Good day to you lovely popsicles. Enjoy.
The softness of blankets rubbed her cheeks dry as she tossed in confusion, her eyes fluttering open to candlelight. Christine shuddered at the scent that surrounded her; not from disgust, not even from pleasure, but from sheer psychological disturbance. It was a smell she had known for years without knowing that she knew it. It was smoke and roses. Candlewax and salt.
When she found the energy to sit up, she found herself in an unfamiliar bed. It was huge, far bigger than any bed she had seen, with covers and pillows to make a sheik's den lovingly plumped and comfortable. She was directly in the middle, surrounded by a smooth desert of sheets. An island in a white sea, lonely, alone. Christine looked around, confused.
"I remember…" She whispered under her breath, one hand going up to clutch her head as she fell back into the pillows. There was mist. Swirling mist on a vast, glassy lake. She gathered the courage to pull herself out of the bed, terrified by her situation, her feet silent on the stone floor as she slipped along the wall to peek around the edge. There were candles all around. On the lake, which stretched dizzyingly into the distance, there was a boat.
That ripped her back hours, and her memory was once again vivid. In the boat there had been a man. The Phantom. Her angel. Him.
Where was he? Christine wasn't sure whether she should be giddy to be in the lair of her lifelong hero and guide, or appalled at being coerced into spending the night underground in a strange man's home. Really, she did not know him. He was a shadowed figure in a mask, an anonymity, a question mark.
A shadow moved ahead of her, silhouetted against the candlelight.
"Who's that?" She snapped, fear making her sharp. She squinted against the mist, the cloudy light cast by the melting candles, to see him. His back was to her, fingers resting on piano keys, face looking over his shoulder to watch her where she stood shrouded in shadow. His eyes were hot, dark against his pale face as she stepped closer. Music flowed from the instrument without his even looking, beautiful. She skirted the lake carefully, climbing the stones which were thrown haphazardly about the cavern. Tapestries softened the walls, glittering red and gold in the sweet light, the tune to a song she used to sing when she was younger echoing and bouncing off of perfect acoustics.
He turned back to the music, but she could see the rigid line of his shoulders beneath his shirt, the knotted muscles in his neck as he waited to see what she would do. Carefully, as though to avoid scaring an animal, for his sake or hers she was unsure, Christine tiptoed towards him until her hands were rested on his shoulders, her front pressed into his back. His skin was warm beneath the thin material, and yet he shivered at her touch.
Carefully, deliberately, she traced the shape of the bare side of his face with one soft fingertip, looking at the music book propped in front of him, her heart contracting when he tilted his head back into her embrace with his eyes closed, entirely succumbing to her whim. His taut face entirely relaxed.
"What's your name?" She whispered, brokenly, bending to until her lips were a mere hair breadth from his forehead. He broke off his song, his hands coming up to cup hers.
"Erik." Her murmured, his voice low and collected, almost polite, but strained.
"Erik." She whispered, her fingers stroking lower, over his chest as she leaned into him, hyponotised by his familiarity despite never having touched him before. His breath quickened against her neck as she leant forward, confusion and touch befuddling her mind. "Erik; why do you wear a mask?"
Before she had finished the question, her fingers quickly darted to his mask, ripping it away and holding it before her back before he could comprehend her question. Suddenly he was on his feet, taller than she had remembered, and terrifying. Even with one hand clasped to his face he found the strength to throw her away from himself, heavily, casting her away in a pure anger that shook her to the core. His eyes burned with hatred, a hatred unparalleled, as he spat down at her. Christine caught her breath with pain, the mask clasped to her chest as he whirled like a ghost towards her.
"Damn you!" He swore, kicking at a candle that fell, fell, far down into the lake with a barely conceivable splash. "You little lying Delilah. You're like everyone else." He turned away from her, his hand still clasped over his face, scratching as though he wanted to tear the skin from his bones. "Damn you! Curse you."
The candlelight extinguished slowly as he raved, kicking out at whatever he could reach but her, determinately keeping his eyes from her, humiliation evident in his every movement. Even from her vantage point at his feet, bent almost in supplication, she couldn't find it in herself to be scared. Thrills of fear darted at his every turn, but all she could feel was pity for the man whose embarrassment had forced him into violence to hide his face. He turned to see her, lying on her side, the candlelight cupping her every curve as intimately as a lover with a beauty that mocked him as much as it pleased him, pity on her every feature.
Anger. He advanced on her, watching her shrink back, the mask against her chest and her blue eyes wide as they skittered from his face.
"Can you even dare to look." He whispered, taking a peverse pleasure from watching her eyes widen in fear and denial. She was like everyone else. No one could surprise him.
"I didn't think you were— human." Christine whispered, her lips forming a small O of surprise, knees drawing to her chest as she pushed herself into a seating position. There was a small silence.
The Phantom sighed heavily and sank to the ground next to her, face dipped and hand firmly over his face.
"I'm not an angel, Christine." He whispered, his tone broken. "I'm just-"
He broke off, his eyes fixed on the mask clasped to her chest. Christine saw the hunger, the deep pain she could not comprehend, and silently held her hand out for him to retrieve his cover. He slipped it onto his face silently, eyes fixed on hers, mouth pursed in bitterness and receding anger.
"I apologise, sir. I didn't know." Christine's voice was low and cordial, polite where before she was dazed, clear where before she was befuddled by his very presence.
"I don't suppose you did." The Phantom heaved a sigh, pulling his lean body into a crossed leg position and drawing a slim metal box from his jacket pocket. He slipped a cigarette free with long fingers, holding the end to one of his many candles until it glowed smouldering orange, before placing it between tension-bitten lips absent-mindedly. An elegant curl of smoke escaped with his breath, his eyes a hazy grey of the same colour. Christine watched, fascinated. Never before had a man smoked in her presence, and when she had seen them it was always the fat stink of cigars. She had smelled that bitter aroma on Raoul. He glanced at her to find her eyes fastened on his mouth and jolted in surprise. "Would you like one?"
"If I could." Christine said as sedately as she could, her eyes wide with curiosity. The Phantom watched the candlelight burn in their depths, lighting her eyes to a cloudlessly dark blue, taking on last mouthful of smoke before passing it to her.
"What do I do?" She asked, her slim fingers wrapping around the cylinder, eyelashes low as she stared at it.
"Put it in your mouth," He said gently, half uninterestedly, as though playing with the child was one of his many tasks for the day, "take in a mouthful of smoke. Blow it out."
"And that's it?" With one raised eyebrow, she experimentally sucked on it. Her eyes immediately watered and she fell to coughing, her creamy skin flushing pink and blotching as her lungs constricted. "What on earth is the point in that?"
"It's a pastime one can undertake in utter solitude. It is not an activity for two." He stubbed the cigarette out on the stone beside him, trying to ignore the perfect pink circle of Christine's lipstick on the end. A kiss on a means of death, almost poetic.
The girl and her ghost sat cross legged, facing one another, in a cavern metres below ground, surrounded by dripping candles and as weary as a pair of tomcats just as they were as comfortable as lifelong lovers.
"What's that song you were singing?" He murmured into the silence, leaning on one arm in a pose that was oddly childish for the symbol of fear in the opera. This man was revered, paid to keep away, feared and had stories told of him. Women screamed when people mentioned his name, men went white. Yet here he was, a curious child smelling of cigarette smoke and roses, cold faced and warm eyed.
"Angel of Music." She sang promptly, her eyes watching his face as it relaxed infinitely at the sound of her voice. To have such power. "Is it not yours?"
"No."
"Which ones are?"
"All the others." He said it without a trace of self -satisfaction, rather stating a simple fact. She didn't ask how. He still didn't accept he was altogether human.
"I should get you back." The Phantom whispered, eventually, his eyes dark and suddenly unreadable. Christine shook her head to clear it and lowered her eyes to where his hands tapped a beat on the floor unconsciously. He stood, when she didn't offer a reaction, turning his back on her without offering her a hand to her feet.
Christine watched his receding back as he moved around his lair as comfortably as someone moves around a living room. He threw his cloak about his shoulders, smoothed his hair back and set his face into cold disdain, seeming to grow a few inches by sheer will. Without break he walked down to the jetty where the boat was tied up and stepped onto the back.
"Come." He called harshly, the echo of his voice reverberating down her spine. She flinched and followed, obediently.
CDECDECDECDECDECDECDECDECDEC DECDECDE
The days passed in a haze. Christine received side-long glances as her expression was even more vague than usual, her eyes high and her mouth quivering with songs they had never heard. At slight noises her head would whip around, eyes blazing, cheeks flushing, only to swivel back with disappointment, pale and drained.
It's love, people said knowingly, their concentration on the young count whom they knew was visiting the young lady with pink flowers and promises. His gloves were pristine white, his hair perfectly clean. His smile was impeccable and his behaviour proper. A good match, they nodded, smiling behind their hands when he called her 'Little Lottie.'
A good match.
AN: Million, while I thank you for your valuable criticism, any specifics would be very helpful if you think any alterations are pressing! To all my other lovely reviewers, you're all beautiful people and I love you.
