Title: Help Me Say Goodbye
Rating: M
Word count: ~86k
Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.
Erik prepared lunch for her, and Christine sat at the table and watched, propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand.
She felt more relaxed than she could remember feeling in a long time, and she knew it was the euphoria of his music. He had created that euphoria in her before, both as her teacher and that night when he had revealed himself, and she knew she should probably try to resist. She should probably force herself to remember all the complications that would keep her from feeling this relaxed, this peaceful.
But she could not; and after all, she had promised Erik to try.
"How do you get water here?" she asked idly as Erik filled a kettle from the tap. "Surely it's not from the lake?"
"Hardly," he said, not sparing her a glance as he moved around the kitchen. "It's not good enough to drink, although I use it for other things. I am supplied by the same pipes that supply the opera house." He gestured at the ceiling. "We're not far below the lowest cellars, after all."
"But surely it wasn't designed that way?" she asked, before she could think better of the question. The euphoria was making her careless, she thought, making her tongue loose. She did not want to anger Erik by asking questions – yet he seemed to have no objections, was answering her easily enough.
"It was," he said. "I helped design it."
That was enough to sober Christine, to make her remember how little she truly knew of this man. If he had helped design the opera house, he must be at least forty years old, or probably nearer fifty.
Old enough to be her father; perhaps that was why it had been so easy to believe her father had sent him. And yet he did not act like a man of fifty, did not move the way she had seen men of that age move. He was as spry as Raoul, even – or perhaps even more so. No, she decided, whatever his age, she could not have guessed it. But to have helped design the opera house he must be more than twice her age.
And clever. Oh, she knew he was clever, but she'd had no idea he was an architect as well as a musician, composer and teacher. So many things, this man hidden away under the opera house.
Christine wished, quite suddenly, that he did not have to hide. That the world could accept him as he was. Then the thought was gone as Erik brought her lunch – a bowl of soup, more of the bread he had served her for breakfast, another cup of milky coffee. He was eating too this time, she saw. It pleased her, although she wasn't quite sure why.
Perhaps it was a sign that he was growing more comfortable with her; perhaps it was simply that he had eaten breakfast before she had awoken earlier and was now hungry.
Whatever the reason, it made the meal more pleasant for Christine. She was able to enjoy the food, to taste it as she ate, and she couldn't help wondering if his skills were without limit. He could design buildings and create operas as easily as he had made lunch for her.
Next to him she felt hopelessly young and horribly stupid. All she could do was sing and dance – and she couldn't even dance particularly well.
Raoul never made her feel stupid, no matter how many hopeless blunders of social etiquette she made. It was true that he sometimes laughed, but it was not meanly meant. He never made her feel inadequate, for he himself was merely another normal human being. Not a genius like Erik, for a genius he was.
But Raoul felt terribly far away, somehow. She knew he was probably searching the opera house for her right now. Nobody knew the way down here, nobody could possibly find her, but she knew Raoul would be trying. She knew he would suspect the Phantom had spirited her away once more.
She couldn't quite decide how she felt about that, and the realisation gave her pause. There had been a number of realisations this morning, and she couldn't make sense of them all. She loved Raoul, and he loved her, and she should not be thinking of Erik kindly. She should be quaking in fear, should be trying to escape. She should not be thinking of ways to…to please him, to make him feel less alone and abandoned.
She should not, but she was, and she fingered the chain around her neck thoughtfully.
"You are very quiet, Christine," Erik observed, startling her out of her thoughts. "Is something the matter?"
"No," she said quickly, dropped her hand and finished her coffee. "No, thank you." His sharp eyes had seen her actions though, and a scowl flickered across his face.
"He will no doubt be searching for you," he said. "But he will not find you. And you promised me two days."
"I will keep my promise," said Christine. "And…and I wasn't thinking of Raoul, exactly." His lips were pressed together, he shook his head slightly as if in disbelief. Christine did not try to explain further, doubted she could explain it even to herself. Besides, the last few hours had been so pleasant that she did not want to spoil it by speaking of Raoul – by speaking of things that would only make Erik angry.
"What will we do this afternoon?" she asked instead. "What…what do you normally do?"
"Compose, or play," he said with a shrug. "Or watch rehearsals, to make sure they aren't butchering my opera." Christine managed a smile, thought of Carlotta in particular but others too.
"I hope I'm not doing too badly," she murmured. "It's so…so different."
"You're doing fine," he said. "And you'll be more than that by the time rehearsals are finished." He rose, collected their bowls and mugs, took them to the sink. "As I said, I will help you. But only later, if you continue to be well."
"I have no headache at all," Christine assured him. "I should like to sing, Erik." She hesitated, watched him. His back was to her, his head bowed. "I…I have missed my lessons," she admitted, barely a whisper but certainly loud enough for him to hear her.
"That is…good to hear." He didn't turn to look at her, remained where he was by the sink, and Christine bit her lip, hoped she hadn't upset him by speaking the truth. She had missed her lessons, had missed his patient tutelage and the way he always demanded more from her.
Nobody else demanded such perfection from her, made her want to reach that perfection. Raoul could never understand that, could never hope to understand it.
"Go through to the other room," Erik said then, glanced over his shoulder at her. "I will be with you soon, after I have washed up."
She recognised the command in his words, nodded and rose, left the kitchen and returned to the music room. Erik had left the candles lit, but the fire was dying down and Christine went to it, shook the poker through the ash and put another log into the grate. Then she knelt back, stared into the fire, wrapped her arms around her middle and tried to make sense of things now she had a moment alone.
She loved Raoul – but why did she love him? He was good, and sweet, and kind. He appreciated her, made her feel beautiful and loved and safe.
And Erik. Erik, who was so passionate, so angry…so abused. Poor, wretched Erik. How did she feel about Erik? She feared him, yes, of course she did. But her fear was not all she felt.
Erik. She shook her head, lifted a hand once again to the chain around her neck. Erik had trapped her down here, had separated her from Raoul and would not let her go back to him. He had done so many bad things, had created so much fear. Yet she could not help feeling compassion for him, for the life he must have known, for the way he reacted to the kindnesses taken for granted by Raoul.
A smile, a touch. A friendly word. All these things were devoured by Erik as if they were crumbs and he a starving man. It made her heart ache for him.
She had promised him two days, and had promised to try to see beyond her fear and the stories of the Opera Ghost. Was that what she was doing now? Was she seeing beyond his mask, beyond the terror he inspired in her? It must be, because if she still felt that vivid terror surely she could not feel compassion, could not feel…
She closed her eyes, hugged herself tightly. She could not feel desire for him if she were still terrified. And although she would deny it to anyone who asked, to herself she could admit that she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. He was so passionate, so intense, that she was sure it would be a very different experience to kissing Raoul.
Raoul who was so gentle with her, so careful. So mindful of propriety, too, and although Christine knew she should value that, still she could not help but wondering how Erik would kiss her.
Buquet, she reminded herself. The chandelier. Her incarceration here, in the dwelling under the opera house. These were reasons enough to keep that dark desire at bay, even were she not engaged to another man.
But she could not wear Raoul's ring, and she tried not to realise why. Tried not to realise that it was all because of Erik.
"Christine?"
She jumped, startled, looked up to find Erik standing above her. His head was tilted slightly, quizzically, and she flushed, glanced away. He held out a hand to help her up, and after a moment she took it, rose and smoothed her skirts down.
"You look…" Erik trailed off, shook his head. "Is everything alright?"
"Yes," she whispered. "…No. Oh, Erik, don't ask me that, please." He looked at her for a moment longer, then his lip curled in a sneer and he turned away. He went to the low couch where she had slept, that night so many months ago, and he sat, his hands clenching into fists.
"You promised you would try," he muttered angrily. "What more can I do, Christine?"
"Oh, Erik, no," she said, lifted a hand to her mouth and shook her head. "No, please…you don't understand." She went to him, knelt beside him and looked up at him. "I'm so terribly confused," she admitted. "You are so confusing, Erik. But I wasn't thinking of Raoul. Please believe me."
He looked down at her, eyes wide and anger fading now as she knelt before him. He reached out as if he wanted to touch her, stopped short and let his hand fall.
"But you were thinking you do not wish to be here," he said, accusing her. "Deny that, if you will."
"I do deny it," Christine said, not quite a lie. "Please." She paused when he did not respond, took a deep breath and tried to formulate her thoughts into words. "You asked me to see beyond my fear," she said at last. "And…and I am trying, truly I am. But you are asking me to look beyond what I have believed for six months, and you must….you must try to understand that I don't…"
"You don't what?" he asked her, a little gentler now. He reached out again, brushed a finger across her cheek. She shivered, but it was not fear that made her shiver, was not revulsion. But Erik did not know that, and he sighed, pulled away once more.
"I don't know," she whispered. "I'm so confused."
"It doesn't matter," he said resignedly. "I should not expect…"
Christine lowered her head, clasped her hands together in her lap. He did not expect anything from her but to be shunned, and she could not tell him all that was in her head and her heart. She could not explain to him what she did not understand herself.
"Come," he said then, "perhaps a lesson is the best way to pass the time. If you are sure you have no headache or dizziness?"
"None at all," she said truthfully, and followed him to the organ.
