In the course of weeks, Christine's pneumonia cleared and she could breathe easily again without painful coughing. She could sleep easier too, though she still suffered from the aches and pains that the unfairly portioned laudanum couldn't mask—Erik had spoken with Martin about his concerns for Christine's possible dependence, and she had seen to making certain that a strict schedule was followed to prevent the gradual increase of doses at shorter intervals, despite Christine's pleas for both.
Her arm was out of the sling now, and she was slowly gaining back some modicum of strength in it as she attempted normal tasks. Martin still came every day to work with her, and after what seemed an eternity to Christine, she declared her recovered enough to receive visitors.
Chirstine had begged him to allow her to send a telegram to Meg, and he assisted in her doing so even though he was loath to have two giggling women in his home for who knows how long, gossiping about dresses and tea cakes and boys or whatever else they talked about.
Meg arrived soon after receiving the telegram, and Erik answered the door politely, ushering the very quiet Meg to Christine's room where she swiftly closed the door behind her.
To his surprise, for the entire two hours she was there, there was no giggling to be heard, and though this should have pleased him, he was discomfited to find that it didn't. He stayed holed up in his office for her visit.
Inside her room, her confession hung in the air between them. Christine bit her lip hard and looked away, embarrassed. Meg studied her closely. She had barely gotten her greetings out of the way before Chirstine had blurted the words out, stunning her.
"You aren't falling in love with him," she told her friend carefully. "You just think you are."
"I know!" Christine cried with despair. "That's why I said I think I'm falling in love with him!"
Meg rolled her eyes, trying to hide it.
"He's being nice to you and you're mistaking it for something else. You're grateful to him for saving your life, that's all. Need I remind you this whole thing started because you didn't love him and didn't want to be married to him? Goodness, Christine, if you tell him you love him now he'll laugh in your face and probably turn you out. You can't push a man like that, playing with his heart. I don't think you should say anything."
"I know," she said miserably, picking at the edge of her blanket.
She thought of how he still got that guarded look in his eyes when she was too nice to him, when she smiled just a little too long. Love was out of the question for them now, she was almost certain. And it was so hard to know her own mind anymore. Weeks upon weeks of isolation and illness and pain had forced her to cling to the only things around her and distort them until they were bearable. Had she not been Gustave's daughter, Erik probably wouldn't have even cared what became of her. She sighed.
"You're just antsy because you haven't seen a man who isn't Erik for what, three months now?" Meg said teasingly, her lips curling into a little grin.
"Meg!" She huffed, swatting weakly at her friend, but she was smiling as well. "You're probably right," she admitted. "It's nothing, really. It means nothing. How is everyone at the opera house?"
They stayed and talked on every subject that had come up in her absence, and when Meg finally had to leave, they parted with a few tears on Christone's part and a gentle hug. Meg was reserved when Erik took her to the front door, her face a mask to hide any emotions. Erik had given up the pretense of small talk and said nothing, merely thanking her for keeping Chirstine company as she walked out the door, and that was it.
Meg came back as often as she could, a few times a week, and they were always quiet together in her room. Erik noticed that after her visits, Christine was a curious mix of melancholy and comforted.
"What's the matter?" He asked once evening after her visit as he brought her a tray with her dinner on it.
Christine frowned.
"It's not fair," she said softly. "I want to be on stage still. I love seeing Meg and hearing about everything, but it just reminds me that she's up there and I'm in here and I'll never sing again, and I hate it."
She wiped a hand across her face, angry at the hot tears that were dripping down her face without her permission.
Erik sat down in the chair next to her bed.
"What makes you think you'll never sing again?"
She sniffed hard, looking up in confusion.
"Will I?"
He shrugged.
"It will take time, but just like you'll learn to walk all over again, you'll be able to sing. One day. The accident didn't destroy your voice, Christine."
She took a few steadying breaths. She could sing again? Be on stage? She could scarcely fathom it right now, laying in bed, her body still broken and throbbing with pain as it knit itself back together. Was there really a future for her under the limelight once more?
"Do you think so?"
"I wouldn't see why not. If you wanted it."
For the first time in a long time, she felt a tiny spark of hope. Maybe there was a future for her, after all. She rubbed at her eyes again, for a different reason this time.
"Thank you, Erik," she said, not able to look at him.
He nodded, then stood and left her to her dinner. In the kitchen, he took his own portion of the meal and ate it standing up. His back ached from sitting at his desk all day, working. Sometimes he still seemed like a child, talking about what was fair and what wasn't. He jabbed his fork at the piece of chicken on his plate. Life wasn't fair. He would have thought she'd learned that by now. He'd learned it far before the age she was now. Did she want to talk about fair? He wasn't even allowed up on stage, not even once, looking the way he did. At least she had got to be a performer for a little while before she had pissed away her opportunity by letting the boy—
He pressed away the bitter thoughts. They still showed up from time to time, and part of him expected they always would. The past was the past and none of them could change it, but it would always haunt them, just a little.
She'd be out of practice, and majorly so. She would need lessons. He took a swig of wine, then another. Gustave had so dearly wanted her to succeed in singing, to be a respectable performer who could support herself solely on her talent and not have to rely on other incomes. He downed the rest of his wine and poured a second, then a third glass.
He would never be allowed on stage. He had long since accepted that. He'd trained as best he could with the tutor given to him by his father, had devoured every book on the topic he could get his hands on, had really thought he would make something of himself through music. Until he had mentioned his young, starry-eyed hopes to his father one day, just trying to make conversation, trying to involve his father in his life, and his father lost his temper, telling him harshly that there was no future for him, especially in a field where people had to look at him, and that the only reason he was paying for a music tutor and singing lessons for the boy were so that he would be blessed with several hours a day that he didn't have to be reminded he had such a hideous, terrible son.
Erik had been inconsolable for weeks. His father never mentioned it again, never acted like the conversation had even happened. The tutor kept coming, presumably none the wiser as to the reason he was there.
And once he had run out of tears, little Erik had made a decision.
He was going to love music so hard, study it so devotedly, understand it so much better than anyone else, that he would become music, a thing of pure, exquisite beauty. And if people didn't want him? If people overlooked him? Then it would be their loss entirely. He was going to be the best musician there ever was, and if they shunned his gift then it was their world they had made all the more terrible for themselves because of it.
He had spent decades devoted to his art, his deep love for it fueled by burning spite for those who would turn their noses up at him. And he had succeeded—he was talented and knowledgeable and no one knew music quite like he did. And yet the fact remained that very much of his talent and hidden beauty was just that—hidden. If he had a student he could train, he knew that student would reach great heights, except—why the devil should he? What did he care for some privileged young person who had the entire world laid before them on a platter, ready for the taking? Why should he impart his hard-earned knowledge to someone unworthy, someone who otherwise wouldn't look twice at him?
But someone had looked twice at him—Gustave Daae. Or rather, he had looked at Erik and hadn't had to look away. Ever since they had first met on that street corner where Gustave had been playing his violin, Gustave had treated him no differently than one might treat a best friend or member of the family. Gustave alone had shown himself to be the one redeeming member of the human race that had so often excluded Erik from its ranks, and he would do anything for that man. He would have stopped death itself, if he was able.
He hadn't been able.
But he could still ensure that Gustave's daughter would have the kind of life Gustave had wanted for her. And wouldn't that give the middle finger to society? The little immigrant girl succeeding with the help of the disfigured outcast? All of Paris would stop in their tracks to marvel at this thing they had so carelessly cast aside without thought.
Christine had cheated on him and used him and broken his heart, but this was not about her—this wasn't for her. He took one last drink of his wine, finishing the glass. She might have done all those things, but she was still the only one he would consider molding into a star, for Gustave's sake. The man's friendship had meant the world to him, and there was nothing he wouldn't do for him. Even this. Erik would form her voice into something exquisite, and she would perform on all the stages of France and beyond and when she did so, she would be representing him up there—his training, his knowledge, his expertise. When he went outside, he wore a mask to present himself to the world. When Christine went up on stage, she would be his mask, and it would be not just her but him that they heard. He would find his voice on stage through her. He didn't have to trust her for that to be the case. He didn't even have to like her.
He placed the dishes in the sink with slight difficulty, frowning at them as they clinked a little too loudly. Leaving them for tomorrow, he lurched down the hallway, thinking of telling her about his grand plans for the future—their futures, but not a future together.
He stopped just outside her room, placing a hand on the doorframe and squinting his eyes at the closed door. He was drunk, he realized, and he had just enough sense left to know that she probably wouldn't enjoy him bursting into her room, swaying and slurring about how he hated all of Paris and that was why he was going to teach her again.
He sighed and made his way back to his own room, leaving the conversation for later. But the next morning he felt reserved again, and didn't tell her after all. Perhaps it was petty of him— or perhaps it was wise to hold back in case he changed his mind. But after all, hadn't the girl hidden plenty of things from him in the past? The news could wait a little longer—she wasn't fit to sing for months still anyway.
It wasn't long after this that Martin began to show her exercises she could be doing to gain strength in her legs again, and helping her to stand for short periods of time before working up to taking some short steps. Soon Christine was able to move from the bed to her chair with only minimal help and pain. With her shoulder nearly recovered, she was able to roll herself about for very short periods of time, though she tired easily.
She rolled herself out of her bedroom sometimes, down the hall and into the living room. Erik gave her uneasy looks as she moved carefully about. She assured him she wasn't going to bump into anything and break it, but that didn't seem to be his worry.
Each time she rolled out of her bedroom, passing through the doorway, she couldn't help but notice the cutouts in the doorframe, how they marred the beauty of the house, the fine wood with pieces missing now, and all so she could live a little easier. She sat in the living room, the only room that was easy for her to get into, and watched Erik as he passed by, giving her that odd look again before he continued on his way, still working hard to afford everything they both needed. It was not lost on her that he was like that door frame, too, and that her being here and being taken care of had also carved out some vital piece of his heart and in his mind. She only hoped that both were not irreparably damaged from it all—from her. Surely there were ways to repair wood? And afterwards it would look almost like nothing had ever happened at all? She desperately needed to believe so.
Martin called him into her room one day, and he stood there awkwardly, baffled as Martin showed him each move Christine was supposed to be doing, how to help her from the chair to the bed and vice versa, and how to make sure she didn't fall as she walked those few wobbly steps from the bed to the chair and back.
"That's good progress," he said, thinking that was why she was showing him.
Martin gave a nod in agreement.
"And it's important her progress not be halted," she told them. "That's why you'll have to help her the next three days while I'm out of town."
Erik faltered.
"What?" He and Chirstine asked at the same time.
"A family matter has arisen and I need to go and tend to it. I'm very sorry. Starting tomorrow I'll be gone for three days, and in that time I'd like you to continue just as we've been doing. It's crucial to your healing."
Christine said nothing, her mouth a thin line. Erik cursed to himself silently. He didn't mind that she was here in his house, that he had to cook for her, but this? Helping her stand up and walk, while holding on to her arms? He hadn't agreed to this. But it seemed he had no choice.
Martin finished her work with Christine and took her leave.
The next day came sooner than Erik was hoping, dreading the moment that they had to be close to each other once more.
He appeared in her doorway around noon, hesitating there as she peered at him from her place on the bed, uncertain.
"Are you ready?" He asked, his throat dry. She nodded.
He entered her room and held his hands out to her just as Martin had instructed. She slid down off the bed under her own volition, reaching for him, hovering her hands just above his arms, not quite touching, not yet. She took a few steps forwards, and he took a few steps back. She stumbled, grabbing onto his arms, and returned in kind, holding on to her, keeping her steady and upright. She looked at him, their eyes meeting, time seeming to pause. She smiled a little, a wobbly, timid smile, and he returned it. She took a few more steps, still holding onto him, a strange dance they were sharing. He turned around and led her back to the bed, noting how she was wincing every so often.
She hadn't asked for more pain medicine—she'd given up when she realized no amount of asking was going to get her more. He knew from firsthand experience how difficult it was to stop once a substance became a dependence, and he didn't want that for her. Her tearful requests for just a little more, just a little sooner had been hard to deny, but he had to admit that it hadn't been that hard to refuse her, not when he remembered her little dalliance with Raoul de Chagny. Ever since she'd learned to move about by herself, Erik had taken to storing the bottle of laudanum in a locked box. He knew, of course, that she cried sometimes during the night—whether from pain in her body or from pain in her heart thinking of everything and everyone she'd lost, he wasn't certain. He had worried at first that perhaps he was withholding doses from her in a subconscious attempt to punish her, but he was giving her as many doses as Martin had said to give her, and Martin had assured him she was getting enough.
He helped her back into the bed, his traitorous hand trailing just a little too long on her shoulder, patting her back after she was settled.
"There," he breathed, pulling away from her as she smiled sweetly at him. He cleared his throat and looked away, retreating to the hallway.
She squeezed her hands around the blanket, watching him go. Had she done something wrong?
Erik was nearly shaking with rage and revulsion at himself—he might try to deny and protest and pretend it wasn't the case, but deep down he knew the cold, harsh, ugly truth—he still loved her. When there was space between them he could avoid the uncomfortable thought. When she was right in front of him, clinging to him, smiling at him, wearing that plain little nightgown with no corset—he was still possessed by his love for her.
He stalked to the kitchen, grabbing a plate from the sink to smash on the ground but paused, glancing at her room. She would hear it and get scared. He squeezed his fist around the plate, hurrying outside and closing the door behind him before taking aim and hurling the plate against the side of the house. It shattered with a satisfying sound and he let out the breath he had been holding, running a hand through his hair. He'd thought he was better than this, that he was something other than a poor dog at her feet, willing to take any mistreatment from her and still lick her hands afterwards. He squeezed his eyes shut and placed a hand over them. Why was he like this?
He went back inside, trying to be quiet, trying to calm the voices in his head that were telling him was a pathetic fool. He needed some space away from her.
"I'm going out," he told her stiffly, appearing suddenly in her doorway. "I'll be back tonight."
"Oh." She blinked owlishly. "Where are you going?"
He said the first hurtful thing that came to his mind.
"The Bois de Boulogne."
He relished in the look of shock that flashed across her face, then felt immensely disgusted with himself.
"For a walk," he added lamely, and she glanced away, her brow furrowing. She didn't believe him, maybe, not entirely at least—but if the thought that he was going out to pay a visit a prostitute hurt her, well—let it.
Besides, she had no right to be hurt over it. She'd done far worse to him while they were married.
"I'll send a telegram to Meg on my way," he added, his voice a little softer. "I'll let her know that she should come over tomorrow if she has time, to—you know—help you."
She nodded, trying to put on a brave face.
"Thank you."
He turned and left, feeling slightly bad about what he'd said. He went to send the telegram, visited a bakery afterwards, and slowly walked home. She wasn't owed an account of how he spent his time.
She was quiet when he went in that evening to give her her dinner and her medicine. She gave him a funny look as he deposited the tray over her lap, her eyes lingering over him with uncertainty. His eyes met hers for a brief moment and she looked away, embarrassed.
Had he really just—been with a woman? And then come in and given her her dinner like nothing had happened? She didn't know why she felt so strange about it. Opera patrons came and went backstage all the time, she'd even accidentally walked in on them sometimes—she was used to that, to the idea of that. So why did the thought of Erik having done something like that make her feel so unsettled in a way she couldn't put her finger on?
"Thank you," she mumbled, fiddling with her spoon in her crock of soup, not able to look at him.
"Of course," he said, his eyes still resting on her. He left her to her dinner and tried to push his own jumbled emotions from his mind.
He settled himself at the dining room table to eat his own dinner, alone, trying to will his heart into remaining distant from her. He couldn't teach her while she still lived with him—it would be too much. She had to go somewhere else before he could share music with her again, needed that barrier of space and time away from her if this was going to succeed.
Meg came by the next day to help Christine in the bath, and as she left after her visit, Erik pulled her aside.
"Meg," he stated, and she hesitated on the doorstep, turning to look at him. "Is there room for Christine to stay with you for a while?"
Meg began to protest but he held up a hand.
"Not right away," he clarified. "But after she's better. When she can walk without the concern of falling again. When she doesn't need so much laudanum to get through the day. If I were to pay for her needs, and added a little extra for you and your mother, would she be able to stay comfortably with you until she's recovered enough to begin working again?"
Meg's expression changed at the mention of the little extra for her. She smoothed down her sleeves, considering.
"I'll talk to Maman about it," she replied. "I can't guarantee anything, but I think we could make it work."
"Good." He nodded. "Thank you."
She nodded her goodbye and went on her way.
Erik breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the door behind her. He couldn't have Christine living with him forever. Knowing there was a future day she would be leaving made it all the more bearable, all the easier to quash those little thoughts that came up about how wonderful—and horrible—it would be if she stayed with him. She wasn't going to stay with him—she wasn't his. And he should be thankful for that, because he deserved far better than the little lying Delilah. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself.
Christine had no idea why, exactly, Erik seemed so distant from her, but she took it as a sign that he really didn't still harbor any remaining feelings for her. She'd probably destroyed the last of them with her cheating and lying, and she would have to live with that. But she did wish, even still, that he would talk to her a little more. She was so lonely, even with Martin and Meg. When she had been at school and then at the opera house, there had always been someone nearby to talk to, and she missed the near constant chatter to occupy her mind.
But Erik had taken to hiding away in his office, hard at work on blueprints and who knew what else, and she didn't want to disturb him. Those long afternoons seemed to stretch forever, the time between breakfast and lunch and then lunch and dinner—meal times were the only times he came to see her, barring the occasional knock on her door asking if she was okay. Even then he only spoke a few words to her, just enough to make sure she was comfortable, and then he retreated to his own world once more.
With her slowly returning strength, she was able to put herself into her chair from the bed, taking a few wobbly steps here and there. In Erik's absence she took to rolling herself out into the other rooms, trying to pass the time on her own. Erik was aware that she was doing this, though he paid her little mind as she did so, only asking if she wanted something when he saw her. She always answered no, too ashamed to admit that she wanted his attention—something she knew she wasn't entitled to.
It was during one of those afternoons that Erik, in the midst of making some revisions that a client had asked for, suddenly heard the soft, muffled sound of someone sobbing.
Fearing the worst, he sprang up to search for Christine. Not in her bedroom, not in the living room, not in the dining room or kitchen—he found her in the library, crumpled on the floor.
"What's happened?" He asked loudly, his mouth dry and his pulse beating wildly.
She looked up at him from where she was sitting on the floor, a few steps away from her wheelchair, and he realized she was holding something.
"I didn't know you had this," she said through her tears, cradling Gustave's violin in her arms. "I didn't know what had happened to it—I thought I'd never see it again."
Erik slowly steadied his breathing, coming over to where she was. She wasn't hurt—at least he didn't think so. She was just sad.
"Come here." He reached down and helped her to her feet—a difficult task because she wouldn't let go of the violin. He ended up practically picking her up and setting her back in the wheelchair as she continued to cry. As before, she was still too lightweight.
"Let's—let's get you somewhere more comfortable," he said, pushing her chair out to the living room, where he settled her on the couch and placed a blanket over lap.
She sniffled, still hugging the instrument, tears still running down her face.
"I was so afraid he'd had to sell it," she said, her voice shaking. "I was afraid to ask. I thought—maybe he'd had to sell it like everything else. But you saved it. "
Erik sat awkwardly on the other end of the couch.
"He left it to me. We met because of that violin, you know. He was playing on the street corner, and I thought he was a marvelous player, and I told him so, and he asked me to stay and talk and I did—" he gestured vaguely. "And the rest is history."
Christine tried to scoot closer to him.
"How long did you know him?" She sniffled.
"Six years."
Her brow furrowed.
"That must have been right after I left for school."
Erik nodded, moving closer since he could tell that she wanted to be nearer but the movement was painful for her.
"He missed you, I think. That's why he was so keen to talk to strangers on the street. But he was proud that you were able to get the education he never had."
Christine wiped at her cheeks, trying to clear away the tears.
"He was always friendly, to everyone. He loved talking to people," she said. "But—you two must have been very close, for him to leave you his violin. It was his most prized treasure."
Erik observed how she clung to it like a lifeline, her little hands anxiously grasping the old rosewood as though if she just held on tightly enough, she wouldn't lose her father.
He shook his head.
"You were his most prized treasure, Christine."
She broke out into fresh sobs, doubling over the violin in her lap, and Erik closed the rest of the gap between them, sitting right next to her and placing a comforting hand on her back as she cried. She surprised him by letting go of the violin just enough to snake one arm around his waist, leaning into him and crying onto his chest.
It was unspoken and unacknowledged, but the implication remained, and Christine was all too aware of it regardless of how she felt about it—Gustave had entrusted his most beloved treasures to Erik—both of his treasures.
"I never even got to say goodbye," she sobbed, her face buried in Erik's shirt. He tentatively put another arm around her, holding her.
He said nothing, his mind wandering back to his own last conversation with Gustave, trying to remember if he'd even said the words "goodbye" to him or not, or if he'd just promised that he would bring Christine back and that he would see him soon and that he should try to drink the tea Erik had made for him. He blinked hard against the sting in his own eyes as he tried to comfort Christine, rubbing gentle circles on her back, his mind far away.
Was it better that way? How would he have even begun to consider all the things he would have wanted to say to him, if he'd known it was their last conversation.
"He knew," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "He knew you loved him. And you know he loved you."
She nodded, desperate.
He wanted to say something nice, something pointent and flowery about how it wasn't the end, how she would see him again one day in the next life, but he could scarcely understand and comprehend this current life—how could he give assurances about any life that might be yet to come?
"Do you want me to play it for you?" He asked around the lump in his throat.
She pulled back from him, blinking.
"Please." She offered the instrument up to him, reluctant to let it go.
He took it gently from her hands, handling it with reverence. It was the first time he'd played since Gustave had gone. He'd set it in his library after it had become his, and hadn't touched it since. Christine must have spied it and taken a few steps forwards to pick it up, too caught up in her emotions to worry about falling. He shamefully hadn't even considered telling her about the violin—they'd both had too many other things on their minds the entire time—and he realized now with a pang that he'd always kept his library door closed. Christine must have instinctively avoided the room, assuming it was something private, and had only happened to see inside after he'd left the door open. He hadn't meant to keep it from her—both the knowledge of her father's violin and the many books that lined his library shelves. She might have enjoyed reading something other than the few books of her own she had on her dresser.
He stood and set the bow to the strings and began to play as she watched him intently, a few tears still rolling down her cheeks. He had to close his eyes, afraid he would start crying too, afraid his hands would tremble so hard he couldn't play anymore.
He played an old folk song he'd heard Gustave play countless times, and when he was finished he opened his eyes to see Christine staring at him with her hands over her mouth to keep from crying. Feeling on the verge of breaking down himself, he carefully set the violin aside and stooped down to hug her, an embrace she swiftly returned.
Without thinking he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, not a romantic gesture or a hopeful one, but a fatherly one, a protective one. She didn't protest it, only held tightly to him as they sat on the couch together. They had both been through a loss that only the other could understand.