All Erik can see is her, and all he can think is her name.
Christine!
It's Christine, but she's different – and it takes him a moment to realize what it is, the length of her hair, the curve of her hips, a face that's lost most of its adolescent angularity. The strobe lights dash across bare shoulders and a crop top, shimmery pink; his gaze streaks downward to a dark skirt and pale, slender legs ending in impossibly high heels, and back up to her face – Christine's face, and Erik's sure that his heart has stopped beating.
She's right there.
She's so small.
Up on that stage, four years ago, Christine had been everything – she'd been the world to him for the space of those three nights, and even after; on the stage of Box 5, she'd been the sun, moon, and stars, with a voice soaring straight to heaven, and now she's standing less than ten feet away and by the look of it, she barely comes up to his chin.
This cannot be real.
But she doesn't disappear – no, she's there, she's standing right there, swaying on her feet, bouncing a bit to the beat, close enough to walk up to and touch - and Erik almost staggers with the revelation of it, the tangible presence of her.
No fucking way.
Christine, Christine…
Someone is tugging on his arm and he casts a glare in that direction, only to come face to face with the blonde he'd been well on his way to fucking only minutes ago. Flashing lights illuminate confusion in her features, red lips scrunched in a pout.
"C'mon," she says, rising on her toes to speak it into his ear, lips brushing the shell, and the immediate rush of loathing is somehow enough to clear Erik's head like a blast.
"Sorry, but I've changed my mind," he says coldly, loudly, glancing away to make sure that the girl he cares about infinitely more in this moment is still in sight. She is - she's turned slightly away from his direction to talk to an apparent member of the party, some generic-looking brunette with bangs, and he notices for the first time that she's nursing a drink in one hand – a glass of something pale, almost translucent.
He wants to know what she's drinking, what she likes, why she's here. He wants to know everything there is to know about her.
Christine!…
The woman is talking to him, but he doesn't hear it, and he doesn't care to respond; Erik only notices that she's disappeared once her hold on his arm is gone and there is a clear path from him to Christine. There are still people pressing in all around but it doesn't matter anymore, none of it matters because after four years Christine is right there, in the flesh and his legs are carrying him closer, closer, close enough to notice the silvery glitter on her cleavage and the beautiful wildness of her hair, dark errant curls draping down her back and over her shoulders.
She turns.
Her eyes meet his for the very first time, and the breath is knocked from his lungs.
"Hey," he says, immediately cursing himself. Hey. Is that all he can come up with?
The girl stares up at him, and for a moment everything is frozen, his entire world narrowed to the breathtaking pinpoint of her.
"Hey," she says a beat later, and a flash of the strobe lights briefly illuminates long lashes, shimmery eyeshadow, dark eyes, bright and beautiful and shining at him –
A moment later, she giggles, her face splitting into a giddy grin, and Erik is equal parts confused and fascinated, transfixed by the expression of pure joy on her face – Christine's face – as her eyes slip shut, pink lips parting to reveal a flash of white teeth tinted blue in the glow of the blacklight passing over them like a beam.
"You sound like someone I know," she says happily, opening her eyes to gaze at him as she raises her drink to her lips, and Erik's completely thrown off by the strangeness of the statement before it clicks. Perhaps it's something in her tone, light and trippy even as the very timbre of it sends a thrilling shock though Erik's system – smooth and sweet and so, so wrenchingly familiar, or maybe it's the now clearly glazed look in her beautiful eyes, but as off kilter as this is – as surreal as this entire encounter is, as much as his heart feels like it's jackhammering out of his too-tight chest, Erik recognizes it, experienced partaker that he is himself.
Christine is very drunk.
"Are you here for the party? Are you one of Meg's friends?" she asks, and Erik turns, realizing that the girl at the center of the party, currently standing on a table – golden dress, platinum blond hair that has got to be dyed, caramel-toned skin – looks familiar indeed. Meg. So that her friend's name?
"No, I'm not," he responds, and immediately bites his tongue. He's failing at this, miserably; he doesn't have a template for this, no precedent, no end goal, he's certainly not going to try to flirt with her -
But she's simply cocking her head, studying him in a completely unguarded manner, and he suddenly hopes with everything in his still somewhat drugged-up body that she won't ask about the mask. Even in the flashing, flickering, disorienting lights around them, it's too much to hope that she hasn't noticed it, the unnatural smoothness of the flesh-toned silicone, the line where the skin-tight material ends. Prosthetics have come a long, long way, and this one's quite good – he's constantly upgrading, he can certainly afford it – but she's so close, and she's staring right at him, and he would already be entertaining graphic fantasies of strangulation if it were anyone but Christine, the girl with the golden throat and the angel's voice.
His angel's voice.
My angel.
In the past four years, he's released five albums and a few singles. Thirty-three songs, most of them written while some degree of high. Not drunk – he's got the bad habit of starting a hundred songs when he's drunk and never finishing one – but he'll compose like mad in the throes of a manic, drug-fueled daze, melodies and lyrics flowing like shards of broken glass that don't really start to hurt until he's sober enough to hit play and listen to what he's recorded for himself.
It's good music - maybe a little absurd even by his own standards, more eclectic than what he'd started out producing, but people like it and he certainly won't look away from the income that a few multi-platinums is steadily bringing in. Nate handles all of that, the contracts and the marketing and, yes, even the bank account; but Nate has only the barest impression of what it takes, what it costs Erik every time he stays in the music room composing for days on end; the automatic prayer on his lips as he shoots up before a concert, taking the stage in a haze of glorious sensation, music vibrating throughout his entire being as he sends up a small, silent dedication in a ritual that's become as natural and thoughtless as breathing.
A little bit of his sanity, that's what it costs, because who in their right mind lives and breathes and prays the name of a girl he's never even met?
And that's the kicker, isn't it – the fact that he'd honestly, truly thought he'd moved on, that he'd banished Box 5 to the recesses of his distant memory, that it had become no more than an occasional, haunting dream. That's the fucking punchline because now the dream is here and every single fleeting thought from the forgotten depths of his madness, from the precious few moments before The Phantom takes the stage, is now battering at the forefront of his mind, taunting him, threatening to overwhelm him, threatening to combust -
As it is, it is all he can do to stay still, gauging Christine's face, waiting for a reaction – anything.
"You're being very quiet," she says, finally, and Erik feels like he can breathe again.
"Your name," he rasps, and clears his throat as Christine's brow furrows adorably. "Your name, please," he repeats a little louder, and watches his request register on her face.
"I'm Christine," she responds.
I know, he wants to scream, because he does – Christine has haunted him for four years now, four fucking years and his hand is lifting of its own accord before he can stop it, hovering somewhere between her cheek and shoulder because he suddenly doesn't know what he wants to do with it, not at all.
"Your last name, what's your last name," he says, suddenly desperate to know, and to his own ears it comes out like some strange cross between a demand and a plea.
Christine tilts her head. "I don't think I'm supposed to tell you that," she says with a little laugh, and Erik wants to shake her – fuck that, fuck stranger danger, fuck anything stopping him from getting her full fucking name right here and now –
He tries again. "Your name is Christine…?"
She giggles. "Daae." It's probably a very, very good thing that she's drunk – she's careless, apparently, and she obviously hasn't run away screaming yet. "That's D-A-A-E. Everyone asks me to spell it cuz it's a weird last name. It's Swedish, you know."
Well. That's very helpful.
"Christine Daae," he rolls over his tongue, and it sounds and feels so right.
In the very next moment, he is jostled from behind. A pack of people is making its way around Meg's party right next to them – well-dressed, loud, undoubtedly drunk - and one of them stumbles into Christine, slinging an arm around her shoulder to keep her and himself from toppling over. Erik wants to rip the guy's head off.
"Sorry, beautiful," the guy says, goofy smile morphing into a look that has Erik stepping forward to place a hand on Christine's upper back, thrilling at the contact, shooting daggers at the son of a bitch – if he happens to bare his teeth too, well, then, all the better - as he guides Christine out of his hold and away. She says something that's lost in the noise of the club, but he doesn't stop until they're standing next to one of the back walls, and then he's stoutly ignoring the couples making out around them in favor of turning to Christine to ask her to repeat what she's said.
Her eyes are gazing up at him, wide and curious and searching, and he stares back, entranced. Her lips, pink and perfect, are moving - shaping words. "I said, what's your name?" she asks.
He doesn't hesitate. "Erik."
"Last name?" she presses with a little smile, and he stiffens. He's never given his last name to anyone – not out of any need to protect his anonymity, since there is no connection between The Phantom and Erik Devereux anyway, but out of force of habit; and he's self-aware enough to know that he's nothing if not a creature of habit. Unhealthy, questionable habits, to be sure, but hey, it's his life.
"I'll tell you later," he says instead, and it seems good enough for Christine. She nods.
"So, Erik without a last name, what're you doing in the Palais?"
"I'm, uh…" Christ, how is he supposed to answer this? "It's Saturday night. What do you think I'm doing here?"
She cocks her head and her curls tilt with it, her lips pushing up into a moue. It's utterly adorable. "I'm not going to hook up with you."
What the –
He splutters. "No! No, that wasn't my intention. I just – God, how do I explain this? I just really, really need to talk to you…"
He's rambling now, a hopeless mess, but it isn't long before Christine is halting him by stepping fully into his personal space, her eyes catching his, staring into them as if she's now the one entranced - and Erik shuts himself up, waiting with baited breath to see what happens next.
"Has anyone ever told you you have an unbelievable voice?"
Yes – the Khans, in particular Liya, but never in those words, and never with that level of simple, cut-to-the-quick candor – and Christine doesn't even know that he's The Phantom. "Thank you?"
He doesn't know what else to say, and Christine doesn't either, apparently. "Um, I should probably get back," she says simply after a lengthy silence, backing away and Erik instinctively moves to block her, screaming internally because he absolutely cannot lose sight of her, not now –
He backs her into the wall, barely stopping himself from caging her in with his arms, forcing her to stay. He seeks out her eyes instead.
Beautiful eyes…
"You don't understand - I've been looking for you," he breathes out on a rush, and God it feels cathartic. "I've been looking for you for years. I heard you sing at a karaoke night, and I tried to look for you after but you'd vanished. Where have you been?"
"You've been looking for me?" Christine looks nothing short of confused, staring at him disarmingly.
Erik takes a breath, filling his lungs with warm, stale club air.
"I have," he murmurs on an exhale, and it feels like a confession.
"Are you my angel, then?"
He blinks.
Well, you are mine.
"What do you mean?" is what he decides to say out loud.
"My dad believed in angels," Christine says very seriously, a furrow appearing in her brow like she's concentrating hard – or lecturing him, rather. "I've got a guardian angel, 'pparently. Everyone has. Though mine has been seriously AWOL for the past few years, the jerk."
The last part is said with a strange level of cynicism that's almost jarring in its lucidity, and Erik is suddenly reminded of the years between them… the time that's passed since Box 5 is not insubstantial, and he still has no idea where she's been, how she's been, what she's been doing with her life.
She's grown up, for one. Clearly.
"Why do you say that?" he asks.
"Hm?"
"Why did you say that, about your guardian angel? What happened, Christine?"
"Box 5 happened," she says dismissively, and appears to leave it at that. "I should get back to the party -"
"Sing for me."
And her eyes are blinking up at his, astonished, wider than he's ever seen them, as Erik curses himself and his utter inanity throughout this entire conversation. He can't take it back, not now, so he repeats himself.
"Sing for me, please."
And like a switch has flipped, Christine's entire demeanor is stiffening, even as drunk as she is; a veil comes down over her eyes, cold and vacant, as Erik takes a small step back, bewildered. Gone is the giddy, somewhat spacey girl he's been talking to… the Christine standing before him is emotionless.
"Nuh-uh, I don't sing," she says flatly.
For the second time in five minutes, Erik blinks, taken aback. "What?"
"I. Don't. Sing!" she repeats, vehement, with enough ire to make Erik briefly question if this is the right Christine or not. Of course she sings – there is no version of Christine, real or drug-induced hallucination, that does not sing.
So he presses, like the idiotic moron he is. "Are you sure?"
Christine doesn't respond, and mere seconds later Erik's heart stutters and drops at the sight of tears on her face, gleaming like trails of gold in the spinning lights.
Christ, what have I done?
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he babbles, alarmed, as the girl begins to cry in earnest, her face scrunching up like she's trying to hide it, betrayed by the wetness slipping down her cheeks and along her jaw – and then his arms are around her and she's sobbing into his sweat-soaked shirt, entire body shuddering with the force of it, and an unbearable, unfamiliar anguish is clenching a fist around Erik's throat, squeezing, unrelentingly tight.
"I'm so sorry, Christine," is all he can say as he holds her slender, shuddering frame, tense and awkward, unsure what the hell is going on, only – only basking in the feel of her body against his, soft and small, only knowing that he'll hold her forever, as long as she needs.
He is so out of his depth here.
"M-my fault," the girl is sobbing into his chest, and he tilts his head down so that he can better hear. "All my fault, and The Phantom's…"
What?
"What's that about The Phantom?" he asks carefully, gently, even as his heart gives a dangerous thump.
"You like The Phantom too?" She's still pressed up against him, but then she's pulling away with a look of curious excitement on her face, reaching up to wipe away her tears in a streak of wet glitter and black mascara, and Erik lets his arms drop heavily to his sides. His head is swimming, and it's not just the high wearing off, or the overload of the club; he's well and truly baffled.
"I do."
If his own drunken mood swings are anything like this, he's going to have to apologize to Nate.
"And then his later music… have you listened to his new album?"
"I have," he says cautiously, eyeing her.
The girl sighs - blissfully, now, though her lower lip seems to be trembling still. "Oh, it broke my heart. T'was sad and awful and gorgeous and just… so, so sad. Have you ever had your heart broken before?"
"Yes," Erik almost says, and then wonders why he'd say it. That long-ago summer with Lucy had been his longest relationship, if it could even be called a relationship, and he'd hardly been in love. But he forgets Lucy in favor of the swooping, warming feeling now spreading through his gut, nearly overriding his confusion, at hearing what Christine thinks of his music…
"So, so sad," she murmurs, sniffling, and any sense of pride Erik's harboring swiftly gives way to concern.
Christine looks like she's about to cry. Again.
"Hey," he says immediately, reaching for her shoulders, unable to stop himself from stroking patterns up and down her flushed skin as the electronic music crescendoes around them. "Hey, you okay?"
It's a moment until she responds, and it's right as the beat drops. "Yeah, yeah I just… It's so loud in here, and my head is. Spinning. Round and round and round, and m'sorry, I know I'm rambling now…"
"We could leave," and he's surprised at himself, at the burst of words from his mouth and at the idea now rapidly shaping itself inside his head, pounding in time to the rhythm of the horribly intrusive new music. "We could go home, to my apartment, and talk there. It would be more comfortable, and a hell of a lot more quiet. Does that sound alright?"
"Mm, quiet," Christine says almost dreamily, and it is everything Erik can do to prevent himself from shouting with joy, with the knowledge that he's got her now, and that they're going to talk, properly – outside the sweltering, chaotic world of the Palais that is infinitely less appealing now that he's got her, the only person he's needed to talk to so badly in his life – and now he's guiding her alongside him as he sets his sights on the exit, the skin of her lower back incomprehensibly soft under his trembling palm, and all he can manage to think is that he'll finally know -
"Oh - I don't know," Christine murmurs, suddenly stopping in her tracks, and Erik turns to see her brow furrowing adorably. "I should - Meg. Meggie, she'll want to know - no, s'her birthday, I should stay. I'm a good friend…"
Erik's heart drops into his toes.
It's all going to end. The friend – Meg – will definitely demand to know exactly what his intentions are with her very pretty, very inebriated, still teary-eyed friend. She'll take one look at his mask, and her suspicions will skyrocket; he can already see her eyes narrowing, the pressed set of lips that screams suspicion like nothing else, the sound of security coming to haul him away and before he knows it he's lifting his left hand, slipping a finger under Christine's chin, tipping her face up so that their eyes are locked, her wide brown eyes seemingly fixated not on his mask or face, but on him.
He's incapable of stopping himself when he opens his mouth and begins to speak.
"Christine, come with me," he says, slowly, deliberately, letting his other voice seep into every syllable, and he watches with some chaotic mixture of self-loathing and satisfaction churning in his stomach as Christine's eyes widen infinitesimally before slipping nearly shut, a little smile playing at the corners of her lips, and Erik rages at himself internally as he continues talking, brushing against her warm right hand with his trembling own, begging her to slip her fingers into his.
"You need rest," he says, and he can't stop talking. You bastard!… "It's far too noisy here, and I'd like to have a real conversation. You want to get out of here, you know you do. Trust me, Christine. I just want to talk. Come with me, Christine, angel…"
She takes his hand.
And in this labyrinth, where night is blindddd!...
Sorry sorry sorry this took so long! As much as I wish I could spent 100% of my time writing fanfiction, well, school is a thing. :( This chapter is on the longer side, though, so hopefully that makes up for it?
Also! Random, but is anyone a fan of Mika? As in the Lebanese-British singer? If I could bodycast Erik, it might just be him - the guy's 6'3", black-haired, and lanky, and though I'm thinking body more so than face or style, he's an incredible singer and performer and his smile is the damn cutest thing I've ever seen :) see pics on my tumblr at evangelinelark*tumblr