Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.


"I won't be a moment," Christine promised as she led Meg up through the opera house to her dressing room. "But the clothes will have to go to the laundry, and I don't want to leave them there."

"I don't mind," said Meg with a carefree laugh. "You know we're in for a lecture when we go upstairs anyway – Maman will say we've been out too long." She paused at the top of a flight of stairs, glanced back at Christine. "Do you feel better?" she wanted to know. "You looked so exhausted, earlier."

"I do," said Christine, smiling. "Thank you, Meg." It had done her more good than she'd hoped, going out and spending some time away from the opera house. Her life was here, of course – and she'd meant what she'd said to Raoul, that she loved singing and performing, loved the life she had here. But sometimes it was necessary to go out, to leave it behind and forget for a time that she was Christine Daaé, forget the entanglements that she had been caught up in.

And two days below the earth had made her long for the sky and the air. It was one of the things that she knew she must talk about with Erik – she could not stay shut up in the opera house and below it for the rest of her days, and he could not expect it of her.

But not tonight; tonight she needed to gather her bundle of clothing from her dressing room, and then go back to the dormitories with Meg, who was no doubt right about the lecture that awaited them there.

Madame Giry, who'd been so odd when she'd agreed to them going, who was so determined that Christine was making the wrong choice. Christine grimaced, shook her head slightly. As with Raoul, she suspected only time would help to change Madame Giry's mind.

"Here we are," sang out Meg gaily, flinging open the dressing room door. "Where is – oh!"

"What is it?" Christine pressed close to Meg, looked over her shoulder into the small room. "Oh," she said, and sighed. Raoul was waiting for her, sitting at the table and looking rather the worse for wear. His clothing was wrinkled, his face haggard, and his hair was rumbled, as if he'd been running his hands through it.

Meg glanced between them, then shook her head. "I'll wait outside," she said. "Don't be long, Christine." Christine nodded, watched Meg leave and shut the door behind her. Then she turned to Raoul, clasped her hands together and looked at him.

She felt a little sorry for him – no, more than a little. She had injured him so badly today, but she knew the hurt now was better than it would have been if they had continued on their path and married. Eventually he would have been hurt so much more than he was hurting now.

"I just don't understand," said Raoul despairingly, and he rose, stepped towards her. "Christine, why are you doing this? What has happened to make you say these things?"

"Raoul…" Christine sighed, shook her head. "Raoul, can you try to understand that nothing has happened? These are things I've been thinking and feeling for some time now. I just didn't realise it."

It wasn't quite the truth; if Erik had not come to her in the graveyard, she did not think she would have realised it at all. She would have continued in her blind terror, would have clung to the safety of her childhood friend. She would have continued to ignore the doubts that had lurked in the corners of her mind. And she would have played her part in the plot to find Erik, would have done so perhaps not willingly but because she lacked other choices. Then she and Raoul would have gone away and married.

But they would not have been happy and Christine could not regret what had happened or the choices she was making now. The choices she could make, now that she knew Erik, knew what he was and what she felt for him.

"But you've seemed – well, not happy, exactly," said Raoul, grimaced a little. "But at least, I thought you were happy with me. I thought you were just…scared."

"I am scared," said Christine honestly. "But Raoul, there's so much more than that." She stepped towards him, reached out and took his hand. "Think, Raoul," she entreated. "Think seriously. Think about being married to me." Raoul tried to speak but she shook her head, clutched his hand tight in hers. "No, listen," she said. "You would be married to a woman who had left half her heart behind somewhere. On the stage. You'd be married to someone who comes from a completely different class – and you've seen how it's been, Raoul. Your family does not approve of me, and I don't know how to act in your world."

"But you'd learn, Christine," said Raoul, a trifle half-heartedly. "I know it wouldn't be easy. Of course I know that. But surely, if we loved each other…"

Christine tried to smile, couldn't quite manage it. "Yes, Raoul," she said. "If we loved each other. But we don't."

He was silent, and Christine hoped fervently that he was at last beginning to listen. Understanding so soon would be, she knew, too much to ask – but if he was listening, there was a chance that he would eventually understand. That he might think about what she was saying, might come to the same conclusions she had.

"You are such a dear friend, Raoul," she said at last. "But I want more than friendship from my life."

"Many marriages are based on friendship, Christine," said Raoul, and he lifted his hand to her mouth, kissed her knuckles. "Lots of marriages don't even have that. My parents – they loathed each other."

Christine took a breath, hesitated for a moment and then pulled her hand from his. "Perhaps that is what happens for people in your world," she said, "but not in mine."

"But Christine –"

"No, Raoul!" Christine said. "No." She paused, tried to think of how to explain it. Tried to think of the right words to frame what she wanted to say. "Raoul…you remember my red scarf," she said at last, and Raoul nodded.

"Of course – but Christine, what does that have to do with anything?" he asked, and Christine gave him a sad smile.

"It was my mother's," she reminded him. "It's the only thing I have left of her." Raoul was silent, watched her with a kind of wariness, as if he wasn't sure of her meaning. Christine clasped her hands together, looked at him and tried to explain. "Raoul, my parents loved one another," she said. "So very dearly. It was so much more than friendship. And I want that in my life. I want to love someone with every fibre of my being, and to know that I am loved in the same way."

"But I do love you that way," Raoul declared, adamant. "Haven't I proved that to you, Christine? You must let me – please, Christine, I love you!"

"But you don't," she said, and he stepped back from her, stunned. "Raoul, I'm sorry – but you don't. Or at least, you don't make me feel the way…and I don't love you that way. You're my very dear friend, and I owe you so much – but I can't marry you. I won't."

"Christine," he said helplessly, "I can't give up on us. I know we could be happy together."

Christine could say nothing. He might be convinced of it, but she was just as convinced, was absolutely certain that if they married, they would end up hating each other. They would end up bitter and miserable, and she did not want that for either of them.

"You'll find someone," she said at last. "Some nice girl…somebody your family likes, and approves of. Somebody who doesn't belong to some- something else." She almost slipped; almost said 'somebody else', but Raoul didn't seem to notice. He tried to speak, to object, but Christine stepped close to him, lifted a hand to cup his cheek. "You will," she said earnestly. "You'll find somebody who can love you whole-heartedly. I can't do that, Raoul."

"Because of him," muttered Raoul, and he couldn't meet her eyes. "You try to deny it, but I know the truth, Christine. He has some hold over you, and you won't even try to fight it."

Christine sighed, turned away from him, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. For a moment she thought she was looking at a stranger; for a moment she did not recognise herself.

She had grown up, she realised. So quickly, in such a short time, but it had happened. She had changed. She had left behind the child she had been, and must leave Raoul behind as well.

He came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and swung her around to face him again. His mouth descended upon hers before she could twist away from him, a kiss that she did not want and did not enjoy. She stood still, unresponsive, closed her eyes and waited for him to realise that she was not kissing him back.

Hoped with all her heart that Erik was not watching, that he was nowhere near this place. He would not see that she did not respond, would not see how she spurned Raoul's kiss. He would only see the action, Raoul's action, and would assume the worst because he could not believe otherwise.

He would believe she wanted this, when the truth was she felt Raoul's lips on hers and felt…nothing.

Raoul withdrew; Christine opened her eyes and looked up at him.

"No," she said softly. "No, Raoul." She stepped back, shook her head. "Please don't do that again."

"Christine," he said, and it was clear his heart was breaking, clear from the look on his face and the way his voice cracked a little. "Christine, I love you."

"I'm sorry," she said. She glanced at the dressing table, but if she collected the clothing now it would only cause more questions. She had no wish to prolong the conversation, no wish to stay any longer. Meg was waiting outside, and Madame Giry would be expecting them. "I know it's more than I can ask," she said, "for you to understand at once. But please think about what I've said, Raoul."

"Please," Raoul whispered. "Please don't do this."

"I'm sorry," she said again, and she turned and opened the dressing room door. Meg was waiting for her, leaning against the opposite wall – trying to look, Christine thought, as though she hadn't heard some of what had been spoken. "Let's go, Meg," she said, and Meg said nothing, nodded. Christine paused, glanced over her shoulder at Raoul, saw him standing in the centre of her dressing room looking forlorn, dejected. As though she had crushed him utterly and completely.

She wanted to say something, wanted to offer him some comfort. He was still her friend, or at least she considered him so. She did care for him, at least enough to not want him to be hurt.

But she knew that nothing she could say would help; indeed it would probably only make things worse.

She reached out blindly for Meg's hand, needed her friend's comfort and support, and when Meg clasped her hand, she dragged her eyes away from Raoul and started down the corridor.

Meg did not speak until they were some distance away from the dressing room, but when she did it was in soft, sympathetic tones.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "Are you alright, Christine?"

"No," said Christine truthfully. "I – I never wanted to hurt him, Meg."

"I know," said Meg. "I know that. Why, Christine, you're crying." She pulled Christine to a halt, turned and lifted her hand to wipe tears from Christine's cheeks.

"I never wanted to hurt him," Christine said again, felt so wretched, so exhausted by it all. "But I couldn't do it, Meg. You understand I couldn't marry him?"

"I'm trying to," said Meg, offered a smile, and she cupped Christine's cheeks in her hands. "Don't cry, Christine," she said. "You love…Erik. And he loves you. I can't quite imagine how, but you'll be happy with him. And it's better to hurt Raoul now than later, after all."

Christine nodded, smiled through her tears. Dear Meg was trying so hard to understand, was so clearly determined to support her in her decisions. She did not deserve such a friend, surely she did not deserve such loyalty.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, much better." She leaned forwards and kissed Meg's cheek. "Oh, Meg," she said, "whatever would I do without you?" Meg smiled, shrugged her shoulders and took Christine's hand again.

"You're my friend," she said simply. "Now come on, Maman is going to be furious enough as it is."