A/N:

Aww, thank you guys so much for your reviews! It really helped because honestly, I felt like that last chapter was awful. Let's just say this week hasn't been my favorite.

And a special thanks to Curious and Minao Tskino for your reviews. I cannot tell you how much I love getting feedback and opinions on the characters/plot. I've been trying not to make Clarie your average Mary Sue so feedback on her always helps!

Erik's POV:

She knew his name.

It took Erik a long time to fully grasp this simple fact. Clarie knew his name. All those times she had spoken to him by calling him Angel, or Teacher, or any of the little names she had developed—all of this, and she knew his name all the while.

He wanted to question her about it, but, just as suddenly as she had awoken, she fell back asleep. Erik looked down at her, torn. He had so many unanswered questions for her, but at the same time he could not bring himself to wake her up again. She looked peaceful in this slumber. The smile that had begun to form in her awakening was still there, lingering at her lips. The tears had dried at this point, and in her sleep she looked happy.

Guilt tore at him, and he could not bring himself to continue watching her. As if his very gaze could cause her undoing. And maybe it could. Unsure of how to deal with himself, or Clarie, or anything, he was forced to busy himself worriedly while she slept.

And six hours later, she was still asleep. Every once in a while, Erik checked to make sure she was okay, made sure that the bandages he had put on the back of her head were still clean. The blood had started out making the injury look worse than it actually was, and for the most part it had stopped bleeding. But after seeing his hand coated in her blood, he couldn't stop making sure. He never woke her again though.

Another hour, and Erik was struggling to stay awake. It was amazing he had lasted as long as he had. Though there was no light to tell, he could tell that it was early morning. He was exhausted, but he could not allow himself to give in to the temptation to sleep. He could not risk having Clarie wake up while he was asleep. Too many terrible things could come from it; things that he would not allow himself to think of.

But good intentions are not always enough. Half of an hour later, and Erik simply could not help it anymore. He tried; desperately he tried. But it is hard to resist slumber when you can barely keep your mind focused on anything. Leaning against the bed he had laid Clarie on, he slowly drifted into unconsciousness.

Clarie's POV:

When Clarie first awoke, she had been in a daze, but she was certain of one thing. Her mind had not been dreaming when she heard the voice of Erik: the mysterious voice in the attic. There could be no other. The misery she heard in his voice when he tenderly spoke her name, it was exactly the same as the grief stricken voice she had heard that day. What was it that he had said?

"It was love, I believe," she could vaguely recall him saying. When she had heard it that first time, Clarie had left it at that. But now she was perplexed. The sorrow in his voice during that day in the attic had been unmistakable, but so was the sorrow she had heard just now. Why did saying her name cause him to grieve so?

Clarie was able to brush this thought aside quite easily when she woke up again. It was trivial compared to everything else that had been revealed that night. First she sang for her angel, then he did not show up, and she shattered the mirror. She replayed the scene over and over again in her head, picking up the shard of glass, and turning it to reveal that it was not just a mirror, but a viewing glass. Her angel was no angel at all, but simply a man.

She had expected this, somewhat. She had had her doubts when she heard Erik's voice that first time, and the angel's. And the angel was always so happy when he was with her. So much so that eventually Clarie was able to convince herself. How could a man so heartbroken possibly be the same as the angel who inspired her voice? There was no conceivable way they could be even related. But that doubt had never truly crept away.

Her angel was a man. No immortal had returned her voice to her, but a man. A man named Erik. Erik, who watched her from the mirror all this time as he crafted her into the singer she had become over the past few days.

Clarie could not say that she wasn't hurt by the fact that she had been lied to, but that was not the reason she was upset when she woke up again. She was upset because, angel or not, she had given him her soul during her performance. And then he was gone. Did he not care?

However, as soon as she opened her eyes and found him, all traces of anger immediately faded to ash.

He was leaning against the unfamiliar bed she was lying on. His eyes were shut behind the white mask he wore, but clearly he had been trying to stay awake for hours. From the unsteadiness of his breathing, Clarie imagined he had probably even just fallen asleep. Either that or he kept jolting back awake. Whatever anger she had held against him previously was now gone. There was no way she could ever doubt how much he cared about her after witnessing such a sight.

Clarie tried to be quiet when she sat up in bed. She didn't want to wake him. But it was for nothing, because she had hardly moved when Erik jolted back awake.

He had obviously expected her to still be asleep. So when he saw that her blue-green eyes were looking back into his own, he jerked a bit with the surprise. Heat began to flood the uncovered half of his face.

"Clarie!" he said. "I…um…" He was at quite a loss for words, even looked at the point of panicking. Clarie quickly stepped in.

"Hello, Erik," she replied, speaking gently. She might have been the one who had fainted previously, but Erik looked absolutely petrified to see her now. At any other time, it may have been amusing to watch, a man so in fear over a girl who could hardly be classified as woman. If it weren't for the fact that both had so many questions for the other. Both of them hesitated in asking, though, and a few minutes of dreadful silence passed.

Clarie was the first to speak. "Why didn't you tell me you were just a man?" There was no bitterness or hurt in her voice, just a bit of sadness. The flush upon Erik's face reddened even more. He looked to the ground in shame.

"People haven't always been too accepting of the truth," was his mumbled reply.

"And what is the truth, Erik?" Clarie asked gently.

Then Erik lifted his eyes once more, and Clarie was shocked at the loving gaze he was giving her. "The truth is," he said tenderly, "You deserve an angel. I…I wanted to give you an angel." He blushed again, the red of his cheeks shocking compared to the contrasting white pallor of his skin. "You deserve someone who can give you roses."

Roses. Clarie's eyes widened as she realized what he was talking about.

"Roses?" she repeated incredulously. "You're not talking about Monsieur LaVigne, are you?" It was clear from his expression that he was. Clarie laughed in disbelief. "Erik, I declined him."

Now it was Erik's turn to widen his eyes. "You…you declined him?" Clarie nodded, and for some reason, he seemed to grow even more sorrowful.

"Could you not see that I gave you my soul on that stage?" she asked softly.

"I did," he said woefully, "and that is the worst part."

"Why?" Clarie asked, feeling wounded. "Did you not care for my voice?"

"Of course I did!" Erik exclaimed a little too loudly, causing her to jump a little. Sighing, Erik said, "I cared for it too much… I care for you too much."

"What do you mean?" Clarie could hardly breathe. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she felt as if she were dying, unable to move.

Erik looked at the ground, but after a moment of hesitation, changed his mind and returned his gaze to Clarie. As soon as he looked upon her, he blushed even more. "I mean…" He hesitated again for a second. "I…I couldn't live without you." It was clear from the irritation on his face—directed at himself—that this was not what he had wanted to say.

As if in a dream, Clarie asked, "Why is that a bad thing?"

"Because," Erik whispered, "You deserve a better life than darkness."

For the first time, Clarie noticed the mask on his face, as in, really noticed it. He had been wearing that mask the whole time, though there seemed to be no reason to. And that's when the truth hit her: fully and with the strength of a hurricane. Once it had invaded her mind, she felt incredibly dense for not noticing before.

"You…You're the Opera Ghost." There was no fear in her voice, but mild surprise.

Erik glared at the ground bitterly. "That is what they have taken to calling me, yes."

Clarie recalled the rumors to her mind, those graphic, terrible stories of the phantom of the opera. The ghost that caused the little ballet girls to go mad with terror, and which caused even the men to pale with fright.

"I tell you," Joseph Buquet—supposedly the one person to ever see the Opera Ghost face to face—had said once, "the Opera Ghost is a terrible creature, barely identifiable as human! He is extraordinarily thin. I have never seen a man with so little body mass! The dress-coat he wears hangs on a skeletal frame. And his eyes! They were so cold and dead that it was as if a corpse had been looking at me! But the worst part—oh!—the worst part was his horridly deformed face, kept hidden behind a cold, white mask!"

An involuntary shiver ran through Clarie. Erik noticed and began to turn from her, sure that she was terrified of him. She barely caught him by the fabric of his jacket, gently turning him back. He looked at her in shame.

"I'm not afraid," she whispered, and reached a trembling hand for the mask.

At first he did nothing, frozen with horror, watching as her fingers stretched towards the white shield. It was not until her hand had touched the mask that he reacted throwing his hand a little too firmly against hers, and trapping it against the mask. Clarie didn't seem to mind, smiling a little at his touch.

She took her other hand, and Erik began to outwardly panic, afraid that she would reach for the mask again. Instead, she used it to gently take his other hand, guiding it gently to her own face. It was cold when pressed to the warmness of her cheek, but Clarie didn't even notice. She beamed happily at him. They were forming a sort of yin-yang; on one side, Clarie's warm hand was caught between the ice cold mask and even colder hand, and on the other, Erik's icy hand was embraced by the warmth of Clarie's face and hand. He nearly sighed with the ecstasy of human touch, which had been so long forgotten to him.

"I'm not afraid," Clarie repeated, "Not of you."

A/N:

Okay, I am dying to know. How was it? Too cheesy? I'm completely lost here, I'm not very good at writing romance scenes. Pleeeease review, or I just might go crazy!