A/N: Wooh! This took a lot of time (I procrastinated way too much on this, I'm so sorry) and effort, and there was a lot of swearing involved in the writing process of this chapter. I didn't realise how unpracticed I was at writing happy scenes until I started on this chapter—ATS has been so full of sadness that the mere concept of writing out joy seems foreign to me now!
I'm sorry for how long this took; some pressing issues came out that rendered me quite out of sorts, for a while. 'Emotionally compromised', to quote Star Trek. But, it's finally out. I hope you all had a safe and happy Christmas and New Years, anyway!
Of course, thank you all so much for your reviews, follows and favourites. I would never have gotten this far without your support.
We're almost to the end, now; two more chapters and that's it! Music and inspiration are at the end of the chapter. Also, I've been waiting to write out these lyrics for the longest time—it feels so fulfilling to finally do it.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, Not With Haste, belongs to Mumford and Sons.
So as we walked through fields of green,
Was the fairest sun I'd ever seen.
May 1979
Today was the day.
Standing in front of the mirror, clad in a silk gown of the brightest white, Christine could hardly believe that she was getting married. Every detail, every moment of her entire life had been devoted to planning for this day. She had dreamed of a perfect wedding as a little girl, from the trail of her dress to the cake at her reception.
For some reason, she had never dreamed of the perfect husband. But as she stood staring at herself, cheeks painted a light pink and cobalt eyes wide and excited, she couldn't be more grateful to have found the love of her life.
Erik had been firm on a small gathering, and though she initially protested—she had held the image of a large wedding reception for the longest time—she remembered that ultimately, there were not many people she wanted to invite, anyway. They were both private people, with small social circles—or, well, she had a small social circle, while Erik's only social connection rested with her, and occasionally Anton—so it would make sense that their wedding would be an intimate affair.
Her breath caught at the thought of it. Their wedding.
She was familiar with Western wedding customs being conducted by the church instead of the state—many of the ballet rats had sighed and gushed over the romance of it all; the splendour of a religious monument, the sacred vows binding husband to wife—but she could hardly care less. The Soviet Union, being a communist state, did not condone religion, but she could see no difference between getting married under the watch of God or the state.
As long as she would be able to call herself Erik's wife, and he her husband, she would be happy.
"Christine Destler," she said to herself, a flutter going through her stomach at the sound of her new name.
it sounded right.
It was a shame that she would have to take Erik's false name, but his position could not be compromised. The government were unaware of his true name, and he wanted them to maintain that belief; there was no need for them to have any more of a hold on him than they already did. It would be simple to retake his original sirname should he have to escape the country—freedom to take his true name outside the suffocating borders of the KGB.
Agreeing to marry was already a risk in itself; she would be an easy target for his enemies. Erik had warned her of the consequences of being married to him: constant secrecy, complying to the government's wishes, her guaranteed silence for their safety. She could never confide in her closest friends about her worries, always wonder how it would feel to travel without any concerns that her husband might be called back to assassinate another man. They would never live a life of a normal married couple.
Still, Christine could not regret her decision to share the rest of her life with him, no matter the consequences that came with it.
"Christine Devereux," she tested, teasing at the life they could have led. A distant pang of regret sang within her heart; it fell more easily from her lips than 'Destler' did.
Another secret she would need to keep. At least she would not need to pretend in front of Erik.
Brushing the inconvenience away, Christine focused on her image in the mirror. The dress* she now wore was a sleek, classic white. Lace covered her arms, clinging to her pale skin delicately. The neckline was not low, but not too modest, ending just above her decolletage, and her shoulders and collarbone were bare. White fabric fell down her hips, gathering as a silken trail on the floor. Her cobalt eyes were lightly lined, her lips painted a pale pink. A rosy blush coloured her cheeks, giving her complexion a soft glow.
Long, dark tresses were spilling down her shoulders, the other half gathered by the back of her head and twisted elegantly. Meg had initially wanted a classic updo, but Christine had insisted on leaving at least some of her hair down. After all, Erik made no secret of how much he loved her hair loose.
It would not be a long service. All they needed to do was sign the papers and exchange rings; it would not take longer than fifteen minutes. There was no real need to dress up as she had, but despite the simplicity of Soviet marriages, Christine wanted to feel beautiful.
She wondered what Erik would think when he saw her.
A knock sounded on the door, and she turned away from the mirror to see Meg peeking her head in. Her friend looked lovely, dressed in a gown of pale pink to compliment her fair complexion. Her golden hair was coiffed up with a few tresses escaping their pins, framing her face with loose waves. A smile crossed her lips as she stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. "You look beautiful, Christine."
Christine felt her lips curl upwards and tugged at a wayward lock of hair. "Thank you," she said bashfully. She was never one to busy herself over her appearance; though she did have her own distinct style, she had never thought to put much effort into her everyday clothing.
Now, however—now she felt radiant, glorious, giddy at the thought of the day's events to come.
"How are you feeling?" Meg asked, approaching with light steps.
"Excited," the brunette answered honestly. She knew that, commonly, brides were often nervous on the day of their wedding. Nervousness, however, would imply doubt—and Christine held no doubts of marrying the love of her life. Her heart was a wild, thrumming melody, senseless and fierce.
Her friend laughed, reaching out to affectionately grasp at her hands. "Let's get you married, then."
Turning back towards the mirror, Christine inspected her appearance once more. Cobalt eyes blinked back at her, wide and brimming with anticipation. "Are the marshrutka here?" she questioned, twisting a loose strand of hair with a finger. The hall they would be meeting the others in was a forty minute journey on foot, so Erik had ordered two state taxis to bring them there.
Meg crossed towards the dresser, reaching out to grab for a pin. "Yes," she replied, carefully taking the strand from Christine's finger and pinning it neatly by the back of her head. It twisted into her wild curls, sharp and hard; she held back a wince but remained obediently quiet, indulging in her friend's attention. "Anton and Dimitri have already gone with Erik to the hall. We're just waiting for you, now."
Christine frowned as Meg walked towards the foot of the bed, where her heels rested. Erik would have insisted on waiting for her, she knew, and he was incredibly stubborn. It was a miracle that the others were able to pry him away.
Meg rolled her eyes at her quizzical look, answering her question before she could open her mouth. "The groom shouldn't see the bride before the wedding, Christine; you know that. It's bad enough that you already spent the night together—"
"Meg, we live together," Christine said exasperatedly.
"Yes, and by the state I found you in this morning, you had taken full advantage of that."
A flush coloured Christine's cheeks, a secret smile curling at her lips. She had been at the receiving end of Meg's pointed looks ever since her friend found her nude and sound asleep earlier that morning. A few questions told her that Erik had already dressed when Meg had arrived, and knowing her fiancé, he had harboured a satisfied smirk on his face the entire time.
Christine shrugged, slightly embarrased but never regretful. They had known of wedding traditions, of course, but neither she nor Erik had wanted to spend the night away from each other. And perhaps they had been far too eager for the events of the next day to wait for their actual wedding night, but neither groom nor bride had cared much.
Meg was still facing her, a thin eyebrow arched knowingly, and she lifted her shoulders in another shrug. "Erik's never been one for tradition," she reasoned weakly.
The blonde simply rolled her eyes before gesturing towards the shoes. Crossing the room to where Meg stood, Christine slipped her feet into the silver heels. They added an extra four inches; she would be closer to Erik's height, she noted with satisfaction.
It would be easier to pull him down for a kiss once they were married.
Christine turned away from Meg, waiting for her to arrange the veil on her hair. A few moments later, she felt a light, delicate material gently pinned to her styled curls, loose and flowing. Both girls had agreed beforehand not to drape it over her face, and Christine was never more grateful for their decision. She did not fancy walking towards Erik with the thin material covering her face.
"There," Meg finished, smiling as Christine turned around. "Oh, I can't wait to see Erik's face when he sees you."
Christine laughed lightly. "He helped me pick the dress, Meg."
"Oh, you two are useless."
With another laugh, the two girls left the bedroom to enter the living area. Where it was usually neat and tidy, today it was particularly mussed, various objects scattered around the room; a discarded suit jacket draped over the sofa, a few scraps of paper abandoned in a corner.
Elena, Anton's wife, was perched comfortably on the sofa, a book in hand. She was a regal woman with her long nose and pointed chin, though her eyes were coloured a deep, warm brown. Upon seeing the two women enter, she snapped the book shut and stood. A wide grin stretched across her pink lips at the sight of Christine.
"Stunning!" she exclaimed, moving forwards to catch the bride in her arms. Christine laughed and returned the woman's hug. She had never been too closely acquainted with her, only meeting her on certain parties or occasions. She had only invited the woman out of politeness, since Anton was making an appearance.
Still, she could not deny that Elena was a good-natured woman, and was surprisingly glad to have her attend her wedding. Her heart was bursting, warmth a pool bubbling within her chest.
"Elena, did Dimitri take the camera with him?" Meg asked, as Elena pulled away with a last, almost motherly, squeeze. The blonde was checking the small flat for any items they might have left behind.
Elena nodded.
"And the flowers?"
The older woman turned to reach for a bouquet of red roses perched on the coffee table. "They're here."
Christine inhaled the sweet fragrance of the flowers, sighing contentedly. It was fitting that she was to carry them on her wedding day, since her fiancé—husband in the next hour, she thought giddily—never failed to present the red blossoms to her on any special occasion. Had Erik told Meg that, or was her friend particularly observant?
Meg nodded decisively, seemingly satisfied. "Good." She turned towards Christine with a soft smile softly and stepped forwards, brushing at the corner of her lips where some lipstick had smudged. "Ready?"
Ready?
It was a ridiculous question, really; of course she was ready! She had dressed herself in white, had—somewhat—followed the traditions before a wedding, and all she could think of was the prospect of seeing Erik again. She was about to see Erik, and she was going to marry him.
She was going to marry him.
And Meg was asking her if she was ready?
Not wanting to waste time, she nodded sharp and quick. "Yes. Let's go."
She could hardly recall the journey there, vaguely registering being ushered into the waiting taxi, Meg fussing with her veil and Elena chattering wistfully of the joys of her first year of marriage. Their words were drowned out by the roar of the engine, the bumps in the road. Her thoughts were muddled yet distinctly, sharply clear; she could not think of anything but the fact that Erik was waiting for her—waiting so they could proceed with their wedding.
Her Erik, who did not enjoy social company, was waiting for her along with their guests. He was not entirely strangers with them, but she knew he would be fidgeting with discomfort regardless.
Upon applying for a marriage license, the state officials had informed them that if they desired a proper ceremony, with an elaborate celebration and the renting out of the wedding hall, they would have to wait two extra months. Christine had been tempted, but Erik immediately voiced his disapproval.
"After all," he had shrugged, his arm slung around her shoulders as she leaned into him on their shared couch, "we have just about four people coming. Why wait for a ceremony?"
Christine had pulled a face. "Surely we have more than that. And it's romantic," she said, rather unconvincingly.
He had raised an eyebrow at her, inviting her to challenge him, and that had been the end of the discussion.
In the end, it seemed that they would only have four guests after all. Christine had wanted to invite her cast mates, but knew it would be rather dull—and perhaps a little awkward—for them, as they were not closely acquainted with Erik. She could not call them her closest friends herself, so upon pondering over the issue, she had agreed with Erik's proposal to invite those most dear to them.
Meg, of course, was the first guest on the list. She had been friends with the blonde for years; she could not think of her own wedding without her best friend by her side. And if Meg was to be invited, Christine knew that her friend would insist on her boyfriend's attendance, as well. She had not minded; Dimitri was a respectful member of the theatre company, and was mindful of Erik's eccentricities.
She had pushed Erik to invite Anton, knowing that the director and her lover shared a strange relationship of mutual admiration and respect, but Erik had been adversed to the idea until the other man had caught sight of Christine's engagement ring and promptly proceeded to invite himself. Erik had scoffed distastefully when he relayed the news to Christine, but she had seen the faint tug by the corners of his lips. He was glad that the director was coming regardless.
And of course, Anton had requested his wife's attendance as well, and Christine was more than happy to nod her agreement.
Soon enough, the three women stepped out of the taxi, having finally arrived at the Department of Public Services. The building that was to host their marriage was lavishly decorated, though Christine had not expected anything less; anything owned by the state was more grand than the communal areas. The structure was painted a rich white, flawless and untainted, the doors grand and large. Her heels clicked against the concrete stairs as they approached, the sound drowned out by the traffic from the road.
The building was busy. People rushed about—state officials and government workers, she assumed—and barely gave her a second glance, as if seeing a woman in a white dress and veil was a common occurance to them. She supposed it was common, in a way; marriages were surely conducted all the time in the building.
The thought sobered her racing heart for a few moments, and she managed to take a few breaths to calm herself. In the eyes of the state, this day was nothing special; it was another opportunity to entice another couple into forming another family. Hardly anything special.
Meg suddenly appeared, startling Christine from her thoughts; she had not even noticed her friend leaving the room, so lost was she in her ponderings. "Where's the bride?" her friend called, looking flustered and flushed. Christine recognised Dimitri trailing behind her, camera in hand. He was dressed in a handsome suit jacket and dress pants, though his hair was slightly mussed. Christine recollected the feature as a distinct part of his personal style.
As if from a distance, Christine watched as Meg rushed to her, thrusting the red roses into her hand. "Come—they're waiting." Her friend began to fuss over her gown, straightening her veil and smoothening out the creases of her dress.
"Them?" she questioned.
"The minister."
She blinked, remembering all at once why the minister was waiting. They were going to head into the front room, where the minister and Anton and—a glance around her told her that Elena had ventured into the other room, as well—were waiting. Where Erik was waiting.
Waiting to make her his bride and he her groom.
And all at once, feeling rushed into her core once more. This was not an ordinary occurance; her marriage was not to be dismissed as noncomittal.
She was about to marry her confidant, lover; she was about to marry her Erik.
Squaring her shoulders, Christine turned determinedly to her friend. "I want to see Erik," she said firmly, dismissing all thoughts of the minister from her mind. Today was for him and only him.
"I swear, you two are made for each other," Meg rolled her eyes. "He's with Anton and Elena, and he's asking—no, demanding to see you."
"He's getting quite impatient," Dimitri laughed as he approached, embracing her with an outstretched arm. "Hello, Christine. Ti preekrahsnah vigleedeesh."
"Thank you, Dimitri." She forced a smile out of coutesy and hugged him back, pushing away her impatience for a moment. "And thank you for coming."
"Of course. Meg would not have let me miss your happy day, anyway," he shrugged.
"No I wouldn't have," Meg affirmed, unapologetic. "Come, Christine, or I think Erik will come and get you himself."
The laugh that was about to escape her lips caught in her throat. They were leading her to the door—Erik was behind that door. He was standing there, waiting for her in his dress suit, probably impatiently tapping his foot as he checked his watch. He did not stand for tardiness, and she knew she was not late in any sense, but Christine still felt guilty for making him wait.
He should not have to wait another second to become a married man.
Blue eyes darted up, meeting the worried gaze of her friend. She could feel her heart speeding, racing within her chest. The lace that clung to her arms seemed strangely hot, now.
Meg stepped forwards, reaching out to grasp Christine's shoulder. "Are you alright?" she asked, eyebrows stitching in concern. Dimitri quietly escaped to the front room, sensing their need to converse in private. "Nervous?"
Christine closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She could feel the flutter of lashes against her cheek, light and tentative.
She was not nervous. No; nervous was not an adequate word to describe what she was feeling. Her heart seemed to thrum with anticipation, a tentative flutter within her chest, set to begin soaring, to start anew.
She knew that marriage would not change much in her relationship with Erik. They were already living together, breached into intimacy together, confided everything with each other. She was deeply, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with him and the opportunity to be legally bound together, to set up a shared bank account and take on a new name would not change that in the slightest.
But even as her mind told her this, her heart was beating steadily within her chest, strong, alive. The air itself seemed to be cleaner, fresher. A wild, eager sense of hope beat within her blood.
Today, her life began anew, and the swift realisation of it all knocked the breath out of her chest.
"No," she was finally able to answer, shaking her head. Christine stared at her friend with unbirdled awe, and whispered, "No, I'm not nervous. I'm going to be married."
Meg smiled, nodding as she squeezed the shoulder she grasped. "Yes you are, Christine," she said softly, "yes you are."
With a newfound determination, Christine nodded and allowed herself to be led into the front room, her best friend by her side.
Erik was standing by the raised desk that held the paperwork, his head bowed and shoulders tensed. Her breath hitched at the sight of him; she recognised his posture, knew immediately that he was studying the documents that they were to sign. The door shut loudly behind them and she found herself momentarily distracted, turning back as if to follow the echoing close with her eyes.
When she turned back, she found that he had whirled around to face her, his golden gaze at once captivating and rooting her to the spot.
He was dressed in an impeccable suit; she noticed with appreciation how it hugged his form, showing off his lean figure rather dashingly. A red rose was tucked into his jacket pocket, a perfect match to the larger bouquet she held in her arms. His hair was gelled back neatly, and she found herself wanting to reach out and run her fingers through his sparse locks.
But what entranced her completely was the expression of utter wonder on his face, his thin lips parting, golden eyes reverently drinking in the sight of her standing across the room.
Christine did not need to be told to walk towards him.
Everything around her seemed to still, drowned out by the catch of his eyes on hers, his fingers uncurling from its fists by his side, until nothing existed apart from him, standing there, waiting for her. The heels she wore clicked loudly, echoing as she walked towards him, but she hardly heared it; she imagined she could hear him breathing as she watched the rise and fall of his chest, knowing that his heart must be beating in time with hers, synchronised and perfectly matched. Her blood was rushing in her ears, thrumming as she continued to walk towards him, steady and sure.
She had never been so sure of anything in her life.
His hand was held out, palm facing upwards in an invitation. She was finally—finally—close enough to close the distance between them, to place her hand in his. A shuddering exhale escaped his lips when her skin touched his and she looked into his electrifying gaze, lost.
She was always lost when it came to him.
The minister was talking, but she couldn't bring herself to listen. Vaguely, she was aware of Meg taking the bouquet from her, heard the mention of the responsibility to create a family, but cared not to pay attention; Erik had already outlined these conditions to her thoroughly so she would be perfectly aware of what she would be agreeing to when she wedded him.
Instead, she stared at him. They were not in a church, but his burning gaze was fierce and reverant; had she not already been holding his hand she might have found her knees collapsing from the intensity of his eyes. Perhaps she should have been scared—other brides would have been. But she couldn't bring herself to think of anyone but him—her Erik.
Soon enough, Christine was shaken out of her stupor by a pat on the shoulder from behind her. Turning, she stared with bewilderment at Meg's beaming face, her eyebrows raised in question. Meg rolled her eyes and grasped her free hand—the other was still tightly holding onto Erik's—and placed something small and cool on her palm. Christine looked down and saw a circular band sitting in the middle of her palm, gold and light, meant for a finger larger than hers.
She turned back to Erik and found him holding a band as well, this one much smaller in size.
They exchanged rings, only breaking their gaze to look down at each other's hands as they slid their respective tokens on. Erik's ring fitted around her fourth finger perfectly; her breath caught at the simplicity of it, a plain gold band to match his. She looked up at him, feeling her breathing stop completely at the sight of the tender expression on his face, awed and resonant.
Erik lifted her hand up to his lips, and she was reminded of the very first time she had met him, dashing and powerful, waiting for her at the stage door. But where he had once kissed her bare knuckles, now his lips pressed against the ring circling her finger, the molten gold a match to his swirling eyes.
Unable to resist him, Christine slid her arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. Erik responded enthusiastically, slipping his arms around her waist and holding her tight to him, his lips firm and steady beneath hers. She felt his smile and broke away to let out a laugh against his mouth, feeling delirious and dizzy and intoxicated on him.
There were sounds of cheering in the background; she faintly heard a whoop when Erik pulled her in once more and kissed her deeply, making her legs wobble beneath her. Her breaths were short and quick when he finally pulled away, and she smiled as he pressed his forehead against hers.
"Fate links thee to me, forever and a day," Erik murmured softly, beautifully.
Christine felt another laugh bubble in her chest, this one delirious and giddy. "I love you too," she responded less eloquently, and felt rather than heard the chuckle he breathed into her mouth.
And when he pressed his lips into her hair as she leaned into him, his grin wide and unashamed in front of the guests he hardly knew, Christine knew there could not be a happier bride.
Present Day
Everyday seemed new, fresh, a breath of life finally taken into the depths of his soul. His every waking moment was no longer spent moping around, pushing away the guilt that ate at him—the guilt he had tried so hard to suppress. No; uncovering his experiences—his secrets—to Christine had made him feel strangely light, as if a weight had been lifted from his chest.
Erik felt alive once more.
He found his muse again, and began his days composing. Music gripped him like a heavenly chain and he succumbed to it, melodies bursting from his fingertips, ardent and glorious once more. His instruments sang with life, and he created with such fervour, inspired by the woman who had stood by his side throughout.
Christine.
Their love blossomed once more. No longer did he shy away from her; no longer did he reject her touches, her caresses of his mangled, distorted face. She did not shun him; she was not disgusted by the monstrosity of his flesh. She slowly coaxed him to realise that he was not a monstrosity to behold, that he was not the ugly creature Jalil had made him out to be. Every knife mark, every bruise was tenderly brushed until Erik could no longer recall anything tracing his skin other than the smooth kisses from her lips.
She was determined to help him recover himself, and he loved her all the more for it.
A flourish from his pen on the manuscript, and Erik leaned back. It was yet another piece he had composed whilst thinking of her. The sheet lay compliantly against the music stand of the piano, inky scratches and crosses from his own hand donning the paper. The room was lit by soft firelight, held within the candelabra perched on the side of the piano. It lent a flickering orange hue, more calming than the bright whiteness of their electrical lights. He traced the notes he had scribbled down with golden eyes, studying the song carefully.
Somehow, it seemed incomplete.
Erik could not fathom what was missing; on paper, ir seemed a masterpiece. There were no slips of timing, no notes that rang out as strange to his ears. The notes rose and fell, music mixing and swelling with emotion and intent, clear and ardent. He hadn't been able to suppress writing it; the melody had been prickling at his mind since those days he spent in the shadows of the village, in Afghanistan...
He closed his eyes, preparing for the onslaught of emotions—the pull into darkness, clutching and crying at his soul, drawing him in once more. It was always the result whenever he thought about his time in the war. His head bowed, too tired to fight against his guilt, his despair, his pain.
It was surprising to realise that it never came.
Golden eyes blinked open, startled and caught off guard. He had expected the pain, expected to be tormented with memories—with Khan. For months, he had kept this within himself, suffering silently as he relived images from Afghanistan, replaying his companion's death again and again within his mind...
The thought still saddened him, but it did not plague him as it did before.
"Trouble sleeping?"
The voice—still sweetly honeyed despite being thick from sleep—cut through his thoughts, sharply bringing him back to the present. His head snapped up, torso turning to catch sight of his lovely wife leaning against the edge of the door. She was clad in one of his shirts that ended by her mid-thighs, showing a generous amount of her silky legs to his eyes. The sleeves were too long for her arms, covering her hands. Her eyelids were heavy, curls wild and messy, a yawn escaping her pale lips.
She was positively breathtaking.
Sighing, Erik murmured, "Did I wake you? I'm sorry—I'll play a little softer."
A soft smile crossed her lips and she shook her head. "No, Erik. I woke up when I didn't feel you next to me."
It still gave him a thrill to see her tender gaze directed to him, open and bare, so loving and so right. After their months of tiptoeing around each other, he had almost forgotten how intense his adoration for her was.
Still, he had indirectly caused her current wakefulness by leaving her side. His lips parted, about to issue an apology before she interrupted him with a raised brow.
"No, Erik, that doesn't mean you woke me up." A knowing smile tugged at her lips, warm and familiar. Unfolding her arms, she began to cross the room, long legs bringing her closer to where he sat. He sighed when her arms wound around his shoulders, holding him in a tender embrace. He could feel her breath against his forehead as a smooth cheek leaned against his uncovered skin, soft and sweet.
His own hand was cold against hers when he lifted it to tangle their fingers together, his palm over her knuckles. Bringing her hand to his lips, he pressed a reverent kiss to the inside of her wrist. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Not long," she hummed vaguely. "What's troubling you?"
"Don't worry about it, Christine," he responded, closing his eyes at the feeling of her soft fingers combing through his hair. Her nails occasionally grazed his scalp, scratching at his head in a pleasant way. Another sigh left his lips when her lips pressed against his face, at the spot where his eyebrow began to contort itself. Despite her comforting embrace, Erik found himself thinking about the time; it was nearing one in the morning, and she'd had two performances today. It would not be suitable for her to yawn her way through the next day's performance because he had kept her up with his incessant playing.
Pressing another kiss to her palm, he said soothingly, "You must be tired, hm? You've had a long day. Go back to sleep, sweetheart; I'll hold you, if you'd like."
He felt her smile against his hair. "That does sound quite nice."
"It does, doesn't it?"
"Mmm," she hummed again, the sound reverberating from deep within her chest. "I'd love that, but you didn't answer my question. What's wrong?"
He let out a small chuckle, opening his eyes once more. "You won't let this go, will you?"
"No," she said persistently. "What's wrong?"
A sigh left his lips. Nothing, he wanted to tell her, nothing is wrong and it confuses me. There was no pain, no guilt; it seemed a dull sensation now, an echo of a life he used to live. The Phantom had gone into the war, and a scarred man had emerged from it.
And now... now neither of them seemed to exist within him anymore. The liberation that came with it felt strange.
But mentioning it to her would considerably darken the mood between them, so Erik gestured to the manuscript instead. "It sounds..." he drifted off, golden eyes scanning the music he had written down. "Something's missing."
Christine leaned forwards, her chin resting on his shoulder so she could better study the sheet music. "Missing?" her voice murmured next to his ear, sending pleasant shivers down his spine. "But I heard you playing just now. It sounded beautiful."
"But it's still incomplete," he insisted. "Look, just here..."
Resting his hands on the keys, he began to play the part for her, skilfully weaving the melody from his beloved instrument. The tune flowed easily from his musician's fingers, glorious and rich in sound and tone, before he abruptly stopped midway.
"There," he nodded towards the section on the manuscript, knowing that Christine was studying it carefully as she hovered behind him.
"Hm," she mused. "Okay, I see what you're saying."
"Exactly."
They were silent for a long moment, both thinking over the music. The candles flickered softly around them, and Erik found his thoughts drifting to the hand that unconsciously stroked the side of his face, soothing and soft. He could feel the scarred skin that was caught by her thumb, the irregular gaps and ridges making her fingers dip and trace over abnormal tissue.
And yet, she did not show any signs of pulling away. She did not give any hint towards her disgust.
He still marvelled over how readily she accepted his newly created deformity.
Christine, meanwhile, was still pondering over the song he had penned. All of a sudden, she straightened behind him, pillowing his head below the swell of her breasts. "But," he heard her say as she walked around the bench, "maybe..."
She sat next to him and, almost tentatively, she placed her hands on the piano, softly caressing the ivory keys with delicate fingers. Erik watched her sharply, his attention diverted solely to her. A question began to form at his lips, because while she knew of musical theory, Christine could not play much herself—
She began playing and his mouth snapped shut.
The song sounded more graceful, more tender from her fingers. She played, softly at first before increasing the tempo of the piece, losing herself to the rush of song, the swell of chords rising and falling. He watched her, enraptured. Not once had he seen his Christine play like this—in their time together he had attempted to teach her some piano, but she had always laughed it off, claiming to be more of a singer than an instrumentalist...
The song drifted to a gentle close, the final note echoing in the air as she pressed down on the key.** There was no sound in the room apart from their breathing—his measured, hers slightly breathless from the passion she had put into his music—and he stared at her, the unasked question burning in his gaze.
Cobalt eyes met burning gold and Christine looked down, resting her hands in her lap. She looked almost sheepish as she began to explain. "When you were gone, I... I felt empty. The flat was quiet, and the bed felt too large. I worried about you every night; I wanted to feel close to you. Sometimes, I'd come in here and just play something—anything I could find. Usually, they were songs you left on your desk—they reminded me most of you. It became a daily habit, after a while." A dainty shrug of her shoulders and her head lifted to look up at him once more, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I guess I improved in the process."
Erik nodded wordlessly, still staring at her. "Yes, you did."
Her lips stretched wider, happy and adorable. "So," she said, looking at him so demurely she looked almost shy, "did you like it?"
His immediate response would have been 'yes'—because how could she ask him that question? She pleased him by breathing—but the musician in him instructed him to reconsider. Silently, he ran through the composition, replaying Christine's interpretation within his mind. The increased tempo did add to the intensity of the piece, lending it a desperate, rushing climax, impassioned and fervent...
Finally, he nodded decisively. Bending forwards, he lifted a thin hand to add a scrawl to the manuscript in front of them. "Yes," he said softly when he had finished, turning his head to look at her. "Yes, I do."
Christine's answering smile was brighter than the sun.
He did not tell her of the mask, but worked on it during the hours she spent at the theatre. He had not ventured outside since that fateful day when he had almost left her, but crafted the mask regardless, determined to create a cover for his face—something strong, regal, imposing. He worked on the mask alongside other projects: sketches of buildings he would like to build, blueprints of redesigning their home.
Drawings of his wife when she smiled at him, cobalt eyes bright and loving.
But when Christine left, he would return to the mask. Somehow, he knew she would frown at him—you don't have to cover your face, Erik, she had reminded him over and over, her words painfully sweet—but others were not like his wife. He could not stay within their home forever, but he could not venture outside without drawing attention to himself.
The mask was a perfect compromise.
It was a gleaming white, fitting against his skin perfectly. The soft leather was shaped to create the impression of an ordinary face while still settling comfortably against his flesh, supple and convenient. It made him look imposing and slightly menacing, yet dignified all the same. His enemies were all dead, but if any related to them were to catch sight of him in public, there would be no doubt in their hearts that the Phantom was still alive and perfectly capable of wrecking havoc on their lives should they provoke him.
And the KGB—he would use their prized weapon, the Phantom, and create a mockery out of him, and they would not be able to do anything about it.
He was a free man, now. They would not bother him again.
That night was the final performance of the Bolshoi's most recent production. Christine had been saddened by it—their current opera was her favourite yet, she had told him. The passion, the music—it was unlike any other, she had said.
Erik stared at the ticket he held in his hand.
She had approached him the previous night, clutching it between tentative fingers. It was late and they were about to retire, both exhausted from the events of the day.
"Our show closes tomorrow night," she had begun as they climbed into bed together. The sheets rustled around him as she swung a slender leg under the covers, infusing the mattress with her warmth.
"I know," Erik had replied, shifting closer to her and lowering himself to rest his head on the pillow.
Christine bit her lip as he brought the covers up around them. His eyes latched onto the pale lip caught between her teeth, growing pink the longer she held it there.
A frown marred his uncovered face, bare for her to see. She seemed hesitant, uncertain, somehow; it was clear that something was bothering her. Shifting once more so he was closer to her, he reached long fingers to cup her cheek, feeling her smooth skin beneath his touch. Three years of a relationship with Christine had taught him that she tended to relax whenever he kissed her skin, no matter how agitated she was. His breath washed her neck as he nuzzled his face into it, sighing in contentment when one of her hands reached up to stroke his deformed skin.
He could never get enough of her touch.
True to his expectations, he felt her start to relax at the feel of his mouth against her neck, a sigh of her own escaping her. Thin lips dragged up to her cheek to brush lightly there, soft and comforting. Her chest contracted under the arm that was laying above her breasts.
"I have a spare ticket," she had revealed quietly. "Mid-row, unblocked view of the stage. If—if you'd like to come, that is."
Instantly, his lips froze against her cheek. Not once had she asked him to attend her shows since he had returned; not once had she asked him to step out of the flat for her. "Christine..."
A sigh, deeper and heavier this time, escaped her lips. "I know, I know. I just... I wanted a seat for you, that's all. You don't have to be there. I understand, Erik."
His heart twisted in his chest; a grimace settled upon his lips. He turned so he was lying on his back, golden eyes trained on the ceiling. "Christine," he had begun, "I want to be there for you, but..."
Her hand reached for his beneath the covers, fingers tangling so they melded with his. Unbidden, his head turned and caught her gaze: full of understanding, trying to hide disappointment. "It's alright, Erik," she had said softly. "You don't have to come. You're right; it's too soon."
A smile that didn't reach her eyes had tugged at her lips and she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. He sighed against her lips, his thudding heart strong beneath her palm. When she pulled back he could no longer see her despondency; he was drawn in by the brilliant blue eyes that stared at him, capturing his soul. "Goodnight, Erik," she whispered, their faces a breath apart.
There was no guilt tugging at his heart when they parted this afternoon. Their morning together had been sweet—as it always was, now—and she had kissed him so tenderly, so thoroughly, that he was left thinking of nothing but her when the front door closed behind her.
Now, an hour before the final performance of her show, Erik stood in front of his cupboard. He was clothed in fine evening wear: the suit he had chosen was impeccably styled and perfectly tailored to his form, the cravat he donned instead of a tie tucked firmly around his collar. His shoes were a fine, polished black, sharp and long. A rose was tucked into the pocket of his blazer, the blooming red a rich contrast to the elegant black of his ensemble.
The white mask covered half his face, clean and refined. He looked like a distinguished gentleman, regal and impressive in stature.
He took a deep breath.
To venture outside their flat was a bridge he had not wanted to cross. Erik wanted to be there for her, to experience her glory as she sang on stage. Already, he was beaming with pride for her—reading the rave reviews from each performance filled him with satisfied awe for his wife—but he knew the difference between congratulating her from the sidelines and attending the show she had invested so much into. She practiced excessively, asking him to accompany and direct her now he had started composing again, and came home enthusing about how the audience had soaked up the little changes in her voice, tone, acting. They had worked together on perfecting her role, and he knew that all she wanted was for him to be a witness to it.
He knew that he could easily sneak into the theatre and watch her from the shadows. The Bolshoi was home to many hidden passages, and he was—had been—the Phantom. Hell, he could walk up to the flies and watch her if he so wished. But it seemed wrong, somehow, to hide away—her silent husband, always the spectator shying away.
He had always been a master of the shadows, but not once had he truly lived in them. And Christine... all she wanted was for him to embrace normality again. She had no desire for him to conceal himself because of his face; she wanted him to be able to walk freely without caring of his appearance.
And if he was honest with himself, it was all he wanted, as well.
Erik let out a breath, shutting his eyes tightly.
Do this for her—for yourself.
For both of you.
With a sharp, determined breath, Erik strode out the front door—pausing at the last minute to grab at the fedora that hung by their coat rack—and locked it behind him.
Every step down the fire escape of the building was harrowing. An ever-present fear of encountering a neighbour pressed at his mind, their gazes in his mind questioning and prying. He rushed forwards as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. When he finally reached the ground floor, he strode purposefully towards the exit, refusing to think as he left the building.
The first step outside was... astonishing. Erik hadn't paid much attention to his surroundings when he left the first time he had left—all he had been thinking of was Christine's reaction to his face, her nightmare, her terrified and pleading expression—and all that had mattered was to get as far away from their flat as he could. Inhaling deeply, he now noticed the abundance of fresh air he breathed in; it seemed crisper, cleaner than ever. The sun had long gone by now, leaving him—and the others roaming the street—in a calm, pleasant twilight.
It was strange to see so many other people after months of locking himself up in the flat. Again, his brief trip outside had allowed him a glimpse, but he had been maddened with grief, driven to insanity with his misery that they had resembled ghosts more than humans then. Now, standing by the exit of his building, watching men and women walk idly by... it seemed strangely surreal.
He caught one or two bewildered looks as he began to journey to the theatre, but they did not linger long. There were glances, of course, but they quickly whipped their heads away, each one too engrossed in getting to their destination to wonder about the man in the mask. It was curiously lightening to finally confront this fear and know that he had troubled himself over something that did not give him much cause.
It was simple to slip unnoticed into the theatre. He blended easily into the crowd, hat tipped low over his head as he manoeuvred through the sea of theatregoers. The air thrummed with the unvoiced excitement of a final performance; every audience member was filled with anticipation and eagerness to experience this masterpiece.
He entered the stalls a minute before the show started, when the lights had dimmed and the crowd had hushed. A central walkway parted the seats in the middle of the stalls, the rich carpeted floor stretching out to finally end at the orchestra pit. He was silently thankful to Christine for obtaining an aisle seat for him; he had a perfect view of the stage, and he could easily slip in and out of his seat should any issues arise.
The first swell of music begun and Erik fixed his eyes on the stage, readying himself to experience his wife's triumph.
The show was fantastic. Every song, every strum of a harp or surge of a violin, was perfectly played. He recognised the conductor, having worked with him before, and it was almost impossible to keep himself from smiling as the orchestra played through the overture. His attentive ear picked out the various styles of particular instrumentalists; a heavier beat here, a harsher strum there. It was oddly uplifting to discover that his advice had been followed, and the orchestra were as radiant as ever.
The singers, too, were ardent and passionate, melodies tumbling from their lips with rich triumph, every emotion of the character sung with the fervour of a last performance. He read behind their bright eyes, felt their energy through their impassioned song. Each lyric was carefully enunciated, and he delighted in the depth of their characterisation. The dancers were fluid and graceful, never missing a move or floundering through their steps. It was clear that every member of the cast was well versed and deeply swept into the storyline of the opera, each an expert of their own character.
But nothing could take his attention away from Christine.
When she had first stepped on stage, his heart had almost stopped in his chest. She was positively breathtaking; her cobalt eyes bright and shining, her golden voice ringing out clearly for the audience to hear. She flitted and danced about the stage as if it was her home, her movements graceful and confident. Every scene she was in captured the audience with wonder, and her arias ended with rapturous applause. He could feel her character's joy, her sadness and regret as if it were his own, and he drank the sight of her in, losing himself in her rich soprano and impassioned performance.
She was glorious, and he had never felt so proud.
The audience was roaring when the curtain finally fell, signalling the end of the performance. His ears were ringing, any lingering fear of being in public vanished from his mind. It was incredible, what good theatre could bring out—at that moment he allowed himself to drink in the triumph of the gala and just forget.
When the cast finally emerged to take their bows, Erik found himself clapping furiously with the rest of them. Each cast member that strode forward had a large smile on their face, mirth and proud pleasure clearly reflected in their expressions. Most faces he saw were familiar to him, having worked with them when he had surveyed the company's rehearsals, but some were new and unfamiliar. Unfazed, he applauded for them all; the Bolshoi company had never been so impressive. They deserved every bit of praise thrown to them.
At last, when the very last of the company had taken their bow, he saw her. The music swelled to a rising peak, Christine rushed forwards, and the audience erupted into a thunderous roar of praise. How she had managed to remove the wig she wore so quickly, he did not know, but he didn't dwell on it—not when he was captured by the magnificence of her smile, the beauty of her eyes. Half her curls tumbled loosely down her shoulders, having escaped from their pins, but she did not seem to care. All that seemed to matter to her was the audience, her chest rising and falling as the crowd clapped on for her, for the performance, for the company.
His heart swelled with pride and love, overjoyed by her happiness.
Embrace it, my love. This is all for you.
Seeing her on that stage, dressed in costume and taking her rightfully deserved bow—it reminded him of the moment when he had first seen her.
The moment he had fallen in love with her.
Without registering what he was doing, Erik stepped out of his seat, never once taking his eyes off her. All thought had left his mind, an exceptional effect only his wife seemed to have on him. He only knew that she was beautiful in her happiness, that she had worked tirelessly to be where she was right now, and that she loved him just as fiercely as he loved her.
Her eyes immediately darted to meet his as he emerged from the crowd, cobalt eyes fixing on his form. He stood as if in the middle of a parted sea, rows of seats on either side of him, staring at her from an aisle running down to the centre of the stage. The recognition was clear in her expression even before he removed the fedora from his head, holding it modestly by his side and revealing the white mask on his face. His heart was thudding wildly, untamed and wild within his chest. Vaguely, he noticed the other cast members on stage share looks of confusion but found that he simply did not care, high off adrenaline and music and her.
He had finally let go of the past, finally conquered his aversion to leaving their flat. His passion to create was flowing through his veins, soaring within his blood. His heart thudded strong and fierce within his chest, not without burden but still undoubtedly lighter.
He felt loose, free.
And he was standing in the middle of the theatre where they had been brought together, where they had shared so many moments together—where he had proposed to her—and staring at the love of his life as she looked back down at him. Bewildered gazes from audience and cast members alike flew from his mind, his gaze solely directed on his glorious wife. He watched as a slender hand flew up to cover her red lips, cobalt eyes wide and shining with unshed tears, and felt the music in every breath she took.
Quickly, purposefully, Christine began to move to the side of the stage where the stairs leading down to the audience were. Her costume was an elegant, flowing dress that left a trail behind her swift steps, lightly caressing the floor as she continued to move forwards. Golden eyes never left her form until she was finally directly opposite him, the distance between them quickly travelled.
It was unclear who had closed the short space between them but finally she was in his arms, holding onto him as tightly as he held onto her. Erik pressed himself to her, one hand cradling her head and the other wounded around her waist; her warm body moulded so perfectly against his own, as if they had been made to fit together. In the back of his mind he registered a gradual rise in volume of the applause but did not linger on it, not when she was hugging him and pressing her lips to his neck, the sweet scent of her shampoo invading his senses.
Christine pulled back and he was caught by the flood of emotion within her gaze, the success of the performance and the thrill of seeing him overwhelming her. "You came," she breathed, and he felt her wisp of air against his lips.
A thin hand rose to tenderly brush a wayward curl from her face. "Of course I did," he murmured, staring at her with his entire being.
He felt himself begin to smile as she beamed at him. Cobalt eyes ran down the length of his masked side, acknowledging it for the first time since they reunited. "Nice mask," she commented lightly, and his grin widened.
"Yes," he answered, resting a palm against her cheek, "I rather like it, myself."
A delighted laugh bubbled from her lips, light and honeyed, the most beautiful sound he had heard tumble from her lips. Unable to resist her anymore, he bent his head, sighing when his lips touched hers.
The applause rose to a deafening peak, the company clapping along with smiling faces, but the couple remained blissfully unaware of anything apart from each other. They held each other tightly, content to stay in the other's embrace.
And as Erik pulled back and met the loving gaze of his wife, so glorious, so supportive, he resolved to never allow himself the blunder of letting her go ever again.
A/N: See what I mean by happy? It feels so strange!
Russian translations: Ti preekrahsnah vigleedeesh—you look lovely
*Christine's dress can be found on my tumblr, halfwayreal, under the tag ATS stuff. Or, just go on the general After The Storm tag.
**The song Erik composes is Photographby Arcade Fire. If you disagree, that's okay—let me know if any other composition pops up in your mind!
Leave a review, let me know what you think!