He waits impatiently for the candlelight to die. It isn't fair, he knows, but he needs another glimpse of her—another breath of her sweet scent, another word to remember her by—the truth, from her sweet lips…he will not believe anything else. The feeble light sputters out, and darkness fills its place.
His hands find the door handle and turn it silently; he slips into the room, following the shadows to her side.
The memories of her grasp him and won't let go. His cold hands against her warm skin, frightened and inviting... Her entrancing voice echoing through the crowd, perfect and ghostly, singing the songs he himself had penned—songs of love and beauty, just for her. Something in him wrenches sorrow from the sediment of memory; he can sense her, sitting there in the darkness, and he wishes to forget for the thousandth time. I need to know…
"Christine," he whispers breathlessly, and she recoils.
"Who's there?" she asks, brusque words withering the radiance of midnight.
No answer is offered; he closes his eyes, though he sees no less. The timbre of her voice is perfect, a soft gold glow of something he can't explain—life, perhaps, or liveliness—and the fear in it makes him smile despite himself.
"Please," she entreats, which draws sandpaper laughter from his satin throat.
"Hello, my dear."
"Erik?" There is an edge of panic in her voice, a hint of amazement—she doesn't know what to do. "Erik, is that you?"
"Of course it is," he murmurs.
She stands up slowly, the rustle of her nightgown almost echoing, and steps forward blindly. Her hands brush his lips; her fingers find the corners of his mask and press gently. "But I thought…we all thought you were…"
"Dead?" He jerks his head away from her prying hands. "I'm as alive as I ever was," he tells her dryly, as his fingers slide down her arms and—she shivers—down to her delicate hands, searching for her ring finger. Proof comes in the shape of a diamond, the cool touch of gold, and he does his best not to be devastated. "It's true, then."
She pulls her hand away guiltily. "Yes," she whispers, and the words sound bitter even on her lips.
"When is the wedding?"
She hesitates; the silence tastes like betrayal.
"I deserve to know," he reminds her; inevitable anger rears its ugly head. How could she… how dare she... though he knows he has no right to blame her for his choice.
Softly, she admits, "three days."
"Raoul is lucky." He laughs bitterly. "And you're sure of this? Sure of him?"
The question strikes a nerve, and he can tell. "Why are you here?" she asks him, trying to sound brave; he can feel her shaking.
"But surely you know, my dear." He steps away from her, faces the window and the dark perfection beyond it. "I'm back for one last pathetic moment with you, Christine." Her name is an accusation. "Before you left and forgot every song, every word I told you…"
"I couldn't forget you," she assures him quietly, running a soft hand over his shoulder.
He interrupts her: "that is not what I said." The coldness in his voice is absolute, and he takes another unforgiving step away.
"But it's true, isn't it?" she murmurs, so softly he thinks he is imagining—perfect fairytale words, from the angel's tongue. Impossible.
"You tell me," he answers, feigning apathy; his voice is a stale teasing semblance in the shadows, frigid and inaudible.
He can imagine the churn of ghosts in her bracing blue eyes, a thousand thoughts snarling themselves into doubt. She exhales slowly. One word struggles through the mire, hesitates behind her lips before taking flight: "yes."
The floorboards below his boots creak as he turns around. She is much too close to him—their breath is tangling in the air, weaving into some betraying beast. Lust. The word is a dull explanation for electricity; the fantastic impulse is teasing him, monstrous and ruinous and wrong. Her fingertips burn like embers—she can't, I shouldn't— her lips, so close to his—you promised—and vulnerable—you can't let her—wanting—needing—
"Raoul," he wants to croak, an explanation, but he can't force the word out. He can't stop her, though he knows he should; he can't stop himself.
The kiss is over before he realizes what has happened.
"Erik?" she breathes. The question seems helpless in the darkness, stark and shorn and shivering. He is certain that the sound of his own name has never been so enthralling.
And the only answer he gives is, "come with me."