Music seeps into her consciousness, soft and sporadic; it pulls her out of sleep gently, insistently and she stretches, half-awake, relishing the brush of sheet against skin.
Moments later, the headache sets in.
"Mmph," she groans, burying her face against the sheets, the edge of the pillow just teasing the top of her head. There's a vaguely unfamiliar scent and she frowns, eyes closed, trying to place it, trying to figure out why her head is pounding and why something feels odd…
Her eyes fly open as she shoots up in bed.
Oh, dammit! She squeezes her eyes shut almost immediately – she's fallen asleep without taking her contacts out perhaps two, three times in her life, and there are very few things she hates more than the dry, scratchy burn of it, not to mention the underlying threat of infected corneas. Frack. She shudders and blinks, willing her eyes to moisten enough so that she can finally look around.
She's staring at the inside of a sunlit, open-plan apartment, and it's not the one she shares with Meg.
"Oh," she whispers, baffled.
What happened last night?
She clambers out of the bed, fleetingly noting that its crisp, black sheets are infinitely smoother than the ones at home; there's a glass of water and a packet of aspirin on the black-topped nightstand and a shaggy rug beneath her bare feet that she presses her toes into, bracing herself against the sour taste in her mouth and the sudden rush of nausea as she wills herself desperately to remember.
Four deep breaths; five. Six.
The urge to vomit temporarily quelled, she looks down.
Oh. She's still decked out in last night's clothes, definitely not meant for the cold light of day; the crop top is far too tight and the little black skirt is bunched uncomfortably around her hips, scratching the bare skin underneath. She hurriedly adjusts it, pulling the errant zipper back up.
Meg's party.
That's right, Meg's twenty-first birthday bash. At that huge club in midtown – the Palais, a name that wasn't so pretentious after she'd gotten there and actually seen the place. She'd spent an hour getting ready, another hour waiting for Meg, and then another hour sipping cocktails at a small bar with Meg's closest friends – many of them Meg's fellow dancers from the Met - before heading to the main party at the Palais, sufficiently warm and buzzed. It'd been her first time clubbing in forever – ever since college, in fact, when Raoul had taken her to Royale Boston for their six-month anniversary.
Palais. She remembers the Palais. It'd been frenetic, and admittedly somewhat fun – a lot more fun once she'd really decided to loosen up and join in a few drinking games, throwing back shots like a champ. Getting a bit more comfortable with Meg's gorgeous friends from the ballet; dancing and, hell, even grinding with a few guys on the dance floor. A voice…
She frowns, taking stock of her surroundings. The apartment – and what an apartment! – is one long, massive room with a high ceiling, king-sized bed on one end and dining area on the other, with an open doorway to what looks like a sleek, pristine kitchen beyond that. A spacious, sunken floor living room area lies in the middle, black couch and coffee tables and massive TV, and another Persian rug that looks like it's the twin of the one by the bed. Her shoes from last night, elegant and glittery black, are sitting side by side in what appears to be the front entryway area, all the way by the kitchen.
The whole thing screams equal parts lonely bachelor pad and safehouse from a spy movie… the place is insanely expensive, certainly. Sleek, modern, and undeniably sophisticated. All the black is almost a little intimidating - but the entire wall to her right, stretching along the length of the entire apartment, is all window, with a breathtaking view of the city. She can't imagine how many stories up she is.
Where is she, anyway?
Hazy memories are dawning on her through the fog of what must be surely a grade-A hangover - a voice, drawing her in effortlessly, swirling around in her head, somewhat familiar? Half a face and mismatched eyes? Impossible… she'd been so drunk, and she's always been prone to fantastical dreams…
I'm going to kill Meg!
Surely Meg knew better than to let her drink that much, after the dry spell she'd had! Christine seethes with righteous anger, wondering for the first time where her phone is -
The music's still there.
She only realizes this when she stops in front of the half-open door, in the middle of the opaque black wall that stretches down the length of the apartment, opposite the window-wall. All she can see from this vantage point is rich paneling and packed-full shelves; the music, the unmistakable sound of a piano now that she's actually paying attention to it, is light and experimental and – halting. It ebbs on for a few notes, a phrase, and then stops; it starts again, but ends on a different chord progression, and she realizes that whoever is in that room must be composing.
Should she walk inside and confront them? Demand to know why she's in a stranger's apartment? Had she – had she done the unthinkable, and gone home with one of Meg's male friends – or worse yet, some random guy from the Palais? Where is Meg in all this?
Or she could simply leave. Track down her belongings – her purse and phone surely had to be somewhere; she could search for them and then slip out quietly, take a taxi home, give Meg a big fat piece of her mind. Never mind that it was her birthday last night –
The music has changed, and Christine's jaw slowly slips open in shock.
Her feet are carrying her over the threshold of the doorway before she can blink.
It's a surprisingly large room, windowless; there are weird panels on the walls, lush adornments, instruments and equipment set up all around in organized abundance, but Christine barely registers any of this because she's transfixed by the person sitting in front of the massive black grand piano in the middle, his back to her. It's a man, a man wearing a slate gray button-down with the sleeves rolled up, sharp, broad shoulders and a lean torso, messy black hair sticking up this way and that – and he's playing The Phantom like a goddamn virtuoso, and Christine's blown away by the casual ease of it that she knows has got speak to nothing less than an enormous amount of talent, and she's bewildered and enthralled, and, and –
No, is it – it can't be –
The guy stops playing when she approaches, though he doesn't turn around.
"Good morning," comes suddenly and unexpectedly, low and melodic and a little unsure, and she freezes at the sound of it, the sophistication of her surroundings and the existence of what looks like a world-class recording studio and the oh-so-familiar album covers adorning the walls and the music, oh, that music all converging into one earthshaking, heart stopping, ultimately silent moment in which everything and nothing makes sense.
She knows that voice.
XXXXXX
He's wearing a mask.
It's black, a contoured piece of leather-like material covering the right side of his face, and it stretches from hairline to jaw, concealing most of the nose, cutting away just above the upper lip. It's the first thing she notices when he turns around on the bench, swiveling to reveal long legs in a pair of black skinny jeans and a snug black tank top underneath the not-buttoned button-down.
She frowns.
Why is he wearing a mask?
The second thing she notices are the tattooed forearms. The mask is a jolt, but the tattoos are a tickle, scratching at the back of her mind like a long-forgotten itch. What –
"Did you sleep well?" and she shoots her gaze up to his eyes.
She doesn't respond. There must be a reason she's not responding, standing there gaping like a fish out of water, and she thinks it might have something to do with the fact that he's standing up now, and oh god he's tall, and now that the guy's standing at full height she's vaguely noticing how slender he is beneath the broad set of his shoulders, how disconcerting it is to have him towering over her. Or perhaps it's the timbre of his voice, rich and low and straight-up gorgeous, and if it weren't for the alarm bells ringing in her head – because Phantom, Phantom, Phantom – she'd no doubt be falling right into it, entranced.
"Christine?"
His expression is concerned and careful, so careful, but the way he says her name - her name! - one would think she'd made all his dreams come true.
"Did you sleep well? How are you feeling? You were pretty out of it last night…"
Does he look familiar? He looks familiar. It's strange that he looks familiar, given that she still can't recall anything from last night beyond raucous music and drinking games at the Palais.
"You're the Phantom," she blurts out, and it's not a question.
The guy's face changes, ever so slightly, stance going rigid, and she tracks the way he clenches and unclenches his left fist, down and otherwise unmoving by his side.
Silence, loud in its intensity, and then -
"I am."
"Holy shit." She claps a hand over her mouth - she feels like throwing up again but it passes, quickly. "How did I get here?"
She latches on to the way his eyes narrow, jaw working.
"We… talked last night. Don't you - do you remember my name?"
"…No."
"Okay, uh, it's Erik."
Christine nods, shaky and unmoored. For the briefest instant, she feels like shrieking and vomiting and running away all at once, and it probably shows because he – The Phantom, no, Erik, holy shit – is now running a hand through messy hair, visibly agitated.
"You really don't remember any of last night?" he says, and she almost can't read his expression now. Wariness, perhaps, with a dose of worry?
She stares at him.
"Should I?" and there's something pooling in her gut now other than the nausea, cold and slick and anxious.
He's staring back at her now, eyes wide, apparently as confused as she is – but he's also squirming, and she feels dazed, processing far too much at once - this is it, this is him, this is the voice she's idolized for so long, and she's just woken up in his bed - the Phantom's bed - The Phantom! - with only hazy impressions of the night before.
Oh God.
"What did we do?" she asks, feeling every inch of her body grow cold.
He – Erik - tenses. "What?"
But she's suddenly scared as hell, her heart simultaneously lodged in her throat and plummeting down to her toes, and she can't stop herself from crossing her legs and trying desperately to feel for anything… different, horrifyingly conscious of her attire - the tiny strapless pink crop top Meg forced her into, with a tight black leather skirt shorter than anything hanging in her own closet.
A skirt with the zipper pulled almost all the way down, she recalls -
"God, this was a mistake, this isn't me, I don't do this," she stammers, crossing her arms in a futile attempt to hide the fact that she's still decked out in practically nothing. A delayed reaction, to be sure, and it accomplishes absolutely nothing – where's her sense of self-preservation? Christine, you idiot!…
… If the slight flash of Erik's eyes is any indication, he's noticed.
"I don't do this," she repeats, trying desperately to remember something past the horrible pounding in her head, anything at all. "What did you do? What happened?"
Erik looks nothing short of baffled as he stares back at her, long seconds slipping by in which she does nothing but grow more panicked - and she's inching back toward the doorway before his eyes seem to flood with understanding and his entire demeanor grows tense, wide-eyed, defensive.
He steps toward her and she shrinks back further. "Nothing happened, Christine, I swear -"
"How can I believe you?" She's almost shrieking now, but she doesn't care. "What happened last night? Why am I here?"
"Christine – "
"I - I'm not a groupie, I have to get out of here, I gotta go - "
"I love you," Erik breathes, quickly, and then his eyes widen as if he's surprised himself. "I love you," he whispers again a beat later, voice hoarse and needy, adoring.
She stares at him, jaw agape. An eternity slips by and she lets it; she can't move, and he won't either.
"That's impossible," she finally manages to say.
Erik gives her a look that's distinctly uncomfortable, somewhat offended, but overwhelmingly just… reverent, and it makes her insides wrench violently. "I'm not lying," he says, sounding confused but firm. "Apparently you don't remember last night, but I swear to God nothing happened. You were a little drunk, but we just – talked, that's all. Nothing more. There's no reason for me to be lying to you right now."
"No, just – okay, maybe I believe you, but I mean -" she's struggling, grasping at logic, but reason has fled and nothing even remotely makes sense right now and she eventually settles for a single, loaded word. "Why?"
Erik's visible eyebrow shoots up, but he remains silent, lips pressed. Taking hold of her thumping heart with both hands, Christine forces out the words, somewhat proud when her voice doesn't waver as much as her insides currently are.
"How could you love me? Or even like me? We don't know each other."
"I just… do," Erik says, and winces. "No, I mean – look, I know I'm not making any sense, but I - I feel like I know you."
"You know me?" She blinks. "Hold on, you know me?"
"I – I don't, not really, but… Christ." His gaze flickers upward for a second, and then flits to the floor before settling back on her face, strangely determined. "I heard you sing four years ago. I've been – well, I looked for you, for a while, wasn't even sure if you were from New York. Your voice – " He cuts himself off, brow furrowing, and when he starts again he sounds more tentative, like he's weighing each word in his mouth before he speaks. "For years I knew your name and nothing more, and, fuck, I – I love you." He lifts a hand to scrub at the side of his face, easily avoiding the edge of the mask, and then simply looks at her, waiting.
Christine blinks back at him, mind blank.
"Well," she says, eventually. Her head is still pounding, her pulse beating against her skin, and she brings a hand up to rub at her temple. Damn, damn, damn.
Well.
She's still in a stranger's apartment, except he's no stranger, and in light of her currently enormous mental block and the staggering, staggering confession she doesn't know how to parse, her brain has apparently decided to go for stubborn apathy, of all things. "Do you know where my phone is?" she asks suddenly, aiming for authoritative and missing by a mile. "I should – I need to make a call."
Erik hesitates, clearly thrown off, before making for the open door; she steps aside and then follows him out at a healthy distance. "It ran out of battery last night, so I charged it for you," he says as he strides toward the doorway at the furthest end of the apartment, and if there's a slight quaver in his voice, it doesn't show in the rigid set of his shoulders. "It's why you stayed the night. I – we started talking, at the club, and you were pretty out of it and I didn't know who to call. Hence, my place."
They step into a lavish kitchen, the type of place that would make Meg swoon. Sparkling marble counters, black and gray accents, stunning view to top it all off. Some of the odds and ends, at a cursory glance, look a little familiar; Meg's mother did always like having high-end stuff in her kitchen. For now, though, her attention is fixed on Erik, who's unplugging her phone and turning around to offer it to her, a look of contrition and – dare she name it – something like hope plastered on his face, eyes wide and unassuming.
Then she remembers what he'd said and narrows her eyes.
"I had a wallet in my purse," she says flatly, snatching her phone back with ungentle fingers. "With my ID and address and everything. You could've checked that. Where'd you put it?"
Erik frowns. "You weren't carrying a purse last night."
She opens her mouth to object – and snaps it shut. That's right, you booked it at the coat check at the Palais. It's probably still there.
Her eyebrows fly up when she turns on her phone.
"It's two p.m.," she gasps, scrolling frantically down a list of notifications longer than she normally lets it get. Nine missed calls from Meg and a few more from others at the party, twenty-seven text messages – again, mostly Meg – and oh no no no, several concerned texts from her stand partner Filip. "Frack, I'm missing rehearsal!"
She starts backing out of the kitchen and he follows, looking somewhat like a kicked puppy. "Christine – "
"Look, I don't know what you want," she says frantically, glancing away to confirm that her heels are indeed still there, sitting by the front door. "You say we just talked last night, but for all I know we could've – you could've – " Frack, she doesn't even want to think it. "I don't remember anything, I don't know what to think!"
Erik steps toward her. "Christine, I'd never – you were drunk and you have got to believe me, I swear – "
"What am I supposed to think? You stole me from my best friend's birthday party!"
"I - " and Christine almost, almost relents at the sight of the guilt on his face, an expression of mingled frustration and self-loathing so intense she almost wants to walk back her words. Almost, because if anything, it's confirmation that he has, in fact, kidnapped her from a public area and that's just not okay.
"I'm leaving," she says, vaguely wondering if she should be announcing her imminent departure in front of the creepy kidnapper – infamous celebrity – childhood idol - argh rather than simply booking it for the door, recovered phone in hand. "Don't contact me."
He reaches out and snags her arm as soon as she decides to march around him and she yelps, clutching her phone to her chest, heart skyrocketing into her throat. "Hey, let go!"
"Please don't run away again," he begs, and she'd stop to ponder his words and tone of voice if it were not for the righteous fury running through her veins, as good as adrenaline. "Please."
Yanking her arm back, she squares her shoulders, shoving down the panic inside – she's still a defenseless girl facing down a guy with at least a foot on her and a good sixty, maybe seventy pounds, standing right in her path to the front door. She sets her jaw, though – she's not, she's not a coward. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."
"Because I – " she can practically hear the aborted I love you, and oh God her nausea is back full force, mixing queasily with the lingering disbelief and with the righteous anger still flooding her system, and Erik stammers ineffectually before settling for a desperate "Please, just trust me."
"Oh, yeah?" she snaps. "Why don't you take off your mask?"
It's like flipping a switch.
The frantic desperation – pleading, imploring – leaks from his expression like water going down a drain; in its place is a burning hardness she hasn't seen from him yet and instinct has her taking a healthy step back, reaching through the sudden nervousness for the buzzing threads of her indignation.
"No," Erik says, and it sounds like a decree, weighty and final. "You can't ask that."
"And why not?" she retorts automatically – stupid, stupid Christine! You idiot, just leave already! – as she stands her ground, feeling belligerent. "You want me to trust you? News flash, I can't do that with you literally hiding half your face!"
"Yes, yes you can." Erik barks out a laugh, high and harsh. "You have to. I'm not taking this off."
She scowls, taking a step toward the door. "I'm not talking to you if you're hiding behind a mask."
"You will," and the utter vehemence of those words freezes her in her tracks; indignant fury bubbles up quickly in retaliation and Christine whirls on him, thinking nothing now of getting into his space.
"Come on," she yells, and the look he's throwing her now only infuriates her, all daggers and disbelief and growing scorn. "I already know your name, I won't – I don't know – rat you out or anything, what's the big deal? Am I a complete joke to you? This isn't funny! I didn't ask to wake up here! But you say you love me, and I'm like what the actual hell, and you won't even show me your face – "
A flash of movement – it's her hand, reaching up and grabbing; a split second later, there is warm leather in her hand, and she's staring at his full face, and there is a raging fire growing in his eyes.
XXXXXX
The Phantom's stage mask is the guy's signature. It's his stage persona, his public face and the symbol splashed across his album covers, merchandise, concert memorabilia. It had been a popular topic of discussion in her and Meg's teenage years every time it had been updated – "there's more silver in this one, do you think he made it more regal to fit his new album title?" "Chrissie, it's a skull mask, stop overanalyzing everything!" – and despite the morbidity of it, she'd never considered it gaudy or over-the-top. He went by The Phantom, after all, and when his music was that good, she supposed it didn't matter too much what kind of mask he wore. Plenty of famous singers wore masks – for the edginess or the anonymity, or perhaps both. No big deal. She and Meg might've been curious what he looked like underneath, but never to the extent that some of his craziest fans did, arguing obsessively over whether The Phantom was young or old, hot or not, a hundred combinations of facial features up for online consideration.
Christine had never, ever in a million years thought that the mask might be hiding anything other than an ordinary human face.
"Damn it!"
He's spinning away and she's staggering backward, the sight of his face burned into her retinas, his mask still clutched in her hand.
"Fuck it, you just couldn't leave it alone, you little bitch!"
He's ranting and raving and pacing and it's terrifying and then suddenly he's gone, slamming the door of the music room behind him, and as soon as Christine remembers to move she's dropping the mask and darting for the front door, snatching the straps of her shoes up with one hand; she races out into the empty hallway and straight to the single elevator, pressing the down button over and over again, glancing back to make sure the door to his apartment stays closed.
It does.
She exits the elevator to the sight of an unbelievably opulent, lofty-ceilinged lobby; there are plush couches and potted trees galore, and the concierge – bellhop? doorman? – only tips his head at her politely, offering no remark on her bare feet, and there are other people in the lobby – that's a security guard right there, she registers – but she heads straight for the doors, not stopping until she's outside in the hustle and bustle of an afternoon crowd, noise washing over her like a wave.
Christine breathes.
This is midtown, she realizes belatedly; slipping her heels on, she begins walking in a daze, and in no time at all Central Park is staring her in the face. Oh, she thinks, numb, and then reality hits. Oh!
She turns on her phone; her eyes snag and skip over Meg's messages after she's turned the brightness up high enough to see -
Chrissie pick up ur phone
PICK UP UR PHONE
Where r u? Ava said she saw u leave with some guy, r u okay?
Chrissie i'm fucking worried pls pls call me
Ava says u looked fine with it but girl pls be okay
She shoots a quick text to Meg – she's okay, she's fine, she'll be home soon – and another to Filip, citing a sudden case of the flu and asking him to make her excuses to Rico, and then she tucks her phone into the waistband of her skirt and wraps her arms around herself and just… walks, ignoring the one or two catcallers that inevitably crop up. She'll call an Uber at some point – thank God for rideshare apps, no wallet necessary – but for now, she will walk, and she will process.
Holy fucking shit.
She's met The Phantom, and his name is Erik, and when the tears finally begin sliding down her face, she lets them.
Erik: I love you!
Christine: …Okay then. My phone, pls?
This was "I remember there was mist…" transplanted into a swanky high-rise apartment in NY (pics on my tumblr at evangelinelark), with an Erik appropriately out of his depth and a Christine appropriately freaked out. And very hungover.
Anyway, Happy New Year! It's been nearly a month since the last update, and I'll try my best not to let it happen again. Though I have to say, reading others' fics does wonders when your writer's block consists mainly of trying to figure out how the heck to write dialogue and emotion in a way that's somewhat believable.
Also! There's a reason Christine begins to cry, other than the shock and craziness of the whole morning finally wearing off. More on that later. I've missed you all, would love to hear your thoughts 3 anyone catch the (admittedly, very tiny) Leroux reference?