Part IV: Erik

While Christine took her time playing with the bubbles of her bath, Erik put hands at work. He had a whole dinner planned; with an appetizer, a main dish and dessert, just as she deserved. He had wanted to give her a fantastic meal the night before, as a small replacement for the proper celebration he could not give her, but in his almost too overwhelming excitement for their union, he had forgotten to buy anything.

His whole evening had been ruined, in fact, and he did not know whether it was his fault or not. He had thought of bringing her to their home, show her around; he thought she would love the normalcy of his house, but something in the way she observed every corner of the place made him doubt it. Then he would take her out for a walk, and he would amuse her with his illusions and magic tricks, and she would show him that beautiful smile of hers that he had foolishly neglected for the whole, eternal week it took before they could finally be wed. He would then bring her home once more, and he would give her to drink some of the sweetest wines he had and celebrate together the fortune of their union doing what their souls craved more than anything in the world: make music together.

The wedding night itself, however, was a topic that had haunted his tortured mind for the whole week, and after thinking about it for those seven days, his only conclusion had been that he had strongly contradicting feelings. A part of him, the reasonable part of him, loathed the thought of making his poor angel go through that with him, knowing that he would bring her pain -even if just momentarily- and the horrid vision of his unpleasant body and touch upon her. A monster like him did not deserve such pleasures. Another part of him, the animalistic and hopeful part, craved her touch like a madman: he wanted to feel her as any other man had the right to feel his wife; his own wild desires having been for too long neglected. He needed to feel the tender touch of her skin against his own. He also thought that consummating their marriage was the right thing to do. It was the normal and correct way to start a marriage, and normalcy was everything he had ever dreamt of having.

And he had even dared to hope, like a foolish teen boy, that perhaps she would gladly embrace him -she had agreed to be his living wife, after all! She had agreed and he had not even needed to beg!- and his advances, letting his body and soul drink from her as his husbandly right allowed and demanded him to do. He had pushed every thought concerning the matter aside, however, as his week had been filled with endless work to do and his heart was too soft at times to even think of a simple brush of her fingers without it making his breath stuck in his chest and an embarrassing red color creep to his sullen cheeks.

He knew that none of those things would happen that night, however, when he saw her hands nervously twisting the fabric of her dress, her eyes frantically wandering and her voice trembling in fear. He hated the sight of her fright, and went to bed alone and earlier than he had planned so that he could forget that it was him who caused it in the first place. He told himself it was not really him what caused it, however: it was simply the nervousness and tiredness of the day's events. His innocent, pure, untouched Christine would have been equally terrified if he had been the most handsome man in the world, and he was being a good husband to his good wife; gentle as a lamb now that he was to have the love of a woman. Yes, he was a good husband.

It only pained and angered him that even something as normal as a wedding and a wedding night had to be different for him. He wanted a normal wedding with normal guests. He wanted a big chapel with astonishing decorations and a priest who could see the happiness in the newlyweds' eyes. He wanted an excited wife with rosy cheeks. He wanted to spend his wedding night with his wife in his arms and his wife wanting it back. It angered him that he had nothing the way it should be. Always crumbs, never the whole bread. Not even a whole bite.

Still, he had to admit that he was slightly glad that they did not have the chance for any of his plans: he had spent the whole week in a sort of daydream -he had a fiancée! A woman willing to marry him! To spend the rest of her life with him! And not just any woman: it was Christine! His beautiful, kind, innocent Christine, the love of his life! He almost fainted when he first realized that -, planning and thinking, preparing everything for her arrival and their wedding, so the day it finally became a reality, he was a trembling mess, excited and eager and nervous and probably bordering a heart attack all at the same time.

And when the moment finally came for him to go for his fiancée, Erik had vowed to make everything perfect. Yes, he would appear confident and calm; relaxed, even. He had remained silent during their whole trip, fearing he would say something that would make her change her mind -oh, how his heart had stopped when she had jerked her hand away from his in fear! He had almost been able to hear the clink of the ring against the pavement and the horse moving the carriage away, taking her and his only chance of happiness away from him forever-, and was almost overwhelmed by the mere idea of thinking it was really happening. And oh, the image of Christine Daae, dressed all in white with flowers in her hands and the wedding march sounding in the background, while walking towards him… Oh, that image alone had made his heart beat faster than it had ever done it before!

And then the kiss. Oh, he had kissed her. His knees had never felt so weak like they did in that moment.

Erik sighed, satisfied enough with the good way things seemed to be going this far, while his hands kept cutting the carrots with the knife in automatic. The sound of water boiling was a distant sound to his keen ears, and the smell of pie was diminished by his lack of a real nose beneath the false one of his newly-made mask. He loathed this new mask, but he had made it with her likings in mind, not his own.

"May I help you with something?" Asked the little voice of his beloved wife; her damped hair falling down her back and her arms hugging her petite, slender body. She looked so lovely wearing one of the dresses he had chosen for her and only her. Her ring was also in her finger, just where it belonged; and Erik had to pass a finger over his own ring to remind himself that yes, they were real, and yes, they were married. Erik had spent a great part of the night just looking at his finger with the ring, convincing himself that it was truly there, and he still needed to touch it again to be sure it was there.

When she passed a hand through her beautiful, long curls, he cursed his lack of nose once again, knowing that it would be a hard task to ever find out if she had used the perfumes and lotions he gave her without her knowledge. In his fantasies, she always smelled like roses.

"I do not need assistance, thank you," he replied, taking a potato and starting to peel it off. He wanted this evening to be perfect for her, not make her work. Yes, this was all for her and only her, and she had no reason to tire her delicate hands today.

"But I insist," Christine replied, walking towards him and positioning herself at his side, a few feet away -though that did not stop his heart from beating faster. "I want to help."

"No." He replied again, his tone flat to end the discussion. She must have understood because she left the kitchen silently. Good.

Erik did not see Christine again until the dinner was ready, warm and neatly served in his finest china on the table of the dining room. A bottle of sweet wine, romantic candles and freshly made bread and butter stood in the middle of the table, right between his plate and hers.

His wife came soundlessly to take a seat, and he quickly moved to fix her chair. He missed the murmured "thank you", and was so immersed in his own infinite pride and excitement that he was completely oblivious to Christine's evident discomfort as his overly-baggy clothes brushed slightly her side while he moved to grab the bottle of wine.

Erik had devoured as many cheesy romance novels as he could possibly get in a week; his clever mind ignoring the blurry details of the story, and instead looking for patterns and behaviors that ladies seemed to like in men, trying to acquire more consistent knowledge in the science of love for the first time -instead of running from it-, and up to this point he believed he had succeeded in everything he had found in his research: he had bought flowers -the books never specified how many were enough, but Erik didn't want "enough", he wanted all and beyond for his precious Angel!-; he had carried her in his arms through the threshold of their house on their wedding night; he had prepared her breakfast -though he could not carry it to her bed as he would have wished to do, since he had foolishly promised her, in a desperate and completely thoughtless attempt to make her trust him, that he would never step inside her bedchamber without her consent. He had denied himself the pleasure of watching her sleep!-, he had bought her many gifts, and fixed her chair for her! He was putting extreme effort, unaccustomed to such considerations to other person's comfort, unaware that his failed attempts at romanticism were, in fact, unnerving his poor wife more than anything.

He opened and smelled the enchanting aroma of the bottle of wine, briefly bringing him memories of his youth: he had been on a wedding, -an "unexpected guest", as he preferred to refer to himself in those occasions- when he had first tried this wine. The married couple had been young, and so had been the wine. It had been good, but not nearly as intoxicating as it was now, having had more time to develop. Yes, a well-rested wine was better than a rushed wine.

He half-filled her glass and closed the bottle once again, not having poured anything on his own, just like his plate was bare and his utensils untouched. He sat down across her and awkwardly rested his intertwined finger over his lap, and watched her murmur a prayer before trying the soup.

"Erik," her sweet voice called, and he swore that his name had never sounded more beautiful, "are you not going to join me?"

The man across her smiled under the mask, even though she could not see it.

"No, my dear, Erik shall not," he answered, deeply touched for her interest. "But please, do not let his lack of appetite affect yours. Eat, my sweet, for this is all for you."

Christine grabbed her spoon once more, and eat in silence as Erik observed her. Oh, she was so beautiful! So delicate, so feminine! Blowing carefully the soup on her spoon as to not harm her pretty mouth, curling her slender fingers around the napkin; her tempting little tongue showing its pink tip between her rosy lips distractedly. It was the most endearing image Erik had ever had the honor to witness, and he knew once again that that was exactly what he had needed all this time: a woman to share his life with. He just loved her so, so much!

"Where exactly are we, Erik?" Christine asked suddenly, and it took a few seconds for Erik to snap out of his daydream.

"Well, in our home, my love!" He chuckled. What a silly girl, and how easy she was able to make such reactions of happiness, so foreign to him before, come to him naturally!

"No," she said, shaking her head slightly and making her pretty blonde curls bounce adorably, "What I meant was, what is above us? Why can I hear music all the time?"

"Oh, that must be the rehearsals for the new production!" He answered, "we are under the Opera House, five cellars below."

"You... You live under the Opera?" She asked, and Erik only smiled more proudly.

"Of course; this is Erik's Opera, after all! Erik knows its every wall and ceiling, and only Erik commands its doors," he answered smugly, and then quickly added, "this is our Opera, and it shall soon learn to obey you, too."

She gave him a small smile and said no more until he served the second plate. Erik failed to notice that this new information, which he had thought would not surprise her in the least, had shocked and troubled her deeply.

"I saw some of your notes for an opera called 'Don Juan Triumphant', which I assume is of your making," she said in a sweet tone, "would you like to play one of your compositions for me?"

His smile widened even more, and his dead cheeks hurt at the foreign gesture, as his yellow eyes brightened in delight. She could see none of this things, of course. It would have been so good for her nerves if she had been able to see a human reaction from the man who claimed to be her husband.

"Ah, yes! Indeed, I shall play for you, my dear, but none of my Don Juan! That music is too terrible for you, and will only make you lose your pretty colors," he said, and for a moment his voice turned gloomy, though he did not mind nor notice. He knew the power of the cursed notes; written by the pain and solitude of a lifetime. "Some music is too terrible, too twisted for you, and I hope you never hear it, my dear."

"I will play for you, instead, my wedding gift, Christine!" He smiled brightly, with the palms of his hands against the table as he resisted the urge to go fetch his violin in that same moment, "our wedding mass!"

The rest of the dinner was spent in silence, but Erik hardly noticed it, almost trembling with excitement at the prospect of her soon hearing their beloved wedding mass. He had poured all his love for her in it, and he was sure she would love it.

Erik had started to work on it nearly two months before he even had reunited the guts to speak to her, believing at the time that it would never truly be heard by his muse, much less actually used. But when his beautiful angel had promised her hand in matrimony to him, while the tears started to dry in her damp cheeks, he had finished the piece that same night, firmly grasping in his fist the golden band that now graced her finger, while he cried and wrote the last notes. That day still seemed like a dream to him, not believing his incredible luck of her accepting his marriage proposal with such a firm conviction. She truly wished to be Erik's wife!

Of course, he would have to ask for a little more of his salary for at least a few months if he wanted to treat his wife as the princess -no, queen! She was now a queen!- and pay for her guardian's treatments, but it was worth it. It was all worth it if he could now call himself her husband.

When Christine had finished all her dinner, she thanked him and politely complimented his cooking, and even though he knew that his cooking tended to be either pretty bland or too seasoned because of his own diminished sense of taste, he was moved by Christine's kind words and thanked her back.

"Come, Christine, it is time for you to open your gifts!" He laughed and failed to see the shiver running through her at the sound. He took her to the music room and invited her to sit while he fetched the gifts.

He had already left the boxes and bags in the room and merely brought them to her as he sat on the floor at her feet excitedly, like a child seating near the Christmas tree waiting for the time to open his presents. Christine looked down at him in confusion for a moment and hesitantly opened one gift after the other at his insistence. He observed her every reaction to every piece of jewelry and clothes she opened and even insisted on her to try on the hats and the many earrings and necklaces.

And oh, she was so close and yet so far! If he only inclined his head, just his head, it would rest on her perfect knee. If he only moved his own a little, it would touch her skirts. He was so tempted to simply give up and rest his tired head on her! But no, no, Erik could not do that. He had promised her to be her friend and Erik could not break that promise, not yet! Because, of course, the promise would be eventually broken: Erik had no plans to remain her friend for the rest of their lives. No, Erik had asked her to be his wife, not his playmate. And she had agreed! His Christine was a clever young woman, and even if she was incredibly naïve, surely she could not have expected to be merely friends forever.

But for now, they would remain so. He understood, after all, that her sweet, inexperienced mind would need time to adapt to the idea that she was no longer a maiden, but rather the woman of the house, and that she now had certain responsibilities as such –ones that he had no intentions to bring up, both because he didn't want to overwhelm her, and because he didn't want to overwhelm himself. For now, he would let her get accustomed to him; show her how good of a husband he could be so she would actually see him as such.

Though surely it wouldn't bother her if he just caressed the hem of her dress, right? With his eyes still glued to the colorful wrapping that was currently being torn apart by her precious hands, his index and middle fingers mindlessly touched the edge of the cloth that dragged over the floor –oh, just a little! So, so little!- in a silent worship.

A satisfied sigh escaped his lips. It was the absolute bliss.

Meanwhile, Christine reluctantly complied with his every wish; his delight too great to see the lack of said sentiment in her eyes.

After what Christine felt like hours and Erik felt were nothing but seconds, all the gifts had been opened and put aside.

"I got nothing for you, Erik," she said, "I'm sorry. I did not know I had to give a wedding gift."

"And you do not have to!" Erik answered, finally rising from his position, with the biggest grin on his face and a pure laugh of satisfaction blooming in his chest. "I wanted to give you gifts, my love, because I am your husband and I have the right to do it!"

Christine gave him a small smile that couldn't last long regardless of how much she tried. His laugh was the most unsettling sound she had ever heard.

He moved rapidly towards the corner of the room, where a solitary violin rested. He started playing without the need to look at the notes; the music flowing through his instrument as natural as air came out of his lungs, and the house on the lake filled with the most marvelous music. Erik fought against the need to close his eyes and lose himself in the movements of his hand over the instrument and instead observed his little angel close her eyes, leaning back into the couch and letting her shoulders drop as the tension finally left her with each note.

And Erik confirmed again what he had once suspected: if there was one thing in this whole world that could make his soul soar even more than the music itself, it was the reaction of Christine to his music. The simple thought of him, a disgusting monster whose own mother could not look at in the eye, being able to make a person's heart race and slow down with the mere flick of his fingers was overwhelming.

When the piece was over, he absorbed every second that she took to come back from her trance, with her eyes dreamy and her breathing low and calm. His heart stopped when a sleepy smile appeared on her face: her nose wrinkled, an adorable little dimple showed at the side of her mouth, and her perfect teeth were visible. It was the most beautiful smile she had given him since they married, and he realized that it was because this was a real, sincere smile. He almost teared up. He was being a good husband.

"Did you enjoy it, Christine? Did you?" He asked with an almost childish hope. Of course she liked it; he was no fool and he knew exactly what a simple word slipping from his tongue or the movement of his hands against an instrument could do to her. But Erik still needed -wanted to hear it from her own voice. He needed to hear he was pleasing his wife.

"It was extraordinary, Erik," she answered, and when her eyes moved to his, her happiness did not disappear. The knot of emotions in his throat tightened, and he once again found himself thanking everything above his head and under his feet for having had the blessing of just having her under the same roof. "Can we sing together, now?"

"Excellent idea, my dear," he smiled behind his constricting mask, which hardly allowed his jaw to move at all, and was once again relieved for his ventriloquism, "just allow me to change my mask. I shall be back in a second."

He left the room calmly, smoothly, but as soon as the door closed behind him, his pace quickened towards the door of his own room. He did not want to miss a single second of her presence, and much less for his stupid mask. It had proved to be a terrible idea this kind of mask, that while it covered everything that needed to be hidden, it also restricted his seeing, breathing, and talking. Oh, but it had looked so good! Molded perfectly to his liking so it would appear that the visage underneath was a strong, attractive and manly one, and not the pathetic, bony, and repulsive carcass that he had as a face. It hid everything that needed to hide and at the same time showed what he wished would truly be his.

He sighed as he put his black barbed mask on, debating for the briefest of moments if perhaps he should merely wear his mustache and a false nose. He also hated that false nose, worsening his already bad breathing by covering almost completely the hole he called a nose. In the end, he merely opted for the mask, feeling relieved to be able to move his jaw freely and use most of his peripheral vision through the cloth.

God knew Erik had tried his best to look good for his wife, wearing his best clothes, hat, mask, and wig; but when one is born with the body of a corpse, one's options for beauty are pretty restricted.

When he returned to the room where his lady awaited, she had laid down on the sofa and was still enjoying the relaxing state that his music had brought to her. He was almost tempted to allow her to rejoice in the sensation; tempted to simply sit in silence across the room and observe her rest. But he was burning for her voice!

He cleared his throat to catch her attention, and her eyes opened slowly.

"What shall we practice today, my dear wife? We have not had a lesson in more than a week," he said, moving to the piano and sitting down on the bench, "have you been practicing in my absence?"

"Just the aria from Faust we practiced in our last lesson, maestro," Christine replied, easily falling back again to the role of the pupil, while sitting down and fixing her golden curls; perfect regardless of their state.

"Then, let us see how have you been progressing without my guidance," Erik said, pretending to look and order his papers, knowing well he did not need the notes to play, "start your warm-up exercises, then we shall begin."

Erik, giving his back to the piano, crossed one leg over the other and ordered Christine to stay in position. She gracefully stood up and straightened her back, looking at his direction.

Observing her posture, Erik nodded for her to begin. He took extreme delight in the sound of Christine's sweet voice; pure and intoxicating at the same time, and let his eyes close as he heard her voice changing scales; high and low notes slipping from her mouth as naturally and harmoniously as rain falling from the sky.

When he thought she was ready, he turned around and his fingers looked for the tiles instinctually. His hands started playing and his eyes closed without the need for his permission, and Christine's heavenly voice joined him.

He didn't choose anything from Faust.

It was a duet. It was a perfect, harmonious duet of tragic lovers; crying the pain of their hearts through the notes. Strange choice of song for newlyweds, perhaps, but Erik thought it didn't matter: nothing would ever do Christine and him apart, and not even if God himself came down from heaven would Erik ever stay away from his beautiful, perfect living wife.

The words slid from her tongue freely, painlessly, and though Christine had sung it before, it had never been accompanied by the proper sound of an instrument. The melody envolved her voice, and her voice envolved the melody; mixing and complementing the other as two halves of a whole. The powerful and delicate singing of the piano highlighted the angelic beauty of her voice, and his throat burned with the raw desire to blend his own voice with the harmonic duo, to be one with the sound; to let it consume him.

Christine's tender and passionate words extinguished to give way to Erik's strong and tragic lament, and he felt as if he had just liberated a wild animal from its cage, his need for singing driving him mad; the music pouring from his fingers as his only window to breath until now. Music vibrated in his veins with the fervent need for freedom.

The blessed sound of his angel's voice filled once again his ears, and the combination of the three, his music, his voice and hers moving as one in a perfect dance made his skin tingle in blind euphoria and ecstasy; shudders running down his back. His voice did not belong to him then, and neither did hers; it all belonged to Music itself. There was no Christine nor Erik. Just music; as alive as their beating hearts and as passionate as the boiling blood on their veins.

He was lost to the sound. So far gone for anything to matter anymore besides her voice, surrounding him and embracing him as no other sensation could do.

Then he felt Christine's fingers brush his bare face.

-0-

Author's Note: Ahh, this is such a lovely day, perfect to be left with a cliffhanger, don't you think? Haha, I had a lot of fun writing this chapter!

But ah, I must admit, I had a hard time deciding on what to do with Erik here: should he be entitled little brat, or act as if he were a completely undeserving street dog?
In the book, he believed she MUST love him because he was her Angel of Music, and demanded love. But he also freaked out with the most minimum provocation! But now he's not trying to court her –she's already his wife. So, entitled or undeserving? Conclusion: Both! Both are good. Let's see how it works making him alternate between the two! I'm trying to balance it out a bit –but not too much. Creepy but kinda naïve Erik is the best Erik!

Your reviews, favorite, and follows truly make my day:)!