AN: Hello wonderful readers, I just wanted to give you a heads that there is some drug use in this chapter. If for any reason you don't feel comfortable reading that subject matter, feel free to message me for a chapter summary.

Chapter 14

Christine didn't expect rehearsals with Carlotta to be pleasant, but that didn't make it any easier to take when her predictions proved correct. Most of the time Carlotta pretended Christine didn't exist, but when she deigned to notice her it was usually to make a snide, stage whispered comment that Christine was obviously meant to hear. Christine tried not to let it effect her, but after a particularly trying day in which Christine danced a little during a music break in their duet and Carlotta exploded into peals of laughter at the sight, she broke down and asked Erik, "what do you think I should do about her?"

"Continue to ignore her," he said firmly. "She will get what's coming to her, sooner rather than later."

"What, so I should just leave it up to karma?" Erik smiled, and for a moment it looked more predatory than encouraging.

"Something of that nature." Christine gave him a long, searching look, but he turned back to the keys of the piano and refused to elaborate.

But besides Carlotta, rehearsals were exhilarating. She and Erik had finally nailed down a set list between bouts of good-natured bickering and pleas from both sides that they could take a break to sing something, anything else, and Andre had approved it with barely a second glance. He had also agreed to her request for a more simple aesthetic, without too much choreography or too high heels. So it was really just her, singing and hoping that when the time came people liked what they heard, and center stage was starting to feel more like home than ever.

Unfortunately, rehearsing didn't pay the bills, so Christine had to balance her normal job as well, meaning that she now saw Erik and Raoul less frequently than she would like to. After she spent a whole lesson trying to stifle yawns Erik sighed and told her that her health must come first, and produced a detailed set of instructions about how to get to his home on her own so that she could take lessons on her schedule. "You must only come when you truly have the time," he said, but he looked so forlorn that she knew she would be making the trek as often as she could. She was so busy that she almost didn't notice Valentine's day occurring until she met Raoul for lunch at a cute café in the middle of her work day, and he had a vase of yellow roses waiting on the table. She realized with a dawning suspicion that almost everyone in the café seemed to be part of a couple.

"Raoul," she said, narrowing her eyes at him as she sat down, "what's this?"

"This is happy Valentine's day," he said cheerfully, pushing the roses towards her. She sighed, unhappy about needing to have this discussion again, but he raised his hands defensively and said, "Hey, yellow roses mean friendship. I Googled. We both know I find you disgusting and have absolutely no desire to kiss you." She laughed and shook her head.

"Well thanks, they're gorgeous. I'm sorry I didn't get you anything." He waved her off and said,

"You can buy dessert." Lunch was pleasant as always, but then she had no choice but to take the flowers back to work with her, even though she had a long-standing suspicion that Erik watched her sometimes when she was at Garnier during the day. She had no idea how, but he often made comments that implied he already knew things she had never told him, and she knew that if he saw the flowers he would assume they were from Raoul. She resolved to visit Erik when she got off that evening. She didn't like the idea of him being all alone underground on a holiday that was all about togetherness. She hadn't thought to get him anything either, but surely her presence would be better than nothing. She waited to make sure everyone was gone before sneaking back in to Garnier and taking a high power flashlight out of her purse. Getting down to Erik's by herself creeped Christine out less and less every time she did it, but she still lived in perpetual fear that she would run out of batteries and be stranded in the darkness. She knocked on the big wooden doors at the end of the tunnel, and was met with a soft cry of

"Christine?" before they swung open.

"Erik?" She called, entering the hallway of his home. "Where are you?"

"In here," came his reply from behind a closed door. He usually met her at the entrance when she knocked, and she immediately felt that something was off. He was in the sitting room, reclining in an armchair in front of the fire with his feet up.

"Ah Christine," he grinned lazily as she entered. "Come stand in front of the fire. You look so lovely in the firelight."

"Are you allright?" She asked, deciding to humor him and stand where he asked.

"I-" he paused, and seemed to look her up and down appreciatively, "am wonderful now."

"Erik, what?" She looked into his eyes, and a dreadful certainty settled in her stomach. "You're high." It wasn't a question.

"Brava, my ingenious pupil." He gave her a slightly mocking round of applause. "On what, do you think?" He used the same tone of voice as when he quizzed her on different composers or techniques. She furrowed her brow.

"Some kind of painkiller, I'm guessing?"

"Very good," he nodded. "Morphine, to be precise. Much more debonair and artistic than some other options, wouldn't you agree? But does my innocent Christine speak from personal experience? She sounds so sure." Christine swallowed harshly, and nodded. Prescription pills had been her kryptonite for a few years, when grief for her father and an endless string of cold and uncaring foster parents had made her feel like she was drowning. She knew what a relief it could be to simply float away, like Erik had now. But then Christine had been placed with mama Valerius, the sweetest woman she had ever met, and come home one day to find her guardian crying over Christine's stash of pill bottles. Christine had promised never to use again, and hadn't broken the promise yet.

"Aah you understand pain and loneliness, don't you dear girl," he said, reaching towards her, and despite herself Christine stepped forward to take his hand. "But still, you have some lovely yellow roses to keep you company while Erik has, Erik has-" his face fell out of the dreamy smile into a sad grimace.

"You have me," she said, squeezing his hand. She could scold him for his reckless behavior later, when he looked a little less pathetic.

"But I do not. Not truly. That boy has you, with his handsome smile and his money and his good, public, respected name and everything else I will never ever be able to give you."

"No Erik, he doesn't," she began, but he cut her off, saying,

"If he does not then someone else will, one day. You are far too easy to love. And then I will dissolve into pieces tinier than your fingers." He stroked his own long, spidery fingers over hers. "I will decay. I will become more dead than I am even now. These are my Valentine's Day ruminations Christine," he gave her a twisted smile, "but I do not think they please you." They didn't. Knowing how Erik truly felt made her ache with sadness, and it made her feel even worse that he had to be intoxicated before he could be honest with her.

"Oh Erik," was all she could manage. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Of course you do not, because you are a genuinely good person, a rare and hazardous title to bear, my dear. But it is inevitable that you will. There is little point in denying it." He paused, tilted his head to consider her. "One day you might even want to."

"No I won't," she said firmly, shaking her head. She pulled her hand out of his, and dragged a chair so that she could sit next to him in front of the fire.

"What are you doing?" He sounded surprised, and a little more like himself.

"Staying with you until you come down," she answered. "Making sure you don't hurt yourself."

"There's no need. It will only upset you." She looked at him levelly and made no sign of leaving. He sighed. "Very well. How shall I entertain you in my inebriated state?"

"Tell me a story."

"What type of story?" She narrowed her eyes at him, considering.

"A happy one." He rubbed his chin, seeming lost in thought.

"That's a tall order." His voice was becoming dreamy and detached once again. "Very well. There was once a young architect who travelled the world searching for his next great project. He found himself in Tehran, because he had caught wind of a rumor that a very rich and powerful man wanted a grand and twisting palace built for himself and his mother." She watched him as he spoke. He had closed his eyes and leaned his head back on his chair, and he occasionally lifted a hand to punctuate his story with an elegant gesture. He seemed remarkably peaceful and content, considering what they had just been discussing. She wondered how often he did this to himself, and how badly it had impacted his health already. How much more there was about him that she didn't know. "…but what truly fascinated him was the mother's request for a maze of mirrors," Erik continued. She could tell that he was gone once again, immersed in fantasy or memory where she couldn't follow. She settled in for a long night, content to listen to his soft and meandering voice. It was strange to feel like the adult between the two of them that evening, as she urged him to eat, which he flatly refused, and to drink water, which he finally accepted. They finally ended up in the library with Erik reading her fairytales and laughing at plot points that didn't seem funny to her at all. She requested her favorites and he obliged, until she was strolling along the shelves and said, "Oh, this is a gorgeous copy of Beauty and the Beast. And it's in French. Will you read it? I know I won't understand a word but I already know the story by heart."

"Absolutely not," he intoned. His voice was sharper than it had been all night, and she thought that maybe the effects of the morphine were beginning to wear off.

"Why not?"

"False expectations," he grumbled. "That little story is a dangerous kind of lie. Pick something else." She did as he said, resisting the urge to ask why he had bought an obviously expensive edition of a story he supposedly hated so much. He sank back into a more drowsy state when she handed him a different title. She stretched out on a plush sofa opposite his chair, and began to feel a bit drowsy herself.

She jolted awake the next morning, scrambled for her phone, and yelled "Shit!" She had 20 minutes before she was supposed to be at work, with no change of clothes and no hairbrush. Across the room Erik jumped at the sound of her yell, clearly just waking up himself. "Sorry, sorry," she muttered. He put his face in his hands, his fingers rubbing where the mask met his skin. It looked awfully uncomfortable to sleep in. "I'm late."

"Allow me to make you breakfast before you leave."

"I don't think I have time." She sighed, standing up and attempting to straighten out her wrinkled clothes. The previous night came back to her as she did so, and she frowned.

"Really Erik? Drugs? I thought you were smarter than that." He bowed his head.

"I am sorry you had to see that. It was never my intention to expose you to such an unsavory aspect of my life."

"It's not me seeing it that's the problem. It's you doing it. How long has this been going on?"

"Oh years. Decades," he said airily. "Do not concern yourself." She shook her head.

"It's a little late for that." She sighed. "I've gotta get going. Are you ok?" The question seemed to confuse him.

"I am-fine Christine. Have a pleasant day at work."

"I'll try." She only paused to dig a mint out of her purse and put her hair up in the camera on her phone. She had still never seen a mirror in Erik's house. She took the tunnel at a jog, and was panting as she began to climb the stairs. She peeked out of the trapdoor and was relieved to see that there was no one in the supply closet. She was only a few minutes late. Hopefully she could walk out into the hallway and enter the workflow without anyone noticing. She exited the closet slowly, looking around, and thought she was home free until a voice behind her said

"Chistine Daaé, that looks like a walk of shame to me." She gritted her teeth as she turned around.

"Hey Joe. I'm not walk of shaming I just, um," she gestured stupidly at the supply closet. It was too early to think of a good lie. He frowned.

"Yeah why were you in there? Did you pass out in the closet or something?"

"Um, yeah. I got drunk," she invented lamely. "Look I gotta go, sorry." She was not in the best mood by the time she made it to her assigned booth. The last thing she needed was Joseph Buquet poking into her business along with everyone else. It was times like these she thought maybe Erik had the right idea, hiding away from people underground. But she didn't really believe that, not when she remembered the far away sadness in his eyes.