Tightrope

The song ended as it eventually had to. Silence returned to the theater, and Christine cursed and blessed it. To allow her mind and heart to begin to believe in what she had just heard, she needed the silence; however she would have blissfully remained still as a statue if the music had gone on forever. Then she thought of blending her voice with his, and nearly had to sit where she stood.

"Have I pleased you, Christine?" he spoke softly, as reverently as he always had, though now it felt ironic.

"No," before he could be hurt, she continued, almost babbling in her attempt to communicate the magic he made. "No, you've transported me. I'm in ecstasy. I've only just heard singing for the first time. Every inch of my being is on fire, and I never want it put out. Erik, you call me 'angel'? It's not me…you're the angel."

He bowed low, lacking words for the moment. The look in her eyes – he could not imagine anyone looking at him that way, let alone the woman he adored, but there she was. She was the first, again. The first to hear him sing. And she was pleased.

"Will you sing for me again, Erik? Please?"

The smile that had begun earlier returned; Christine could even tell that it was a shy smile this time. And he didn't know, she realized. After years of hiding and years of…worse…before that, he had no poker face. If she could interpret the language of that unearthly visage, she would have a window to his heart – at least until he learned to have some cover.

"If you wish it. Or I could teach you to sing in a duet, if that would make you happy." He reflected on her bright eyes and flushed cheeks. All the soft words she'd spoken. All the times she touched his hands. It was only kindness, could only ever be that, but he could pretend that her look and touch were tender. What could he give her, this woman who could look upon him without horror and touch him with her bare hands?

"Do you think I'm ready? To sing with you, I mean?"

"Let us try. Sing the piece I wrote for you, since you know it so well. I will come in with an accompanying counterpoint. We will see what skill you already possess and where you must work to improve."

She began with the worry that her voice would sound like an ungreased hinge beside his. The truth was more incredible. His instrument was of such caliber and such beauty that a voice placed beside it became even more beautiful in the light it cast. Each piece they tried was a triumph. This was no lesson. Neither of them had the first thought of technique or skills to be learned. Their voices blended as though they were made for one another. Their only regret was that Christine's voice lacked the years of strength her partner possessed, and soon it flagged.

"Your voice is tired," he murmured, hating the words as he spoke them.

"I guess I have to stop singing, then," she said, clearly indicating that if he would let her, she'd go on singing with him until the strain rendered her mute.

"Yes." He said, ruefully.

Her voice was tired, but this was a special night, and she certainly did not want to be sent on her way. Christine wondered how long it would be before her voice had the strength and resilience of his. Whether there was any way anyone else could ever hear his. She was certain that her teacher had some plan for her voice beyond lessons in the theater, but now that she'd heard his instrument, it hardly seemed important what happened with her vocal development. In the midst of these ruminations, she caught motion in the corner of her eye: the singing was over and he was putting his mask back on, covering himself "decently".

"Does it make you feel better?" she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. "What if you can't take it off again?"

He snapped the straps in place. "I feel like I am not offensive in your sight. If I fail to remove it the next time we sing, I suppose you know what is to be done."

"I never want to see that again." Christine's tone was adamant.

"Then I shall never take it off again."

"You don't understand. Not your face. In fact, I wish you wouldn't put that thing back on at all, but if you feel like you need it, go ahead. I just never want to see you helpless and hurt like that again. I don't think I could bear it." She paused thoughtfully. "I definitely couldn't do that to you again."

"You set me free. You did nothing 'to' me beyond kindness and mercy and pity." Tension seized his stomach; did she regret already what she had done?

"I put chains on you."

"You took them off…"

"After the mask came off, and now it's back on." Christine sighed, fatigued and confused and still trying to return to Earth from the musical cloud she'd been floating on.

"Go home, Christine, you're tired. And…" he pressed on when she opened her mouth to argue, "…if you return tomorrow and if you still request my exposure, then I will oblige you. But tonight, rest. There are only two days until your…meeting."

Christine nodded, still unsatisfied. She had not expected her acceptance of him on one night, one time, to magically heal the nearly mortal wounds of a lifetime, had she? Had she? Regardless, she could do nothing more tonight. Well, there was one thing:

"I am tired. But will you promise me something?" She lifted his hands in hers tenderly. "Promise me you will take care of them until I return tomorrow? No piano, no violin, no renovation work. And I'm going to come earlier than usual, ok?"

Erik nodded, simultaneously irked by the restrictions and moved by her caring. There was something more he wanted to say to her, but it was hard, so hard. The words had been ruined for him, had come to mean humiliation with and in pain. But for her, in her world, they meant what he desperately needed to tell her. He set his shoulders, caught her gaze and said, "Thank you, Christine."

Christine heard those difficult words and everything unspoken that went with them. She redoubled her silent vow. She would lead the war for his liberation, and he would know love. Eventually. For now, she contented herself with holding his hands and looking into his eyes, hating how the mask shadowed them.

"It was my pleasure, Erik," and in her pronunciation of his name she heard a mirroring of the reverence that he had always given hers.

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Erik went to his piano. And stopped. Went to pick up his violin. And stopped. Thought about working in the hallway. And stopped. The walls of his already restricted life seemed to be closing in around him. Because she wanted to protect him.

It had taken many weeks, but understanding had finally dawned on him: she was protecting him. When she spoke to this de Chagny, when she pulled the drawings of his theater -her best work- from her portfolio, when she railed against putting shackles on him, and when she had bandaged his hands so carefully, she was protecting him. This was a new first; one he did not know how to handle. She was so small! So soft… How could she possibly protect him? And why would she want to? But he could not deny that the feeling of her presence was not only warm, but safe. And that, too, was a first. Feeling safe, even when on his knees with his face exposed and his hands chained behind him…as she had once said, "…safe as houses."

But within the new rules, what could he do? He could write. If he were careful, if he held the pen lightly, he could write. Music had been welling within him, but he had only written the smallest portion of it on staff paper. Teaching her, planning to teach her, working with her: these had taken all his thought. Now, though, he would have time. And the music that had come to him! It was no simple piece. There was more here: his magnum opus.

Erik descended to his composing room.

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Christine barely felt the ground beneath her feet or the increasingly temperate spring breeze on her face. The world had changed for her this day; nothing could ever be the same. To see that face, so like a Francis Bacon painting, and know that she must learn to love it as she loved the man himself was not even the biggest shift in her consciousness. The realization that music now rivaled art in her passions, while art might suddenly pay her bills, was disorienting. If only she could quit her day job and draw in order to support her singing…

Christine began to laugh. She laughed so hard she had to sit down by the side of the road and wait for it to pass. The irony was delicious and painful all at once. She needed to get close to Raoul in order to promote her work and to protect the theater. She needed to protect the theater to protect the man she loved, who could not yet know that she loved him. Raoul wanted to date her, but that had never truly been an option and was now utterly anathema to her. On the other hand, his assistance with selling her work could allow her to quit her job which would give her more time to spend with Erik and her singing. I should just give up everything else and take up tightrope walking, she thought as she started towards home again, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

The laughter cleared much of her sense of overwhelm and allowed her to think clearly. Tomorrow, she would put in her request to leave early on Friday. Then, she would call Meg and they would go shopping. Later, she would go to Erik and continue the work of the night before. She smiled thinking of her plans with him and all that lay in store for both of them. She would deal with Friday when Friday came. And Sunday was a lifetime away.