Short chapter, what the hell.

Chapter Ten

When he woke up later however, he had no recollection of any thoughts he'd had in the small hours of the morning; history repeated itself as he wondered where he was again; this time, he knew the ghost was there, could hear him breathing, but it barely connected anything for some reason.

He wondered if it was morning or not, as it was still dark, but they were under the Opera Populaire, so he didn't really think that could define anything. He stood up, pulled on his shirt which he found on the floor, a white heap in dark room, pulled it on and walked out to where the lake was.

The lake was a fairly greenish dark mass in the darkness, sloshing against the walls. As Christian stared down at it, he wondered why his shoulder was dully aching. He remembered for the second time that morning and nearly laughed. Also, he had a goddamn bruise on his side from falling on the staircase –

Oh, God. He had to be in the opera house today. If he was gone, people would notice, even though no one really knew his name. He shivered. Too many people to deal with – Raoul, Christine, Carlotta, Firmin and Andre, Madame Giry –

He groaned quietly. Madame Giry; she'd realise something had happened in minutes, even if all he said to her today was 'hello'. She was like that. She could detect things.

This was something he didn't need to be detected. First of all, she'd probably to give him a lecture or something, and then she'd find Erik, probably give him a lecture as well and –

Now he was just rambling in his own head. He sighed. Maybe he should go pretend to be the Moulin Rouge Ghost.

Just as he was deciding whether that was ridiculous or actually a really good idea, he was picked up and thrown over someone's shoulder.

'And where do you think you're going?'

He managed a half-startled, half angry 'Erik! Put me down!' The ghost seemed to think about it. 'Well, I would, it's just I can't seem to find anywhere...'

'This isn't funny,' Christian snapped and the ghost chuckled. 'Put me down,' he added warningly.

'You know, I don't think I will,' Erik said, trying to sound serious.

'Erik!'

'All right – if you insist.'

Christian realised he'd just been moved across the entire room in the semi-darkness and was suddenly thrown down on the bed again. Crossing his arms, he glared up at Erik, who grinned down at him, completely unfazed by his glaring.

'I trust you're angry with me?'

'Depends,' Christian said stonily, keeping the glare.

'Right then,' Erik replied, falling onto the bed and landing next to the writer, who continued to glare at him. 'So what do I have to do to become worthy in your eyes?'

'Oh, shut up,' Christian muttered, successful in keeping a straight face as he kept his arms crossed.

'What?' Erik asked, sitting up and acting serious. 'Writers enjoy that kind of dramatic talk, right?'

Now Christian really was fighting not to laugh. He managed to keep an angry expression still, even though it seemed Erik already knew he was trying not to laugh. 'Of course, because you've always tried to win me over with words,' he said sarcastically, arching an eyebrow at the ghost.

'Well, I could go back to the old way of winning you over,' Erik said, still grinning. Christian didn't think he'd ever seen the ghost this happy. Then again, he himself hadn't been this happy for a long time.

'Was that what last night was? Well, congratulations, I think you successfully ripped my shoulder off,' Christian continued, nodding to his shoulder and pulling his shirt collar so the ghost might catch a glimpse of the large bruise.

'Then I probably should get started on the other one,' Erik said, smirking at him and helpfully unbuttoning the writer's shirt.

--

Christine stared at Raoul, who was slowly waking up. He'd been placed in her bed, in her room, but it all seemed unfamiliar. This was Raoul. What had happened to him?

The Vicomte opened his eyes and smiled at Christine. 'Morning,' he croaked and winced suddenly, putting a hand to his head. 'What – did something happen? I feel like I've been hit in the head by a –'

'It was the Phantom, Raoul,' said Christine, looking down at her husband. 'You were behind stage last night – and he –'

Raoul's eyes widened with sudden realisation – realisation she took to mean he remembered being behind stage and being chased. 'Oh, Raoul,' she managed, nearly falling into tears.

He shook his head, reaching out to grab her hand. 'Christine, don't worry. It's – it's okay.' She didn't see the guilty tinge in his eyes.

She sighed and looked back up at him again. He looked unfocused, but she didn't realise. 'Would you like me to go see Erik?'

'What?' She blinked – he had been deep in thought.

'I can go see Erik now – ask him why?'

'Oh – no, Christine,' Raoul said hastily, shaking his head. 'I – he – he'd probably rip your arms off or something.'

'Nonsense, Raoul. He wouldn't.' She didn't know why he was being so nervous or why he kept looking at the mirror. Oh, she shouldn't be so stupid – he was scared.

She put her hand on his forehead. 'Poor you,' she said, leaning down and kissing him lightly.

'Don't go see Erik,' the Vicomte managed, barely choking it out.

She pulled away, looking stern. 'I'd like to find out why he did this to my husband.'

'Don't!'

'Raoul!'

'Christine, I'm concerned. I thought we were friends, yet look what he did to me!' He panted slightly – if she went down there, Erik would tell her – tell her that he had been there last night, but had nothing to do with the bruises.

'Where's the writer?'

Christine frowned. 'He disappeared. I'm afraid Erik got him too. Another reason, Raoul.'

The Vicomte shook his head. 'Stay here, Christine.'

--

It was back to the silent darkness. The lake was making that odd noise that you often get in presence, just so it can tell you it's near; the dripping noise here and there, also as if the water was telling you just some more 'I'M HERE', but there was also vague music – very far away, in the Opera Populaire.

It wasn't an awkward silence.

'Do you think I should go?'

Erik resisted the urge to tighten his arm around Christian's stomach. Instead, he cleared his throat and said in a would-be casual voice, 'I don't think you have to...'

'Why are you really terrible at acting innocent?' Christian asked and Erik could tell by the way his voice sounded, he was grinning. He felt a little lighter and shot back at him.

'I'm not terrible at it. You just know me too well.'

'And I'm telling you, you're terrible at acting innocent.'

'You're just jealous.'

'Of what? Your amazing haunting skills?'

'Okay, fine,' Erik said, leaning a little over the other man so the writer could see his face, 'you're not jealous. You're just utterly in love with me.'

Christian snorted. 'A little full of yourself – Also, how we managed to get from innocent to how I'm completely in love with you.'

Erik smirked at him and the writer tilted his head, as if realising something was there for the first time. Erik felt his chest move oddly and realised with a sudden sinking feeling the writer was looking at his mask questioningly.

The writer watched the expressions pass over Erik's face; from a smirk to realisation to scrutiny.

'I was just – thinking,' Christian said, avoiding Erik's eyes.

'No,' said the ghost flatly.

'Well, the deal we made wasn't entirely fair; you know all about Satine –'

'Use your imagination and think about what masks are used for,' Erik said, rolling onto his back.

Hiding things, said something in Christian's mind and he shook his head, turning to Erik. 'Look, I'm sorry,' he said quietly, leaning up and pressing his lips to the other man's, wondering if his rib-cage had somewhat shrunk so that he felt his chest was about to burst.

He pulled back and gave an apologetic look to the ghost, who looked neutral.

'Do I get that every time you apologise?'

Christian laughed and Erik felt pleased with himself. He shifted back to his original position, wrapping an arm around the writer, and unintentionally did hold Christian a little tighter, pulling them closer together.

The writer felt breathing on his neck and felt like he could just stay like this forever. He didn't know how he felt about Satine anymore.

Should I be going now?

He felt suddenly like he was trying to get away, but that was stupid, he was just trying to not worry people. He knew that much. 'Well, should I go?' he asked, wondering if that was pressing the matter too much for a paranoid ghost.

He was right; he felt the ghost sit up.

'Are you trying to get away?' the ghost asked irritably.

'No,' Christian protested quickly, sitting up; he'd known that would give Erik the wrong idea. 'I'm just saying – Madame Giry's going to wonder, even if no one else will, and the fact that Raoul's probably been found half dead – not that you would've done that,' he added before the ghost could interject, 'I'm just saying, people will think that, and I probably should go, even though I don't want to.' He said the last six words clearly and slowly, so Erik might understand that.

He could feel the ghost scrutinising him for a minute, as if not believing him. Then,

'You're right,' Erik said grudgingly and Christian felt relieved for a second. He fell back down on a pillow and waited for Erik follow suit. He didn't.

Christian mentally punched himself and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, finding his shirt and pulled it on. 'I'll see you later,' he mumbled, avoiding the ghost's eyes and standing up, feeling the ghost watching him as he walked halfway across the room, feeling his insides sink lower and lower with each step.

'Christian.'

The writer turned around in what he hoped did not look like he was praying for that to happen. He looked at the ghost and felt his breath catch in his throat –

Erik grinned, indicating he'd noticed Christian's hopeful look, and the writer smiled back, feeling relieved. 'See you at rehearsals.'

Christian's eyebrows raised and he turned back to the mirror, opening it. 'No, you won't,' he called, shaking his head.

'Would you like to bet on that?' Erik replied charmingly and Christian laughed. 'Don't, Erik,' he said, trying to act stern but feeling too much like smiling. He climbed into the passage, filing the image of Erik smiling back at him into his brain.

He walked, barely thinking where he was going – he felt like his feet weren't actually touching the ground but he could hear his footsteps echoing off the walls, so he had to scratch that idea.

Moreover, he was trying to get over the events of last night and this morning. He felt himself blushing; Erik had triumphantly managed with destroying both his shoulders.

--

Barely an hour later though, he'd realised something: Madame Giry's scrutiny was worse than Erik's.

She'd been waiting in his room, wondering when he'd appear; he'd managed to get lost in the ghost's passages, found himself again, navigated his way up to his mirror, opened it and nearly yelled at finding Madame Giry there.

He tried to explain that his surprise was because he thought he'd locked the door, not because he was worried she was going to realise everything that had happened in a manner of five minutes.

'It was,' she said icily. 'I know the passages, Christian.'

'I see,' he said nervously. 'Well.'

'Sit down.'

'I'm fine, thank you Madame.'

She nodded, giving him a hard look. He looked back at the mirror, making mental notes not to use his shoulders because then he might look pained or something and she'd figure it out, oh God why was this so difficult?

'Are you all right?' She looked suspicious.

'Fine,' he said, sitting on his bed. 'Is the Vicomte all right?'

'How would you know that?' she asked, arching an eyebrow.

'Because it wasn't Erik's fault he fell down the staircase.'

She blinked at him. 'How could you have known that –?'

'Well, it's just he's the most likely suspect. I bet even Raoul's saying that it was him. If he's alive.'

'He fell down a staircase,' Madame Giry said faintly.

'Is he okay?'

'How did he fall down a staircase?' she snapped, ignoring his question.

'Well, he tried to convince me we were lovers once again,' Christian said bitterly.

'So you threw him down a staircase.'

'No; he chased me up a staircase; I tripped, he lunged, I pushed him off.' He looked at her. 'I assure you it was self-defence.'

She nodded.

'But,' he added, 'he hasn't been attacked other than that, hm?'

She looked at him grimly. 'No visible scarring,' she said, 'and he's sticking to a story that doesn't involve you pretty firmly.'

Erik didn't hurt him. Physically. He felt his eyes widen and he looked down. 'Okay,' he said firmly.

'May I ask where you've been?' she added sharply, noticing him blushing.

'Where does it look like I've been?' he asked, rubbing the back of his head – he winced, wrong thing to do.

'Are your shoulders hurting?' Madame Giry asked, noticing him wince.

'No, they're fine,' he said easily, smiling at her, but she was already up and unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it off and glaring at him.

He looked at the floor and said, 'Don't –'

'What happened down there –?'

'Nothing really terrible –'

'I told him to stay away from you –'

'You told him to stay away from me?'

'Yes – were you attacked by an animal?'

'Of some sort, yes,' Christian said bitterly, arching an eyebrow at her. 'But it wasn't exactly his fault.'

'How long has this been going on?' Madame Giry snapped and he felt like a child again. He looked the floor. 'Since Christine told me he was a murderer,' he said quietly, feeling like this confession was better than nothing.

'So you learn he's a murderer, run off and get on his – good side or bad side, I'm not sure,' she said, staring at his shoulders.

'Yeah, I know,' he said, shaking his head, 'it's stupid, but we just sorted things out and then things got crazy and –'

'And Raoul is the only thing we talked about in this room,' she snapped, throwing him his shirt.

He nodded, pulling it on and buttoning it.

'And if I see the two of you, doing anything that involves –'

'I know, I know!' He tested his luck. 'How about just the two of us, not doing anything –'

She gave him a warning look. 'Fine, fine,' he said, raising his hands. 'Am I now being forced not to see him?'

'Of course not,' she said, shaking her head. 'One, if you're both finally happy then about time and two, even if I tried you'd both find a way.'

'You realise he can probably hear everything we're saying?'

'Let him; the only thing you've got to worry about is how you're going to tell him not to leave any visible marks,' she said sceptically and he blushed as she opened the door, nodded to him once and left.

He stood up, closed the door, and yelled into the open mirror, 'YOU HEARD HER!'

--

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