A big thank you to smrb, Aphaea21, Batty Dings, Phantomgirl24, EvaLark, Astrophysicschic, Child of Dreams, crawfordphantomluvr, Mominator124, the guests, TheVeryOperGhost, amandarhoads1, phanrose, and Mudblood Slytherin and Proud. I so so so appreciate the reviews!
TW: mention of alcoholism
Enjoy!
Christine
Chapter 50
The Truth
"Tell me about him."
I looked up from my drawing to see Erik gazing at me from the floor, where he sat with Reza in the boy's room, an hour after this morning's meeting. They had laid out about a dozen sheets of paper, and he and Reza were "painting". The Daroga's son had become fascinated with the idea of colors since that day we'd discussed them in my former room, and now he wanted to make colors himself, even though he couldn't see them. Erik would sometimes guide him on where to put the paintbrush, so as not to ruin the floor, but for the most part, it was creative, albeit blind, work on Reza's part.
I was in a chair in the corner, paper on a wide, thick book, a pen in hand, drawing a forest.
"Tell you about who?" I asked.
A flicker of emotion passed his expression. "You father."
I paused, and then showed him the drawing. "I'm not depicting my father."
"I know." He looked down in time to see Reza's hand about to paint the rug, and moved it gently back to the paper. "But it reminded me..." He looked up again. "Tell me about him."
I wanted badly to ask him, again, if he knew Gustave Daae. But I felt, perhaps, he might shut down if I did. Of all the good elements of our relationship, this was one spot that caused me intense frustration.
"He is kind. Quiet." I thought. "Passionate about music." I paused, and smiled. "Sort of like you - well. Perhaps you're not quite so quiet. At least not when you get into your moods."
He cocked his head, narrowing his eyes, though they held amused interest. "My moods?"
"Yes. You know."
Just then, Parvana entered the room. She spoke to Erik softly in Persian. He nodded, but Reza groaned. He picked up his cane, which was laying close by, and followed her out the door.
When they were gone, and the door was closed, he stood and began picking up the papers. He watched me as he did so. "I don't know, actually. What do you mean, my moods?"
"You know what I'm talking about." I lowered my voice, crossed my legs in front of me, and relaxed myself. I raised an eyebrow and put on a small scowl. "'Oh, yes, Nadir. I'd love to go to a meeting and talk to only you for an hour or two. Haven't had a good vomiting in ages'." I returned to myself and shrugged. "Your moods."
His head threw back and he laughed, loudly, eyes closed, holding the papers close to his chest. When he opened his eyes again and looked at me, his expression held true delight. "Have you ever considered a career in the theatre? You'd make quite the actress."
I grinned. "You're not that hard to imitate. You're predictable."
His eyes widened, smiling. "I'm sorry?"
"You are."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really."
He went to me, placing the painted papers on the small table next to my chair. The tins of paint, paintbrushes inside them, were still on the ground, in the middle of the floor. He put both hands on either arm of the chair, leaned in, and kissed me. Softly, feather-light. But it sent shivers down my spine. He pulled away, mischief and affection in his gaze. "Was that predictable?"
"Very," I whispered. "But you know what would be truly unpredictable?"
"Hm?"
"If you kissed me a second time." I sighed, looking down. "I just...wouldn't expect it. It would be utter confusion - complete disorder."
And the chaotic madman that he was, he did kiss me a second time, but harder. He took his right hand and brought it to the back of my head, bringing me closer. His left hand went to my cheek, then lowered to my throat, my chest, then my waist. He brought his mouth away from mine and put it against the side of my neck. I put my hand over his fingers that lingered on my waist; my other hand went into his hair. I closed my eyes, very aware of my heartbeat in the spot he was currently kissing. If, for some reason, I never made it out of Persia, than I could stay sane if I at least had this: Erik loving me the way he was doing now. The way he did every day. If I could keep that, I would be content wherever I was-
"Ahem."
Erik pulled away as if forced back by an invisible rope. He whirled to the doorway, stiffening. I blushed as I saw who it was. The Daroga, watching us with a look of muted rage.
"Nadir," said Erik, and made a show of relaxing. "I didn't realize you were there."
"No, evidently not." He flicked his eyes between us. "Do you realize you're in my son's room?"
"Are we?" Erik looked right at the small bed, the toys, the folded children's clothes on the dresser. "Our apologies."
"I'm not fond of the idea of you...interacting in such a way in my child's room."
"Of course." Erik nodded his head, but I had a feeling of small foreboding at the gesture. It didn't seem genuine. In the next second, I found that I was correct. He continued, "Next time, we will interact in such a way in your own bedroom."
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I could feel Nadir's anger even from here, even without looking.
"Erik," the Daroga said lowly, "a word, if you please."
I opened my eyes to see Erik's shoulders slumping. Nadir walked away, through the hall. Erik paused only momentarily, and then followed. He closed the door, though not all the way. A crack, a small one. And judging by the footsteps, they didn't go far. In fact, I believe they stayed right in the hallway.
It was about ten seconds before my curiosity took over, my concern as well. I stood up and, silent-footed, went to the door. I put my ear to the crack, to listen. They spoke softly, nearly a whisper.
"...make more sense," said Erik, "to go into another room, if you want privacy."
"The hallway will do just fine. Reza is downstairs." Nadir.
"And Christine is right inside the room."
"Erik."
"She can probably hear what we are saying. In fact, I would bet my life she's listening right now."
"Then maybe she should hear."
"In that case, let's go back in there and speak freely in front of her." A pause. "No, I know, you want to maintain a level of decorum around her. You're angry, but far too proud to willingly lay into me, really lay into me, in the presence of a lady. But you keep the option open for her to hear anyway - because deep down, you want her to know how you're feeling. You're embarrassed enough for your behavior on the roof, for how you spoke that day in my chambers during the thunderstorm. But you still want her to know that you dislike seeing us together. Is that right, friend? Did I hit the nail on the head?"
"Have you told her?"
A long pause, and a feeling of unease grew in my stomach. Has he told me what?
"Well?" Nadir asked again, coolly. "Have you?"
"No."
"Ah. There it is. And by not saying anything, you are hurting her in the long run. And by focusing on her in the present, you are forgetting what you made a vow to do."
"I'm still doing what I vowed to do."
"Are you?"
"Yes. I work on it every day."
"And when the time comes, will you still be ready to-"
"Yes, Nadir, I will. I told you. I tell you every time you ask." He paused. "Have you spoken to Ibrahim like this? Or do you only speak to me in this way because I have little power?"
"Ibrahim is drinking himself into a stupor day and night - apparently, he's told the Shah he's sick, and luckily, the Shah hasn't yet questioned it. But it's some sour business with the Prince. It will calm down, I'm sure. And his part in this is not nearly as important as yours."
My head was spinning. Erik was hiding something from me. Ibrahim was drinking. I leaned against the wall, feeling suddenly faint.
"Is there anything else?" Erik hissed.
"No." Shuffling of feet, and he spoke louder: "Goodbye, Christine."
I hurried back to the chair and sat, bringing my knees up.
Erik opened the door fully. I stared wide-eyed at him, and he refused to look at me directly.
My mouth was dry. "What have you not told me?"
He closed his eyes.
"Erik." My heart was beating hard. I felt trapped all over again. "Erik, what are you hiding?"
His eyes opened again and went slowly up to mine. "Christine-"
"First you won't tell me how you know my father," I said shakily. "Now you won't tell me...something. I don't know what it is. But what is it? Please."
He watched me for a long time, and then said, "When I was small, I was forced to perform in a sort of freak-show. I sang. I danced. I had to show my face."
My heart stopped, and after a few moments, it broke. "Oh...Erik-"
"I think it was your father who tried to save me from that place." His voice was soft, low. He looked away. "But I'm not sure." His hands clenched. "Did he ever discuss something like that with you?"
"No," I whispered. "He didn't."
"Then it may not be him. How many Swedish musicians are there in Paris?"
"As far as I know, just my father."
He nodded slowly.
"I'm sorry, Erik." The image of him, a child, forced to show his face to a crowd, to perform like a monkey, brought a swell to my throat. "I'm so very sorry that happened."
He shook his head. "It's in the past. It's over." His eyes went to me again. "As for what I am hiding..." He swallowed. "You will hate me."
"I won't."
"You will."
I shook my head. "No, I won't."
A long, long stretch of silence. Too long for my liking. I nearly spoke again, when he said, "I am building a torture chamber. A terrible, despicable, violent one. At the Shah's request."
I listened, not daring to move.
"And Nadir wants me to hurry in finishing," he continued, "because he plans to torture the Shah within it."
