Once There Was a Night
The rattle of the metal door, a sliver of light rouses him from his reveries – the stars forgotten, each of his senses alert – from hearing a scratching of soft footsteps along the tarred covering of the roof to his skin, each nerve alive, hairs standing on end. The dry smell of the corridor blends with the damp of the spring night air and the slightest hint of gardenia. Dipping into his pocket for the lasso, he rubs his fingers against the dried catgut – smooth and strong as wire. Golden eyes scan the area just below him.
Breathing deeply, he mentally instructs his heart to still, his blood to slow. Perhaps he slept – it could be Adele. Do not act precipitously. Wait.
Christine is pleased to find the stage door unlocked as she hoped – a bad habit on the part of the stage manager. The assumption being the hired guards would stop anyone looking to rob the premises if he was lax – as far as she knows, the assumption is correct. Why he still maintains his position, she does not know. For now, she is grateful for his inefficiency.
Treading softly, the guards were still likely to be present, although, they tend to stay in the public areas near the valuable art work. The stage area held little interest. During the time of the Phantom, the stage was a place to be feared and avoided. Three weeks was not enough time to allay the fears, she supposes.
Using the back stairs, she climbs to the roof – a route followed many times during her months at the Palais Garnier. Much of her courtship with Raoul took place under the watch of Apollo and, as she discovered, Erik.
There was no point seeking him below – an earlier visit seeking answers found the small house destroyed, the simple furnishings turned over and partially burned along with papers strewn over the floor, still damp from water used to put out the flames. The sight of his organ tore at her heart – hacked to pieces. The act of madness and uncontrolled fury. The mob.
No blood. The rumors have him dead – but no one stepped forward to claim he committed the act. No one was able to deliver his body. No blood – no body. So she kept the hope within her. Could God forgive her were she the reason for his death – could she forgive herself? For now she clung to the absence of blood and body.
Whatever happens tonight – if he is here – if she is able – she must let him know of her concern and sorrow over all he lost.
Stepping through the heavy door onto the floor of the roof, she takes a moment to gather her bearings, propping the door open to take advantage of the light coming from the stairway to guide her.
"Erik? Are you here?" Her voice barely audible to her own ears.
"Christine."
A wisp of sound, the familiar voice. Her heart stops momentarily, pressing her hand to her ear, she smiles, tears fill her eyes. "You are here. Oh, you are here." Her eyes scan the rooftop, taking a few halting steps forward, she stops. Dim golden lights shine in front of her – his eyes – the rest of him shrouded by the darkness and his black cloak.
"Why did you come?"
"I needed to know you were still alive – that they did not kill you."
"Now you know."
"Thank God."
The eyes disappear, the voice is gone. The remnant of his scent – cinnamon and myrhh – lingers. The feeble light reveals nothing. For a moment she wonders if she imagined the exchange. Perhaps he really is a ghost. No, she kissed a man – flesh and blood. He was correct; now she knew. The reason she risked coming back was addressed. Erik was alive – apparently in good health – no need for her to be concerned. She could go on with her wedding guilt free. She could.
With cautious movements, she steps lightly across the macadam.
"What are you doing?" Erik growls, taking her by the arm, steering her back towards the door. "The roof is dangerous in full sunlight – this night is black as pitch."
Pulling against his grasp, she holds her ground, pressing her hand against his. "I must talk to you. I must explain."
With a deep sigh, he guides her to the hollow where he has been keeping. Releasing his hold, he lights a candle.
"Is this where you have been hiding?"
"One of many locations – the opera house is well known to me, Christine – you must know that." Removing his cloak, he places it on the ground. "I am sorry I cannot offer better seating."
"But you chose the roof?" Removing her own cloak, she lays it next to his and sits down, nodding for him to do the same.
"Yes – to say good-bye."
"You are leaving here?"
"Paris? Yes. Tomorrow."
"Then I came in time." Moving closer, she reaches out. The urge to touch and hold him overrules any sort of propriety. Being so near, after these days apart, is a relief after the restrictions of her recent situation. The sense of freedom palpable here on top of the world – their world.
"In time for what? We said good-bye. You belong with the boy…the Vicomte," he says, pulling away, tucking his knees to his chest.
"No." Gathering her skirts, she crawls to him, wrapping her arms around the cocoon he made of himself, her head resting on his knees. "No. I belong with you." Seeing him again, touching him, hearing him – her mind is clear.
"I have nothing to give you, Christine. You must go back – you must have a life of care and protection. If they find me…us…we will both be killed."
"Please do not push me away." Fear twists her gut. "Do not shun me."
With a soft groan, he relaxes his legs and lifts her chin, forcing her to look at him. "This is what you want?"
Taking his face in her hands, her green eyes gazing into his, she presses her mouth to his.
Shaking his head free, he says, "You must go, now. Please. I am only a man, Christine, not an angel."
"I know." Turning his head to face her again. "Kiss me. I want you to kiss me." She brings him closer to run her hands down his arms, wrapping them around her waist. "Kiss me. Touch me." The escape with Raoul left her on edge, full of nervous energy. The wedding plans bored and annoyed her. She had to return to him…at least one more time. Just to know. She had to know. There is no one else.
How does one struggle against that which you want more than anything in the world? Every bit of desire and longing floods over him, through him – the feel of her in his arms, wanting him – him, asking for him to embrace her. "Are you certain? You do not know what you might unleash. I do not know what you might unleash."
Her small fingers undo the buttons of the flannel shirt, slipping beneath the soft fabric to stroke his chest, stop briefly to touch the deepest scars remnants of past abuses, cousins to those that mar his entire body.
Sensing her questions, he simply says, "They are of no importance."
Raising her fingertips to his lips, she explores the distortion, tracing the shape of his mouth. When she lifts her face to his this time, he does not pull away. The kiss is awkward, his mouth opens against the pressure of her lips. The kisses she offered those days ago were more than he ever dreamed of – overwhelming him. Now this…this intimacy, feeling her tongue darting against his own shocks and thrills him.
Tilting his head slightly, he is able to bring her closer – their lips slot, tongues teasing, tasting one another's breath, striving to get closer, kiss more deeply. The thrill of their closeness opens a flood of heat throughout his body. The sensations he described in his opera fall flat compared to this truth – fantasy was now real and his own words mock him.
A simple kiss was always his deepest desire – to have another's lips connect with his flesh. To have his mother kiss his forehead would have given him such joy – would have made the torment of his loneliness easier to bear. One for now and one to save. A gesture of affection from anyone – proof that he was human – worthy of love.
Christine fulfilled his wish – more than fulfilled it those weeks ago. Her gift was so pure – he could not hurt her or her young man. He did not expect the kisses – hardly knew what to do with his hands or how to touch her – if he should touch her at all.
This…this was more, something he felt was beyond him and his simple wish – yet here she was. Not satisfied with his mouth, she continues her exploration of his body, now with her full pink lips kissing the raised skin where it has been torn and healed, moving to his nipples, licking and sucking each one, her tongue skimming his belly to his waist. Untying the rope holding his trousers, she slips her hand to his groin.
A cry rises from his heart of its own volition. Whatever control he maintained over his desire for her is gone. Removing her hand, he presses her to the ground. Her willing form lies back onto the cloaks. Her arms fall back, framing her face as he unfastens her bodice, his long fingers cup one breast then the other.
Christine unties the ribbons of her chemise, exposing her breasts. "Kiss them."
The faint light of the candle provides him a glimpse of the smooth flesh he has only imagined – fine as porcelain, like her face, the areolas round and pink – slightly puckered, inviting him to suckle.
His member already engorged from Christine's touch, aches for release. "No," he barks as she reaches for him again. "No." Softer now. "You do not know."
"I do – it will hurt at first. The girls – they talk."
"We can stop now."
"No." Lifting her skirts, she takes his hand, placing it against the opening of her drawers, guiding him to her mons.
The curls – with a texture different from her chestnut locks – coarser, like his own dark pubic hair – are already damp with her juices. Anatomy is no mystery to him – the workings of the human body – life with the gypsies provided him with an education no books could offer. Watching was both a pleasure and deeply painful. He learned to take care of his needs alone, never sharing a bed with a woman. But he remembered. The wonder of this experience threatens to overwhelm him. A rare smile breaks across his face.
"Your body is so beautiful…"
"My body wants you."
Using his fingers, he probes her opening, gently separating her folds, gently rubbing her – encouraging increased wetness. Almost by accident he touches what feels like a small button, causing her to shudder.
"There."
Ah – the magical place – a jewel tucked away – more precious than any diamond or ruby.
Her hand joins his again, directing the strokes before releasing him, surrendering her body to the sensation of his touch.
Inserting one, then two fingers inside her, feeling her body grasp them, urging him to bring her to completion. The voice he adores encourages him, until her words become moans and whispers. With a sharp intake of breath, she thrusts her hips up with one last spasm before settling back onto the cloaks.
"Now you…not fingers…inside me."
Shedding his trousers, he kneels, lifting her legs over his arms. Christine takes him in her hand and guides him to her. Modulating his movements, applying soft pressure at first, then thrusting more deeply, taking his time to judge her response. "Is this all right?" he asks as the physical pressure increases, not wishing to hurt her.
"I am fine – I feel your need. Do not stop."
With her permission, he allows himself to simply be – each movement harder and stronger until his body seems no longer his. Their bodies soon move as one. Despite his desire to prolong this duet, he is at the mercy of his body. Burying his face against her neck, he shudders and with a final thrust he cums. The feeling of her legs wrapped around his hips, her arms around his back, completes him. None of his fantasies about joining with her, is close to the actuality. Not wishing to part, he relaxes atop her – at peace.
The sound of her giggle rouses him. "Have you fallen asleep?"
Is this teasing – he is not certain. Her confidence is greater than his own. "You are a true angel – I do not deserve this."
"You do and I do." Breathing in his ear, she wriggles her hips. "Roll over."
On his back, he watches as she straddles him, rubbing herself against his flaccid cock. "What…"
Christine bends to kiss him, her breasts lying against his own as she continues to manipulate his member with her body. "I do not know – this just feels right and good."
Sitting up, she throws her head back, the smile on her lips and half-lidded eyes inform him she senses his phallus become firm once again.
Rising up enough to take him inside, she commands, "Help me."
Spellbound by her face – the shadows making her all the more irresistible – he responds, using his fingers to massage her clit, the sweet bud that aroused her earlier. Minutes or hours, he has lost track of time – only her own increased movement tells him he is free to let go. He waits until he is certain she has climaxed, then, once again gives himself over to his own release.
Tucking herself against his side, she nuzzles her head against his chin. "There were times when you were teaching me, I wished for this to happen."
"When?"
"When you spoke or sang…I was enchanted by your voice – it stirred something inside me. You entered me with your singing. These physical acts made the experience of you complete for me."
"You felt that way?"
"However afraid I may have been – I just wanted to be near you – everything else was emptiness."
"You could be reading my mind," he says. "Still…"
Pressing a finger against his lips. "No more talk."
Their coming together now is not rushed nor full of fervent need. Each kiss, each caress is filled with wonder – each takes the time to experience not just the body of the other, but of the two being one. Their movements, although slow and deliberate, build to join souls as well as bodies to reach physical ecstasy.
Christine closes her eyes, soon falling into a sated slumber. Even in sleep, she sings, a soft melody he cannot quite make out – her own composition. If only they could stay this way forever…forever and a day – not just a night – but it can only be for this one night.
"I love you with all my heart, dearest girl. You have blessed me in a way I never imagined. At no time in my life did I ever dream someone of your true beauty could care for me. There is nothing I would want more than for us to have a life together, but you deserve better and more. I ruined things for myself – I will not wish that on you. Better you should hate me. Return to the vicomte, to the life you deserve – surrounded by love and comfort – never to feel danger ever again."
Pulling away, careful not to disturb her rest, he does his best to restore her clothing. He pulls a small towel from his bag, creating a pillow to place under her head, then covers her with his cloak. He rises, putting his own clothing in order. Gathering his belongings, he snuffs the candle, before placing it in his duffle.
"Christine, I love you." Touching his fingers to his lips, he presses them against her forehead. Turning away, he moves swiftly to the stairway without glancing back. Afraid if he does, he will stay.
"Ah, you are early," Adele says as Erik approaches. "The cart is sturdy, the horse healthy - both can be easily sold at the port. Meg is asleep inside." Cocking her head to indicate the blonde girl, curled under a grey wool blanket within the wooden planks.
"The train would be faster, but too many eyes," he says, pushing past her to load his gear next to Meg. Turning back, his eyes lift to the statue of Apollo shining in the light of the dawning Sun. A quick shake of his head and his attention returns to Adele.
"Are you crying?"
"Surely you jest," he snickers. "A bit of Parisian dust clouding my eyes is all."
"Shall we?" Adele asks, accepting his hand to take her seat in the cart.
"Yes – best we get to Calais as quickly as possible – leave the past behind."