Raoul de Chagny never often had time off from his position in the French Navy, but after a two month long tour of the Gulf of Guinea, he was granted three weeks' leave to visit family and to recuperate from the strenuous time in service he had volunteered himself to give for his country.
He slept in for the first week, barely leaving his Marais flat for anything other than to pick up his mobile food orders at the restaurants and cafes that lined the street below his apartment, and had played Halo and Call of Duty practically non-stop for the few hours that he was awake. His mother, had she still been alive, would probably have scolded him for wasting his time, but Raoul did not mind. It was pretty much a vacation, after all.
The second week, he had spent entirely with his family, finally meeting his brother's firstborn child and tagging up with some old college friends that he had missed during his deployment. At the start of week three, he had realized that he had some serious errands to run that he had been purposefully putting off the last two weeks.
It started off with scheduling a much-needed dentist appointment, which he was fortunate enough to get the same day as his call. He could have used the dentist on base and saved a few bucks, but he still preferred to use the same dentist he had been going to since he was a kid. Old habits die hard, he thought, but at least this one had watermelon fluoride.
He arrived at the dentist's office later that afternoon, and it was mostly deserted. Most patients were probably at work or school, so he found himself entirely alone, save for the receptionist who sat at her lonely office desk, staring with a pearly-white smile in his direction.
He approached the older woman and gave all his patient information, then was instructed to find a seat. The doctor will be out in just a moment, she had told him.
Raoul lingered around at the countertop for a few moments, expecting to be called back far sooner than he actually did, and thumbed through the stacks of business cards and referral papers while he waited. He grew bored quickly, finding the little office desk display dull and utterly unentertaining, and looked up to check the tick-tocking clock behind the receptionist desk.
2:21, six minutes after his appointment time.
He eyed the clock for a second more, trying to will the time to change, but his vision hazed in and out until he found himself staring at his reflection in the glass casing.
He grimaced at his image, nearly having to squint at the glass to recognize himself. If the receptionist were paying any attention to him now, she'd think him rude for the gawking faces he was making, but thankfully, she was already struggling to stay awake at her computer screen and was not paying him any mind.
By all means, he looked every part the soldier, even in his civilian clothes, save for the floppy blond mess of hair that grew like a field of wildflower weeds from his head. He'd need to get that trimmed, and soon. He hated having anything other than his military crew cut, and his higher-ups would demand it if he ever stepped on base looking as he did now. Just another thing to add to his to-do list, Raoul thought, mentally writing it down in his head.
He backed away from the desk and chose the single brown-leather chair out of a sea of beige for its proximity to the television and its far reach from the table filled with old magazines and medical pamphlets, all of which looked aged and worn and entirely not his type of read. He wasn't interested much in teen gossip and even seeing the front page pictures of tooth decay made him a bit uncomfortable, so close to the TV it was.
He looked up to the plasma screen and waited through a commercial or two before the program resumed, but he groaned when he realized it wasn't Top Gear or Archer or anything interesting like he had hoped. Instead, it was some stupid infomercial advertising the boring health benefits of using an electric toothbrush, featuring the very painfully awkward acting of the very dentist he had an appointment with five minutes ago.
Deciding against watching another minute of the very boring and admittedly quite gross Tooth Talk with Dr. Richards, Raoul stood and crossed the room to the magazine stand, hopeful to find something at least worthy of passing the time. He avoided looking at the medical pamphlets while sifting through a pile of magazines - something about pulling teeth made him uneasy.
He skimmed through the magazine covers and settled on the newest looking one out of a handful that looked nearly ancient and straight out of his mom's time. He didn't really care for or recognize Farrah Fawcett or Molly Ringwald or any of the other old-timey actresses, but he knew Carlotta Guidicelli, so at least whatever silly nonsense he'd be reading was at least somewhat relevant.
He smiled lopsidedly at the receptionist on the way back to the muddy-brown looking chair he had claimed and slumped down into it before flipping to a random page in the middle of the magazine.
It was mostly boring gossip about who was dating who and who wore what best, and he nearly decided to call it quits on the issue when he turned a final page, giving it a final chance at redemption, when he spotted her.
His gasp caught in his throat and he had to force himself to avert his eyes from the dark, velveteen purple hues of the advertisement that spread entirely across the two pages in his hands. His hands shook, his heartbeat started a faster tempo, and his eyes ogled. He tried to pull himself from the pages, but the model's appeal was far too irresistible.
His eyes drifted rather obscenely up the woman's bare leg, smooth and silky, and then traced the lines up towards the juncture of pretty thighs, covered only by a scrappy piece of purple lingerie. It was all photoshopped, probably, but that didn't stop him from staring with wide eyes and a gaping mouth in the middle of the waiting room.
He felt the reaction immediately, but was too invested in the paper model to stop his gawking. He looked around for just a moment, scanning the waiting area and finding himself totally alone, save for the bored looking receptionist who clicked her long nails against the keyboard in tune with the ska music that sounded from the room's overhead speakers. If he squinted, he could see the faint green background of solitaire reflecting against the back glass of her cubicle office.
Raoul's eyes trailed upwards again, past the thin ribbon of perfect, white belly-flesh and up to her breasts, which were just as scrappily covered as her lower half yet all the more divine. He shifted himself in his seat, sweating and made uncomfortable by the model's image, and let his thumb drift over the girl's upper arm and shoulder, leaving her perfect breasts and legs uncovered to his eyes.
Wow, he said, unsure if it were aloud or not. He hadn't even reached her face and yet was already in love.
Her face was just as sultry as the rest of her, bearing a sigh of pleasure evident even through the print. The girl looked as if she had just been thoroughly ravished and yet craved more; her hair was wild and untamed, falling in long, curly tresses down her neck and shoulders. An errant curl was brushed methodically across her face and stuck to gloss-covered lips. Her mouth was half-opened, as if she had been calling out to a lover, to him. The girl was just begging to be touched, to be pleased.
Oh Raoul…, she seemed to cry. He looked for her name to respond back to her.
And there, between the crease of the magazine, was printed the most beautiful name he had ever seen. Something so sweetly feminine and vaguely familiar that he nearly closed his eyes to savor it, but chose to keep his staring. He wondered momentarily where he had heard the name before, before deciding she was either some up-and-coming model or some new singer the teens were into these days. He probably had heard her name on the radio or while scrolling through his newsfeed and hadn't thought more of it, but now that he had the name to the face, he only wished he had paid attention sooner.
Christine Daae, he mused, trying the word on his tongue. But as soon as the final, Swedish syllable escaped his throat, he choked out loud, finally remembering where he had heard the name before.
Holy shit!
His eyes flew open as he met the young page model's face and recognized her instantly.
Christine Daae, his Little Lotte. His childhood crush, his homeroom sweetheart.
Raoul smacked the magazine closed instantly, horrified by himself for even thinking of her as he did. His blood ran cold and he grew immediately uncomfortable. He had to pull at his collar to hide his blushing throat.
It was a long few seconds before he finally caught his breath and calmed his heart rate. He blinked, trying to force the lovely image from his mind, but instead of the black backs of his eyelids, he only saw her.
He looked around awkwardly, turning his head to either side and even behind himself, though he knew only a blank wall stood at his back, before shyly opening up to the center spread again. He was only able to spot the first letter of her name - a beautiful, swooping C - before he slammed the paper closed again.
He knew it was Christine's image between the pages. No amount of closing and opening the paper would cause the name and face to disappear, and no amount of guilt would erase the longing desire he'd had from his head and heart.
Raoul cleared his throat and the desk lady looked up only to give a toothy smile. He surely looked the very suspect of guilt with his reddened cheeks and wide eyes, but somehow he managed a half-efforted smile back. As soon as the woman's eyes returned to her computer screen, Raoul ripped the magazine back open.
Christine Daae, what a woman she had become. A far cry and a few years away from his junior high crush.
He hadn't thought about her for nearly a decade now, and hadn't seen her for even longer. They had grown up together, practically inseparable, always side by side.
His nannies had likened the two of them to little devils for their clever pranks and scheming games. But, truth be told, each spider that had been placed in his nursemaid's pocket and every newt under his brother's pillow was entirely him. Christine was nothing shy of an angel, always begging him to be good with her pleading, baby-blue eyes. She was always delightful, beautiful. He cursed himself for not having seen it when he was twelve.
He recalled the pink, fuzzy sweaters that she began wearing towards the end of eighth grade, which always had the sweetest little roses adorned on the edges. He wondered if she still wore roses, and what her opinion on other pink fuzzy items were.
His homeroom crush had transferred out of the little Paris high school when she and her dad moved further north, but there were a rare few weekends that he was able to catch up with her, but only when his older brother Philippe let him tag along on his college football's away games.
He remembered catching her eye once at a pep rally years ago and reminisced at the butterflies he had felt in his stomach upon seeing her shy smile. Was this what he was feeling now? No, this was far too adult of an emotion, something too mature for his stupid, juvenile mild to have understood.
The magazine's image was an entirely different Christine than that of the shy girl he once knew. She had grown, changed, and had clearly matured. All for the better, of course. She now bore the persona of a woman who was strong and powerful and entirely certain of herself. She was beautiful, she was perfect.
It was hard to imagine her as anything other than who she was now, but faint whispers at his ear reminded him of her childish giggles that had always turned into high-pitched laughter and squeals. He wondered what her laugh was like now - was it still as sweet as it once was? Or had her laughter matured with the rest of her? If he closed his eyes, he could imagine it. Soft and sultry, barely more than a sigh of humor, yet entirely genuine and sincere. She would laugh out his name, breathing out the shaking single syllable as he smiled. She'd be bashful, despite her newfound fame, and would turn away with blushing cheeks. Oh, Raoul…
Raoul...
"Raoul?"
His eyes flickered open as he woke from his self-induced fantasy only to find himself once more in the stale little waiting room of his dentist's office. The receptionist was looking at him expectedly, and holding a clipboard between her hands. A single eyebrow was arched upward as she looked at him.
"Huh?" he asked, a bit stupidly, before realizing what the lady had said. "Oh, yeah, sorry. That's me." He stood awkwardly and waivered where he stood. The after effects of his dream were still lingering, his mind a haze of clouds and laughter.
She waved him back and he followed the receptionist's open door, but only made a handful of steps into the white hallway before stopping in his tracks. "I, uh- I left something back in my chair. I'll be right back."
After a quick jog back to the waiting room, he went immediately to the boring brown chair he had been sitting in and lifted the magazine into his hands, not noticing how his fingers shook and how his veins beat a rapid rhythm beneath his skin. Without even a second glance around him, he fingered open to the paper's centerfold and stripped out both pages, capturing all of the model again into his hands, then shoved her into his pockets.
Christine Daae, he mused once more, before running off to his appointment.
I hope you spotted the brief cameo to the lovely catcorsair's Like Pulling Teeth
Thank you for reading. Please review :)