Chapter Four

Christine's thoughts were full of music. Music and ineffable wisps of desire. She visualized Erik's voice, twining around and through her like the steady hands of a lover and flushed for reasons she couldn't understand. The air smelled of grease paint and rosin as she traversed the stage, libretto clutched tight to her chest.

In the pit, Reyer was snapping at the string section. The pizzicato twang of tuning instruments, ballerinas in the left wing carefully extending their legs behind them. Christine felt eyes upon her and blushed despite herself, such singular focus could only be Erik. He had come after all! She cast her eyes to Box Five, hoping that he would reveal himself.

The libretto fell from her arms, and the sheet music scattered like a flock of birds. For in the private box of the Opera Ghost, sat Raoul.

Sheet music scattered from her hands, drifting like a flock of startled moths across the stage and into the pit. Her vision grew hazy as Raoul stood and mouthed her name. She bent and collected the papers, the muffled giggling of the ballerinas ringing in her ears. In truth, there was not a reason in the world why Raoul should not be at rehearsals. He was, after all the patron, and was endowed with all the rights that the fact was heir to.

"Here, let me." That clear, honest voice. Raoul. He handed her a stack of music. "How you can ever remember the words is beyond me, but you are perfection at it, Christine…"

She snatched the offered papers, feeling the color in her cheeks. Pure nerves, nothing more. But he was handsome in his way, like a prince in a fairytale. How her childhood self would have loved the closeness of him, how she would have hung on every word that passed his lips.

"I called several times, but you always seemed to be out." He stood with awkward precision, a far cry from the boy she once knew, so rough and tumble in Perros. Ever so dear. "It is great to see you, Christine. I—"

"Miss Daae!" Reyer clapped briskly. "Get yourself in order. We commence in two minutes." He scurried through the pit, tapping his watch nervously. "Everyone, everyone—focus is key. This is art."

In her frantic path to her mark, she bumped Raoul's shoulder.

"I am sorry, Raoul." Her limpid eyes begged him for forgiveness he couldn't understand, and before he could reply, a stage manager ushered him into the wings.

The steady notes of her introduction flooded the theater, and the music poured out of her, as it always did. Completely limitless.

Erik's fingers were numb when he finished, the ink of his pen blotting them so his hands resembled a chimney-sweep's. He'd wash them later. Most of Act I complete, what a triumph!

A glance at the clock above the mantelpiece betrayed its cost. It had been hours; he had missed the rehearsal. Christine!

He stood with a jolt and dizziness overcame him. He muttered an expletive, desperately trying to remember if he had eaten anything since the meager tea he shared with Christine.

No. Nothing. Not even a sip of water. It was at times like these, when he was overcome with physical weakness that he remembered he was indeed mortal. Mortal as any man, and prone to all their frailties, for all his playing in the realm of omniscient ghosts. All their frailties and all of their emotions. The hall swam before him, but he reached the kitchen.

He pondered the crumbled cookies that Christine had left him, raising one to his lips. It tasted of sugar and almonds and affection. Every bite he took made him remember the way she had looked sitting across from him, beaming with pride that she had pleased her fallen angel. There had to be a way. He could not win her with his person, but perhaps with his music he stood a slight chance. They were meant to sing together, every weakness in his voice was mended by the addition of hers, and vice versa.

He thoughtfully drank water from a nearby teacup. There had to be a way.

Christine slammed the door of her dressing room, leaning against it, eyes closed. She had managed to sing all of her notes, remember her blocking, and best of all had managed to escape the inquires of Raoul. It was not that she did not wish to speak to him, but merely that she knew not what to say. She could hardly tell him the truth…that she had been halfway in love with a dream that was now real. That her nights were filled with half-remembered sighs. She blushed just remembering—

"That is a look of arousal if ever I saw one, Christine Daae! You will not escape telling me."

Christine's eyes snapped open, and she slid to the floor. "MEG!" Heart beating fast, she shot a furtive look at the mirror, then caught herself.

The ballerina sat perched on the edge of the chaise, Erik's pajamas on her lap. "He has good taste, that I'll admit." Like a cat, she rubbed the material to her cheek.

"Don't do that!" Christine snatched the material back. "He'd be mortified."

"Oh would he? Who is this mysterious he? I'm all ears…"

"You're exasperating. Must you know everything?"

"Yes."

Christine groaned, and folded her head onto her knees.

"What did I do?" Came Meg's protesting cry.

"Fine. If you must know. He is my teacher."

"I bet— "

"Meg!"

"I promise, I'll be an angel." She innocently crossed herself, then commenced bouncing like the incorrigible Nosy-Nelly she was. "What's he like? You don't even have to tell me his name! He can remain E until you wed or bed him."

"Meg, please."

Christine sat up on her heels, trying to find the words to describe Erik in all his moods and peculiarities, but her vocabulary fell short. She felt that she could sing of him, and all would be understood, but the music in her mind betrayed things too intimate for the presentation to another.

"He is kind except for when he's afraid. Then he lashes out…but he is more musical than anyone I've ever met. The music is always with him. Meg, I can't explain it, but I can hear it when we're both silent."

Meg observed her friend blankly. Christine was transformed. She glowed with a steady heat that emanated from her very soul. Meg confessed that she knew little of love beyond the game of it. But there, looking at her dearest friend, Meg would have bet her life upon its existence. Whoever "E" was, Christine loved him. And if he felt the same way, glowed as Christine did, they would be so very happy.

"I've heard enough." Meg whispered, carefully pressing her lips to the cheek of her friend. "If you ever want to tell me more I will gladly listen, but for now I can only wish you happiness."

She began to leave the room, but just before the door shut behind her Christine called her back.

"What should I do?" Christine murmured.

"Act as you. Everything will be fine."

Then she was gone, and Christine sat alone with her thoughts.

She knew not how many minutes had passed before a soft knock distracted her from her thoughts.

"Come in." A reflex, nothing more.

"Christine?"

"Oh…Erik!"

She stood and reached towards him, but then withdrew, wrapping her arms around herself. She couldn't be sure whether it was out of alarm or out of the desire to hold in her suddenly beating heart.

"Forgive my intrusion." He looked so out of place. A shadow of a man, a wisp of a dream. But real, so real. It seemed silly that she had to remind herself.

"I—thank you. For the dress. It's beautiful."

Erik's green eyes searched her. She was shocked at the visceral reaction she had to his presence. Heart beating, breath shallow. Fear, but infinitely more delicious.

"I have been writing."

"Oh?" Her curiosity gave her the excuse to step closer. He politely withdrew. Part of her wished he would take her into his arms and kiss her on the mouth; the rational half was scandalized and confused. It was merely the two of them, alone. They were players bereft of prop, not even a tea set to diffuse the tension in the air.

"We should sit!" Christine announced, awkwardly motioning to the chaise.

They sat. The only sound was their strangely synchronized breathing.

"I saw Raoul." Christine said, but the second she said it she wished that she hadn't. Erik seemed to deflate, shrinking down into himself. She hastened to repair the damage.

"For only a second. I haven't seen him since the night…. I, I don't know what to say to him. He…he loves me." Face burning, Christine wanted to hit herself. She had said it only to gauge his reaction, and was overcome with shame when she saw his face crumble.

"As he should. I suppose this fairy tale has been in the works since long before we two met. When is the happy day?"

"Just because someone loves you doesn't mean you have to love them back."

Erik laughed bitterly. "Quite right."

"I don't love him!" She stood, facing him. "He is an old dream."

"Dreams are some of the only things in this life that remain constant." He said it matter-of-factly, like someone saying they liked chocolate. He looked rather uncomfortable though, his body lurching forward as if to stand, her proximity to his knees seemed to prevent any attempts at moving.

She looked at him. He seemed composed despite his awkwardness, and the injustice of this inflamed her.

Rage boiled in her stomach. How to make him understand? Rage gave way to despair, discouragement, and finally nerves. Christine wrung her hands, compressing and releasing the fabric of her dress. She felt so...undone. It felt almost sacrilegious to argue with a man whom she had thought to be an angel for so long, and yet she had to contradict him. He was wrong. He was wrong and he didn't know that she had so often wished him a man. Did not know that the sinful curl of his voice around her name made her shake. But since she barely knew how to explain what she meant to herself she settled for sarcasm.

"Well if we're going to discuss the quantifiable rank of dreams then your mere existence means that you outrank any childhood inclinations of marrying up."

"Christine!" His shock was a palpable thing, and Christine felt herself deflate, shocked herself. She turned away to hide her flaming face, only to realize that he could surely see her blush in the mirror.

Ever the gentleman, Erik rose to his feet. He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body radiating across her back. If she turned to face him her breasts would brush against him.

She met his gaze in the mirror. He had lost his look of confidence. His hands hovered over her shoulders, long fingers spread. He curled them into fists and forced his hands to his sides. She felt the loss of anticipated touch keenly, and stepped away from him in disappointment.

"He doesn't understand." She whispered. He nodded stiffly. "He only hears the music. He can't listen." She stretched absently, pointing and flexing her toes. "My father used to play for us, and Raoul always tired of it after a few songs. I could have listened to Papa play forever, it was like magic. I never understood that he couldn't hear it."

She turned at last, staring into his green eyes. Their silence was strangely comfortable. And Christine felt that looking into her eyes, Erik must understand why she had told the story. Willed him to understand that she could not love Raoul.

Erik, he understood nothing more than the beauty of the ever-changing crystalline blue of her eyes.