It seemed that Erik's interruption of Christine's Friday nights was becoming his own routine. She didn't mind it anymore, genuinely expecting that he'd show up.
"Hey, Erik," Christine greeted him with a plainer—yet still friendly—voice, taking off the mask she usually wore while serving customers. She placed a coaster on his table. "Water?"
He smiled, his eyes glimmering at the fact she had caught onto him. "Yes, I would like water."
Christine left to get his glass. "Are you ready to order?"
Erik hummed in thought, glancing at the menu briefly. "You said the tomato bisque was good, correct?"
She grinned. "Did you remember everything I recommended?"
He chuckled. "Ah, so I am correct?"
She nodded and took his menu. "Yes. You are correct. I'll be back with your food shortly."
She returned to fill his glass once and then brought out his soup.
"Sit with me again."
Christine sat, less reluctant than before, as Erik unraveled his napkin to retrieve his silverware. "Please don't make me dine with you again," she said, "I'm quite full from my last meal."
Erik laughed. "Whatever you wish."
She sat there and watched as his hand curled around the spoon and guided it around the circumference of the bowl.
"So, Christine, where are you from?"
"Sweden."
"Ah," he said, trying to recall where the country was located. "Yes, it is beautiful there, correct?"
Christine recalled a few childhood memories of visiting the beach in the summertime and how fantastic the view always was. "Yes, it is quite beautiful."
"I'm guessing there must be something about beautiful people coming from beautiful places."
Christine looked up, slightly furrowing her brows in confusion. Erik's eyes met with hers and they were soft, bright. Christine dropped her face to look at her hands in her lap, praying he did not notice her blush. She felt something stir within her stomach. What was this feeling? Butterflies? It had been quite some time since she had experienced those.
"I just thought you might be from somewhere other than France. You're not like other French girls."
She gathered the courage to look at him once more, but his eyes where no longer there. "How so?" she asked.
His figure seemed even more rigid now. "You just are," he answered, incapable of elaborating. Erik continued stirring his soup, changing the subject. "Have you been practicing your music for the upcoming auditions?"
Christine nodded. "Every day."
"Good. Are we still on for our practice session Sunday?"
"Nothing else has come up."
Erik sighed, trying to think of more conversation topics. "What kind of music do you listen to?"
Christine thought. "I enjoy older pop music, 80's mostly." The edges of Erik lips curled as he tried repressing a laugh. "What's so funny?" she asked with miff.
He shook his head, smiling. "I just didn't expect that from you."
Christine rolled her eyes. "What music do you enjoy, then? I'm guessing your taste is much more superior to mine."
He shrugged. "I have a large palette. Classical, rock, alternative, jazz."
"Ah, so you're one of those guys?"
He looked at her with a squint. "What do you mean?"
"One of those guys that refuses to listen to the mainstream stuff. You know," she deepened her voice mockingly, "'I don't listen to mainstream music. That stuff's so basic. I only listen to the good stuff.'"
Erik laughed and shook his head. "I am not one of those guys."
"Sure you aren't."
"I have nothing against pop except for what plays on the radio nowadays. It's quite repetitive."
She laughed. "And isn't that the type of music you usually write?"
He seemed to shrink, his lips pressing together taut. "Yes," he murmured.
"I can't stand most of the pop stuff now," she agreed, "but maybe I've liked your music." She hoped her reply would move him to speak of songs he had composed, revealing to her what he has written.
Instead, he looked to her as if he was catching onto her game, thinking: you'll have to try harder than that. "Maybe."
Erik started on his soup, expressing how smooth it was, and Christine left to fill his water so that her co-workers wouldn't get suspicious of her absence. She picked up the receipt to see what he had left as a tip. If it were possible, her jaw would have dropped to the floor and snapped back, knocking her out cold. What does this man want of her?
Christine arrived at Erik's home with clenched fists. She would've cooled down had she allowed herself to, but she was going to confront him directly.
Erik opened the door with a smile. "Come in."
Christine walked through the door and as soon as he shut and locked it, she pushed the tip of her forefinger in the center of his chest. He looked at her with confusion and worry.
"Why did you leave such a large tip?" Her brows were furrowed and her face petulant.
His face softened as he chuckled. "That's what you're upset about?"
She stomped her foot and retracted her hand. "Do not avoid my question!"
He shook his head. "You deserve such a gracious tip. Don't you think?"
"I feel like I'm robbing you!"
He laughed. "You are not robbing me."
"Well, stop tipping me so much."
"Why should I?" he asked, cocking his head mockingly.
"It's just...it's inappropriate."
"How so?"
Christine stiffened, irritated that he was refusing to look at things from her perspective. "Just...stop tipping me so much, please. It's kind, but it's too much." She turned. "Let's go practice my solo music."
He followed her to his music room where they each sat on the bench as Christine took her music out.
"Let's spend as much time on these as possible. Are you fine with staying until eight? We'll take a break."
Christine nodded. "Eight is fine."
They went over her music, perfecting every little note and measure. Erik pulled her focus to certain parts. "They will be wanting to hear these," he said, marking the sections. "Most singers either make it or break it here."
They polished up every song. Although they were short, it took about half an hour for each. By the time the clock rang six there wasn't much else to fix.
Erik stood from the bench. "Let's take a break. We can come back and go over them once more."
Christine stood and followed Erik to the kitchen. "Would you like something to eat?" Erik asked. "It just occurred to me that our practice session seems to cut right into dinnertime. I'm sorry about that."
Christine laughed. "It's fine I just ate afterwards last time."
"That's too terribly late," Erik said, opening his fridge. "Pot roast or shepherd's pie?"
"Shepherd's pie," Christine decided.
He pulled the pie out in its tin. "I just made this for lunch today, so hopefully it still tastes good."
"I don't doubt it."
"Please sit," Erik said, gesturing to the dining table nearby.
The table was mahogany cut into a large rectangle with an elegant scroll edge and claws for feet. She pulled a chair which was scroll and mahogany as well. It wasn't until then that Christine noticed the large crystal chandelier that hung over the table.
"I like your decorating, but you seem to have quite a fascination with mahogany furniture and chandeliers," Christine commented, admiring the crystal glinting in what was left of the sunlight outside.
Erik laughed as he heated their pie. "I just find it to be tasteful. Do you agree?"
"Yes. Your house is probably the most tasteful I've been to."
"Probably?"
"Well, I've been all over the world with my father. I've seen a lot of tasteful homesteads."
Something is his eyes flickered. "But do you like my house?"
"Yes. It's nice."
He pulled their pie slices from the toaster oven. "I'm glad."
There was some silence besides the small clink of forks on their plates. Erik walked over and set Christine's plate in front of her. "What would you like to drink?" He asked.
"Water, please?"
He nodded, heading to a cabinet. "Would you like some wine as well?" He opened the cabinet, revealing what could only be described as a collection of wine bottles.
"Red?" she asked.
Erik pulled a bottle and two glasses. "This should pair well with the pie." He filled her a glass of water and returned to the table, pouring them each a glass of wine and setting the bottle off to the side with its cork back on.
He was right about the wine. It did pair well with the pie, bringing out its flavors as well as the tartness of the wine. It was unarguably the best meal she'd had in a while.
"So," Erik began speaking, sitting adjacent to her. "What does Christine Daaé do other than sing and work at Isabella's?"
Christine swallowed a bite of her pie. "I dance."
"Oh?" She had him intrigued. He had only seen her dance briefly in the restaurant, but he didn't know it was an interest of hers. It did make sense considering her figure.
"I prefer ballet."
His expression reflected his curiosity. "Will you show me something?"
Christine shrank a bit. Was singing not enough for him? She already felt so vulnerable doing that. She did not want to be judged for her dancing. Not now, at least. "I don't know," she spoke softly.
"If you dance for me, I'll play whatever instrument is at my disposal for you. Whatever song you choose."
Christine sighed in defeat. He was not going to give up, was he? "When we get back," she said.
They finished their pie, conversing little about their favorite movies. Erik expressed his preference for the classics while Christine liked newer romantic dramas.
"Typical," Erik said, rolling his eyes.
"What do you mean?" Christine asked, laughing.
"You girls and your chick flicks."
Christine rolled her eyes, scoffing. "Must you always attack my tastes?"
"Only when it's necessary."
They returned to the music room after cleaning up.
"Now," Erik said, sitting on the bench of the piano. "Show me how you dance."
Christine grunted. "Do I really have to?"
"We had an agreement."
Christine squinted at him, trying to think of how to make the situation less uncomfortable for herself. "Fine," she said, "But you must play something I can dance to."
Erik stood and walked to his wall of instruments. "Which shall I play?"
Christine pointed. "The violin."
Erik pulled his best violin off the wall and moved to a case to retrieve a bow that he rosined carefully. "What song?"
Christine thought. "Whatever you find apt," she decided, her mind going blank. Surely he had a repertoire of his own and he could think of something.
Erik smiled. "Of course." He pulled the violin onto his shoulder and placed his chin on its rest. "The Resurrection of Lazarus."
He pulled the bow across the strings. Christine immediately recognized the tune. It was the one she had been singing when he walked in on her, the one whose title she could always feel on the tip of her tongue, yet it always escaped her mind. The one her father had always played. She forgot she was supposed to be dancing, entranced by the music escaping his violin.
Christine closed her eyes, her breath now shallow. She saw her father standing in front of their hotel window, looking down at the street below. His eyes on passing cars, but his soul within the music. She didn't realize the music had stopped because, in her mind, it was still playing. A small smile had formed on her lips and tears started escaping her eyes, running down her cheeks. She missed being here.
"Christine?" Erik spoke, bringing her back. She opened, finding him close, his violin and bow held up in one hand, while his other was reaching for hers. He grabbed her hand, his fingers cool and callused. He squeezed lightly. "Are you alright?"
She nodded, grinning. "Sorry," she apologized, "Please play it again. I will dance this time."
"Maybe I should play something else." He released her hand, bringing his violin and bow back up for playing.
"No!" she insisted. "It was wonderful. I just got...carried away." His eyes were full of nothing but concern. "Please."
He backed away to give her space to dance, starting once again. This time, Christine's mind did not drift and she readied herself, fixing her posture, and gliding across the room with nothing less than the gracefulness expected of a ballerina.
The song came to a finish, Christine ending in an arabesque.
Erik pulled the violin down to his side. "That was magnificent," he said, smiling. "Bravo."
She curtsied and smiled bashfully as Erik turned to put up his violin and bow up. The clock stuck eight. He turned to her with a frown. "I guess we took a longer break than I thought."
"Let's go back through the music," she said. "It's fine if I stay longer. As long as you're fine with it."
Erik nodded. "Sure."
They sat and ran back through the songs, stopping only twice to fix some areas.
"You will be perfect tomorrow," Erik said, packing her music for her. "I have no doubt you will get a solo."
Christine smiled and wrapped her arms around his torso, hugging him. He inhaled sharply and she pulled away.
"Did I hurt you?" she asked, eyes wide with concern.
"No," he said, shaking his head, "Just surprised me is all."
She smiled. "Sorry."
"You're quite fine, Christine." He stood, handing her music to her. He walked her to his front door, watching as she gathered her stuff. "You'll do well tomorrow. Remember, do not doubt yourself," he assured her, opening the front door to allow in a barrage of cold air.
She shivered as she threw her coat on. "Thank you." Christine moved again to hug him one last time. He slowly slid his arms around her, squeezing her back with equal force.
Christine pulled back and shot him one last smile as she walked out to her car. Erik stood there as he had before, watching her as the headlights of her car turned and disappeared around the corner.
A/N: Still trying to go back and add more detail/touch up these chapters. Please review! Thanks for reading!
