Chandelier Chapter 4, a phantom of the opera fanfic

A bit of singing and the fallout begins.

Chapter Four

She woke to find a note on the nightstand next to her, written in red ink and a careful, graceful penmanship. Erik's handwriting, no doubt. She yawned, shook out her long hair, and picked up the note.

My dear Christine,

I apologize for leaving before you wake this morning, but I have business above. Breakfast awaits you on the table. Please use my home as you would until I return, including the piano. Perhaps you would sing for me?

Your most obedient servant,

Erik

She tapped the edge of the note to her lips as they curled in a smile. She needed to practice a bit before he came back so she didn't embarrass herself anymore than she already had.

She hadn't taken a bath yesterday, so she decided to clean up before doing anything else. The water felt heavenly, and this time, she had her own soap and shampoo. She did miss the scent of Erik's own soap, the pine and slight hint of musk reminding her of him whenever she caught a whiff of her hair. But her hair missed conditioner and needed a fierce brushing.

She sank beneath the water, relishing the feel of the warmth creeping into her limbs. Despite the fact that summer was in full force in the world above, Erik's domain was perpetually damp and cold. No wonder his hands were always freezing. Though, she had to admit, they had warmed when tangled in her hair…

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, worrying the flesh in remembrance. For a man who had never kissed, who had never been kindly touched, he made up the difference with his enthusiasm. Would he try to kiss her again?

She squeezed her thighs together, feeling the intimate press of water. Oh, she hadn't thought any of this through. She had been overwhelmed with the events of last night, caught up in his confessions. His eyes had held such vulnerability, his voice so soft with wonder when she had touched his hidden deformity.

Her fingers touched her lips, remembering the harsh slant of his mouth on hers. How would those lips feel lower? She let her hand creep down the white expanse of her throat, to her collarbone, lower still. She skimmed her hand over her chest.

Sensitivity so close to pain shot across her torso, and she snatched her hand away, biting back tears of frustration. No, she couldn't let it go any further than kisses. And even then, more kisses were probably a bad, bad idea.

She needed to get out of here eventually. She had to return to the real world, to her mom and friends and college classes and apartment in Boston. Maybe last night had been a big mistake after all. She certainly didn't want to lead him on, and she had completely lost her head in the moment.

The water growing tepid, she finished her bath and dressed quickly in a long skirt and sweater. It was an odd clothing combination, but the skirt was easy to pull over her ankle. She tentatively put some weight on her foot, testing for pain. It felt surprisingly better this morning, and the shape was almost back to normal.

She frowned at that and tucked her crutch under her arm. What would happen when her ankle was healed enough to climb her way out of Erik's home?

A spread of assorted pastries awaited her on the small kitchen table, along with a single red rose in a white vase, the thorns removed with careful accuracy. She bent over and breathed in the colorful aroma. Yes, she had to leave eventually, but while her time here lasted, she intended to avoid bringing up the fact that she needed to leave. At least, for a few more days.

Browsing the book shelves once again, she settled on a book about opera of the late 19th century. She didn't mind admitting that she wasn't a huge fan of the genre, and maybe Erik was right, maybe she just hadn't met the right one. She read for a while, tucked into the divan with a throw blanket around her legs, before her eyelids grew heavy.

The next moment, she woke to the press of coldness against her cheek. She opened her eyes to see Erik crouched beside her, the backs of his bare fingers caressing the side of her face. When he saw her awaken, he held up both hands in a placating gesture, but she wasn't startled by him. In fact, his strong presence soothed her, his all-consuming aura enveloping around her like a blanket.

She took one of his hands in both of hers before he could move away. "Hi."

"I woke you," he murmured. "That was not my intention."

"It's okay. Don't worry about it." She smoothed her thumbs over the back of his hand, watched his other hand grasp the black linen fabric that encased his thigh. "I'm sure I napped long enough. I'm glad you're back."

He started at that, his eyes jerking to the floor, to somewhere in the distance, to their combined fingers, and finally, to her face. "As am I, Christine."

Oh, the way he said her name sent an ache racing down her belly. He had bewitched her, she was sure of it. Never before had she reacted so strongly to someone else.

"Thank you for the rose," she said, giving his hand a squeeze. "It's lovely." She hesitated, then threw caution to the wind. The worst that would happen is he would pull back before she could go in for the landing. She sat up, scooted closer to him, and kissed him on the cheek.

His pale cheek was smooth beneath her lips. Could he even grow a beard? His real hair had grown in sparse clumps about his head, and she hadn't felt any stubble upon his face yesterday. When she pulled back, his eyes were wide. His hand inside hers spasmed, tightening its grip on her fingers before relaxing once more.

His other hand stayed respectfully on his own thigh. Besides the caress he had snuck when she'd been asleep, he hadn't tried to touch her. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to."

He snorted, but didn't move away.

She decided to peruse a thought she'd had all morning. "Erik, have you talked to Mr. Khan?"

"Whatever for?"

"I've been thinking about him and wondering if he's okay after…" She swallowed, choosing her words carefully. "After yesterday."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Daroga left alive after his stupidity. Is that not enough?"

"It's my fault he was hurt! He was just trying to look out for me and help-"

"Mettle."

"Help when he thought I was in trouble." She squeezed his fingers. "Please, can you make sure he's okay? For me? Maybe you could go on one of your trips to the surface. You seem to go often enough."

"Business, as I have said, and little concern of yours." His mouth turned down. "Turn your curiosity away from that topic. I will not discuss it."

She let that go, for now. "Just check on him, please?"

He looked down on their entwined fingers. "As you want."

She smiled, then stared down at the spine of the book spread across her lap, needing a change of subject before she pushed too far. He seemed too much on edge right now for anything more. "I've been trying to learn to appreciate opera today."

"Oh?" His uncovered eyebrow rose at her. "And you suppose reading about opera will do it?"

She wasn't sure if he was sneering or trying to make a joke. Based on the fact that he was still allowing her to hold his hand, she guessed he was going for the latter in his unpracticed way. How… cute.

She smiled. "I can hardly play it myself, and I didn't see any form of music around for me to pilfer a listen."

"In time, we shall have to rectify your distaste of opera. You wound me, Miss Daaé." His fingers, warmed by her own touch, clasped around one of her hands and brought it to his mouth. He pressed a kiss to the back of that hand, his eyes glittering. "Come. I believe I was promised a song today."

She followed him to the piano, and she found herself marveling at the construction of the instrument as he took his place on the narrow bench. "How did you manage to get this beast down here?"

He began to play a slow, low melody she didn't recognize, his long, slender fingers finding the keys with graceful practice. The edge of his mouth curled upward. "As most of the objects down here, it came in pieces. I built it, over time."

She smoothed an appreciative hand over the edge of the black surface near where he played. "Yet another talent you have?"

"I suppose." Without pausing, he swept the piece of music into a different song, this one she recognized.

"You learned my song!"

He didn't reply, but his gaze said everything. The heat in his eyes became too overwhelming, so she closed her eyes and listened in order to focus on the music, beginning to hum along. As he heard the first sounds of her voice, he changed melodies once again, this time to something with a range of sounds which she could use to warm up.

After about ten minutes, he seemed satisfied with her voice. His fingers rested on the keys, pausing. "Ready, my dear?"

She tapped a finger against her chin as she met his stare. "On one condition."

In response, his fingers belted out a couple cords that caused the chamber to shudder with intense power and sound. Although his mouth didn't quite stretch into a smile, he seemed to be enjoying their playfulness. "And that is?"

"Sing something for me afterward."

Immediately, the lightheartedness left him, his mouth thinning into a firm line. "You don't know what you ask, Christine."

She shook her head, tossing her curls about her shoulders. "I know you play beautifully, and I know you are able to give me lessons like a master of voice would. I also know that your speaking voice hints that you might sing much better than I can."

He began to play again, a contemplative foray into the song she had chosen. "One song, if yours impresses me enough."

"I don't know if that's possible, Erik," she huffed.

"You chose to sing 'Chandelier,' a song rife with tension and dark longing. It is the song of a woman lost to drink, who wants nothing more than to escape her own reality." He pulled the song's melody from the piano, sending chills down her arms. "You cannot only sing the song, my dear. You must live it."

She turned away from him. "You know little about me. Maybe that's easier than you realize."

"Show me," he said, his voice a low purr of challenge.

Her shoulders straightened, her chin lifting high. She stayed facing the dark, open expanse of his home where she knew the lake lurked. As his hands moved the piano's note to the opening of the song, she began to sing. Quietly at first, then growing in strength.

Party girls don't get hurt
Can't feel anything, when will I learn
I push it down, push it down

I'm the one "for a good time call"
Phone's blowin' up, ringin' my doorbell
I feel the love, feel the love

1, 2, 3 1, 2, 3 drink
1, 2, 3 1, 2, 3 drink
1, 2, 3 1, 2, 3 drink

Throw 'em back, till I lose count

Christine felt the strength pour into her. She remembered her father under the white hospital sheets, half his body gone, the other half bleeding under wrappings and torn skin. She remembered her mother, still dressed in mourning black, stuffing her father's belongings into the Goodwill bin as Christine clutched his violin to her chest and begged her mother not to take it. Her mother had left Christine with only an armful of shirts, and only then because Christine had run off and hid them.

Christine remembered having to take classes in staging and lighting and other components of stage management instead of voice lessons like she wanted. She had spent years watching Meg take the stage as a ballet dancer instead of joining her friend like she wanted.

Christine remembered the call from the doctor, the call she missed that left a voicemail on her phone. She had replayed that message over and over: worrying test results, make an appointment immediately, we need to talk to you. Christine remembered sitting in the office while the doctor spoke to her of her options and hearing little of what was said after the word cancer. She remembered calling her mother as she drove home, speeding on the interstate as she screamed her tears into the phone.

She remembered the feel of Erik's lips upon her own, the gnash of teeth and tongue and the burn of future promises that couldn't' be kept. Because what kind of future could they have together, down her in the darkness? The call of reality was pressing in around her.

Christine's voice swelled within her, and she stretched her arms out wide.

I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier
I'm gonna live like tomorrow doesn't exist
Like it doesn't exist
I'm gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry
I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier

But I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down won't open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight
Help me, I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down won't open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight
On for tonight

She came down from her high, swaying as she sang the next verse. She could picture it all within her closed eyes, and her voice sang with unlimited clarity and passion like it had never before.

Sun is up, I'm a mess
Gotta get out now, gotta run from this
Here comes the shame, here comes the shame

1, 2, 3 1, 2, 3 drink
1, 2, 3 1, 2, 3 drink
1, 2, 3 1, 2, 3 drink

Throw 'em back till I lose count

She threw open her arms once again, her eyes closed. Faintly, she heard Erik suck in a shuddering breath, but his presence faded behind her as she was lost in the past.

But I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down, won't open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight
Help me, I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down, won't open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight
On for tonight

Her voice caught on the last word, and she swallowed hard to get past the tears that threatened to surface.

On for tonight
'Cause I'm just holding on for tonight
Oh, I'm just holding on for tonight

She cut off, unable to finish, lowering her arms to her sides, her body wracked with sobs.
Erik finished the song, letting the last notes hang in the air. She didn't hear him move but his arms suddenly came around her, wrapping around her torso from behind. They enfolded her body as she wept, his scent of ash and ink and darkness invaded her senses and pulling her out of her memories.

She turned in his arms and returned his embrace, clutching at the back of his coat and burying her face against the juncture of where his cravat tucked into his vest. He was strong around her, hugging her tightly in a way he hadn't before.

"Ah, Christine," he breathed, tickling the hair on the top of her head. "That was beyond exquisite."

She released a shuddering sigh into his chest. "Not professional of me."

He pulled back enough to cup her face in his large hands. His thumbs brushed away the wetness clinging to her cheeks. She couldn't bear to see his eyes, but as he tilted her chin with a gentle tenderness, she met those golden depths and saw a swirl of mixed emotions. He looked at her as though he truly saw her, with shining wonder, a glare of fierce pride, and something stormy that lurked under the surface.

"You were exquisite," he reaffirmed and bent down to touch his lips to hers.

The kiss was barely a kiss, a soft skimming touch that electrified her. He pressed another kiss to her forehead, his mask grazing her temple.

She gave him one more quick hug before taking one step back, needing a little distance from the headiness his presence gave her. "Enough to hear a song of your own?"

"More than." He seemed to hesitate, his hands falling to his sides, torn by indecision.

She moved even further away, sitting on the edge of the piano bench and patting next to her. "Please?"

"How can I follow that performance, my dear?"

"You don't have to sing your soul, Erik. Maybe something to relax me?"

He obliged, sliding next to her on the bench. His fingers spread across the ivories once again, hovering just above them as he thought. He began to play something unhurried, the notes drawn out and precise with his feet upon the pedals. And then, gradually, his voice joined in.

Immediately, she recognized he was speaking his native language, the French words rolling off his tongue with ease. His voice swelled and lulled as he followed the piano's lead. She sat so close to him, their thighs almost touching, that she could feel the vibration of his song within him. His voice was unlike anything she had ever heard before, a dark, liquid slide like brandy or smooth honey. How was he even real? This masked man who lived beneath the Palais Garnier, who had lived such a terrible life, who had been treated like a monster, had the voice of an angel.

If she called him that, she could only imagine the reaction she would get. Instead, she wanted to show him how he had made her feel. As his last notes echoed into the void, and his hands stilled, she sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. She let one of her hands come up to grasp his cold fingers.

He stiffened for a moment, and then seemed to visibly force himself to relax beside her. How long would it take before her touch didn't startle him?

"Was that to your liking, my dear?" He tried to keep his voice light, but she heard the tremor as he added the now familiar endearment.

"I have never heard anyone sing like that before," she said honestly. "You're the one who should be onstage, Erik!"

He gestured with his other hand at his face. "It takes more than a voice to make a superstar."

"Record your songs, then. You write your own music, right? You could make millions just from your CDs and downloads."

"And deal with the publicity, the prying. The questions alone would send me back underground."

She shook her head. "If you were anonymous, no one would even know where to start."

His fingers tightened around hers. "There are ways to find out with little information to go on."

"Erik-"

"Christine," he snapped. His tone was no longer mild, the sudden anger causing her to jerk back. "Enough entertaining these impossible fantasies! What do you think would happen if authorities caught wind of a masked man with an unusual voice? Five countries still want me dead, my dear! They haven't just forgotten."

"Oh." And she was thrown back to the reality of who exactly still held her hand.

"Yes, oh," he said, his fierce eyes scornful.

She tried to tug back her hand but he held fast. "There is no reason to get nasty, Erik. I just wanted to say how much I loved your singing."

"Of course you love it. Christine loves the voice as long as the mask stays on! They all love the voice."

"That's not at all what I said." Her own anger surged forward. "Don't you dare. Not after yesterday. If you want to take off your mask, then take it off. I don't care either way." Were they both seriously still sitting on this bench, having a fight? Was he holding on as though afraid she would flee?

"Such lovely liars," he spat. "You care. Everyone cares!"

Oh, she was seriously pissed now. He loved to turn nasty when uncomfortable, when challenged. Well, she could be unfair too.

Her free hand darted forward and snatched the mask from his face. As he tried to scoop it from her, she threw it across the piano's wide expanse where it disappeared somewhere unseen.

He was just as hideous as she remembered, especially now as his unnatural features were twisted with rage. His misshapen nostril flared as he breathed heavily, his mouth bent into a scowl, and his yellow eyes pierced her. Insanely, she wasn't afraid of him, even then.

When he spoke, he seethed with barely-restrained power. "You have a bad habit of touching things that don't belong to you, Christine."

She knew how violent he could be, but she was heady with anger. While everything about him right now warned her to reign in her own words, she simply didn't care enough to try. She was so tired of tiptoeing around him.

Glaring right into his eyes, she placed a hand on his thigh, feeling the hard muscle jump under her touch.

"Such as you?"

He surged off the bench in a blur of black and scent of smoke. She thought he was going to stalk around the room or simply run off. Instead, he spun around and scooped her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest. She didn't have time to protest or even struggle as he crossed the room in a few long-legged strides and dumped her upon the divan.

She knew her eyes were wide, and she wondered if she looked more frightened than she felt at that moment, her hair in wild disarray. "Erik-"

With a desperate urgency, he followed her onto the small couch, his body surged over hers as he took her mouth with his. Gone was his previous hesitation, and he had learned much in the hours since their last passionate kiss, reigning in teeth and tongue and sending desire spreading hot within her.

Oh, he was a fast learner.

Oh, she was in trouble now.

One of his knees pressed between her legs, pinning her skirt to the sharp fabric of the divan, trapping her lower body. She was caught between wanting to push him away and clutch him closer, a push-pull conflict that spun around inside her. She felt like she was watching herself move without her consent, outside of her own body. All of her earlier hesitations slowly melted away under the insistence of his mouth. She was drunk on the newness and danger of it all, and her inhibitions vanished.

His hand found hers and pulled it to the unmasked side of his face, his fingers trembling, asking. She obliged, pressing her palm against his twisted cheek, her fingertips splaying across the hairline of his black wig.

He moaned, then, and she wanted to hear more of that sound from him. She grabbed his coat with her other hand, pulling him closer still. Her mouth broke suction long enough for her to press fervent kisses along his jaw, across his deformed cheek, to where rough skin met his ear.

"Christine…" he said, his slivery voice rasping. He turned his head and his lips found the curve of her neck. His mouth was heated by their kisses, and each new press of lips to her sensitive skin felt like she was being scorched by the sun.

Touching his face wasn't enough. She wanted more of him, more of the feel of his body against her fingertips. She let go of his jacket and thrust her hand between coat and his chest, searching blindly as she tilted her head back so he could continue his conquest of her throat. She found the edge of his vest, dipped between the black folds of vest and cravat, and slid two fingers between buttons on his shirt. The pads of her fingers slid along a new expanse of cool, smooth skin.

His mouth let go of her neck, gasping.

Looking back, she would know that was the moment she had made a mistake. Right now, entangled in the weight of his body above hers, she had no thoughts beyond more contact, more of that. And so she didn't blame him for his response. A man who had been denied touch his entire life, who hung on every stroke of skin against skin, was bound to return her questing caresses with some of his own.

She didn't pull her fingers away, smoothing them across that inch of chest. She marveled at the lack of hair, the feel of this intimate space of him above her. He shifted, capturing her lips once more, delving a sure tongue inside with greater boldness.

This time, she was the one who moaned.

And that's when she felt one of his hands slip down the side of her torso, the caress slow and tender, but determined on its path. So slight, almost not even there, and her attention was swept back toward the feel of tongue against tongue. She petted the ruin of his face, then grasped his shoulder for more stability against the dizzying swirl of sensations.

The hand found the edge of her sweater and dipped beneath the purple fabric. Icy softness brushed against the bottom of her ribs. Her sudden protest was lost within another whimper of pleasure as he shifted his weight, his knee between her legs pressing upward to a point that made her vision blur. She doubted he'd even realized what he had done. Her mind sent off warning bells once again, but her body swirled with sensation, his mouth slanting across hers.

His cold touch swept up her ribs and covered one mound of her bra.

Panic shot through her. No, no, no, no! She bucked against him, retracting both of her hands to clutch at his beneath her shirt. She did her best to both lift his hand off of her and shove him away at the same time.

She jerked her head to the side, freeing her voice from his lips. "S-stop! Oh, stop stop stop. Please stop!" She tried to kick him away, desperate to get away from his searching fingers, but he remained crouched over her, his knee pinning her down, stunned into motionless.

"Christine, what-" He shook himself and finally tore away from her. His golden gaze, still hazy from want, widened as he watched her clutch her sweater to her chest, drawing her knees up as she might a shield.

She fought to slow her breathing. Adrenaline hit her system in a rush of terror, leaving her shaky and panting. "P-please, Erik. Don't. Stay back. Don't." She squeezed her eyes tightly closed, burying her face in her drawn up knees.

She heard him settle on the edge of the divan. "Did I hurt you?" he asked.

She shook her head. He hadn't, not really.

"Then…" He paused, and when she peered over the top of her skirt, he had covered the side of his face with his hand. "This terrified you."

"No!" she said, louder than she meant to. "This has nothing – nothing – to do with your face, Erik, and everything to do with me."

He snorted, not removing his hand. "It's not you, it's me. I suppose that is better than stay away, you disgusting freak."

She stared at him a moment, noticing his cravat pushed to the side, his black wig slightly askew. She should have known things were progressing too fast; she shouldn't have kissed him last night. She shouldn't have encouraged any of this. Hadn't she kept away from all male attention for the past two years for a reason?

She buried her face in her knees, struggling past the tears that fell. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for things to go that far."

"No, I suppose you did not."

She felt him stand and heard the light tap of his black shoes on stone as he walked back toward the piano. She knew when she looked up again, he would have put back on the mask. He moved back over to stand near her.

"I will go see how Daroga fares," he said softly. "I did state I would."

"Erik, please believe me when I say how sorry I am. All of that was my fault." She sneaked a peek at him, but he wasn't looking at her. Why couldn't she just tell him the truth? Would that be easier? Wouldn't he, of all people, understand?

"Yes, I believe you are sorry." He glanced at her, then strode away to grab his cloak and hat. "I will return later with dinner."

All she could do was nod. As soon as he had vanished, she rushed to her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. Her pillow cradled her hot face, wet with tears that began to flow freely.

After all of that, after everything she had done to try to show him how she felt, he thought she had recoiled because of his deformity. She couldn't imagine what was going on in his head right now. All she knew is that she couldn't have wounded him worse if she had stabbed him with an actual knife.

When he came back, she decided, she would tell him everything. She would tell him the truth about why she had stopped him. She would tell him about the diagnosis, the doctors' visits, the treatments, and why she wasn't ready for him to see or touch that. About why she might not ever be ready.

She just hoped he would give her the chance.