Erik knew Christine's voice very well. He of course knew her singing voice like a sculptor knew his statue, a work of art created by careful carving and polishing that took months. But he had a great affection for all the other aspects of her voice, the parts that were not of his design but rather her gift to him.
Her voice as she spoke to him, excited or bored or tired or curious. The way she would hum under her breath as she worked on something, or the little giggles she would give when engrossed in a particularly entertaining book. Her gasps of amazement, her yawns, her laughter, more precious than any jewel. He also knew her voice when it was raised in anger, when she was disappointed or frightened. The worst sound by far was that of her screams which he still heard in detail during awful dreams, burned into his memory from that horrible day when she'd pulled away his mask and seen his face.
That was why, when her beautiful voice was raised in a scream one evening, his hand immediately flew up to check that the mask was in place. It was, despite the fact that he never saw Christine anymore. He'd invaded her room two days ago and since then she'd refused music lessons, refused even the meals he'd set out for her, and perhaps she would have become as thin as he if he didn't leave meals outside her door. Perhaps his last vision of Christine had been her disdain as she'd ushered him out of her room, that sanctuary he should have known better to enter. Surely that was the cause of this rejection.
But now things were different. His Christine was screaming, and he must ensure her safety above all else. It only took a couple of strides for him to reach her door and wrench it open. It was thankfully unlatched, and he's grateful Christine will not need to hate him for destroying her door.
He was immediately hit with the scent of smoke, strong enough to make him cough and bend over, and he looked through watering eyes to see his love, sitting atop a bedspread that's slowly igniting. She looked up towards him, and he dared to think that relief crossed her face as he rushed to her side, grabbing her arm and pulling her off the bed and away from the fire. It only took him a few minutes to thoroughly suffocate the fire with her bedspread, and for good measure he took the blackened lump of the firestarter and tossed it into the lake. Her charred bedspread couldn't be salvaged, so he'd need to purchase her a new one. Perhaps an entirely new bed, as even he could smell the smoke that lingered on all her linens. He'd also purchase flowers, to cover up whatever scent he missed.
Flowers would also comfort Christine, who appeared to be rather distressed at the whole matter. But Erik couldn't bring himself to be upset, as the fire has given him an opportunity to see her. Even if she was rather listless and sad, with dark circles under his eyes and a drawn countenance. She's still very beautiful, and he has missed her these past few days. She could light his entire house on fire if it allowed him to see her.
"My dear," he said when he re-entered the house, but Christine was already pacing about the living room and interrupted him, tears streaming down her face.
"I'm so sorry, Erik," she said. "It was foolish of me, there must have been a short in the wiring."
"That is why it is good to check the wiring before placing it in something flammable," he said, and her face crumpled at his advice. "That is to say, I am certain next time everything shall be well. No harm was done," he hastily reassured her.
"I'm sure it will please you to hear that there won't be a next time," Christine said, and with a shaky breath she drew herself up and looked away, her gaze staring into the distance as she solemnly declared "I am giving up science."
"Oh," Erik said, unable to come up with another response. This was not the way he expected their conversation to go. "Giving it up?"
"Entirely," she said, and he nodded.
"I see." His first instinct was to rejoice. Christine would no longer lock herself away; instead she would once again join him for their music lessons, and all would be right with the world. "So we will spend more time on music, yes?"
Her expression did not become happy. If anything his Christine seemed even more distraught, and she nodded as though she were being sentenced to the guillotine rather than the piano. "If you think it best," she said, and Erik nodded.
"We can take the night off if you wish," he ventured, and to his relief she shook her head. Music had always been his sole comfort, and surely this lesson would do them both good. Bring her smile back to her lips, and keep his desperate mind occupied with things other than her happiness and imminent absence.
Yet the moment she opened her mouth Erik was faced with a horrible dilemma regarding her lovely voice. He'd anticipated there would be some deterioration from disuse, some of the quality from her pristine instrument lost to days of ever shortening and then finally absent practice. He did not expect it to be gone.
Oh, she still sang, but it was a sad imitation of the glory that had been before. Her notes were no longer sharp and clean, her tone was no longer proper, and even her posture had become sloppy! He paused immediately, but when he turned to correct her he was stopped by the sight of tears welling in those beautiful eyes and attempted to control his temper.
"My dear," he said, "Remember to straighten your shoulders." She nodded and made minimal effort to do so. He began the passage again, and her voice showed no improvement.
Their voice lessons were once the best part of his day, something he'd look forward to obsessively. He treasured every moment with her, at first behind her mirror and then in his home at the piano, creating beauty together with her. It was the only time when a creature like him was permitted to bask in such heavenly glory, the sole reason for his existence. He dared to imagine their voices entwining together, obtaining a union impossible for him to ever achieve otherwise. Today their voice lesson was a form of torture.
He continually had to stop his playing to remind her of basic principles she seemed to have forgotten, and to his frustration no amount of correction was able to restore her skill. It was as if they'd reverted back to the first days of their lessons, when she was fumbling and insecure and unskilled, only all the more irksome because he knew she could be doing better. His Christine was very talented and intelligent, so despite not wanting to believe it only one conclusion was left. She must be doing this to punish him.
"That is enough," he finally snapped, playing the last chord with vengeance before whirling on her. "You are clearly not able to sing tonight, so we will end the lesson here."
"I can sing," she protested. "Perhaps you just need to give better direction."
"My direction is not at fault here," he argued, standing and towering over her. "It is only that you are suddenly incompetent at basic phrases you long ago mastered! If you would be willing to take your voice seriously then we would not be having this discussion, but instead your mind appears to be otherwise occupied."
He instantly regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, not because they were untrue but because her lip immediately began to wobble and her eyes welled with tears. But before he could say anything she squared her shoulders, stared at him straight in the eye, and coldly declared "then perhaps this was a mistake. I'd much rather be left alone," before turning and dashing into her room, the door slamming shut behind her.
It did not feel like somebody had died. In the past he'd felt mixtures of relief, annoyance, or fascination with death. But perhaps this was what it felt like when a person died and you loved them, a heart breaking itself into pieces. Perhaps this consuming pain was what Christine felt when she wept for her father, in the days when he'd first begun this charade that had always led him to his doom.
She believed their lesson was a mistake, and did not want to see him. It was not a surprise that she didn't want him, she likely hated him. There was so much to hate about Erik, and it had always been unlikely that he'd find somebody who enjoyed him, who found something in him to love when nobody else could. Yet no matter how much he told himself that he'd always expected this, his heart cruelly reminded him that he'd been foolish enough to believe that she would be different.
Christine hated him now. There was no softening the blow, no making the fact any more bearable. Perhaps she had hated him for a very long time, and only now worked up the courage to tell him to his face. He staggered over to one of the chairs and sat down heavily, staring blankly at the fireplace. This would end him, yet he still began to desperately think of some way of salvaging what little remained of his heart.
Perhaps she did not need to love him. She had never loved him and yet they'd made music together, and that had been more than enough. If he could remind her of this, show her the beauty they could be capable of, she would not leave. In time music would be enough. It must be.
Yet even as he thought it he knew it was a lie. Music was not enough and had never been enough, even for him. With a shudder he remembered the thing he was before Christine, a dark creature who barely survived off of spite and apathy. His only ambition had been to finish his Don Juan, a masterpiece he'd take to his grave so there'd be something to mourn. Christine had been the one to call him forth into life, the one who'd transformed his tomb into a home and made his dead heart beat. Music had not been enough for him then, and it would not be enough for him once Christine was gone.
She'd been alive with her science. She could find that joy again, either in study or in somebody else, a boy who belonged to the sun and could take her across the world. He could keep her here: he was stronger than her, and had threatened to do so before. But he longed for a living wife, and being caged would only kill her. He had to let her go.
So caught up in these thoughts was he that he failed to realize how much time had passed, but now came the telltale creak of the door that made him hastily wipe away his tears, covering his face with one hand as he reached for his mask with the other. Perhaps if he looked slightly more palatable she'd gift him a smile before she left; his memory was already beginning to fail him, and it had been so very long since he'd seen her smile.
"Erik," she said, and he stood and waved a hand to stop her without turning around, tying the mask to his face.
"You may leave," he said. "Pack your things and I will take you to the surface."
"What?" she said, shock clear in her voice. "You're not even going to let me apologize?"
"That is not necessary," he said. "I understand completely." And he did, perhaps more than ever before. He saw their situation clearly now that he was no longer blinded by his desperation, his cursed hope that he could make her happy. Christine was beauty and kindness and light and everything he never would be, but at least in this he could love her properly. Her chains were no longer his, and she would be free. She would be happy, and she…
She was crying. He flinched at the sob from behind him, and turned to see her staring at him with absolute despair written across her features. "How dare you," she said, and then she shook her head and crossed her arms. "No, I know this is my fault. But you won't even hear my apology?"
"Christine-"
"I'm sorry," she cried. "I'm sorry for acting so childish, and I'm sorry for not paying attention, and I'm sorry for saying our lesson was a waste. You deserve a better student, and it was stupid of me to think that I'd be good enough. I'm sorry."
"Christine," he tried again, but she kept on speaking, saying impossible things that made his mind spin.
"I know I'm only good at music," she said. "It was stupid of me to try something else. I'm sorry I wrecked your gift and set fire to your guest room. I just wanted… I guess it doesn't matter now, since you're kicking me out. But you didn't have to lead me on like you did. Saying that you loved me, keeping me here. I hope you won't be so cruel to your next student."
"No," he managed to gasp, "There is no other student."
"So I was just the exception then?" she said. "Well, I'm sorry to have disappointed you."
"Christine," he said again, and it's ironic that he'd just been reprimanding her for her lack of proper breathing technique because now he was the one who couldn't breathe. "I didn't… You haven't disappointed me. I don't understand, I-"
"I don't understand either!" she said, her voice high pitched before cutting off as she continued in a shamed whisper. "I can't figure anything out, and I tried to make something for you, but you just see me as a musician. And I don't think I can even be that anymore, so maybe I should leave."
"Do you wish to leave?" he asked, and she stared at him, tears streaking down her cheeks.
"Why would you want me to stay?" she asked.
He wished for a ballad, for the words of some poet or bard to illuminate this landscape of emotion he'd never expected to traverse. How could he, who'd never been loved, hope to convey such sentiments to another? He'd written her songs before but his earlier revelation had left him staggered, and he knew that his former words would not be enough. He couldn't bind her to him at the cost of her happiness, and if she left he'd die. He's always been aware of the latter truth but had just begun to comprehend the former.
There were no songs he could use, as for once music had fled his mind. His mouth was too dry to sing and his hands were shaking too much to hope to play. All he could do was open his chest to show her his heart, ugly and wretched thing it was, and the most he hoped for was to be let down gently.
"I… Christine, I love you," he said, collapsing onto his knees in front of her. "Erik cannot give you much, he is not beautiful or good or kind, but he can give you music, and he hoped that was enough, but you are withering. Erik will die if you leave him. You must leave and be happy. You must…" he couldn't speak anymore, beginning to choke on his tears, and he had to take the mask off to manage a few gasping breaths. He set it down and then slowly, carefully reached out, and his fingers brushed against her skirts. He reverently kissed the hem, only managing the gesture once before she gasped and pulled her skirts away.
"Erik," she said, and he cannot look up to see her face. He can already hear the tears in her voice, he does not want to see the disgust written across her features.
"Erik will do anything if you stay," he said. "Help with any experiments Christine wishes, fetch her anything she'd like to read. And if she does not wish to sing, Erik can play for her or be silent. Whichever she prefers."
"Any experiments?" she repeated, her voice faint. "But I said I wouldn't do any more."
"If that is your wish," he said, raising his eyes to her beautiful face. She looked very confused and there were tear tracks down her cheeks, but there was also the faintest glimmer of something else in her eyes. He could only hope it was joy. "The wires, the books, they made you very happy. And Erik will do anything to make his Christine happy." He suddenly remembered himself, his awful face unmasked and even more disgusting for his tears, and he curled into himself and looked down. "Not his Christine, forgive Erik. He will remember, he will be good. Christine is not his." She was, but not in a way that allowed him any sort of power, any sort of safety. His sun, his jailor, his prison, his impossible dream. He'd feared this moment ever since he'd first fallen in love, known such a thing could only be a shackle, and surely Christine would run free when given the chance.
"I thought you thought…" she said, and then she sat in front of him and her lovely hands were on his shoulder, soft and gentle. He flinched away from the blow instinct warned him of, but her touch was kind as always, bar when he'd forced her nails to leave scars. The cruelty was all his, and the mercy all hers. His angel.
"Erik, I wanted to be… I know I'm not very smart," she said, and that was such an outrageous lie he looked back up at her in shock.
"No! Christine is quite intelligent, quite learned, and she-"
"But I can't understand," she protested, her brow furrowing with frustration. "I can't understand all the things you talk about, and I couldn't get any of my experiments to work, and I must seem so silly to you. You made this whole place by yourself, you know so much, and I just ask questions and accidentally light things on fire. You're a genius, and what am I next to that?"
"You are Christine," he said. "It does not matter, what Erik has done. He had to, because if he did not learn he would not survive. Or it has been to keep him from going mad, here in solitude." And it had never been enough; he'd always known all the genius in the world wouldn't be enough to make him worthy of love. "Christine is different; she can learn and build and not fear, because she is already everything."
"Oh," she said, and to his relief her lips began to curve upwards in a small smile. "I suppose I've been rather silly, haven't I? But perhaps we both have."
"It is Erik's fault," he protested, and she shook her head.
"I think I should have just asked you," she said. "Would you be willing to let me stay? Even if I didn't sing anymore? Or maybe I'll sing for fun sometimes, but I don't think I want to be an opera singer. Is that all right?"
"It is fine," he said, his heart trapped in a dreadful state of anticipation and horror. She would stay, something that made him want to rejoice, but she would not be a singer. "Why would you wish to stay, if you do not want to sing? Erik will no longer be your voice teacher," he asked.
"Is that the only reason you thought I was staying?" she asked, and he nodded. "Erik, I enjoy being around you. I liked learning together, could we do that?"
"Ah," he agreed, his heart sinking. He begged himself to stop but he would likely not survive another conversation like this, and he could not restrain himself from speaking his fears. "But one day you will learn more than Erik and wish to leave. And I do not know if I can let you go again."
"What if I never want to leave?"
"Why?" he asked, staring up at her. That was the question, wasn't it? Why was she still here, staring at his monstrous face and speaking kindly to him, ignoring the escape he'd already handed to her? Why would she put up with Erik, live underground like a mole and suffer his presence, if it were not for a singing career? And why were her eyes soft and warm when she looked at him?
"Because, well…" She bit her lip in thought and stared at him, and then sighed. "Maybe this will help." She then leaned forward, and it took Erik a moment to realize what was happening and keep himself from backing away, her hand coming up to rest on the back of his head and gently keeping him in place. And Christine kissed him.
His first kiss was quite lovely. Christine was so soft and her lips were no exception, and warm enough to send heat rushing through his entire body, so that the cold he'd felt his entire life was chased away. He kept his eyes open, but after seeing her close her eyes decided to follow her example. All his worries and doubts seemed to vanish, and for a lovely moment there was nothing more in the world but Christine, kissing her Erik. An absurd thought came into his mind, perhaps I am loved, and the longer she pressed her lips to his the more likely it seemed.
"Christine," he gasped as she finally pulled away, her name a prayer upon his lips. He reached up and touched his lips in wonder, his skin still tingling. Surely he must even look different now, his skin blessed and purified into something new, something loveable.
"Was that all right?" she asked, and he managed to make himself nod. Distantly he realized he must be reacting wrong, and he fumbled to find a way to express the enormity of her actions to her.
"Christine," he said, starting off with the most blessed of words. "I have now tasted all the happiness in the world, from your kiss."
"All of it?" she asked, her lips curving into a smile as her eyebrow arched. "What should happen if I were to give you another?"
"Perhaps," he whispered, his foolish heart already hopeful, "the world might expand to contain more joy." To create a place where a creature such as he could be loved, could receive not one but multiple kisses.
"Really? Let's try it out," she said, leaning forward to kiss him again with her eyes twinkling.
He hadn't been lying when he said he would be happy to help Christine with any number of her experiments, but as their lips met he decided this was easily his favourite hypothesis to test.
This is the last part from me, it's been a delight to work on this story and I hope you enjoyed it! I really appreciate all the kind reviews that this story has gotten, thank you so much! The lovely SymphonyinA will be following this with an epilogue, so stay tuned for that!