A/N: Second chapter/conclusion.


She chose him. She did. He remembered.

Christine chose him over that monster.

And after that, he had known that as her declaration of faith. He knew Christine had feelings for the man but knew that it had only been sympathy. Pity.

Not this.

Dear lord, not this.

"Christine! Where have you been?" He asked with a small smile, glancing upwards as a gleaming Christine entered the room.

"I just took a wander," She smiled. He returned it.

"Was it good then?"

"Of course."

Those 'walks' – could they have been –

Lies?

Eyes darkening, Raoul could feel his numb fingers grow cold as he touched the rose, feeling nothing but resentment fill him till his throat went dry. It could just be any rose. But it was his rose. Raoul knew. Christine's favourite flower was not a rose.

She wouldn't keep a rose if it wasn't – "If it wasn't important." He choked out, body stiff as his lungs began to feel small. She couldn't be lying to him. She couldn't.

Not when – not when he loved her so.

This was Christine. The sweetest, most amiable thing. His sisters had labelled her almost angelic. She couldn't – Raoul's head filled with conclusions that made him choke in anguish. Eyes glowered at the red flower, feeling like gnawing through its stem.

You're not meant to be here.

He looked back – back to that night. The last time he saw the Angel of Music. Christine had embraced him and cried on his shoulder. He had assured her – comforted her that it was over. She nodded, fears washed away by his words. He had moved on then. After that, they'd returned home happy.

She was normal. Always normal. Until, today.

She would not lie to you, Raoul.

Christine's face filled his mind. He eyed her – scrutinized her, but found his eyes welling up as the idea dawned on him.

Don't say you love him, Christine.

She would not lie to you, Raoul.

Please, don't say you love him, Christine.

Fists forming into furious circles, Raoul found himself looking up as a voice beckoned from the doorway.

"Raoul?" It was Christine. She stood, standing perfectly and confidently, warm smile pressed to pale lips. "Are you not going to come downstairs? They are beginning to move the furniture…I must make sure you'd like them to be in the same place, too."

Raoul's eyes stilled. Tears hindered. In a quick motion, he hid the rose between a pile of clothes. He watched her for a moment, face pallid, skin trembling. Christine noticed.

"Raoul?" Christine stepped forwards, "Are you alright – my sweet? You're- you're shaking!" She began to approach him. Clearly, her mood had lifted as emotion writhed on her features.

Dazedly, the man found himself stepping backwards. He was at a loss. He was so confused – so unfeeling. Too many thoughts…too many feelings.

To confront her?

Please don't begin a dispute…not on our first night…

"Christine," He said, almost as a plead, reaching out for her, but finding his affectionate gaze fading as his eyes caught the sight of the pile of clothes he'd hidden the rose.

"Yes?"

Tell me you've been faithful to me.

Tell me that wasn't his rose.

Tell me you love me, Christine.

"Tell me you love me, Christine." Raoul managed, gaze dropping a few metres. Christine's face shifted from a face of concern into a façade of wariness. Before he could explain himself, Raoul found his hand being held into a lifeless grip.

He lifted his eyes to her, watching.

"Of course I love you, Raoul." Christine replied. "Why have you become like this?"

Tell me you don't love him, Christine.

He wanted to expose her so badly. He wanted to rip open the pile and force her to explain the rose. He wanted her to cry. To apologize. He wanted her to mean it. He wanted her to explain that it had just been a mistake.

That she had been too infatuated with the rose. Not him. The rose.

But the fear – the fear that what he suspected was true. That she wasn't -

It was too much.

So much, that he felt sick. So sick that he just found himself pulling her into a comforting embrace. He buried his hurt, aching face into her hair.

"Raoul," he heard her say, as she soothed him with a soft, melodic hum. A tune, he hadn't heard of.

"What song is that?" He asked, painfully as he heard her calm, indifferent laugh. She didn't reply though. All Raoul could do was hold her more closely – so close that he could feel her heartbeat coincide with his own.

There was a soft, trembling silence before Raoul slowly released her.

This was his chance. The chance to prove her love for him.

For all his fears to fade away and for them to continue as before.

"Christine…if there's ever anything you need to tell me," Raoul told her, face of a wounded man, "…please do. I won't ever get angry. I promise." His eyes were begging – imploring her to say something.

All he received was a smile.

"Of course. And the same to you." She said sweetly, beginning to approach the door, "Don't worry, so much."


Raoul had watched her leave, shoulders dropping as he exhaled.

She had dismissed his subtle accusation.

It should've calmed him. It should've swiped away all his fears that she had been disloyal to him. To them. Her face then had been such a face of innocence – of truth that Raoul had left the room and followed her. They then spent a good hour playfully moving around the furniture in the rooms.

It should've ended there. Their first night as a married pair should've continued as he'd planned.

It should've.

It would have. If it hadn't been for Raoul going upstairs a few hours later, rooting through the pile of clothes he'd hidden the rose under and finding nothing. No stem. No petal. Nothing.

She knew.


Lifting himself from the bed, Raoul placed on some clothes and glanced at Christine, her deep slumber providing him a perfect escape.

They had finished it. The act of man and woman. Their love confirmed. But Raoul had done it feeling nothing but a rush of deadness. He had glanced at her, not with affection but revulsion. He had streamed fingers through her hair that did not feel soft but felt like wires. He had looked at eyes that were not jewels but coal.

"I love you, Christine." He murmured, leaving the bedroom and beginning to descend down the steps.

Raoul wanted nothing more but to run away.

Inside, he was a mess. Everything in his mind confused and in disarray. He now loathed the woman he worshipped more than anything – he was suspecting her of a crime he had no evidence for – he was beginning to question everything.

Everything that lead up to their marriage.

If he had been used. Manipulated. Mocked. What if they had been together all along? While I waited for Christine to return safely- she was somewhere else…

With someone else…

His love taken and wasted. Trashed. Heart used and carved. Emotions shattered and spoilt. Marriage…taken meaningless.

He walked out of their home, through the dark, starless sky and began to walk down the path. His face was blank, cold – wreckage.

It made every part of him ache. Ache to know that the more he suspected her, the more it made sense.

He was never going to leave us alone…

That was what he'd been so scared of. The fact that the Phantom will terrorize him and Christine when they were happily together. Thus why they moved away. But he never did. At the time, Raoul had thought it was lucky. He thought that it had been over.

But now, it displayed in front of him.

He might have been there all along.

Raoul closed his eyes for a moment, simmering in the cold, dark air. He walked forwards, steps heavy and loud. He knew that it hadn't been the pain of her disloyalty that affected him most – it was the fact that he didn't know why she would. Why she would make him go through this pain. Why she let him delude himself into believing that he had found the love of his life. Why couldn't she have just rejected him? Just told him one day that she had chosen the wrong man.

Then maybe, he wouldn't feel like he'd lost a part of him.

He'd feel the stab of pain and loss, but the amount of love he'd poured into Christine would've been much less. Getting his heart ripped from his chest now had been excruciation. Because they were married now.

This was meant to be perfect.

Reaching the very bottom of the lane, Raoul blinked as he realized that he'd stumbled into the town. Establishments were boarded up and he heard noises. Tightening his coat around him, he lowered his head and just continued sauntering.

It was here that he heard a voice.

"Awe, dear. What is with that bitter face?"

Raoul looked at the side and stared at a woman. She had red hair, quite short and stood in the doorway of a rather busy looking shop. He shook his head at her, knowing well not to mingle around places like abandoned town centres.

"No need to be afraid, dear. We're nice down here. You're new, yes?" The woman's eyes were soft. Raoul somehow found his numb self softened by the idea of company.

Distraction.

Failing to answer, the woman laughed again.

"Come in – come in."

"Why- do you have food?" Raoul asked, certain that the sickness he felt was failing to rekindle his appetite.

The woman giggled delightfully, "Yes we do. But certainly not the edible type. Come in, have a drink." She smiled at him. Raoul stopped and blinked, pale eyes curving into confusion.

He blinked at her, clueless.

"A drink, you know?" She did a motioning display of drinking beer. Raoul blinked and lifted a hand in surrender.

"N – no, I shouldn't."

Christine said I shouldn't drink.

The very thought. The very mention of her name was enough to almost reverse his earlier opinion. "Actually," He managed, "…maybe I should."

"Fantastic. It's OK, dear. We have lots of people here that could share your bitterness."

Raoul approached her, "Really?"

"Yep," She nodded, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, "It's a woman, yes?"

"Yes."

"Of course, it is."


Entering the establishment, Raoul was met with a cloud of smoke and cigar. He could make out silhouettes of people against but found himself feeling small and insignificant. He turned to walk out but found the woman just ushering him in.

"Have you never had a drink before?" He heard her ask.

"I have but C –" Christine. Raoul refrained, "but…it really should only be for celebrations. And my…my wife, she doesn't like it much."

"Oh, a married one. Don't worry, sweetheart," She pushed him to sit on an empty chair by a table. Raoul blinked, realizing how without the fuzzy smoke, how dark and solemn it was.

Glancing at the other figures, Raoul realized how correct she was. How resentful some of the faces looked as they swirled around unclean glasses. Raoul stared at the table in front of him, hearing Christine's voice. How upset she had become the last time he became intoxicated. How they argued. And how guilt plagued him for days.

The sight of her tears. It made him push his chair back and desire to lift up again.

But then he saw something. In the corner of his eye – three tables down from his.

A small rose, in a glass vase.

The acerbic, bitter thoughts came flushing back. The guilt faded and his eyes darkened. The hammering grief returned and the weight on his lungs came back.

"Here you are, dear." The woman offered placing down a glass of liquid on the surface in front of him.

Raoul eyed up and blinked at her. "I won't be able to walk home, if I consume too much," He explained, "I- " The hesitance in his voice provoked the woman to sit across him, grinning affectionately.

"Dear, we all have pain. Pain comes in many boxes. Mine comes from the grief of my husband's recent death. His –" She jerked at a thumb to one mulling man just by them, "is his daughter's pending wedding. But to cope with pain…we need this." She poked the glass in front of them.

A lump formed in Raoul's throat. Suddenly, his throat cried out for it. It was dry – crackling.

"Drink the pain away, as they say," The woman continued, wiping her hands on her apron, "It makes it easier, trust me."

"Really?" Raoul asked, ogling the glass warily, "It…it makes it easier?" His hand picked up the transparent glass ruefully as the woman watched with a small, indifferent smile.

She nodded at him, watching as he took it dangerously near his lips.

"I'll leave you to it."

Raoul watched her leave, lowering down the glass for a moment.

It makes it easier.

He lifted it up once more, the cold press of the glass bearing down on his warm bottom lip. In his mind, he pictured the rose – he pictured Christine – the masked man. The tears. The feeling of his compressed heart. The brokenness.

The loss.

The grief.

The disappointment. The sorrow. The betrayal. The misery. The ache.

The pain.

Raoul contemplated his innocence one moment further, the smell of the alcohol beginning to swirl through his senses.

Just one sip won't hurt.

It won't.

He leaned backwards, letting the liquid enter his throat, the burning taste replenishing his burning tongue.

The pain.

His mind felt instantly light. Lifted. The throb in his throat urged for more – one more.

Just one sip. He thought lightly, lifting the glass, Just one sip won't hurt.

Repeating the sequence, Raoul found himself drinking bigger and bigger gulps each time. Until, he had emptied the glass.

Leaning back, face facing the ceiling above, his mind began to grow fainter. But there and then, as his tongue tasted of sin and alcohol – he found himself smiling.

The sadism behind it was evident as he found his eyes closing.

I love you Christine, his mind whispered as his last conscious thought approached, but look what you have done to me.

Look at me.

And that is when his mind snapped back awake and he found tears collapsing off his eyes. "More!" He exclaimed, table shaking, "More, please!" He wiped cold, meaningless tears off icy cheeks.

The woman returned, with a refreshed portion. "Alright – remember what you said- "

Raoul didn't listen and grabbed the glass. Devoured it.

His mind began to throb, as his vision began to blur. But he couldn't stop.

The rush – the faintness – the sickness. It made him numb. He continued to plead, shout for more.

And soon, as he found himself falling asleep on the wooden table, he realized how the sip was enabling him to forget. He had forgotten about the pain.

He was happy now.

This was where he belonged.

But inside, deep in Raoul's dark, shadowy mind – Raoul cried. He sobbed. Screamed. Because it was all ruined now.

All of it. And he knew that he would never be able to fix it. Christine. Himself. He was hopeless. So, so lost.

Frozen eyes, slowly shut.

Blackness.

Inside he knew, the happiest man on earth had found something that finally returned his love.

Misery.


A/N: Now a proper hello from me. Firstly, thank you for the reviews - I certainly hadn't expected any, but thanks a lot. It made my day :3 Now just a little story about the fic, I've had this idea for a long time (since I watched the musical) so, I'm glad to finally finish it. I am certainly not a R/C shipper, but I really enjoyed making Raoul here. I just really wanted to try and come up with a conclusion as to why the wonderful hero became a gambling, alcoholic and I could only think of it this way. He discovered Christine's betrayal and the pain of not being able to confront her and leave her gradually tears him apart. This is the beginning parts- almost the prologue. The first taste he has of liberation from the pain. I like to think that he finds refuge in alcohol (as most do) and eventually, in the ten year period, he turns into the hateful, resentful man shown in LND.

I hope you guys enjoy this. I love one-shots, so I may be writing more LND ones. Thanks a lot.

Have a lovely Easter.

~thiswillbeourfairytale