Thank you again for the wonderfully excited and thought out reviews! They make my days!
~Donttouchthefigs
She was in a seat at the theater. Stuck to a seat at the theater was more accurate. For if she had not been she would have been able to storm the stage, scream and stop this farce from continuing. Christine shouted soundlessly, cupping her fingers around her mouth to try and amplify the little raspy noise she could make. But it was no use. She had no voice, no way to communicate. She was trapped, forced the view the travesty before her.
In the halo of the spotlight, standing just right of center stage, a woman, her long brown hair loose, covering her silky white angel costume. Her mask was expressionless and stark in the stage light; so bright it hurt to look at.
At her feet was Maestro-Erik. He knelt, reaching up in supplication, broken and obedient.
"Bow," snapped the woman, and Erik obeyed. "Bark!" And again, he obeyed. Christine shook her head, trying to shake out the sound of Erik's canine imitation. "Laugh!" That cackle, that deranged demonic sound! Christine clapped her hands over her ears screaming for it to stop, stop, stop! But nothing but her useless panting came out.
The orders continued, again and again, more degrading than the last. Speak! Undress! Dress, you ugly thing! Bow!
"Love me," Erik begged, shaking from the exertion. His maskless face was bright with hope and sweat, looking at the angel with endless longing. "Love me! I serve only you!"
The angel touched her chest, as if aghast at the situation. "Love you? Love you. Shall you earn my love?"
"Yes! Yes, a thousand times yes! Let me earn your love, and I shall be as gentle as a lamb, your lamb! Do what you wish with me!"
The woman knelt held out the gold cord ties that cinched the waist of her gown. What a tableau: the ruthless angel and the creature, longing for her tender affection. "Kill yourself."
Eyes closed, as if in bliss, Erik took that chord in his hands and wrapped it around his throat as one would a gifted Christmas scarf; with a little flair. And then he pulled. No matter how hard Christine pressed her palms to her ears, no matter that she squeezed her eyes shut, she could not block out the sputtering guttural sounds of Erik's dying gasps.
A hand gentle rubbed her back, pulling her against a strong warm chest that smelled like wood, ink and grass. The smell of comfort, and home and stories and love. Christine started, looking up into her father's wide kind face. She clutched his shirt, his pure white shirt, starched and pressed, ready for a performance. 'Daddy, Daddy! Help him! Help him, he's dying,' she mouthed, shaking his collar, willing him to understand. Charles Daae's lips moved, but no sound came out, nothing to drown out the gasping.
Christine couldn't remember her father's voice.
"Christine! Christine, wake up!"
With a start, Christine struggled against the warm blankets that swaddled her. Suddenly, without her frantic help, they were pulled off. Erik hovered above her, his eyes wide behind his full face mask. Without thinking Christine wrapped her arms around his neck and ripped him closer, hugging him tightly. He tumbled ungracefully onto the bed beside her from the force of her grip. He didn't weigh much, nothing at all, but she was grateful for the feel of him, his heart beat against her cheek. Strong and steady and there.
"Christine…?"
"You were dead," she gasped. "You were dead, and I…" But there were no more words. Tears leaked out over her cheeks and she sobbed, heavy deep sobs that wracked her entire frame. Every tear she had held back, every moment of stiff lipped stoicism crumbled before her, leaving her heart fresh and open for the wounding. And now it felt like a splinter was lodged in it's very core, spasming with each beat. "You died, you died…"
"I am not dead. Come now, girl." Erik adjusted, sitting up slightly and pulling her with him. Seeing that she wasn't going to let go any time soon, he sighed and gently stroked her hair, the other hand rubbing soothing circles into her back. "Only a nightmare. Only a dream, Christine. It cannot reach you now. After all you've been through, then waking up in the monster's lair, Erik should have known-"
"You aren't a monster," she snapped, pulling back to glare at him with tear filled eyes. "You aren't a monster! Don't you ever say that again!"
"If you wish it." Unfortunately for Erik, that only caused her to sob once more and return to her death grip on his neck. The man could do nothing but hold her and wait out the storm.
As she hiccuped into an exhausted silence, Christine finally took inventory of her surroundings. Erik's home. Erik's underground home. Erik's bedroom, too, apparently on his king sized bed. It was not as dark as she imagined with the sun rise clock in the corner, giving the illusion of day break. Peering at the base of the disk she saw the time was nine thirty.
The room itself was fairly normal. That was off-putting: It was underground, belonged to a hermit genius, decorated lavishly, but it was in and of itself normal. Normal clock, normal furniture, normal wallpaper. She saw on the dresser there were several different masks made up of varying materials, tools to make the masks, and a sewing kit. The armoire was slightly ajar and she saw it packed with dress shirts and pressed trousers. Lined neatly along the wall were shoes and through an open door she saw a modern bathroom. For all the rooms beyond this door, this room was practically blase.
"Better?"
Glancing up, Christine tried for a smile. "Sorry." But she squeezed him tighter.
"Do not be. Of course you're having nightmares with all you've been through. Erik should have anticipated that."
"You can't control my dreams. Believe me, I wish you could."
"You dreamed I died."
"I dreamed that I killed you!"
Erik tilted his head to the side. "You do not have the capacity to kill. A very illogical nightmare Christine."
She pushed back a shiver, knowing that Erik would know exactly what it took to kill. Decades of slavery, abuse and insanity. No she wouldn't have the ability to kill, not coldly. "I dreamed I couldn't remember what my father sounded like."
"Oh, now...don't be afraid of that." Gently, he placed a hand on the back of her head, and tucked her curls under his chin. She half heard half felt him speak: "You'll never forget that. It will come back to you when you most need it. Do not try and force these things, Christine. We musicians are blessed and cursed with the gift of sound. Such things never really leave people like us."
Content in his cool grip, Christine closed her eyes again and felt the siren pull of sleep once more. She was so tired and rattled, she didn't even have the mind to register that this was their first hug, their first real touch as lovers. But new as it was, being in Erik's arms felt as normal as one of Meg's hugs.
"Meg!" Christine rifled around in her pockets, but her phone was gone. "Oh no!"
"What is it?"
"My phone-"
"Is on the charger, in my office." Free of her hold, Erik slid off the other side of the bed and brushed off his pants. He was dressed for the day, shirt, vest and trousers, complete with mask and gloves. "It was quite drained, I'm afraid."
"She's going to kill me."
"It is not good, Christine, to dwell on so much death before breakfast. Before you think of another grave prediction, let Erik feed you." He went to the door and picked up the bundle he had obviously dropped there. "Here. Relax in the bath for a while, and Erik will wash your clothes. I'm afraid all you have are my slacks to wear, but I was able to procure a shirt from upstairs."
Christine took the bundle. On top was a MAZANDERAN STAFF t shirt. She looked down at her own clothes. They'd been on her for three days, and were wrinkled to hell. And she hadn't showered. Suddenly she felt gross and embarrassed. "You don't mind?"
"No. Go and...and soak. For as long as you need." He wasn't looking at her, suddenly finding the clock very interesting. She blushed, too, her mind following the path of his.
"Do you have a ribbon?" At his silent confusion she continued, "to tie back my hair? The ones you use for your masks, maybe, if you don't mind? If I get this mess wet, it'll take forever to dry and I can guarantee what you use isn't strong enough."
Nodding, he went to the dresser and took out a roll of black ribbon from the sewing kit. Pulling a long length, he snipped it, then held it out to her. "I will be in the kitchen."
When he left Christine headed to the bath, determined to do just what he said. But her damning curse of curiosity nipped at her. With a resigned sigh at her own weakness, she placed the spare clothes on the bed and wandered over to the masks again. One was white and heavy, porcelain with a silk cushion. A few were paper mache, light for everyday use she supposed. And here was the one, black, with gold leaf. She recognized this from the first time they had met in the theater. Lifting it, carefully, Christine passed a finger over the pressed gold vines on the leather. She put it up to her own face.
No wonder Maestro lived inside his head, in his music. To see the world, with all it's sights and colors, through two round slits! How awful, how suffocating! Sneering at the thing, as if that was what had wronged Erik his whole life, she made to drop it back into the shallow box. Under the masks however was paper.
Envelopes and letters. She recognized a very old wedding invitation, christening invitations, party invitations and letters of thank you. She picked up one letter, and scanned the first few lines.
Dear Uncle Erik,
I want to thank you for your gift of my education. I've chosen to study at MIT and Dad said you'd find that acceptable since you would be paying for me to complete my degree. I know how lucky I am that I have a benefactor as generous as you. Going through prep school was awful at times, but I know that you wanted what was best, so I tried my hardest...
One of Jules' children. Nadir wasn't joking when he said he had put those kids through school. MIT wasn't cheap!
Placing it all back, she checked the door again. She was snooping and she knew it, but he was still such a mystery to her. She knew Maestro, and she now had full knowledge of The Phantom. But Erik, this man she loved, was still a distant tune, played from behind a locked door. She could hear him, but could not quite make out the tone and tenor of him.
Christine collected her clothes again, and indulged only once more. A bedside table told so much about a person, after all. Sliding open the drawer, she quickly peaked inside. A moleskine notebook, pen, prescription bottle and a gun, its magazine taken out and laid beside it. But there was also bits of plastic, smoothed out, but curved slightly. She caught the logo for The Little Latte, the young girl with her red scarf over her head like a hood, half stamped on one. Picking up the top, she saw that it was her hand writing. Music Angel written by her, from one of his drinks. It looked like everyone she had ever written for him was here, just hers, cut out from the cups.
Placing it back in the drawer, Christine smiled a little to herself. He loves me.
Erik's bathroom was big and well supplied. She tied up her hair securely before hopping into the shower stall and turning on the hot water. She felt the tension and ache from the past few days melt off as she stood under the steaming spray. His soap was masculine, but smelled wonderful. Teak wood and spice. I like beautiful things... Everything here was beautiful and fine.
Which meant he found her beautiful, too. He had very much proved that last night. She smiled at the frosted glass door. Our first kiss. Finally!
He had told her that she was beautiful last night and at the moment she had tried to keep him focused. But now she had time to savor the compliment. Christine had never minded her looks much. She looked like her mother, her dark curls, her short height, and curvy figure prone sometimes to plumpness. She was pale, and had her father's icy Swedish eyes, and a little too wide pink mouth. Nothing extraordinary, nothing much to fuss about.
But Erik thought she was beautiful. And wonderful apparently. And while she really must do something about his complex about her perfection (she shuddered almost violently, remembering her angel doppelganger), it was still nice to hear.
And he wanted her. Her whole face flushed again. No more of the school girl contemplation, like she had at work. No, there was proof now that he very much wanted her as a man wants a woman. And she, well, she wasn't too keen to deny him when the time was right. Her hands covered her wet, burning cheeks. Christine Daee was in love with a man, no young twenty somethings here.
Drying off quickly she donned the clothes he'd given her, and laughed at herself. The pants had to be rolled up nearly a hundred times to be short enough, and the draw string was pulled as tight as she could make it. The shirt was over-sized as well, but hid the fact that she wore nothing under it.
Padding out into the hall, she followed her nose to the kitchen. "Um..." At the sound of her voice, Erik whipped around immediately. "I can put my things in the washer. But I'm not sure where it is?"
He directed her down yet another hall, next to his boiler room. She saw a basket of freshly folded laundry already on top of the dryer. Normal, normal, normal. He craved the normality he thought he was so denied, and yet, was so shocked when she wanted a normal relationship. Christine shook her head. She was going to need food before diving back into the morass.
Back to the kitchen, her following like a distracted duckling, trying to peek into rooms as they passed. Finally, Erik gave up and took her hand to keep her near. "Erik will show you all that you want, later. Food first."
"Where will you sit," she asked, sliding onto the only stool at the island.
"Erik is fine standing." He had his sleeves rolled up as he was cooking, and Christine could see the faint track marks on his arms, like a dialysis patient would have. The only good thing she could think was that they looked old. Her stomach soured despite the delicious smells of an omelette cooking. "You were correct, last night."
"Oh?"
"I need to apologize. I harmed you."
"M-Erik, I fell off the stage because I wasn't looking."
"Not that. No I acted like a brute at your place of work. I grabbed your wrist. I hurt you with my words."
Christine looked down at her lap. Well, he had, and his apology last night had not really been about remorse but self hatred. "It's alright."
"It is not." Erik finished her omelette and plated it. Handing it to her he gathered her a fork and knife and a glass of water before he spoke again. "I have...contemplated our situation. And I must tell you again, though I do not want to, that it is best if we continue as student and teacher. Or perhaps...cease even that."
Christine frowned. "We discussed this already."
"You were distraught and-"
"I love you."
Erik closed his eyes and bent slightly, as if her words were a blow rather than a declaration. "Christine…"
"If we are going to talk, Erik I want to speak to you. I want to see you." Though the memory of his visage made her stomach still turn a little, now that she had seen it, she desperately missed his expressive face. Christine did not make to help him. She would not force him if he was truly too uncomfortable. And this was something he would have to come to terms with on his own.
"It will spoil your appetite."
"The omelette smells too good for that. And I'd like to see my Erik's face."
He let out a soft noise of disbelief and shook his head. His hand lifted and undid the ribbon of his mask, peeling it away from his face. The rest was easy to get used to, frankly, but the nose, or lack of it, was what caught her every time. Her stomach twisted a little more at the sight of it. But her face didn't change, and she was glad of that. Time, they both needed time. Her appetite wasn't gone completely, however. She leaned up, kissing his cheek, more to remind herself how soft his skin was than anything else. But she did not think Erik would care about her reason.
Indeed, the man sighed and leaned into her kiss. His next breath caught and she knew he'd be close to tears once more. Her arms came around his bony frame, this time savoring the new touch. "Good morning Erik."
"Good morning," he murmured back, hands undoing the ribbon from her hair. The curls tumbled down her back, aided by his smoothing hands. "You will not listen to reason?"
"Is reason giving up on this before we are even together?"
"Yes."
"Is reason giving up my music, my heart, and the chance for both of us to be happy, instead of apart: miserable and silent just because we might risk heartache?"
"...Yes."
"Then no, I won't listen to reason, so stop trying." She settled her cheek back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Strong and steady. So many chances, so many times this heart could have stopped, before she could have even known him, could have even missed him.
"Erik is weak," he murmured. Before she spoke, he placed a finger over her lips. "Erik-I-do not wish to let you go. I want you here, with me, always."
"Then why are you trying to send me away. Make me 'see reason'?"
"Because you are young, Christine. I am not. You are full of life and hope, and I am not."
She shook her head. "You are filled with more life than anyone I know. The music you create Erik, is filled with such feeling. A corpse couldn't make that kind of music."
He lifted what would have been an eyebrow had one grown, as if to say a corpse? Look at me. To that she pursed her lips. "I know what you're talking about. But you survived Erik. You survived Yasmin and drugs and hatred and trials. And for six years you've been locked away down here. Nadir gave you immunity, he allowed you a chance at life, why are you not living it? To protect me?"
"Of course. Of course to protect you, Christine."
"Well don't. I can protect myself." She shook her head and spoke over him as he began to protest. "I'm not a kid, Erik. I'm not a child. I know I did spectacular performance of one, but I'm an adult. I know what Nadir's story meant. I understand the gravity of what you did, and more importantly what was done to you." Christine wet her lips, eyes stinging from tears again. "I wish I could take it from you. The suffering, what you've been suffering your whole life."
"Do not pity me," he begged. "I would rather have your anger than your pity!"
"I don't pity you. I hate that it happened to you. I hate her more than anything. I wish-"
Erik took her hands suddenly, the hands she had balled into fists thinking about Yasmin Nasheed. "Erik told you: no more death before breakfast."
Christine chuckled without mirth. "Okay. I'll try. But only if you eat with me-and get rid of those gloves!"
He sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. He removed the offending articles as he wandered back to the stove, tucking them in his back pocket. Her eyes lingered on that area without shame as she finally began to dig into her omelette. It was wonderful, of course it was. There was nothing he did not do, it seemed, without trying to do the best. He's had a lot of time to practice. Her first swallow was hard at that thought, but she firmly pushed it away. He was here now. And they were in jail. No more death this morning.
"This has nothing to do with you being a child, Christine."
"You're worried that I'm in love with your music, right?" She shook her head, her cheeks blushing at the memory of his confession. Of what he was tempted to do. "That your music is manipulating me, making me feel love that isn't genuine. Blinding me."
He cracked an egg smartly on the side of the counter. "Yes."
"Well it's not. I didn't fall in love with your music Erik. We've been dissecting and recreating it for months. And you never sing for me, except when you correct my vocals. I fell in love with you."
"You did not know me then."
"I know you now, and I feel the same. And I don't pity you, or...or feel like I owe you something!" She dropped her fork trying to figure out the right words. "I still love you, because you're gentle, and you're more kind than you think. If you'd like to know I hate when you become subservient! I like it when you argue with me and challenge me and make me be better. You make me a better person, you have. Not because you've manipulated me, but because you've loved me and an encouraged me. You were the one who told me I could sing and I did, you were the one who asked me to go back to the drums, and I did. You were the one that told me I wrote good music, so I have been writing. All those things you've given me, and all you can think about is the first fight we had!"
"But I am not you." He turned, frowning, frustration etched into his features. There was the fight he had been lacking. "I am not good, waiting to be...to be honed and perfected. I was an animal, a ghost of a man. And now I wish to be a man, for you! Because only a man can love you, but what if I am not a good man? What if there is not enough to make even a decent man? I will never be that...that boy!"
Christine scowled. "I don't want Raoul."
"You should!" Erik shook his head, pain now swallowing his fear, as if each word were a needle to ingest. He is good, a good man. You sang easily for him, you trust him, and you ought to."
A witness in a trial. A good man. Like so many things, it clicked right into place. Erik saw Raoul as the good, handsome foil to his ugly imposter. Raoul was a good man, and Erik believed he only played at one. "Too bad! You want to be a man, alright. You are afraid of being a bad one, so is everyone! That fear is what will make you a good man," Christine snapped. He flinched at her curt tirade and she tried to soften her tone. "Evil people don't worry about things like that Erik."
"I know that. I never did...not before…" Shame, now. Shame twisting his dead face as his shoulders hunched.
Sliding off her stool, and giving her one-bite omelette a longing look, she walked up to him. "Before you confessed. Evil people don't confess, and don't want to be punished." She reached up and cupped his cheek gently "I think you became a man a long time ago. You're just trying to figure out how to love."
He leaned into her touch, eyes focused somewhere over her shoulder. Then his gold gaze cast over her face. "You won't leave?"
Christine shook her head.
"You'll indulge Erik's selfishness and stay?"
A nod this time.
"And you'll love me, and let me love you?"
"Can we be done with this part of the argument, finally?" She tilted her face up for a kiss. With a small noise of defeat he leaned down, capturing her mouth. He eagerly kissed her, and as he moved to place his hands on her shoulders she murmured, muffled against his withered lips, "I'm also really hungry."
Christine felt his smirk before he pulled back and turned her towards the island again. "Eat."
She happily slid back onto her seat and devoured her food before resuming her new favorite pastime of admiring how well his finely tailored trousers fit his slender frame. Oh he was nothing but skin and bones, but the man knew how to tailor clothes to look just right. Besides, it was a backside that belonged to her, which made the sight all the more inviting. Erik finished making his portion and joined her at the counter.
"Is that all you were thinking while I bummed on your bed?"
"Mostly. You mentioned loving me made you a better person? I am hoping the same works for Erik, the man." He pushed his food around the plate rather than eating it. "I do not want to be that brute that screamed at you and grabbed your wrist."
"Well, yes, you're never yelling at me like that again," Christine agreed.
"Or try to harm you like I did with my insults. You did not butcher our music."
"That did hurt. It cut me like nothing else." Christine pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. Ah, how wonderful to be able to, at last! "I am trusting you Erik. I know you think I shouldn't. No one probably will. But you've spent months assuring me, and encouraging me. Besides my singing, you've been pushing me to try new things, because you believe in me, not because you want something from me. Apart from the obvious you've proven to be gentle. To be loving. I trust that part of you told hold a piece of my heart. And I will try to be just as careful with yours."
His fingers came around her hand, and pressed a promising kiss into her palm, holding her fingers there. He cradled her as if she were an injured bird; firmly unwilling to let go, but tender enough not to hurt. "I must, I must, I must. Erik cannot be without this now," he whispered into her flesh. "Oh Christine, you're touching my face, my face! How can I live with only the memory now?"
Christine smiled, her thumb gently brushed the little bone of his nose. The skin was smooth here too. Such softness stretched so thin over stark horror. "You're also stubborn and passionate, and a show off and acidic, and I love that, too. That's what makes us such a good team."
Now he smirked a little. "You like that I am acidic? You did not like that Erik said your lack of breath was making you squeak like an ungreased wheel while we were learning Der Holle Rache."
She pulled a face. "Okay, well, yeah, that I'm not too pleased with...but I did squeak."
He chuckled and leaned into her hand once more, like a cat looking for affection. She thought for half a second he might actually start purring. "I did not mind."
Her mouth fell open. "Oh, what a lie!"
"You are right, I hate when you do that especially when it was the first thing Erik taught you."
"See?" She grinned and continued to stroke the lines from his forehead. It was the first normal interaction they had for days.
After finally finishing breakfast, Erik indulged more of Christine's insatiable curiosity and gave her a tour of his home. Music may have been his great love, but architecture was his best hobby. Each room seemed totally independent from each other in terms of style. Some had vaulted roofs, some low and wide. Some had lovely carved doors, other simply elegantly created archways. Christine of course was drawn to the library that was in the Rococo fashion, elegant in pastel blues and golds. Erik called it the Louis-Philippe library, and it was the only room in his home that had call backs to his motherland.
The Japanese sitting room was next, and she insisted he show her how to do a real tea ceremony with the little set he had on display. Carrying their fresh tea into his office she found out why he called it the 'Punjab Room'. Here lanterns (the same from the opera house's garden) provided soft light that sent the jewel tone clothes draped against the walls a glow. Christine had the warm feeling of being inside a tent on a lazy sunset evening.
In the Italy room, she was able to pore over his architecture drawings. Sitting in the false window seat, where the glass panes were flat lights that gave off fake sunlight, she lifted the sketches to admire the thin, straight lines and the bare bones of beautiful buildings. He showed her the plans he had framed, of the opera house and of other buildings he had once wished to make. He could draw as well, apparently, as there were sketches in the margins of the plans. Little 'doodles' that looked remarkably real. A few of Mr. Garnier, some of Rookheeya, and others of furniture or anything he found interesting at the moment.
On the dark mahogany shelves there were trinkets, little metal...things that could walk, or move or play music when he wound them up. "You created these," she asked in wonder.
"Yes. It's all just a matter of engineering. They don't do much. This one I made for Reza." He pulled down a little music box and lifted the lid. A little woman inside looked curled asleep. With a mechanical ticking, she rose and help out her arms as a lullaby played. Reza's mother.
"It's...Oh Erik." She gently touched the music woman's head, completely in awe. All these things he created, gave life to, and he called himself death incarnate? She held the little box as it played and remembered the little boy with his broken voice cheering 'Blow out the candles Erik! Blow them out!' She could imagine the child, curled up on his bed, watching the music box until he fell into peaceful sleep, all because of Erik's little gift.
At last, music room was purely modern, with sound proofing on the walls and racks for his carefully placed companions. Here he had his many violins set up, his Steinway tucked in the corner and other instruments he claimed to handle at varying levels of skill. "You mean we've been recording in the orchestra pit and you had a perfectly good studio hidden away?"
"If I had invited you to my house, Christine, Erik would not have been able to control himself," He murmured, smoothing down the sleeve of her t shirt. Throughout the entire tour, Erik had kept touching her. Now that he seemed to feel he was 'allowed' (he was), he did not want to stop. Whether it was a guiding hand on her back, or a finger twisting the end of a long curl around his finger, he was always in contact.
"You said you bought up the showcase to distance us, because we were getting too close. Is that because you wanted to show me your instruments?"
"My organ, yes. I had forgotten myself as we were creating, and the organ would add to our music, so I promised to show you. Erik wanted to impress you. But the organ is down here. And I did not realize how it would feel, you in my home, until I was preparing. Your...new familiarity wasn't aiding, as well. You were touching Erik more often, talking about 'us' more as a couple than as student and teacher."
"I was trying to confess."
"I know that now. I thought you were getting too close, not realizing what you were doing..." He took up one of her curls again, worrying it between his fingers. "But I always intended you for the showcase. It was my way of bringing you into the opera house, showing your talent, and smoothing your way into the role of diva."
"We have a lot to do then."
"Mmm?" His fingers trailed up her lock, apparently the showcase totally forgotten as he weaved his long fingers into her hair. She almost forgot too, as his hand gently massaged her scalp. The place she had hit still felt horribly sore, and his rub was easing the pain.
"For the show case?"
"You said you would not perform." His mouth turned down for a moment, and she knew he was thinking of her 'performance' at The Little Latte.
"I thought, if I could sing in front of my friends, then I'd prove there would be nothing to be afraid of. Get over this stupid fear." And what a fear! It seemed so distant now, Carlotta, lessons, the showcase. All the worries that had consumed her for months had fallen away, like scales from the eyes.
"It is not stupid. Your Maestro was cold and unsympathetic. But that young man did not watch you as an audience member."
"I told you-"
"Perhaps not on your end." He pulled her a little closer, gently leading her by his hold on her head. She went willingly, eager to wrap her arms around him. He was bony and there wasn't a comfortable place on him to hold. But after so many months-nearly a year-of looking and wanting, she found herself greedy for more. "But I know the look he gave you. He is half in love without already. And how can Erik blame him?"
"But Erik has what Raoul never will." Christine opened her eyes and lifted her face. "Erik has Christine. Raoul is like my big brother. Maybe, if you hadn't been there first, maybe. Even then I don't know. He's so wrapped up in my childhood, with memories of my father and mother. I'm not clinging to the past anymore, I've wasted too many years on that already. I'm clinging to you."
"Christine…"
The girl shivered. Her Maestro had such a way with her name, as if caressing the letters of it in lieu of the woman herself. And now… His lips ghosted over her temple, pressing softly against her forehead. His hands, both now buried in the morass of silky curls, held her captive as he traced the contour of her face with his dead lips, tilting her head this way and that. Christine, his willing victim, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as he explored with feather like touches of his mouth, felt the slow simmer of heat rise in her cheeks. Suddenly their conversation was utterly forgotten. Her ears were filled with the sound of his small well placed kisses, the subtle shift of fabric as he stepped closer.
Cool lips became more firm as he followed the line of her jaw, kissing the hollow behind her ear. Christine's knees almost buckled, and his arm wrapped around her waist. Who knew a little kiss to that patch of flesh could make that happen? The electric shock raced down her spine to settle low in her belly. Her skin was a flame, hyper aware of every sensation; the softness of her clothes against her freshly washed skin, the firmness of his bony body against her soft pliant one. How his breath, now traveling over her pulse point, was so hot it almost burned.
Christine had never understood the term 'hungry for a kiss' before now. She needed his mouth on hers, needed to taste him again, participate with him. By now his free hand had slid to her back, fingers caressing between her shoulder blades through the thin cotton, exploring the flesh no longer bound by her undergarments. Down her spine, causing a shiver, up again to the softness of her throat, fingers dancing along the lines of her collar bone.
Her fingers wrapped around his tie, and she led his face back to hers until her lips claimed their new territory. For a second, she thought the power of their kiss might actually make her faint, feeling the world tilt around her. It wasn't until she remained conscious, and rather active, did she realize Erik had to bend to kiss her, and was tilting her back in his arms in a mockery of his former grip on the stage, days before.
Not one to pass up an opportunity, Christine locked her arms around his neck. She teased his thin lips with her tongue before growing bold and plundering his mouth, tasting the green tea he had made. Erik's own equilibrium was not doing well either, it seemed. When she pulled at his lower lip with her teeth, he staggered, a hand leaving her to brace against the keyboard of the piano sending out a jarring chord into the room.
He pulled back, avoiding her questing mouth to gaze quizzically at her. Their panting breath mingled as they were caught in a moment of choice. He was waiting on Christine, but could not wait long. She felt him shake with the force of control, his dark amber eyes half question, half dare. But her flesh called out for his, the need beating against her mind and...places certainly not as intellectual.
She had the night before told him she was not ready. There had been too much to think and say, emotions swinging so widely that to make love would only end in regret and blame. But now, captured in his arms, trapped by the iron strength of his grip, she searched for the quivering feeling of apprehension. Christine found none. That part of her was barren, passion flooding in its wake. She wanted Erik, every dead scared inch of him. He may fear his desire, but Christine wanted nothing but to be the victim of it. To once more be his student, and he the Maestro. What sounds might he pull from her in this new lesson?
"Christine…?" That beautiful voice, so low and breathless, almost a plea.
In answer, fingers trembling, Christine undid his tie pin, the little metal piece capped with a dark ruby pinged on the floor when it hit. Erik's head dropped, following its descent, watching it drop. Then only his eyes raised, waiting her next move, which was the first button on his brocade vest.
Now he stopped her, fingers closing over hers gently. "Erik does not wish to be brutish," he murmured.
"You're not going to hurt me, Erik." No, he could take her all he wished to, she would not cry out for help. Only for Erik. Her Erik. She rested her forehead against his, and felt him shake his head 'no'.
"On the top of the keyboard would be brutish."
Christine almost fell back against said keyboard. "O-oh."
Erik straightened and lifted her hands to his lips for a quick kiss. Holding fast to one, he turned and began leading her back out of the music room. Christine followed, a little slower, glancing back at the almost abused instrument. Sorry.
They were at the bedroom doorway when the tell tale ping of Erik's phone echoed from the office. He paused, glancing at her, a sardonic smile playing at his mouth. "Are you going to force me to answer?"
She raised a brow, suddenly brazen. She took a hold of his tie once more and brought him to her level. "Is your office desk better than the piano?"
"No." His mouth covered hers, and he knelt further, preparing to lift her into his arms. The ping sounded again-and then turned into a vibrating ring.
"It's Nadir, probably. I only left a note thanking him, I didn't tell him where I was going." Christine gave him an apologetic smile. "That might not have been wise."
Growling about the 'clucking busy body', Erik changed course and brought his student with him to the office. He let her go only to pick up his phone. The ring had stopped, and he was scrolling through the messages with a frown. With a quick tap he brought it to his ear. The answer was immediate and Christine could hear Nadir's voice from where she stood by the door. "I know," Erik answered when the rant ended. "She is here. She's safe...what report?"
The languid ease their would be love making had created in his posture was sapped away immediately, tension coiling his muscles, forcing him ramrod straight. "Who filed it? That's absurd, she's an adult."
Christine's stomach soured immediately, guilt falling over her like a weighted blanket. Meg. She'd been gone for what, four days? Of course she'd probably be hysterical by now.
"...A naval officer," Erik said, his eyes going wide, lip curled, tone deceptively light. "I see."
Christine covered her face. Not Meg. Raoul. Dear, heroic Raoul. Damnit Raoul. Just when she'd tried to settle Erik to the idea that he was a benign presence. Of course Raoul filed a report. Of course Meg let him. Did she really think after her spitting anger they'd let her get away with going silent, especially with Nadir calling her out of work? Stupid Christine, she should have sent that text when she had the chance at Khan's house.
"We will meet them in the theater. How fast can you be here? Charles? Well I suppose there's nothing for it." He hung up without saying goodbye, and dropped the phone on the desk with a clatter.
"Erik I'm sorry-"
"Why?" He turned to her, frowning. "Of course your friend is worried about you. That's what friends do, is it not? At least in that I have some experience."
The implication made her cheeks hot with a totally unpleasant feeling this time. "He's jus-I'm not going to say it again. Especially when we were almost in bed just now." To prove her point she tugged his vest, and re-buttoned the top button. "I'll just tell them that I'm fine, and that it was stupid to waste the police's time."
"I doubt he will be satisfied," Erik muttered, sneer still firmly in place. "I doubt it will be that easy. The police know me."
"You haven't been charged with anything have you." Her hands suddenly stilled on his chest. California. If he had a record out there, they wouldn't be very understanding.
Erik snorted, or what he could do with what nature gave him. "No. Luck has been my cruel and fickle friend. No charges, but a few stern warnings from the LAPD. Not that Erik was in the frame of mind to comprehend them." His hand began rubbing his right arm, and the injection sites through the sleeve.
Christine laid her hand on his. "But that's not a problem now." Her steely gazed locked with his, and he immediately softened.
"No, Christine. Erik is no longer using. Nor shall he ever. I have an addiction far more powerful now." His eyes trailed over her face. "When Reza...there was no music then. Only memory. Playing that night in the hospital over and over again. When I drank, when I used, there was at least silence. It numbed me to everything."
"Why did you leave," she asked softly. "You didn't when Rookheeya died. And...and you're so cold to Nadir, Erik. Why? You're like brothers."
"We are not," he murmured. With a shake of his head, he led her back to the bedroom, this time with totally different intent.
"He said you were."
"He would. Nadir is too kind to be Erik's brother. Erik owes him too much, and repaid him nothing. Erik has only taken from him, and does not deserve such a title."
"He said you were the only thing that kept him sane."
"Until I killed his son."
Christine, twisting the hem of her shirt, forced herself not to react quickly. She schooled her features when he glanced at her, gauging her reaction. He used the term 'kill' very loosely, and more often than she liked. "I have a hard time believing that. You loved Reza."
"Which makes my crime only worse."
"If you killed Reza, Nadir would have put you behind bars." Standing her ground Christine asked, "The real story please."
Erik took out his pocket watch and glanced at the time, giving him something to look at that wasn't his beloved, begging for another tale of woe. "Reza was ill all his life, we tried to find a cure, but… One night, he was having trouble breathing. We both knew this was it. The last midnight trip to the hospital. In the end it came down to life support. There was no chance, but they still needed a signature. Nadir wept, and asked of me 'what parent can kill their own child?'. None should." His lips turned up in a humorless smile. "No parent should sell their child either. If only my mother went through what Nadir did, and Nadir had the healthy ugly child. It would have been better for all.
"I signed the papers. Forged his name when he could not. I killed his child, and knowing that I did, I left his house immediately. How dare I stay under his roof, break bread with him, be family to him when his kin's blood was on my hands?"
How many depths of horror could someone listen to before going mad. She rubbed her forehead, wondering if she was teetering close to it. "He doesn't think the same. Not at all. Not every tragedy in the world is yours to own." Christine swallowed, glad she had spoken without a break in her voice, and looked down at her stocking feet. Then there was a cold kiss on her hair, and she was dragged back from the edge of sorrow once more.
"You are a good girl, Christine. And your clothes are still in the wash unfortunately."
"Let me get my purse. And shoes." Her current state of dress probably wasn't going to help their case, but there was nothing for it now. Let them assume what happened did, she would not shy from it.
But Christine was a little glad it didn't, now that she was free of the lust-haze and thinking clearly. Not that she would have totally regretted their love making. She glanced at the bed as she slipped into her sneakers. But perhaps it was better if she had more time to think than a few hours. And when she did not still have a lingering headache. No, when they made love she wanted nothing in their bed but her heart and his. No ghosts, no guilt.
Perched on the edge of the mattress, leaning back she watched Erik select a suit jacket, and then a mask (a white one to match his crisp, white shirt), tying it on deftly. Smoothing back his hair, he turned and asked if she was ready, stopping dead at the sight of her on his bed. It took Christine a couple of seconds before realizing what he was staring at. She hopped off the edge immediately. "Sorry."
"You have it very backwards," he said at last, after several swallows. "You apologize for things you ought not, but remain stubborn and obstinate when you squeak on stage."
"That one aria! Just that one!"
He lead her easily through the maze of his home until they reached a heavy metal door with an airtight seal. Opening it, they stepped out into what looked like a cavern, with a small lake in the middle. He was explaining to her the complications of draining a lake when building and how it was better to simply build around it, before the first question even dropped from her lips. He seemed to be old hat at her curiosity by now.
Evidently the stairs underground had gone down a long way. But what impressed her most was the organ on the far side: a real beautiful pipe organ polished to gleam in the low light. It's rack of pipes reached high up into the cavern ceiling, almost into darkness, and the bench was covered in a red velvet cushion, complimenting the dark mahogany wood Despite it being so close to water, it looked brand new and untouched by nature. It was obviously well loved. There were several scores on the music rack she recognized as Erik's with it's red ink.
"Later," Erik promised, taking her hand just as she began to wander over to the keyboards, and helping her onto the dinghy. "I don't want them waiting for us longer than they already will." He took the long pole from off the wall and pushed them off into the water.
"You do this just to get into the theater? Every time," she wondered, glancing back at the organ. It wasn't very far at all from 'shore' to 'shore', but she assumed the little lake made up in depth what it lacked in width.
"Yes. It's not very hard. I should build a bridge, I suppose. But Erik often thought of it as some kind of security," he admitted. "The water is freezing, and dirty. Not conducive for swimming. I was thinking of adding a siren, to alert me should anyone try to jump in and swim to my house."
Christine, who had wanted to trail her fingers through the glassy ripples the boat was making, immediately snatched back her hand. After docking, they stepped out and found the door to another set of stairs. This was a shorter journey, as it opened up into the opera's cellar where they kept old pieces of scenery and damaged costumes waiting to be used for scrap. As they climbed to the back stage, the familiar warmth, smell, and feel of the place washed her clean of any lingering darkness.
She felt a bit like coming home. She glanced at her companion and knew it would make him happy to hear. She'd have to tell him so afterward.
After they faced the world waiting for them in the lobby.
