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.
Christine straightened, forced herself to look, forced herself to meet Erik's gaze, controlled herself enough to keep from all but the barest flinch.
And then she forced her eyes away from his, forced herself to look at his face.
The wig covered part of the deformity on his forehead, but part of it was visible. It was as though the bone had been peeled away; covered by skin, she thought, but a few thin layers, translucent and concealing nothing.
The skin of his cheek was marred, puckered, a twisted line down in front of his ear and then across the hollowed cheek. His lips were bloated, pulled downwards in a perpetual scowl.
Taken as a whole, it was an awful sight. She couldn't deny it. And yet…
And yet there was no disgust in her reaction, not really. Shock – yes, she was shocked now as she had been six months ago. But shock would fade, she knew. Familiarity would ease it; in time she would no longer be shocked, no longer look at his face and wonder how such a face could exist.
Not disgust, then – but desire? Was that present? Could she look on his face and wish to kiss him, as they had just kissed?
He looked at her, made no sound as he let her look her fill. He was shaking, she could see, tremors that wracked his body. But his eyes remained fixed on her – those eyes that had haunted her dreams for so long.
His beautiful, mismatched eyes.
He expected her to run, that was clear, expected a scream or some other expression of revulsion. But Christine was determined to be different – found, in fact, that she was different. For she looked at his face and saw more than the deformity that marred it.
She saw Erik. The man she loved. And she loved him both despite and because of his face. Without it, he would be a different man. Perhaps a better man in some ways, but she did not love a better man. She loved this man.
Christine took a deep breath and stepped towards him. He flinched, stumbled back a pace, dropped his mask in his surprise. Christine reached out her hand, stepped close and touched his arm.
"Erik," she said softly. "Erik, kiss me again."
He pulled away from her touch, shook his head, lip curled in a snarl. "Don't you see?" he demanded. "Look at me, Christine!"
"I'm looking," she said, refused to be cowed by his temper. She stood firm, kept looking at him, and when he shook his head again she reached out and touched his cheek. "Erik," she said softly. "I see you."
He was shaking still, his eyes wide as he glanced down at her hand. Christine closed the gap between them, lifted her other hand so she held his face in her hands. One cheek smooth, the other pitted and marked. But she touched them both, lifted herself onto tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his bloated lips.
"Erik," she murmured. "I see you. And I still love you. You cannot drive me away by showing me your face."
He was crying again, silent tears that fell down his cheeks and over her fingers. So full of disbelief, and her heart ached for him. But she would not let him pull away – when he tried, she dropped her hands from his face and clenched her fists around the lapels of his jacket.
"No," she said. "Please don't run from me again." Her voice cracked; tears were close for her as well, but she refused to let them fall. She was determined to be strong, for Erik. "Won't you kiss me again, Erik?" she asked, coaxing him a little.
"You can't want me to," he denied at once. "Not…not like this."
Not without his mask, he meant. But the mask was an obstacle to kissing; it had been cold, and had impeded movement.
The mask was not him; it was a disguise he donned, much as the Opera Ghost was the guise he presented to the world. It was the man beneath that she loved, and Christine would not – could not – allow him to suppose that she could only love him when he concealed his face. That would be no better than shunning him altogether, she considered. No better at all.
"Kiss me," she insisted. "Must I tell you how I want you?" He stared, and Christine smiled gently at him. "You make me burn," she said, and refused to allow herself to feel embarrassed. If this was what he needed, she would give it to him. "We spoke of desire. Remember, Erik? But I've never felt anything like I felt when you kissed me just now."
He made a choked noise, words cut off in his throat, and Christine released his jacket, lifted her hands to his face once more.
"I feel like my skin is the only thing holding me together," she whispered. "I – I –" But her bravery faltered, and she blushed, could no longer meet his eyes. "Erik," she whispered. "How can I make you believe me? I want nothing more in this moment than for you to kiss me."
"No?" he murmured. "I find I want many things. But a kiss will do for now."
Despite his words, he did not move towards her – did not move to join his mouth to hers. He was still afraid, she knew. Still so sure of rejection. So certain that she must be lying to him in word and action, because he held such a low opinion of himself.
Christine looked at him once more, met his eyes. She smiled at him, steadied herself against him and lifted herself onto tiptoe to kiss him.
How had she lived without this? How had she lived without knowing what this felt like? For once she had made the first move, Erik responded to her. His arms went around her again, clutched her to him, and his mouth moved against hers. His lips parted, and she tasted him, moaned into his mouth as he learned so quickly how to kiss her.
His hands at her waist, his mouth kissing hers, her hands on his shoulder and cheek. Her world narrowed to these points of contact; everything else fell away, no longer existed.
And then he grew daring, then he lifted one hand from her waist to touch her cheek, her jaw. His fingers traced a line down her throat, across the skin bared by the neckline of her dress. His mouth moved from hers, followed the path of his fingers. Christine tilted her head back to give him better access, breathless from the kiss and from the sensation of his mouth on her neck.
"Erik," she whispered, and she shivered as he returned to her mouth, kissed her once again. So much passion – as she had thought, he had so much passion. It dwelled within him, needing only acceptance to find expression.
She was almost panting when at last he withdrew, so breathless when he rested his forehead against hers that it took long moments for her breathing to calm. He was similarly breathless, his chest heaving, and he seemed unable to speak even once he was no longer gasping for air.
Christine stroked his cheek, felt the puckered skin beneath her fingers. Erik closed his eyes, as if to concentrate better on the sensation. She wondered if anybody had ever touched his marred face – if anybody except her had touched him gently, like this. With love and kindness rather than hatred and disgust.
She doubted it. She didn't think he had ever known a tender touch – at least, not to his face.
Not even from his own mother.
His hands were tangled in her hair, cradling her head, and she closed her eyes, leaned against him. She was tired, she realised – if she were sensible, she would go to bed. She was not needed early at rehearsals, not needed until half past ten and so she could sleep in if necessary. But she didn't want to be sensible, didn't want to leave Erik.
She didn't want to step out of his embrace. His breath on her face, his thumb stroking her neck. The closeness she had longed for these past few days, a closeness she had perhaps feared would never be.
But he believed her, or was trying to believe. He was trying to overcome his own fears, and she could not bring herself to pull away first. Not when he would surely take it badly, not when this was where she wanted to be.
Here in his arms, held by him and holding him in return.
At last Erik sighed, slid his hands slowly from her hair. Christine opened her eyes, looked up at him – trailed her fingers down his cheek and across his lips.
"I love you," she whispered. "I love you." She traced the line of his mouth, saw the wonder in his gaze. "Do you believe me, Erik?" she asked then. "Do you believe me a little, at least?"
"I…I want to," he said slowly. "You…" She moved her hand back to his cheek, and he turned his face into it, leaned into her touch. Yes, she decided, she was right. He had never had a gentle touch, not to his face at least. Nobody had ever caressed his cheek as she did now; no kindness had ever been bestowed like this.
It was an ugly face; she was not blinded by her love for him. And yet it was his face, and his eyes were so wide as he looked at her, as he felt her touch his cheek. She could not find any disgust within her as she looked back at him, could not find horror. Familiarity would lessen the shock of it, and she did desire him, even without the mask. She was glad to have discovered that, glad to have proved herself to both of them.
She was not a shallow, naïve little girl any longer. Love came in all sorts of shapes and sizes, and she looked at him now through the eyes of one who loved him. Not blinded by it – but neither was she blinded by seeing him as others saw him.
He was not a monster; he was a man.
He was the man she loved.
"Yes," he said then. "Yes, I…I think I am beginning to believe you." He took her hand, lifted it to her mouth, kissed her knuckles. "My Christine," he murmured. "Are you to be my Christine, then?"
"Yes," she said tenderly. "And you are my Erik."
He held her hand tightly in his, pressed it to his mouth. "Oh Christine," he breathed. "I hoped…how can I tell you how I hoped? I never believed you would come back to me."
Christine nodded; she knew that. She had promised she would, but she knew he'd believed she'd forget all about that once she was reunited with Raoul.
If anything, being with Raoul again had only solidified her determination to return. Raoul would never understand her as Erik did – and he would never, had never made her feel as she felt now, being held by Erik.
She banished Raoul from her thoughts; he had no place here, and she would not allow him to enter, an unbidden ghost.
Then she yawned, flushed as Erik smiled at her.
"It's late," he said. "You have rehearsals tomorrow. You should sleep."
"I'm not needed until half past ten," she objected, but she could not deny her fatigue. She longed to stay in Erik's arms, but her eyes were sore from tiredness and her limbs felt heavy. She knew Erik could see how white she was, the dark marks beneath her eyes – knew she could not overrule him.
She hesitated, wondered if she dared. But then surely he was feeling the same as she, surely he was no more eager to be parted than she was.
"Erik," she murmured at last. "Stay with me tonight?"