A/N: I apologize for the delay, my life is a mess. I hope you're all still here.

Perfection couldn't last. It was impractical. There was little to exist in that vein, and it was only a matter of time.

Sweet kisses give way to shouts, warm glances to glares. All because of a vicomte. All because of a ball. The infernal and insipid managers who dared, who had the gall to host a masquerade!

It was insupportable. It was obscene, it was against everything he ever stood for and... Christine wanted him to attend. To stand by her side. Masked and invisible and 'as close to normality' as they were capable of.

He had refused. She had left, and he was left alone to reflect on the absurdity of it all for hours. A masquerade; key word mask. To celebrate the new premiere there was only this. To accentuate the success of Erik's opera. His opera!

It was consuming them both, the passion, the fury of the music. He would not sing with her, did not dare.

The days of rehearsals giving way to lessons, her golden throat singing his music. Music giving way to kisses beneath the opera house.

It was almost functional. It was almost perfect.

Until this, until the insipid boy with his golden hair, his perfect face. His ease of manner. Ah yes, perfection was a lie, a sham. It was an attribute to gift on idolatrous pursuits. It was a word, a concept, a standard, that only led to disappointment. And before his eyes, Christine was falling.

"Erik," Christine pleaded, "I was instructed to attend with the vicomte after I informed the managers that-you told me you couldn't-wouldn't attend. I-"

"You never consulted me, Christine. My opera, my rules, my-"

"Fundraiser that you refuse to attend. I'm singing for you, Erik. Every rehearsal, every lesson, for you. You wouldn't come, you won't even sing with me-" She threw her hands up in frustration. "Raoul is a patron, and a friend-"

"Oh yes, I heard the tale. Your little hero fetching scarves from the sea-" he rolled his eyes, conducting the air. "And now it is time for the finale, the happy end. The final song where the hero prevails against the monster."

"You're being cruel." Christine said. "Stop."

"Look at what I am, Christine! This is not a face for dinners and dances and smiles." Erik snarled at his reflection in the silver of the teapot.

"I see you. I kiss you, Erik-yet you still refuse to believe that I am happy with you. That I want to dance with you. At the party for your opera. You refused. Other arrangements had to be made."

"A masquerade, Christine," Erik sneered. "Masses of perfect places wearing masks for pleasure, an escapist game to tempt the perfect into the shadows-"

Christine shrank beneath his wrath, wrapped her arms tightly around herself. "You're being unfair," she said. "You're wrong. It isn't a mockery-"

"Am I?" Erik sniffed. "Is it unfair to wish the fealty of one's muse-"

"Don't."

"Don't what, Christine?" Erik's palm slammed hard against the wall. The echo of it reverberated through the music room. "You'd rather dance in the arms of that vicomte-that boy-"

"I WANTED YOU!"

"DID YOU?" Erik stood over her. She was so small, so determined, so utterly treacherous. So honest, tears on her beautiful face. What was he doing? What had he done?

"Always," Christine said. "It's not my fault, it isn't my fault, that you refuse to believe it." They stood, trembling, Christine's hands in shaking fists. She was still crying and Erik had never felt like such a monster.

Christine squared her shoulders, trembling slightly, and oh God-did Erik wish it wasn't fear that made her shake! Made her tremble-anger: his wretched temper made her shrink from him. Oh Christine! The way she had previously melted in his arms seemed to dissolve in the face of her fear now. He was a disappointment, a freak-

Yet her hands reached for him, her flesh warm upon his wrist even as he turned away. She tugged him, and he went willingly, falling to his knees beside her.

"Erik," and her touch seemed to jolt through his blood like a shock of something elemental. She was lightning. She was the ocean. "Ask me."

"Christine, I-"

"Ask me," she insisted, lacing their fingers together, pressing her perfect brow to his scarred ugliness.

"Tell him no, tell him you already have an escort." He bowed his head over their clasped fingers, shuddering at the warmth of her. "If you'll have me, Christine, I am yours."

"Of course, ange," Christine said, her eyes falling closed as he kissed her fingertips. "But please, ange, consider singing with me. I don't care what the world says."

"No one else sees me as you do."

Christine tipped his chin up. "No one else has heard you sing," she said, and she kissed him.