Chapter 10

Questions

A sweet, warm aroma woke Christine the next morning… if it was morning. There was no way to tell the time below in the dungeons, and she felt much too rested to have just slept a few hours. She carefully dotted the sleep from her eyes, wincing at the tender flesh that burned to the touch. She sighed and fell back into her pillow, muttering a few curses in her native Swedish. In all her hysteria the night before, she forgot to apply her creams. That, combined with the strain from what felt like hundreds of tears from the day before, left her face throbbing. In fact, somehow everything in her face hurt. Her warped eyelids, her cheeks, forehead, her jaw… she forgot how painful crying can be.

She forced herself from the blissful warmth beneath the blankets and rummaged through her scattered belongings. She hissed quietly at the pressure on irritated flesh as she pulled her mask on. She scooped up the two bottles of ointment, cracked the door open. Erik was busy in the kitchen with some type of breakfast food that made her belly practically roar. The sound caught his attention, much to Christine's horror. He watched in silence as she offered a meek smile and tiptoed off to the washroom.

He noted the two small bottles in her hand, despite her trying to hide them in the sleeve of her nightgown. They appeared, to him, all too medical in their appearance. He was too familiar with that type of packaging. His eyes trailed her path, even after she shut the washroom door. His brow furrowed, skin pushing against his new mask. She had been wearing her mask again.

Just woke up and already wearing it?

There was only so far he could buy her "sense of security" claim. If it were a byproduct of trauma then he was to blame, and the thought alone riddled him with dread. What was worse, however, was not being certain if that was the truth.

What exactly was lurking beneath that mask? Was this that morbid, burning curiosity that the rest of the world felt when they looked upon him?

At the first sound of the door opening his head swiveled back to the food in front of him. Christine ignored it, instead opted for saying good morning.

"Good afternoon, actually," he replied. She had slept most of the day away, she undoubtedly needed it. Something about her feeling comfortable enough in his home to sleep for hours on end made him feel an undeniable sense of pride.

She gawked at the back of his head. "Did you say afternoon?"

The man nodded. "Just past noon, if my watch is wound properly." He was holding two dishes when he turned on his heel, passing her to set them on the makeshift table. The legs wobbled just slightly from the new weight, but it held up. He would need to do some more thorough repairs now that he was up and walking around. "French toast," he announced. He set out a small cup of syrup next to what he deemed to be her plate, along with two glasses of fresh juice. A slab of soft butter, a pinch of powdered sugar over each plate.

Christine shook her head, quietly chuckling. "You remembered." Her favorite breakfast dish.

"Of course." He pulled the seat out for her. "Eat, please." He took his seat across from her, passed her the syrup and butter before taking some for himself.

She chose not to mention the fact that he was now eating with her of his own choice. Sure, he still covered his mouth with his napkin, averted his gaze with each lopsided bite, but still. She hid her smile with another bite.

Unsatisfied with the silence, he cleared his throat. If they were to coexist, he supposed he needed to sort a few factors out. She looked up to him, eyes expectant behind their cover. Erik toyed with his food as he began to speak, avoiding her gaze. "How long exactly do you plan on staying?"

Christine slowed, blinking. "I'm, I-" she cleared her throat. "I am unsure. I could go to the Giry's if it bothers you."

Erik rushed to recover. "I did not mean for it to come across that way," he assured her. "You may stay as long as you wish. I simply wish to know so I can make appropriate..." He gestured to the makeshift table, the broken furniture around them, "accomodations."

She shook her head. "Please, maestro. This is fine. It is a roof over my head, I haven't been so fortunate at other times."

The man said nothing, instead occupied himself with eating. A few moments passed in tense silence before Christine's eyes began to wander around the meek dwellings. The more she saw behind the lavish embellishments, the more she realized the true nature of the home he had made. It had been a home once, but the swooping candelabras and drapes of velvet cloth were a facade to hide the fact that beneath it all, it was in fact still a dungeon. It almost felt like an ironic metaphor for the man who lived there.

"How long have you been here?" she asked.

The Phantom froze, staring down at his plate. Here it comes.

"I've been living beneath the opera house for five years," he answered quietly.

Five years. Christine had never lived in one place for more than her three years at the Populaire. She could not imagine being settled in one place for any longer than that, especially a place as dismal and lonesome as the dungeons.

Christine trailed away, twirled her fork against her plate. "I cannot help but feel uneasy about how little I truly know of you."

Erik tilted his head and hummed low in his throat. "Trust me, you know enough."

She set down her fork. "Like what?"

"You know my name and my biggest secret." He gestured blandly to his mask. "Is that not enough to be satisfied?"

"No," Christine sighed. When the man's dark eyes flicked up to her and were met with a warm gaze. "You are more than your face," she said. "You know so much about me but I've yet to learn a single thing about you after three years." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "If we are to live together, however long it may be, I would feel better if I knew who I was living with."

He remained silent, lips drawn tight, but gave a short nod. "Very well," he muttered. "But for every question you ask me, I have the right to one of my own. This is non-negotiable."

Christine pursed her lips but caved. "Fine. What is your last name?"

Of course she chose that as the first question. Erik had to refrain from acting out in frustration. She waited expectantly, watching as the waves of discomfort passed through his features. "I do not know," he eventually answered, near silent. "My mother never found my father, and she refused to tell me hers. She… she did not want me to have any ties to her."

Christine's cheeriness faltered, she lowered her fork and stared absently at the distance between them, which seemed to only grow. She feared that all the questions she had prepared overtime for him would only be increasingly painful to hear.

"Do you have a question for me?"

Erik furrowed his brow and rested his chin against his knuckles. At once his question dawned on him and he leaned back in his seat. "What is your favorite flower?"

Christine's head lifted; Erik could not see her puzzled reaction behind her mask but he was sure it was there. "I'm sorry?"

"Your favorite flower," he repeated. "I should like to know."

She contained a small giggle and instead mulled over the question for a moment. "Daisies, I think. Or daffodils. I can't decide."

Her maestro nodded slowly. She was unsure what she thought of that little dark gleam in his eyes. He took a bite of his toast, nearly finished.

"What did you do before you were here?" She asked next.

Erik froze in place for a moment, unsure how much he wanted to reveal to her. "I -" he hummed low in his throat, trying to figure out exactly what he wanted to say. "I spent some time in Persia," he answered. "I worked for the Shah as a personal musician and architect."

"Is that how you met the Daroga?"

Erik's eyebrow quirked up. "That's a separate question."

Christine deadpanned. "Are you really going to count that?"

Erik contained a tiny smile as he cut the remains of his toast. "The questions are racking up," he teased.

Christine huffed and crossed her arms. "Fine. Your turn."

Erik took a moment again to think. "Besides music, what is a favorite pastime of yours?"

Christine's lips lifted in an easy smile that never ceased to take his breath away. "I love to paint," she answered. "My father bought me a paint set for my fifth birthday, I still have the brushes."

The eye that Christine could see widened and the man opposite of her stood slowly. "May I show you something?" His voice spoke of poorly concealed giddiness. Naturally curious, she followed him.

He led her to his bedroom, where he pulled open the only drawer of his dresser still in tact. He pushed his clothing aside and pulled out a large canvas, holding it out to Christine. She took it and her eyes widened. She gasped softly as she took in the painting he presented to her, running her fingers over the small scrapes and grooves from dried oil paints. She looked to Erik, who quietly waited for a reaction with the tiniest smirk of pride.

"Did you paint this?" She asked, voice raising in shock.

"It was a project of a few weeks, but I finished it just in time for the winter. Can't very well paint from reference when the reference is coated in snow."

The soprano took in each detail, each drag of brush and cut of palette knife that created an intricate view of Paris from atop the Populaire. The meandering streets, the glittering Seine, the shining tops of hundreds of buildings under a blossom-pink sky adorned with streaks of gold leaf and brilliant vermilion. It was single-handedly one of the most breathtaking and unique pieces of art she had ever seen.

"Erik, this-" she laughed breathily, shaking her head in shock. "I shouldn't be surprised, of course you can paint. There isn't a thing you can't do."

"Trust me, there is plenty I can never dream of doing. I'm simply fortunate enough to have access to art supplies." He took the piece from her, gingerly running his fingers across the surface. "However, I was unable to find varnish."

They crossed back to the kitchen and as Christine reached for her plate to bring to the sink, Erik snuck behind her and took it. She rolled her eyes, but had a smile on her face nonetheless. When he turned back to retrieve his own, he was greeted by the petite woman holding it out for him with a smug smirk. Erik clicked his tongue disapprovingly but took it nonetheless.

"You don't have to do anything while you are here," he reminded her. "You are my guest. You need not lift a finger."

Christine busied herself with clearing the table, waving off an exasperated Phantom. "It is the least I can do," she said. "Besides, am I not more than a guest here, after all we have been through?"

Erik stiffened. Such a loaded statement, what was she implying? The line of what they were was already so blurred; he could hardly believe she thought of them as friends, and as far as he knew, friends don't live together. It was no surprise that he was no good with social cues like these.

Erik instead busied himself at the sink, hoping to escape the topic. "I believe you're due for a question," he said lowly.

"How did you come to live beneath the opera house?" She glanced carefully to him, aware she was is in dangerous territory. "I know why you believe you're confined to here, but of all places in Paris, how did you learn of secret tunnels beneath the Populaire? I had never heard of them before you brought me here."

"The simple answer is Madame Giry," he said. "She knew me from my time in the circus. She was kind enough to direct me to somewhere I would be safe, once I ventured back from Persia."

Christine had stopped listening after "circus". She remembered hearing Raoul mutter the words "circus freak" under his breath a few times in the rare occasion of Erik being mentioned. She always just assumed it was his way of degrading his rival; never did she suspect it was literal.

"What's my next question?" She pushed, watching him carefully from behind. She knew exactly what her next question for him would be and wanted to get to it as soon as possible.

Once again he pondered as he scrubbed at dishes. "Favorite instrument?"

Without a moment's hesitation she answered "Cello."

Erik peeked back at her from over his shoulder. "Really."

She nodded, eyes bright. "I love the violin of course, but my father taught me an appreciation for the lows. It's so rich and dark - the rare occasion when I hear it solo is such a privilege."

"I used to play cello," Erik mused. "Not much, just enough to play basic sonatas and orchestral spreads. A lovely sound though." His lips teased a small, near-nervous smile as he looked back once more to an expectant Christine. "Now I wish I had concentrated more on it."

"Is it my turn?"

Erik's brow pinched. "Eager are we?" He set the last dish aside and turned to her. "Fine. Since you obviously are burning to know."

"What did you do in the circus?" She nearly cut him off as the words raced from her mouth.

Erik visibly tensed and Christine watched as his face tightened in a manner too familiar. All trace of life instantly dimmed and fled from his eyes as they were replaced with a dark, unknown emotion that spoke of endless haunts. She wished she could pull the words back into her mouth.

Just as she was about to assure him that he did not need to answer, he began to speak in a stiff, grave tone. "My time in the circus...it was complicated. It is hard to remember that time with positivity. For a number of years I was kept as a human oddity."

She stammered, all wonder and curiosity instantly snuffed out. If he could be considered an "oddity", then by that logic so could she, very easily. A chill seeped down her spine at the thought. At that moment, all she could manage was a pathetic "I'm sorry."

Erik was quiet a moment before he uttered, "Don't worry." He drained the sink and turned back to her, offered her the most convincing smile he could manage at that point. "There were good things that came along with it - though I would prefer if we paused our questions game for now." His face, despite him trying to portray strength, revealed something crossed between pain, trauma and even nostalgia. It was too much for Christine to process.

"Of course," she answered instantly. After a moment's pause she crossed to her room and grabbed her cloak, pinned it across her collar. "I'm, uh, I'm going to the market to fetch some things, is there anything you need?" She couldn't stand to be with him at that moment, seeing how upset she had made him. She couldn't help but feel a horrible guilt.

Erik had sat down again at the table, one arm rested on it with the sleeve rolled back just past the wrist. From her angle she could see those tattoos again, dark and twisted in organic forms beneath his pale skin. He studied them closely, that unusual look once more betraying his eyes. Christine thought that there must be a correlation between the tattoos and the fair. She didn't dare ask - not right now.

"I'm fine," he answered. One finger twitched against the table. "I was planning on running my own errands later tonight."

"Remember what Daroga said," Christine scolded lightly. "No traveling past the lake for another week. You've barely given yourself time to heal."

She did not get an answer from him. Just an unbearable silence. The distance between them felt as though it grew each time Christine attempted to learn more about him, along with his misery. Was there truly nothing he could consider happiness in his life? She made haste when she left through the back, unable to take the silence and unsure how to fix it.

Christine spent most of the day wandering Paris without purpose. She ate at a favorite hole-in-the-wall cafe of hers, visited different shops aimlessly, ended the night by visiting her father's grave. By the time she came back to the lair, bag in her hand, she was exhausted. Erik was nowhere to be found and his door was shut. Light seeped from beneath his door, however, and a quiet drag of horse hair across fine strings reassured her that he was still there. She shook her head, she had begun to worry that he had run off, gotten hurt...who knows. Her mind was prone to jumping to the worst conclusions.

She pulled a large, leather-bound pad from the bag and placed it on the table, featherlight. She had noticed that his music sheets had been destroyed and thrown about with abandon, some burnt by the cruel hand of a candle, some torn to shreds. She was unsure if the mob did that or if he did himself. Both seemed equally possible. She couldn't help herself when her eyes fell on the book of blank music sheets. Besides that she placed a small vial of varnish with a small smile of pride.

She didn't bother knocking on his door to let him know she returned - he would have heard her the instant she came back. Instead she decided to retire, maybe even curl up with one of the books he had down there still.

When she struck a match and set it to the first candle of the closest candelabra, her chest bloomed with warmth and a smile took over her face. Atop her nightstand was a large, white vase overflowing with an arrangement of daisies and daffodils. In the dead of winter. Where the hell did he find those? She lifted one daffodil between her fingers to rest in her palm, and brought it to her nose. Her eyes fluttered shut at the faint, lovely scent. Her smile grew even more.