A/N the pain train is chugging now, but it won't last forever I promise!
Christine tossed in her bed, willing herself to sleep. The wind had turned harsh, and it rattled her windowpanes. She felt an ache deep in her core, but drowned it in the image of Raoul's gentle smiles over champagne glasses at supper, his boyish laughter and pleasant ordinariness. Sighing and turning onto her side, she grasped the cool pillow with both hands and studied the streetlamps lacing the dark outline of her window in yellow light. Her head still hurt a little from the wine the night before, but she knew that wasn't what was keeping her awake at this hour. It was hard to not replay the scene in her mind.
"Lotte, do you understand what I am saying? I wish to court you, officially." His bright voice was smooth and soft as he reached across the table to grasp her hands. Christine had closed her eyes against the nervous beat of her heart, the cold weight in her stomach.
This is what you wanted. Raoul can give you protection, can love you, can take care of you.
Strangely, the words felt like some command from Madame Giry than her own conviction, but what did that matter? Meeting his earnest gaze, she had smiled and nodded.
Groaning, Christine rolled onto her back, blinking up at the black ceiling. Was she right in saying yes to him, to be bound to him by a promise of courtship? Raoul had chortled as he reminisced of their childhoods, as if reminding her of their shared past. It was true that he had existed in the golden years of her life, the ones filled with her father's violin and embrace, lost in an innocent love that mirrored her fairytale books. However, that girl in northern frocks with chocolates in her pockets had grown, and the woman she had become was not the type of creature the Vicomte described with such fondness. Christine squirmed with a sudden fear pricking up her spine. Did he not know that something dark and deep was swimming in her veins, inking her blood? It was burning just under her skin, unknown and yet so natural, longing for a release she did not understand. A venom of ambrosia had seeped into her from another world, and though she wouldn't dare to voice it, she knew it had come from Erik's world. It had been born from the darkness, from tales of halls lined with mirrors and dancing harem girls, from rope-slung necks and hypnotising amber eyes. From him.
Perhaps she had always been tainted, perhaps this blackened essence had always existed, waiting to be drawn out of her from its hidden place. Christine had truly realised its pull on the night of the masquerade ball, when they were together on the loveseat. She still felt herself flush from her brazenness under the influence, how she had practically tried to undress him! What must Erik think of her after such behaviour? But after putting aside her screaming modesty, she could remember how she had felt with him so close, how she had felt a blossom opening in her chest, how, when she placed her spinning head nearly on his shoulder, she was engulfed by a musk so richly masculine that it made her quiver…
What was this strange, foreign ache? It was so powerful, so commanding, syrupy in its luscious heaviness and yet with claws that drew blood on the inside. What was happening to her? It was as if some intrinsic part of herself was whispering in tongues, wishing to guide her but in agony from her deafened ears. It frightened her, it made her pulse rush even when she lay in bed. As Christine contemplated this, a thought drifted into her drowsy mind.
How could Erik have caused me to feel this way? From his violence, has he hurt me on the inside? No, he cannot be blamed for something so wrong within me. He is my friend, after all. There is nothing he has done, but his world has marked me. For better or for worse, it is hard to know.
But such things did not matter now. She could suppress the surging fire until it died, she could become the girl Raoul spoke of. She had to at least try. This could be her only chance at a stable life, of marriage in sunlight and peace in her soul. In doing so, she knew one thing had to happen; she had to distance herself from Erik. The flames in her veins protested with tears, stabbing into her heart and making it harder to breathe. Christine scrunched her eyes tight, ignoring the pooling tears. Erik was her dearest friend, her maestro, her angel, how could she sever herself from him?
If you want those golden years back, you must. It is for the best to do this gradually, so when the inevitable goodbye comes, it will hurt less. This is best for him, think of him. You cannot pretend life with a husband will allow his world. It will stop hurting. Oh God, Erik…
After the masquerade, Erik knew an unnamed tension had seemed to slither between himself and Christine. It was caused by a strange shift in Christine, at first nothing noticeably catastrophic, yet still worrying enough to pinprick Erik's psyche long into the night. It had happened so gradually, so deceivingly, that for a week or two Erik merely questioned it as a product of his own insanity and irrational fear of her slipping away. It was when he had realised she had not stayed a night with him since the ball, even as autumn began to wither the trees and chill the air, that he knew something was dreadfully wrong. She just had go home, and no, she simply couldn't stay for a game. Eventually she had completely withdrawn herself, simply descending for her lesson, taking his critiques professionally, and then leaving without another word. He could see the rings darkening the skin around her distant eyes, he could feel the heaviness in her shoulders and hear the dullness in her usually sunny voice…and yet he was helpless to do anything.
No, not entirely helpless. He had thoroughly questioned her several times regarding some vague concern for her health in that delirious bit of time where he thought they could talk as they had, but she had brushed off his queries with half-hearted explanations or dismissals. Could she not see how maddening it was, how it was so obvious something was wrong and that she was lying to him? She had been practically draped on him on the night of the masquerade, whispering into his ear with an intoxicated sweetness as she stared into him with a gaze full of promises. Dear God, what had happened? He was certain he had done something terrible, something unforgivable, and rather than confronting him she had closed herself. His nights were spent sifting through his memories, trying to pinpoint a frightened tremble of her fingers, or a flash of loathing in her eyes. Perhaps she had finally seen into his decrepit thoughts, caught a hint of his disgusting longing? For all that he could, Erik tried not to force her or unleash his outstanding temper, terrified it would drive her from him further. But the infernal girl made it so hard…
"I am fine Erik, now let's review this phrase." There was a bitterness to her tone, an annoyance that was so unlike her as she ran her fingers over her brow and frowned at the music.
Do not lose your temper, do not lose your temper, do not lose your temper…
"My dear, you seem to have been unwell for some time now. You have not been yourself." He caressed her with his velvety voice, urging her to succumb to its warmth as she once had. Christine fidgeted, blinking rapidly but avoiding his eyes. A scowl corrupted her lovely features, and Erik felt his heart sink.
"How would you know what being myself is?" She spat, curling her fingernails into the varnished surface of the piano. He should have told her because he was her friend, because he cared for her, damn her, and that the time they had spent together had made him know her, truly know her. He knew her fears and her dreams, her joys and her sorrows. He knew she visited her father's grave every Sunday after church, that she liked her tea so hot it could scald, that she fed stray cats and that she hated stories with unhappy endings. He knew that if you stripped back her layers of holy light, inside was a scorching violet soul, a testimony to her unbridled spirit, flickering intensely with both beauty and strength. Lord help him, he would do anything she asked, he would hang himself on his own Punjab lasso if only she would tell him what was wrong. But fear bled into any sensible thought, poisoning his tongue and kindling his rage.
"Fine!" Erik bellowed with a strained edge, pounding his fist onto the piano and listening to the keys scream in protest. Christine closed her eyes, but no reaction passed across her face. She just looked tired.
After that she stopped coming altogether. He knew he was deluding himself, but still clinging to the hope she had fostered in him over blessed days and nights, he would wait in her dressing room, watch her in rehearsals. After she left the stage, Christine would slip out of the opera house. Erik knew she could feel him watching her, which probably accounted for how she had decided to disappear into thin air after exiting the doors. For all his horrid nightmares, he realised this was the one the devil had sent for him to live in for all eternity. The little bloom of tenderness that she had sowed in his chest by every smile and touch freely give, every laugh and every retort, shed its petals until it was just a skeleton. With its destruction, nothing could fill the emptiness caused by her absence.
You fool, you idiot, you knew this would happen, you knew this would happen, you knew this would happen…but how I dreamed it would not.
As the days passed, his fantasies became more and more agitated, more gruesome, all to quench the bloodlust of the Phantom. As he paced frantically, shattering glasses as he overturned chairs and tables, he imagined appearing at Christine's home in the night, oh, if he was careful, he could carry her back before she even woke! They could talk properly then, she could explain this madness to him and it would all be resolved and as it once was. What if she would not? Well, if she preferred, he could drag her down to hell, screaming in fear of him and his damned soul. Yes, it is better she feared him. He would lock her within these walls, he would rip her clothes from her trembling body and devour her. He would hurt her, he would punish her, he would bruise her unblemished skin and bite her lips into crimson roses. He would crush her heart within his hands, he would tear her spirit apart.
And then, you disgusting beast?
And then…he would collapse. He would sob for her forgiveness, he would tend her wounds even though they would scar, he would dress her in beautiful laces and silks and try to return her mangled heart, revive her soul. He would play her the sweetest songs, tell her happy stories and love her tenderly. He would be gentle and pleasant like her Vicomte.
He would die because he would not escape how he had destroyed her.
But she cannot just leave me! We are tethered together, does she not see that? She is mine! She is mine and I will not let her go. I will never let her go. She will make me understand, it will be mended.
Half-dazed by red fury and delusional promise, Erik adjusted his wig and mask with shaking hands, grabbed hold of his cloak, and set off into the labyrinth of the night.