A/N: You would not believe how sorry I am that it has taken me so long to update this. I caught up working on Wraiths of Wandering (which you should all totally read for an exciting, tense, next-gen WWI fic starring all your faves in one way or another) and thinking about various other projects, and just did not have the inclination to work on this. But I hope to make progress on this in the coming weeks!
They arrange to meet the next evening, after rehearsals. Monsieur Delacroix ensures Christine that he has arranged a disused dressing room for their lessons, and though there is a flutter of apprehension in her heart at the thought of being alone with him, Christine nods that she understands. She is, after all, alone with him now and he is not attempting to take advantage of her. And his eyes are kind behind the mask.
"And will you sing again?" she asks, before taking her leave, and he makes a vague hand gesture as if to say we'll see.
"Perhaps." The simple word carries a weight of possibility that stirs in Christine's stomach, and she swallows. Her head is too full of thoughts to think anything coherently, still whispering that is Monsieur Delacroix, of all people it is Monsieur Delacroix who sang to her, Monsieur Delacroix who wishes to give her lessons. The very idea of it is beyond belief! He who normally shies away from everything except his beloved orchestra, and he wants to give her, her!, Christine Daaé!, lessons! Wants to sharpen her technique and help her to improve! It is little wonder that she is in a daze the whole way home, that she feels as if she is floating on air.
It is Mamma who draws her back, who reminds her that she is no longer at the opera.
"What has you smiling like that, älskling?" There is a slight smile in her voice even as she asks, and Christine blinks, trying to frame her thoughts. What can she say? The renowned composer Monsieur Delacroix wishes to give me singing lessons. Or maybe, the elusive conductor Monsieur Delacroix wishes to give me singing lessons. Oh, but Mamma may not even know who Monsieur Delacroix is, and if she does (of course she does, she must by now!) she might not realise why this is so exciting, why this means so much.
And besides, what if—what if Monsieur Delacroix realises that there is nothing more to be done with her voice? What if this is only as good as she'll ever be? Sudden terror squeezes at Christine's heart. What if he realises she is only a sham? Only possessed of minor inconsequential talent? That she has only gotten so far by sheer luck and good fortune and really she is not very good at all? He will change his mind. He will decide not to teach her he—he will not sing for her! And he must sing he must!
She blinks away the visions of disaster bearing down on her and swallows, realising that Mamma is still watching her expectantly, waiting for an answer.
"I—it is nothing, Mamma. Nothing. Only a little silly thing, that is all." And she tries to smile for her, but all of the fluttering excitement has died from her.
"Well," Mamma smiles, and her eyes are kind. "It is good to see you smile again, dear. It has been too long."
Christine nods, and after supper quietly excuses herself to her room. And,alone with her thoughts and her worries, she passes a restless night.
Erik is shocked at the words that left his mouth. He never intended to ask her if he could teach her. He is not certain what it was he intended at all when he revealed himself to her. He only started singing in the hope it would encourage her to! And now he's only gone and asked her consent to help her, and worse, she accepted!
What mess has he gotten himself into?
He doesn't even know if that dressing room is still free. For all he knows the place is getting used as storage now. It could be full to the brim with costumes! And then what? Where can he teach her then?
What will he teach her? What can he teach her?
He groans and sinks to the stage, curling his arms tight around himself. Bile burns his throat but he swallows it down. He only meant to sing for her, only meant for her to sing for him. He never wanted to get close to her. That has always been his rule. Do not get close. Getting close means that soon enough someone will want to look under his mask. Mademoiselle Daaé may even want to look under his mask, and then she'll scream and run and that will be everything over with. Everything he's worked for, gone in an instant. All thanks to one moment of impulse.
How could he be so stupid?
He is not certain, afterwards, how it is that he returns to the Rue de Rivoli. It is as if his feet just carry him there, and before he knows it he is looking into Farhad's face, and Farhad is frowning at him.
"Darius, the cognac I think. Forget the tea." Farhad's voice is soft, his fingers pressing deep into Erik's wrist. The cool air on his face tells Erik that he is not wearing his mask. When did he take it off? Certainly not in front of Mademoiselle Daaé. Obviously it was not on the walk home because is not lying in a jail cell (a cold shiver runs down his spine at the very thought) after frightening the good people of Paris. He blinks, trying to think, and Farhad's fingers loosen around his wrist.
It is only then that Erik realises he is lying on the divan.
"Why—" Hardly can he get the words out to ask why he is lying down, when Farhad is shushing him, patting the back of his hand lightly.
"You were in quite a daze, my friend. I was worried you would faint and do yourself an injury. A good thing Darius was just going out and found you at the door or who knows what might have happened!"
The clink of a glass draws Erik's attention, and he turns his head to find Darius pouring cognac from the decanter. It is on the tip of his tongue to protest the brandy, but as soon as he opens his mouth Farhad is shushing him again.
"I know, Erik. You're worried it will damage your voice. But you've clearly had an ordeal of some sort and need to steady yourself."
An ordeal? He's had ordeals before. He has a whole history of ordeals, but what happened with Mademoiselle Daaé was certainly not one and Farhad is absolutely mistaken in that. He, Erik, may have been a fool and may have gotten himself into a terrible tangle with the girl that he now needs to extricate himself from, but it is a far cry from an ordeal. "It was not an ordeal, Farhad." He murmurs the words even as Darius presses a glass of cognac into his hand. Perhaps if he simply holds it long enough Farhad will not insist he drink it.
Farhad frowns at his words. "Not an ordeal? Then what, do tell, happened to make you arrive home late looking as if you had taken leave of your senses?"
"I—There was—" Dammit but there is nothing for it but to tell the truth. Farhad will keep pressing and pressing otherwise until the whole story is out, and damn him but he is so very good at knowing when Erik is lying. He has too many years of practice in his favour.
Erik takes a sip of the cognac to steady himself, and sighs. "It was the girl, the one I mentioned to you before, Mademoiselle Daaé…" and like that the whole sorry tale comes spilling out. How he has spent weeks secretly watching her singing on the stage to an empty theatre, how she stood there this evening and seemed indecisive until he sang for her, how he offered to help her and she accepted and now he does not know what to do about it. "How can I teach her, Farhad? How? Sooner or later she'll want to know—want to know all about this," he gestures roughly at his face with the hand not holding the now-empty cognac glass. "And the moment she sees what it's like, then that's it. Finished. She'll never want another lesson, and once the company finds out what it's really like, they'll run me out! It will be better for all of us if I just tell her tomorrow that I cannot give her lessons after all. Save us all of the grief."
Farhad nods wisely as Erik finishes, and leans back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach. "And what do you think that will do to the girl? I guarantee you she'll be crushed. Think of your positions! She's a soprano, freshly graduated from the Conservatoire only a few months and in the chorus. And you are a composer, and a conductor, and a man who holds a great deal of way in the theatrical community. And if you changed your mind—such a thing will destroy her, Erik! She will convince herself that she is not good enough, that she is inferior. She will see only that the fault is her own. It will destroy her confidence and before you know it she will have quit the stage and become a fish-monger's wife. No, no, no, Erik. To go back on your word now would be a fatal mistake."
Erik turns Farhad's words over in his mind, and even with his misty thoughts sluggish from his own shock at himself and the cognac, finds that they make sense. "So what do you propose I do?"
And Farhad's lips twitch into a faint smile. "Why, you give her the lessons. It is the only fair thing you can do. Far better than getting her hopes up only to shatter them." He swallows and leans in, closer to Erik, his voice soft. "Besides, she does not strike me as the kind to run."
A/N: Next up: a look at their first lesson, and more.
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