A/N: Forgive me if all of these summaries sound cheesy or if the stories get too repetitive. I try to make them different, but my musings before bed as I snuggle my pillow don't always encourage originality in my imagination. This one, I feel, is strong and unique, though. It also makes me think of one of the themes for Labyrinth: Don't take things for granted.

Summary: Christine worries she is not good enough for her husband. What will it take for him to notice her again?

Chapter 4: Attention

When had he stopped watching her every move? When had he stopped giving her glances full of purest admiration? When had he stopped telling her every morning that the sun was dull compared to her smile? When had he started taking her for granted?

In truth, she did not ask for these things. And, more often than not, she herself did not feel she deserved half the praise he had so eagerly bestowed upon her those first few years. But lately, she wondered if she was a terribly selfish person to wish for her husband to give her a second glance. Was she a bad wife for not remaining in his eyes? She had striven fairly hard to keep her figure unchanged, her hair shiny in its curls, and her smile forever affixed in his presence. And certainly her voice had not diminished so much as to warrant such complete neglect and disinterest. What had she done to lose her darling husband's interest, then? Surely he would never go out to seek another's embrace. He had been so very certain that his fortune in finding even her was beyond reason. He used to tell her everyday how very lucky he was to have her in his life, let alone having secured her for his wife. What, then, held him from her now?

Christine entered his study with these thoughts spinning in her head as they often were as of late. He was seated at his piano, his organ similarly covered in his newest compositions just across the room. Back when they had first married, she had insisted that he use the organ in the day and the piano at night for the noise. It was too difficult to play an organ quietly, especially where his works were concerned.

She regarded his back, slightly hunched over the ivory keys in deep thought. In the early days, she had merely to touch his shoulder and he would sway into her, looking up with his never ending admiration and follow her wherever she led. Now, oh, now she had to grip him almost to where he could no longer play, and call his name to get even a hum of recognition of her presence.

'Erik, it's time for bed, my love,' she beckoned gently, leaning over to speak in his ear. She graced his cheek where his mask did not cover—a habit he refused to leave even after her firm insistence—with a soft kiss, hoping to lure him this time.

'Hmm,' he hummed noncommittally. 'I'll be there in a bit.'

Not even a pet name. No endearment, no return kiss, not even meeting her eyes. He broke past her grasp to write something out, frowning when he found her arms restricting his motion. He shook them off callously to continue his work.

She wanted to hit him. She wanted to scream and cry and do anything to garner his attentions once more. She would behave like the child she had long ceased to be, simply to gain a confused look from the man who was supposed to love her more than anything. She accepted his composing, she accepted his being unused to touch, but she did not understand why he no longer desired her. Instead, she simply turned, nodding in resignation, before heading off to their bedroom. She did not leave the light on. She knew it would only be herself and her tears this night. She would cry herself to sleep and try to remember the days when he loved her unconditionally. She would try to dream of the first few years of their marriage and how happy they had both been.

He came in a few hours later, crawling silently into bed. He did not wish her goodnight, though she did try to seem asleep. She held in her silent sobs at his lack of care for her. He did stretch out his hands to her, and she leaned into them, but they quickly recoiled. He was merely stretching. She gasped a sob at this when the bed dipped to show he had rolled over. Their backs were facing each other, and Christine tried to make peace with sleeping another lonely night in bed with her husband.

Perhaps if they had had children, she thought before shaking it out of her head. A foolish thought, remembering his complete opposition to the matter. He had laid it bare the very night of their marriage. He would never chance conception. He would never risk passing on his face to a child. She had accepted this, and still did. But as their relationship crumbled around them, she began to wonder if it might give her something to do.

Falling asleep, she hoped as she did every night, that things would be better in the morning. They never were, however. She wondered why she still hoped.

Erik sat at the bench of his piano. He felt no closer to finishing this work than when he had started it months ago. His muse had left him and his hands felt useless. He could not understand it. Those first few years of marriage had been so full of music and life and happiness. Why had his creative wells gone dry? His wife was still there, his hands still worked, and the notes still flowed, but it did not hold the emotion it once had. It reminded him of when he first started teaching Christine, her voice so beautiful, but her tone so dead it hurt to hear. Why had this happened to him? Why now? He had everything. He had the woman of his dreams, music, life, health. Why did he feel so empty?

Something buzzed at his ear and he realised it was Christine. What could she possibly want now? Could she not see he was busy trying to solve a very important problem? He told her would join her in bed later. Perhaps he had been a bit too harsh in his tone, but his mind was elsewhere. Besides, he thought, he would apologise to her later. He could kiss her all he wanted when he was done with this last page. Maybe ploughing through with his work would help break whatever block he seemed to suffer from.

His thoughts were interrupted again by a noise, but he ignored it. He continued on: one half note, two quarter notes. Sharp here, flat there, key change and then a new measure begins. There, he had done his bit for the night. Were it not for the weight of his eyelids, he would continue on. He felt so close. Still, he knew Christine would not be pleased. One more page would turn into twenty faster than he liked to admit.

Dragging himself from his work, he stretched his increasingly sore back and trudged off to bed. Surprisingly, he noted that the light was still on, shining into the hallway. Generally he found it off and Christine in bed. From the hall he observed also that the door was still open. Odd.

Then he heard it.

'Erik!'

It was plaintive and hoarse, but holding no less urgency than if it had come ringing through the house as he knew her voice still could.

Rushing into the room with wild eyes, he saw his angel upon the floor, clutching at her foot with dried tears staining her beautiful face.

'Christine!' he cried, hurrying to her side and hovering his hands over her form. 'Christine, what's happened? What—'

He did not have time to get his second question out before a hand came firmly crashing across his face, nearly knocking the mask free. He recovered to see her crying again, her face twisted with rage.

'I'm hurt!' she yelled at him.

'Why did you not call me?' he asked, still nursing his cheek from her blow.

'I did!' she screamed with unmatched fury. Even the attitude of La Carlotta had no match to his darling. 'I called you for the past hour, but you didn't come.' Her tears turned to despair once more as he felt his face and heart fall. He had not heard her. He realised with the draining colour to his face that he had heard her, but had simply ignored her as it took him away from his work.

'I tripped and fell, and I think I may have broken my ankle,' she explained, ignoring his look of guilty shock.

'Why did you not try to get to me?' he asked, already sensing the answer.

'What good would it have done?' she fired at him. 'You hardly notice when I come to get you for bed.' She ducked her head now, her sobs interrupting her words. 'You obviously don't love me anymore. You never hold me, you rarely even speak to or look at me. It took breaking a limb for you to even show concern for me. Maybe it would be better if I just disappeared.'

Erik did not have to think. He pulled her into his arms and wept harder than he had the day she told him she loved him. He cried for all of the days he had ignored her, all of the hours he had taken her for granted, and all of the moments he had missed with her because of his obsession.

He told her this. He spoke it all. He even spoke of his realisation that his music was lacking because he had not been seeing her at all. He had lost his muse because she was not there. That she was his muse and he was lost without her. He renewed his love a hundred times over. He promised every wedding vow all over again. He prayed for her forgiveness until his voice was hoarse like hers. He begged her to love him still. He told her he knew he did not deserve her, that he never had, but that he loved her. He brushed his lips against her cheek, catching the tears which ran freely there. He thanked her for her hair, her eyes, her kindness, her warmth, her heart, her devotion to such a fool as he, and he asked for it all back. He asked her for a second chance.

Turning his face to her, she tore off the white mask that covered it, revealing the deformed and tear soaked flesh beneath. She kissed him. She kissed him as she had when he had asked for her hand in marriage. She kissed him in all of the ways she had missed. She kissed him and whispered in her sorrowfully broken voice, 'I love you.'

He wept once more, this time scooping her into his arms and carrying her to the bed. He spent the rest of the night and week caring for her. He spent the rest of his life loving every second with her.