A/N: Hello my darlings, my only excuse is personal life trauma (everyone dying) and creative writing grad school (thesis revisions) compounding. Be assured that the chapter after this is already written and will be posted tomorrow by midnight. I apologize for my long absence, and would love to hear from you all!

Yes, they had never heard him sing. That mattered not. Exposure differed from reality, the moments of Christine's lips pressed against his…nothing in the face of the mirror. It had been nearly a week since he had seen her beyond momentary glances. Rehearsals stole her from him, and only the echo of her voice remained.

He longed for her presence in his home, it felt like a lifetime since she had been in his arms. Was he allowed to take her into his arms? It seemed a dream, a transgression he could never initiate.

He regarded his reflection: A red suit and cape, red death as a mask. Sequins and the glow of satin were nothing in the face of the gentry, and yet, he could not dare displease his darling. Christine and her blue eyes filled with tears were the only punishment he could not bear.

Erik's eyes glowed beneath the brim of his feathered hat. Christine had revered his costume with coos of delight. He could still envision the fan of her dark hair against the pink and silver of the fabrics that would soon become her dress. He was unused to being wanted, unused to the steady blue eyes that watched him as he played, imploring him for more and more.

"We'll dance, ange. Me in your arms for the world to see," she'd said, and the brush of her lips against his jaw had been so rapturous he could hardly breathe. God help him he couldn't negate his body's reaction to the thought of the room watching them as they danced, he couldn't resist her. The sunshine of his Christine in his arms. His alone. If he could only speak the pleasure at the thought of her, aswirl in fantasy, and know that of all the heartbeats of a ballroom, of all the costumed fools in the room, that Christine belonged to him alone.

He would be hers. Her escort. The arm beneath her soft hand, the face entrusted to all of her smiles. Yet, the fear remained. A mask among many, the Red Death. Death masked, and death's head once more with the mask removed, and yet she kissed him… She kissed him so fervently that he almost died, whispering sweet music against his ears. Anything she commanded he would do. He would suffer the flames of hell for one touch of her lips.

And so it was. He tightened the tie of his cape, one final glimpse into the mirror: it was time. A red rose in his shaking hands. A red rose to tuck in the wildness of her dark hair. A deep breath, a mirror, the door to his Christine who stood flushed and waiting for him. A blaze of rosy cheeks and cream-pale arms. His salvation.

The miracle and the curse of being alive.

Christine waited by the mirror, cheeks aglow. She had avoided Raoul, scorned the cursory bribery of a fundraising ball for her angel. For her Erik. The low hem of her dress-sleeveless, glistening. She could barely believe that she regarded herself in the mirror. Surely the blushing creature before her was the princess of an oft-remembered fairytale. It could hardly be her own reflection! The curves of her body, the way her cheeks glowed with the memory and intention of kisses given.

Erik, her Erik. Hers to dance with and hers to keep. Erik, and his glowing gold eyes. Erik, who was almost a whole minute late. The timepiece above her door ticked in syncopation. One-two-three, one-two-three. And the mirror opened.

He stood, shy deference in the curve of his spine and in the softness of his eye, extending a solitary rose.

"You came," she said, though she had never doubted he would. She had so rarely doubted him. He looked so fine and untouchable in the red velvet and satin of his costume, the horrific faux bone of his mask looming from the shadow of his collar.

"Christine," he said, and she heard the longing in the syllables of his name, the softness in the caress of his voice. She trembled even now to hear the depth of his wanting in the air.

"Erik," she said, and stood on tiptoes to draw the mask from his face. She pretended she did not see the flinch that shook his frame, or the way his eyes drifted to the floor. She wished she had the courage to deem his mask unnecessary, his face perfect in her eyes. Instead, she pressed a lingering kiss to the hollow of his cheekbone, the corner of his mask.

"You look wonderful, the gods of old do not deserve the image of your loveliness, my Christine." She trembled under his gaze, accepting the soft caress of his hand, the rose he offered instead of a kiss.

It had been her intention to look beautiful. Meg had helped her twist each individual curl to perfection; she'd rubbed rosewater into her pulse points, and rouge into her cheeks. She wanted him to be glad they were going to dance. She wanted him to be proud to have her by his side.

She had not bargained on the way his gaze seemed to burn her alive, the tension in his shoulders as he tucked the rose behind her ear. "Christine," he whispered, and she felt the religion melt from her body and into the floor. There was only Erik now. Erik and the dreams that plagued her through the night and woke her overheated and wanting things she could barely explain.

Erik was shy, but there was only so much a man could take. His hand curved around her waist and pulled her tight to him, her back to his chest as he breathed the scent of roses from the curve of her neck. "Will you return with me tonight?"

For a moment, fantasy overtook her: Erik atop her, Erik's hands upon her, his voice murmuring at her secret places. "What?"

"I made you a chamber." His lips trailed up her jaw. "So that you'd need never leave my side should you wish to stay."

"Erik-"

"Will you stay, after? For tonight. I swear that I shall not touch you." His hands ran over her arms as he spoke, sending tremors through her.

Christine rather wished he would touch her, but decided that was the type of information that Meg had deemed expository and moreover was beginning to find herself rather breathless at the way his breath tickled her ears.

"I missed you, and with all of these rehearsals you should have a space of your own."

"I have my bed in the dorms," Christine said.

"A place to bathe, to rest, where I can care for you above all else. You shall be safer with me…"

"Erik," she said, and tried to make those two syllables contain the depth of her emotions.

"Oh Christine, would it be a transgression too great for forgiveness if I were to taste your lips?"

"Please," Christine said, "Please."

Erik kissed her as though he never would again, pressing her pliant body against the mirror, holding the weight of her between his hands. Christine felt as though she were drowning, and parted her lips to breathe better only to feel the caress of Erik's tongue.

How had she gone almost a week without this, without Erik's voice, without the touch of his lips or the way she simmered when he touched her? He pulled back at last, leaving her reeling.

It had been too long since they parted, a lifetime since she had felt the touch of his lips. Now, she felt those lips ghost her collarbone, her temple, the corner of her mouth. He kissed her carefully, as though she were a monument he was unallowed to defile.

"Your every breath is a melody, Christine," He purred, and she trembled, turning to face him. Beneath her palms, his heartbeat raced.

This was new, the intimacy and allowance of touch, Erik's chest beneath her palms, his cool hand stroking her brow. His lips, awkward and ugly to the rest of the world. She thought only of how she had kissed them. Her hands trailed over his arms, to take his hands in her own.

"Will you kiss me again," she said, before she could think.

"I would raise myself from the dead to touch my lips with yours," he said. His breath on her cheek, his lips so, so close.

"I want you to love me enough to live for me," she said, "You're a man, you're alive. No one has to be resurrected for us to kiss."

"Is that what you wish, Christine? Another kiss from your monster?"

"A kiss from you, Erik. My maestro, my ange,"

The room smelled of roses, and he was so very close. The mirror against her bare back was cool, and as he leant into her, she felt herself dissolve.

The room glistened, spun with sloshed champagne and fabrics to bright for the eye. Diamonds and stones of past scintillated in the candlelight. The string quartet spun above it all, ethereal, but slightly flat.

Christine found herself wishing she could see the curve of Erik's lip, the angles of his cheekbones. Irregular as his face was, it was his. She had grown accustomed to the privilege of his facial expression. The mask of death was cold. Unkissable.

"Ange," she said, as Andre and Firmin approached, "Be kind." She felt Erik's agreement in the squeeze of his hand. Erik who had tucked the rose in her hair and declared her his most precious gift. Erik. Her Erik.

"Madamoiselle Daae, and…" Andre said, and bowed low, tugging Firmin with him. "And who might we have the pleasure of…"

"Erik Duran, the diva's maestro," Erik said in a way that seemed to echo over the music of the room. The timbre of his voice was enough to send shallow trembles through Christine's body. The shimmer of violins and laughter spilled around them as Andre and Firmin assumed their best imitation of intrigued, yet uninterested bystanders.

"Monsieur, it is an honor," Firmin said,

"The ballerinas say that Miss Daae was taught by a monster-"

"My maestro is only a monster when I neglect my vocal exercises," Christine said, "Otherwise, he is wholly a man. In every way." Her gaze found Erik's. There was something about the mask she wore that made her bold. It was as if all her preconceptions burned away to reveal the woman underneath. To reveal the bravest part of her, the part that kissed him. The part that loved him. Love, an emotion held between breaths, between secrets and sheet music. The feeling that lived between her sheets at night, the space between dreaming and awake. Her defense leapt, her possession evident in the curl of her hand around Erik's trembling wrist. "I would be lost without his guidance."

"Indeed," Andre said, eyes gleaming. He had always had an eye for scandal.

"Christine speaks of me too fondly, her voice was angel-gifted before ever we spoke. The moment I heard her, I was enraptured," Erik's voice brushed over her, a caress amidst the crowded room.

Somewhere a glass shattered followed by the high drone of laughter, drawing the manager's attentions. They withdrew as quickly as they arrived.

"Will you dance with me, Christine," Erik said as the waltz began.

"Of course, ange."

He took her into his arms, and pulled her tight against him. She did not resist, she had never been able to resist Erik-not when he was an angel and certainly not now when she could feel the heat of his long-fingered hand in the hollow of her back. Certainly not now after the heat of his gaze convinced her that they were alone in the world.

Against propriety, she pressed herself to him. Her masked and elegant suitor, tall above the crowd. He pulled her close, so close she felt as though she might drift away. There was nothing for her but Erik and the music. She found herself wishing that they were below the ground. She resented the mask he wore, fuller than his usual disguise. She resented the way she could not bury her face into the hollow of his neck and feel the jump of his pulse beneath her fingertips.

Societal separation was unbearable. Christine was no stranger to desire. She had desired an angel to be a man, desired that man to love her. Now that she had kissed him, and now that she had heard the fervency of his voice in wanting. He had pressed her against the mirror as though she were an undeserved gift. He had touched her like she was salvation. She could still feel the burn of his hands against her waist, tentative and shaking at first, then possessive enough to steal the breath from her lungs.

"CHRISTINE," Meg's voice cut clear through the room, and Christine caught her gaze. Raoul stood beside her, eyes wide with hurt and shock.

"You didn't tell me the boy would be here," Erik said.

"I didn't care enough to remember," she said firmly, and in full view of everyone, stood on her tiptoes to press her lips to his masked cheek.