he should perhaps feel guilty, but he does not, so long as the book in question is his. There is something unsettlingly intimate about her perusal of his notes, as though she has walked in on him laying his soul bare.

"You were saying?" she asks, with a quick glance up at him. "Moments?"

He starts, clears his throat. "Ah...yes. There are moments so profound, so beautiful, they transcend everything."

She has found his most-referenced page, and she reads aloud from the underlined passage, her voice crisp and sweet: "'Perhaps only in a world of the blind will things be what they truly are.'" She looks up from the page expectantly.

"Indeed," he replies, clasping his hands behind his back. "There is something to be said for the potential of the human spirit when appearances are...inconsequential."

He averts his gaze, feigning interest in the other titles, but he can feel her eyes on him. The supple leather that masks his face is suddenly all too stifling. She has never asked him what lies beneath, but her curiosity is obvious. If there's one thing he has learned in their fifteen months of lessons, it's that even a mask of her own would not stop Christine Daaé from baring her feelings to the world. It endears her to him all the more.

He clears his throat and retrieves from an end table the half-full mug of tea, now cold, that he brought to her upon arrival. "Might I replenish this?" he asks.

"Yes, please."

He strides into the kitchen, a sleek box of stainless steel and soapstone, to fill a clean mug with hot water from the electric kettle. When he returns with the fresh tea, she is sitting on the sofa, knees bent and legs tucked beside her, with thick woolen socks drawn up over her jean cuffs. She is perusing his copy of Bel Canto, looking so at ease in his home that his breath catches and he falters on his way across the room.

She sets down the book and takes the mug from him. Their fingertips touch—not for the first nor even the fifth time, but still his skin prickles from wrist to elbow. She thanks him sweetly, and he sits opposite her on the piano bench.

They do not speak. She takes small, hesitant sips of the tea as it cools, her hands cupping spartan gray porcelain. The mug is entirely unsuited to her disposition. He imagines her holding instead a handmade vessel of thick, teal-glazed ceramic, with subtle imperfections and asymmetries to add character.

He feels obligated to make conversation, and about something beyond their music lessons. But as she has not lingered like this before, he knows almost nothing about her, save for details gleaned by observation: she bites her nails and lets the polish chip; she prefers a paper planner over digital; she has a white cat, and it sheds. She is always heading off to class, with a swiftness to indicate she has no time to dally.

Which gives him pause. "I do not mean to rush you," he says, "but don't you normally have class after our lesson?"

She shakes her head. "Not today. Because of the snowstorm."

He was awake in the early morning hours, when the air smelled of crisp new snow, and he glimpsed through the window the blanket of white powder still unspoiled by boot or tire. But he has clearly underestimated the weight of the snowfall, for university snow days are rare. It's likely the roads are only half-plowed, the public sidewalks unshoveled.

He recalls her appearance upon arrival: knee-high boots caked in snow; eyes bright and cheeks rosy from the biting cold; a pink knit hat that, when lifted, set her blonde hair on end with a burst of static electricity. He opens his mouth to scold her for her recklessness in coming here, but she cuts him off. "It's a shame, really, because I love that class."

She sips more tea; he finds his opening. "Which class might that be?"

"Ballroom dancing."

He suppresses his initial reaction, a sarcastic jab at the validity of ballroom dancing as a college-level course. He doesn't want to offend her with his particular brand of humor. More than that, though, he is unnerved by the way she's sizing him up. His heart beats in triplicate. "Ah," he says, voice rasping. His throat is dry. "A shame indeed. But more time to catch up on schoolwork, I suppose?"

"We're doing the waltz this week." She looks down into her tea. "I don't suppose...you...?" The pause that follows is the longest of his life. Finally, her gaze finds his face again, imploring.

"I do not dance."

"Oh. Okay." Her disappointment, slight as it is, still manages to crush him under its weight.

"That is, I...don't have experience. Dancing."

She does a poor job of hiding her incredulity. "Not even at weddings? Or school dances?"

"I was educated at home." He refrains from mentioning that, with two uninterested and overworked parents, he was largely the one doing the educating.

Her eyes soften. "Can I...show you? Or would that be weird?"

He nods in agreement. He hates himself for it, but when it comes to matters outside her music instruction, he craves little more than to appease her.

"Let's start with something slow," she says, her smile warm and promising. She scrolls through her phone until she finds what she's looking for, and then she places it on the end table beside the sofa. Soft, lilting piano trickles out of the speaker, the sound quality tinny and shallow. She crosses over to him, and he snaps to his feet, his heart thundering in his ears.

She places his right hand at her back, just below her shoulder blade; her left hand settles at his shoulder. His other hand she raises until it's perpendicular to his body, bent at the elbow. Her arm mirrors his, and her fingers curl over the expanse of skin and tendon between his thumb and forefinger. Instinctively, he wraps his own fingers around hers. Come away with me in the night, croons a woman's voice over the tiny speaker, at once both whisper-soft and husky.

How small her hand feels in his, and how soft, with the warmth of the teacup still lingering on her skin. His own hands are wretchedly thin, almost sharp in their boniness. But they are long, and the hand in question envelops hers completely.

Come away with me
And I will write you a song

The lyrics make him ache. He considers excuses for her to leave, if it means this yearning will ebb in the slightest, but then she's walking him through the box step in triple time and his mind can't cope with the distraction.

He has all the finesse of a robot, with shuffling feet and unyielding legs. "It might help to be a bit less stiff," she suggests, and though he nods his understanding he has no idea what to do with this advice, how to change his natural state of being. His partner, on the other hand—she appears to glide across the floor, even in wool socks, balancing on the balls of her feet.

"You are awfully skilled for someone who has not yet covered this in class." He stumbles the moment he opens his mouth; he should have known better than to try and multitask.

"My father taught me."

"Surely he would be a more suitable dance partner?"

She gives him a wan smile. "He would be, if he were alive."

His heart drops to his feet like an anchor, and he forgets the task at hand. They stop mid-step. "Forgive me," he says. "My sincerest apologies...and condolences."

She shakes her head. "It's fine. I'm used to it now."

"How long has it been?"

"A couple years," she replies, and she eases him back into the box step. "It's why I'm older than the others, at school—because I took some time off, near the end, to help him. And then to grieve." Again she manages to smile through dark clouds. "It's not because I'm slow."

He resists the urge to pull her into an embrace, instead managing a feeble smile that he hopes looks less unnatural than it feels. "I would never have made that assumption."

"I wouldn't blame you if you did. I started doubting myself the moment I registered." She evades his gaze now, and he senses that she is stating fact rather than seeking reassurance. "The lessons have helped, though. Music is restoring my soul."

"Good."

They continue the waltz in silence. The music that plays thinly from her phone is soothing, yet it also mocks him with its romanticism. The closer he gets to her, the more untouchable she seems. Her hair smells of cheap botanicals; it intoxicates him, and he breathes it in.

He still struggles to mimic her movements, always half a beat behind. Inwardly, he curses himself. He should be able to do this. He is a musician, and rhythm thrums in his veins. But his long legs have hardened into shaky, lumbering stilts, and soon enough, one thwarts the other. He trips, and he only manages to regain his balance by slamming a hand down on the piano lid and stepping hard on her foot. She winces and draws back.

"I'm so sorry," he says, still recovering from his blunder.

She laughs. "You certainly weren't kidding about your abilities."

"I'm afraid not. I should never have..." His hands curl into fists. "My sincerest apologies, Christine."

She stops laughing, her blue eyes suddenly wide and fixed on his face. His cheeks grow hotter: in fifteen months of lessons, he has only ever called her Miss Daaé. "I'm sorry," he mutters, the repetition of apologies making him sound all the more awkward to his ears. "I meant...Miss Daaé."

"No, please; I like it." Her delicate hands find his, and she guides his arms back into waltzing position. "It seems only fair that you call me Christine, since you've had me address you as Erik."

The song has just ended, but she has set it to loop, and soon the piano intro starts up again. He is calmer now, having suffered such thorough embarrassment only to emerge still in her favor. His heartbeat stays rapid, but his arms are looser, his legs more compliant. His gradual mastery of the step gives him leeway to study the points of contact between her body and his.

Her left arm is stretched across his right, lavender cardigan against charcoal suit jacket. He relishes the weight of it, as slight as it is. And her opposite hand—he could hold it forever, and it would still not be enough. He longs to bring her knuckles to his lips and kiss every one of them. And then he's thinking about nothing but her lips, and how they might feel against his knuckles. His mouth.

The weight on his arm is lifted, drawing him out of his reverie. He snaps to attention just in time to intercept her outstretched fingers as they reach for his mask.

Her arm freezes in midair, his long fingers clamped on her wrist like a vise. Though the music still plays, it seems the only sound in the room is his shaky breathing.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, eyes wide. "I only wanted to know what it was made of. I wasn't going to...to..." She is fighting back tears now, and she shakes her head as though that will deter them. "I'm sorry," she repeats. "It was rude, and thoughtless."

He releases her wrist, and she rubs it. The notion that he's caused her discomfort pierces his chest like a lance. "No," he says. "I'm the one who should apologize. My response—it's become a reflex."

"Why?"

"This face," he replies, gesturing broadly to the masked area. "The product of an...unfortunate accident." He watches her reach out for her phone and turn off the music; not once does she break eye contact. He adds, "I would rather people keep their distance out of fear than out of revulsion."

"And does everyone keep their distance? Truly?"

He nods. She sizes him up, arms crossing, and her mouth twists into a dubious frown. "Are you sure it's not because you hold them at arm's length?" Immediately her face slackens, and she claps a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business, either."

The corners of his lips curl back ever so slightly. All this time he has longed to know her better, and his now-realized dream is little more than a string of awkward blunders and apologies.

"It is undoubtedly because I hold them at arm's length," he concedes. "Better to never know the touch of another than to know it and lose it, hmm?"

"No," she whispers, shaking her head. "No, I don't think that's how the sentiment goes." She takes a step toward him, hesitating. Before he can guess at her intentions, she has slipped her arms around his thin frame and hugged him.

For a moment, he is too stunned to move. He can only gape and stare down at the golden crown of her head, unconvinced of her realness despite how solid she feels against him. His pulse has become a continuous thrum, so intense that it hurts. He is drowning in surreality.

Then, with one tremendous gasp for air, he surfaces. The arms limp at his sides move of their own volition; they curl around her small figure until she and he are locked together. His eyes water until his vision blurs and he is forced to close them. The pair of them remain, unmoving, while all notions of time slip away.

He pulls back first. He is quick to press her hand to his face, trapping it beneath his own palm. "It's leather," he says. The way her eyes light up then—he would dance a hundred waltzes, if it meant he could see that again.