A/N: Thank you for your wonderful reviews of last chapter. They are a phanphic writer's bread & butter (all we get from this –lol) and so very much appreciated. :) And now, for one of those moments many of you have been waiting for …

An Eternity of This

Chapter XXV

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Erik's eyes flew open in utter shock.

Christine paid little attention to them, unable to witness the hopeless misery swimming in their beautiful depths, fearing she would cry again if she did. And surely, he would take that wrong too.

She had gasped in shock at the abruptness of his act, at the snarl of his teeth, at his eyes blazing a thunderous gray-green at her, so close, and feral in their anger. But not at his face.

For more than a month, on countless occasions she had imagined what his defect might look like, sometimes worse, sometimes better than the actual appearance before her. To finally view the truth of what filled him with such ruthless agony gave her no torment except for what that grievous emotion cost him.

Curious to learn what had so long been denied her, she let her eyes wander over his twisted visage, committing it to memory. The right side of his nose lay flattened at the outside, almost non-existent as the contours faded, blending in with the flat apple of his cheek. Warped reddened patches, uneven like splatters of congealed wax, marred the fragile-looking skin that also bore layers of uneven ridges, all of it starting below his cheekbone near his mouth and moving up past his eye to his forehead. There, the black wig had concealed a balding patch of bulbous skin with thinning brown hair. Angry red and violet veins protruded in narrow paths in that area of his scalp and still throbbed from his furious outburst. His ear, what there was of it, was misshapen, his eyebrow above his right eye consisted of only several fine hairs, lighter in color, and his bottom eyelid hung a fraction lower than his left one. Her heart twisted to see the tear that fell from it, just as his eyes fell shut.

"Go, Christine, please … just … go …"

At his tortured whisper that dwindled to almost nothing, she remained, knowing if she walked out the door she would never see him again.

"How did it happen?" She was surprised her voice came so steady and soft when she wanted to fiercely sob for all the misery he had suffered because of this physical imperfection. At the feather-light touch of her fingertips against his twisted cheek his eyes again flew open in disbelief.

"Chri-stine …"

Her name on his lips came shaky and hoarse. A question, a statement, a plea … she wasn't sure which, perhaps all of them.

"A fire?"

He shook his head slowly, the expression in his eyes mystified, vulnerable and anxious, as if not understanding her reaction and afraid to trust it.

She sighed. "I'm not going to scream and run, Erik, if that's what you're waiting for. I've told you since I found you in your lair over a month ago that this isn't what makes you who you are. You're not a beast. You're not a monster. You're a man." Her fingertips traced an uneven reddish patch above his cheek with extreme gentleness as she spoke. The skin looked thinner than on his left side, almost transparent in places, and she hoped her touch gave him no pain. "An accident?" She remembered what he said earlier. "Acid?"

He grabbed her wrist, pushing her hand away as if enraged. "How can you touch me now? How can you touch that?"

Frowning at his interference, she pulled her hand from his grasp, this time more firmly cupping that side of his head in her palm. Later, she knew she would weep into her pillow, perhaps the entire night. Now she prayed for strength to stay calm and not collapse under the weight of his great self-loathing and bitter anguish.

Her fingertips traced over the bulbous growth of fragile skin at the top, finding the texture smooth and warm, if lumpy, but not at all unpleasant. His veins throbbed warmly against the sensitive pads of her skin, making her hand pleasantly tingle. Touching this side of his face was like touching warm candle wax that had burned into smooth, curving swells in places. His hair was thick, except for that one spot at the top, almost reaching to the base of his neck, and she smiled, moving her other hand up to comb her fingers through the dark golden-brown strands, finding them just as soft and silken as they appeared and strongly preferring his natural hair to the coarseness of the black wig.

"Please don't tell me how I should feel, Erik. I am so incredibly weary of everyone in this theatre telling me what I must think or what I must feel or what I must do, as I've said before. I am not disgusted by your face. I want to touch it, to touch all of you, so please don't try and stop me …"

She felt her skin flush hot at the bold admission, but was given no further opportunity to speak as his large hands suddenly grabbed her violently to him and his mouth crashed down hard against hers. Whether to punish and prove her wrong, whether to assure himself that she was truthful, she didn't know. She didn't care. All that mattered is that he was with her, close, and no longer creating distance.

The flame swiftly ignited inside, and she groaned, clutching the back of his head, her fingers entwining in his thick hair. With her other hand on his face she deepened the kiss and moved her body closer. She tasted his tears at the same time great gasping sobs shook his strong form and he suddenly wrenched himself from her, slapping his hand up to cover his defect and whirling away. He staggered a few steps before falling hard to his knees. His body bent over double as he braced his gloved fist on the floor, his cloak fanning like a terrible dark shroud around him.

Christine stood rooted to the stones in shock, horrified by his unexpected reaction and uncertain what to do. Before her eyes, he had collapsed – in grief? in anguish? – and she feared going to him would only make matters worse. Great sobs shook his powerful frame and tore through his throat. She stood helpless and silent, the tears she had tried so desperately to suppress now slipping down to burn her cheeks.

Erik worked frantically to regain control, to stanch the sobs and the tears, but once started they would not stop, ripping through his lungs, burning into his eyes and his face. His face. Oh God, his horrible face. She had touched it. She had kissed him. She had not run. She had not screamed. She had seemed angry that he thought she would. She had touched him as if she enjoyed it, told him she wanted to, responded to his kiss as she always had before … God… oh, God!

His arm trembled violently and gave way. He lost his balance, falling hard with his face to the stone floor. He heard her give a shocked little cry and rush to him, felt her hand grab his shoulder.

"Erik! Are you alright?"

She pulled him desperately toward her. Too weakened by strong emotion to resist he allowed her to roll him over. Her eyes were troubled, tears also wetting her cheeks while she searched all of his face as her hands also did, checking for blood or injury, and then somehow – he was never sure whether he moved or she did – his head was cradled against her breasts, the twisted part of his face held against her soft skin, as he half lay in her lap, her arms wrapped around him and his arms tightly holding to her. He felt her kisses brush his hair and then she began softly to rock from side to side and quietly hum what sounded like a lullaby.

He did not feel affronted by her coddling but greedily soaked in this moment that he never would have believed possible, that no one but his Angel had ever given him, as far back into his memory as he could reach, from the time he was a young boy silently and futilely begging those who tended him for a morsel of affection. A kiss. A hug. Even as little as a pat on the shoulder. She had not stopped kissing his head and holding him, and soon her pure sweet voice lilted quietly in a song he recognized as the lullaby he once sang to her as a child.

How long they sat there bathed in silent tears, wrapped in tight embrace, Erik did not know. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. When the shock of the encounter began at last to fade and a shred of reason returned, he realized she shouldn't be sitting on the cold stones at such length and felt grateful that she wore a thick woolen dress and cloak and not a thin linen bed gown as before. He began to release her and lift his head, surprised when she tightened her hold around him as if not yet wanting to let him go.

"There is one thing I must know," she said softly.

He tensed waiting for the inevitable question about his face. He had never answered her about the reason for its deformity, and that would then undoubtedly lead to another question and another. He could not speak of such matters now. Felt too emotionally and physically exhausted to try. "I cannot –"

"When you put me under your spell at the mirror, have you ever done anything like that to me before … or afterward?"

He blinked in stunned shock at the unexpected question. How could she remember and concentrate on that, which seemed so trivial in comparison to the monstrosity she had just witnessed?

"Please, tell me, Erik. I wish to know."

"When you were a child …" He cleared his throat of its hoarseness and felt the raw tenderness that would no doubt remain through the night from his harsh shouting and frenzied weeping. "I did so to calm you, shortly after you came here. Once … at the mirror …" He no longer wished her to believe a lie. "I did it to pull you into the corridor, afraid you would be frightened when you saw no angel, only a man. But I immediately released you from my power."

"And you have never done it to me since then?"

"No."

"Then it is as I thought."

She sounded extremely pleased and in confusion he drew away from her, lifting his right hand to his face as he did and covering it, before hesitantly looking into her eyes.

"What is as you thought?"

"Whenever I hear your music … your voice when you sing, sometimes when you just speak, or when you play one of your instruments … it's as if my emotions are connected to yours in such a deep way that you have control over my soul. As if we are joined in spirit and you're pouring your emotions into me, making them my own."

He stared at her. "When has this happened?"

She laughed softly. "When has it not?"

He looked down at the stones, silent and uncertain of what to say, still fearful to assume too much.

She lifted her left hand to cover his right one spread against his face. He jumped a little at the contact but did not pull away.

"Whether you wear the mask or you don't is unimportant to me, Erik. I hope that you'll now feel comfortable to go without it if the need arises, especially when we're alone, and I insist that you do if it causes you pain. But with or without that scrap of cloth doesn't change the way I feel about you. I love you, no matter your appearance."

His eyes swam with the moisture that gathered at her words and he blinked furiously, struggling to maintain the emotional balance he had fought so hard to reclaim. "You truly are an angel from above. I shall awaken and find this all a dream."

"Hardly. I'm no angel either. I'm flesh and blood and human and flawed, just like everyone else on this earth, and especially in this theatre."

She lowered her hand to pick up his mask that lay near her skirts, hesitated, then offered it to him. He took it in his left hand, grimacing to see the thin cord broken and the silk torn from his furious unveiling.

"But this, I don't think I'll let you have back …"

He looked up at her decisive words that bore a trace of mischief, stunned to see her holding the wig extended from one finger. He reached for it and she grabbed full hold of it, pulling her hand away and bringing the hairpiece behind her.

She smiled sweetly. "No."

He gaped at her, uncertain how to respond. He didn't feel angry or hurt; she didn't mock or pity him. But never in his life had anyone treated the matter of his face with such complete … irrelevance. How did one react when the reaction expected wasn't the one given? He watched, baffled, as she brought the headpiece into view and slowly began twirling it back and forth, rocking it on her finger.

"How …" He cleared his throat of its hoarseness again. "How did you know?"

"I suspected it on the night I came to find you, the night we first kissed. But it wasn't until you became ill that I knew for certain." She glanced down, her expression somewhat guilty, before looking up again. "You thrashed around a great deal in your feverish state. The wig, it slipped a few times, and I had to readjust it. Your mask did too, but I didn't see your face then, only part of your natural hair. It was too dark to see well, I kept very few candles lit so you could rest, and I slipped the mask back in place with the wig."

His eyes widened, incredulous, more so with each sentence aired. "All this time you knew?"

She nodded and scooted closer to him on the stones. "I didn't want you to wake up after being ill for so long and feel uncomfortable without it. I assumed you would tell me about the wig when you were ready. Though I don't understand why you wear one." Her hand reached up to touch his hair with her fingertips. "I like this so much better." Her fingers wove through the strands as before, and she gently pulled her hand down letting his hair slide between her fingers.

"The mask doesn't cover everything," he barely knew what he was saying, still overwhelmed and confused by her reaction to him, to all of this. Teasing, but not unkind. Gentle and light, as if they were discussing anything truly ordinary.

She gave a slight shrug. "Perhaps not. But I would prefer that you never wear the wig when we're alone, Mon Ange. Your scalp is so warm, your hair so soft. I like this much better."

Mon Ange! She could still call him her Angel after seeing his demon face?!

Before he could grasp that startling fact she leaned close and pressed her lips to his very lightly, then gave a contented little sound at the back of her throat and pushed in deeper. Struck numb by her clear attraction to him, even after all that had occurred, his own kiss trembled before he pulled away. She drew her brows together in protest.

"It is late," he explained hoarsely. "You have dress rehearsals tomorrow. I should not keep you from your bed any longer."

Her eyes glowed and the expression in them grew softer. "Take me home with you to your lair again. Please, Erik …" Her hand moved to his jaw, directly beneath where his hand still covered his face. "I want to be with you tonight." Her other hand still curled within the strands of hair at his scalp, which tingled at her touch, the first he'd ever felt the warmth of her hand there.

The hungry look in her eyes, the shy, husky way she spoke left no doubt as to her meaning, and he hardened instantly, glad for his cloak and the position in which he sat that helped to shield the evidence of his desire for her. It took a monumental effort to resist her plea, but he needed this one night alone to try to absorb all of what just happened, though he may never understand it. And she needed what was left of this night to sleep before a strenuous day of rehearsals began and much more. If he took her below, she would get no sleep, of that he was now certain. As powerful as his love was for her, it had incredibly strengthened two-fold in this baffling moment.

Gently he pulled her hand from his face and began to move away. Reluctantly she untangled her other hand from his hair so that he could fully rise from the floor. She grabbed his wig from her lap and took hold of his outstretched hand as he helped her stand to her feet.

"Soon, Christine, soon. Tonight, I need to be alone. You – you need to sleep in your bed … tonight." He refrained from saying more, his words too disjointed to make clear sense, his mind and tongue at odds and suddenly refusing to obey his fervent wish to be concise.

She nodded in resignation. "I felt you might say that. I suppose you're right. Tomorrow night is the opening." He saw the flicker of apprehension in her eyes.

"You will do well. You have learned much in a short time. I am impressed." He took his wig from her before she had a chance to realize it.

She pouted at his swift move and he almost chuckled. God, upon entering this chamber tonight he had thought he would never again smile, certainly not want to laugh!

"I heard all of what you told me, Christine. And I am … grateful." It was such an inadequate word to describe the enormity of all he felt, but his mind was too weary from being ripped apart with such powerful emotion to supplant the word with another. "All of my life I've been told I must cover my face. To be without a mask in the presence of anyone, leaves me feeling … naked. When any such covering was ripped from me, a beating and ridicule always followed. I … I am trying to understand all of what you told me. I have never had anyone tell me any of what you said. I would be a happy man if you would agree only to stay with me throughout the remainder of my days and ask that I never again remove the mask – " She opened her mouth to protest, and he gently pressed his fingertips to her lips. "No, there's no need. I have heard how you feel. I only ask that you … give me time to … accustom myself to the idea."

Her expression softened and she nodded, bringing her hand up to hold his. She kissed the pads of his fingertips, never breaking eye contact, and a surge of heat raced through his blood.

Recalling what had happened in this chamber the last time they visited and how isolated from everyone they were at the moment, he felt it past time to leave.

"You must go back alone." His mental equilibrium had returned enough to take charge, and he instructed her. "I will follow from the shadows and ensure you reach your room in safety."

He walked with her to the entrance. This evening someone had forgotten to light the lampstand and they stood in shadow, the candles from the memorial area the only lights flickering behind them.

"Will you come to rehearsal tomorrow?"

"No. But I will be at the opening."

She nodded, and he saw the shadow of her smile. "In Box Five."

"Of course. It is the closest box to the stage where I may gaze upon your beauty."

She gave a soft little sigh. "I will be singing only for you, Mon Ange."

Tears again threatened, tightening his throat. "Mon Bel Ange de la Musique …"

She smiled. "Until tomorrow night then, dear Erik …"

She raised herself up to him and he tentatively leaned down to meet her parted lips. Her hand again moved to cover the back of his hand gently, where he still covered his face, before she pulled away from their kiss and hurried up the winding stairs.

He stared after her, still not certain if what had happened wasn't all a fantastic dream. He looked at the wig a moment before pulling it back on. The torn mask he could do nothing about, and he thanked the hand of Providence he had earlier cursed for the darkness that concealed him. He shadowed his Angel to the stairs leading to her dormitory. She stopped then looked over her shoulder and blew a kiss to the shadows where he stood, before hurrying into her room.

"Until tomorrow night, Christine," he said huskily beneath his breath. "That, ma chèrie, is a promise."

xXx

A/N: For fear of causing any of you further health problems, as some have written that you are experiencing due to the content of these chapters and cliffies I leave behind, (bad nerves, heart palpitations, loss of sanity and the like)- I can safely say, I think you will like what's coming …

See, I can be nice. (heh heh)