Erik tried to talk himself out of feeling so terribly foolish as he prepared to go out for the evening.
It's not like he was planning to go somewhere, no - he was merely taking a walk around the block. If he happened to pause in front of the Opera House, well, people pause in all sorts of places. Just because he was going inside didn't mean anything in particular. And just because he bought a ticket didn't mean he was actually going to have to stay the entire time.
It was simply time to go see an opera, he hadn't been to one in over ten years. Besides, the manager who tried to grab his mask off wasn't even working there anymore. Erik had been up in his rooms far too long, it was high time he went out and mingled with humanity... Never mind that he wasn't overly fond of most of humanity.
It certainly had nothing to do with how the sun reflected off her bouncy curls, or that little spring in her step, or those forget-me-not blue eyes. Besides, even if he were going because of Christine, well - Christine was a friend of Antoinette, and he was a friend of Antoinette, and that was almost like doing a favor for a friend in that case. There was nothing strange about that. Was there?
He simply wanted to see an opera, that was all.
He sat in the back, where he hoped he would be less conspicuous, and settled down into his chair. The lights dimmed and the stage lit up, the orchestra warming up. He shifted.
It was a little uncomfortable to be there, more uncomfortable than he had anticipated. He wondered what his life would have been like had he gotten the job here - what his life should have been like.
That should be him down in that orchestra pit.
Hell, that should be him up on the stage.
But it never would be. He'd never be up there, and he'd never even play for the people up there, and both because of the same infuriating reason. It bothered him more than he cared to admit, and he was very nearly about to slink back out into the night when Marguerite came on stage.
At the first note from her perfect mouth, all of those thoughts quieted.
Christine was perfection itself.
He didn't think he'd ever seen or heard anything so beautiful as her up there on that stage. He realized that when he had heard her sing in the office, she had been holding back. She had a lovely strong voice then, but this - this was otherworldly. He sat transfixed throughout the entire performance. No other voice could even come close to the pure quality of hers, it was as if he were hearing the angels themselves. She had always been rather pleasant to look at, but onstage she was radiant. His heart twisted at the sight of her, eyes sparkling and voice lilting. How could such beauty exist in a world like this one?
Before he knew it the opera was over and he was out in the street drifting home. He walked in a daze, his heart beating slightly faster, his mind replaying her arias, his entire body covered in a warmth comparable only to the morphine he used to take long ago.
He hung his coat on the coat rack out of habit and went through the motions of getting ready for bed. But as he lay there staring up the ceiling he realized sleep was not going to be soon in coming - his mind was far too preoccupied and there was an itch in his fingertips that he hadn't felt for years.
He got out of bed, threw on a robe, and made his way down to the basement. He swept his hand smoothly over the keys of the organ, clearing the dust and cobwebs away, and he sat down in front of it. A tentative touch to the keys, a test of if it still worked or not, and moments later his hands were flying across it as though he'd never left.
He revisited old compositions of his own, and started on news ones that had begun to germinate in his brain. He played throughout out the night and into the early hours of the morning, stopping only because he didn't want Antoinette to come in and hear him.
Erik decided to forgo sleep entirely, instead taking the remaining few hours to freshen up before it was time for work.
It was a day for field work, interviewing people at places of business where the latest missing person used to frequent. As such, Erik knew he wouldn't be seeing Christine, a thought that was surprisingly disappointing. Still, there were at least three more performances he was planning to see. At least when she was on the stage he could bask in her presence without frightening her or have to face her morbid curious stare.
Out on the street, Antoinette glanced over at her partner. He kept rubbing his hands and wincing. Most people thought the mask hid any sort of telling what he was doing with his face, any way of deciphering emotion, but after so many years Antoinette could always tell - the narrowing of the eyes, the slight twitch in his neck - Erik was in pain.
"Are you alright?" concern colored her voice.
"Perfectly fine," he replied.
She paused before replying gently.
"If you think you're getting another attack, you can always take the day off. I don't mind so very much. I'd much rather you head it off early than try to fight through and end up making it worse, you know."
He nodded.
"Your concern is noted."
They carried on to their destination.
How could he explain that he had been awake all night composing, that Christine was an angel sent from heaven to bless an undeserving heathen like him with the gift of music once more, that it wasn't his head that was bothering him but his hands which had grown weak and stiff after years of disuse? He couldn't, but he also knew she wouldn't push him to divulge anything he didn't want to, so he continued to rub at the sore tendons in his fingers. He knew he should take it easy, perhaps take a few days off from playing, but even still he felt the urge to play at that very moment, pain and all. He sighed. It was going to be a frustrating wait for his hands to catch up once more with his mind.
It was a relief then that in all their interviews that day it was Antoinette who took down the notes, as usual. Erik already struggled with legible handwriting, but with his strained hands he doubted he could even hold a pencil.
In the evening they compared notes and their suspension leaned towards this case being less of a missing person and more of a woman attempting to flee an unhappy marriage to a brutish husband.
"We aren't going to tell him, are we?" Antoinette held up the page of notes from the shipping docks, where the woman was last seen boarding a boat to America.
"No," Erik replied flatly. "We should string him along with false leads until she's reached her destination."
Antoinette nodded.
"And after? Perhaps it would be best if he thought his, ah, beloved wife has met with an untimely end."
"That would be best, I think. He certainly isn't going to stop looking for her otherwise," Erik paused. "Although, if you want my humbly offered opinion - perhaps it takes quite a while to find she's come to an unfortunate fate - I must say I'm enjoying the amount he's been paying us and would hate to see that end anytime soon."
"Erik!" Antoinette tried and failed to replace her laughter with a stern look.
She swatted at him with a stack of papers, but didn't say they would act contrary to his plan. He noticed this lack of correction and grinned.
"Did you see Christine in Faust yet?" she changed the subject.
Erik paused. Of course Antoinette didn't know that he had gone to every performance, all four of them so far, and had sat enraptured through each one.
"La Carlotta is still sick, so she'll be out for another week. Christine will have two more turns at the role," she continued. "You should go see her, I think you'd enjoy it. And I'm sure she'd love it if after the performance you stopped by her dressing room to tell her she did well or something. She was on cloud nine the other day telling me about the people who had showed up at her door to compliment her, just like she was a famous diva."
"Oh?"
Why did his heart do a funny little skip?
"Perhaps I will," he finally murmured. "But I don't think she'd appreciate me showing up at her door, she's afraid of me, you know."
Antoinette looked surprised. Christine had never mentioned being afraid of Erik, but now that she thought of it, Christine had never mentioned Erik at all.
"I don't think she's afraid you," she started.
Erik scoffed. He could still hear her echoing scream from their first encounter, could still see the way her eyes would dart away from him when he'd look at her, still remembered the stutter in her voice whenever she found it necessary to address him directly.
"Regardless, do you really think the poor girl wants to open her door and see this standing there?" he gestured at his mask.
"You're too hard on yourself," she shook her head.
"I am only as hard on myself as life has necessitated I be," he stated.
At the sound of her sigh, he frowned. He knew she didn't like this subject, didn't like to think of how his life was so different because of his face. She never thought differently of him because of it, and he thought that was very sweet of her, but he also felt it was rather naïve too. It might not make a difference to her, but she was in a very small minority in that opinion. Besides, she had never screamed upon seeing him for the first time.
"So the Robinson case is settled, what about the Jones case?" he offered, hoping there wouldn't be more to their conversation about his mask or Christine.
Blessedly, she dropped the subject.
The next evening he took part in the same ritual he had been for two past two weeks. He walked to the theater, hands in his pockets and gaze straight ahead of him, bought his ticket without eye contact, slouched down low in the closest chair towards the front as he dared to risk, and pulled his opera glasses out of a jacket pocket as soon as Christine came on stage.
For those next hours the rest of the world ceased to be and all there was or ever would be was Christine, Christine, Christine, like the steady beat of his heart. She was, in a word, sublime. When the performance was over his ears were still ringing with the sweet intoxication of her voice, of her very soul that she poured into those notes projected throughout the theater. What was his life before he heard her?
He lingered in the lobby, too embarrassed to ask where the performers' dressing rooms were, instead watching who went where and working it out from that. He slowly made his way to the hallway that he now knew her room would be down, pausing at the entrance for a moment.
What would he even say to her? He barely spoke to her in all the times he'd seen her before. What if she opened the door and screamed again? No, he couldn't do this.
He turned without ever even going down the hallway, walking out into the night. His hands were still shaking with nerves from the self-thwarted near encounter. He smiled wryly to himself as he shook his hands out. The best way to steady himself and gain some composure would surely be to sit at the organ keyboard for a while - and he already had a new aria buzzing in his head.
The next two workdays passed in a haze for him, his mind constantly wandering to both his music and her voice. He wondered, perhaps, if he wrote something for her, would she agree to sing it? He could think of so many lovely pieces that would suit her voice...
As he settled down into his seat one last time, the haze lifted and he felt real once again. He hung on every note, every pause, every gesture and movement of hers.
When he left his seat after the curtains fell, he walked a few circles around the lobby, trying to gather his nerve. Who knows when La Carlotta would be sick again? For all intents and purposes, this was realistically Christine's last performance for the rest of the season - at least. If he wanted to say something to her at her door, this was it. There would be no second chances.
He squeezed his hands into fists. Why was he so nervous? He hoped beyond anything that they could let bygones be bygones and start over together. He knew he was an imposing man, but surely if she could get past that then she'd find he wasn't too terrible to be around.
He was sweating behind the mask, and it was starting to itch, but he couldn't be bothered with that right now. He'd go up to her door, knock politely, and maintaining a respectful distance from her, he'd bow and congratulate her on a wildly successful run. Perhaps he'd tell her that he was a musician, that he hadn't played in years and hadn't expected to ever again until he had heard her sing. He would thank her, of course. Perhaps he would kiss her hand... He had come prepared, wearing gloves and all.
He started down the hallway which was crowded with various people there to give their respects to the lead actors and dancers, and some where even there for the cast from the smaller roles. Family members and friends and strangers from the audience all stood around various doors, some asking for autographs and some giving gifts. He should have brought her something, he thought to himself. Or was that too forward?
He walked past a rather grubby man leaning against the wall who didn't seem to be there for anyone in particular, guzzling something from a flask only to stop and stare at Erik's face - or rather, Erik's mask. Erik raised an eyebrow - though no one would have known - and frowned at the man. The man shuddered and flinched under that yellow gaze, and Erik felt the fleeting gloat of possessing such power right along with a pang of self pity and concern that that very gaze would in mere moments be turned on a young woman whom he did not wish to frighten - again.
The drunkard slipped from his mind like a ghost as he turned to see Christine's door was already open, her standing there and smiling down at a small girl of about ten for whom she was signing a program booklet. His mouth was suddenly dry and he forgot all the well rehearsed words he had planned to say. He was nearly there, nearly within distance to catch her eye, When from the opposite end of the hallway a young man arrived with a bouquet of pink roses on his arm.
"Little Lottie!" the man cried, spreading his arms wide at the sight of Christine.
"Raoul!" she cried, flinging herself into his embrace as he kissed the side of her face. "Oh, you made it! I've missed you so!"
Little Lotte? What the devil did that even mean? Lotte was in no way short for Christine. Clearly these two had history together, an inside joke or something to account for the pet name. Erik felt flushed and he was certain he was squeezing his hands so tightly that his knuckles must be bone white by now.
"You're coming to dinner with me, Lotte, no excuses, now!"
Christine laughed at this and agreed with him.
Every last nerve Erik had managed to gather suddenly left him in a spectacular crash. What was he doing here? Why did he think she'd want to see him? That she would care about his stupid music he wrote in a musty old basement? This was madness, and he was a fool to ever think otherwise.
He ducked his head and pushed on down the hallway, trying to walk as fast he could past her door without her noticing.
"You pick the restaurant, Raoul, I'm fine with anything. And you simply must tell me every detail about Antarctica, and I'll tell you all about England and- oh!"
Christine pulled back from his embrace, a frown on her face as she scanned the crowd. For a moment, she had been almost certain that she had caught a glimpse of a familiar white mask above the many faces, but as soon as she had seen it, he had disappeared again. She stood on her tiptoes and peered down to the other end of the hallway.
"What is it, Lottie?"
She bit her lip.
"Nothing, I suppose. I - I thought I saw someone I knew, that's all."
But what would Erik be doing here? No one came down this hallway unless it was to greet someone, but he had walked right past her. Did he know someone else here, maybe? She shook her head. She must have been imagining things. But still, she found the thought of Erik watching her performance was one that made her heart race. She wondered what he would have thought of how she did, if he would have liked her voice and if he thought she was better than La Carlotta in this role as several other performers had confided in her.
"Never mind, Raoul. I'll be ready to go as soon as I change out of this costume."
He grinned.
"Fifteen minutes!"
She closed her door and sighed. Erik would not have come to her performance, she would have bet anything on this. He still hated her for how she had reacted to him at their first meeting. He could barely stand to even be in the same room as her, she had noticed how often he'd find excuses to leave when she was there. Of course he wouldn't pay money to watch her for two and a half hours. No one likes to be disliked, so of course it was unpleasant to know someone disliked her, but she found herself rather surprised by just how bitter the disappointment was that came along with those thoughts. With a flip of a switch, she turned off the lights in her dressing room as she left. Turning off her thoughts of Erik proved to be a far more difficult task.