The Phantom of the Opera is copyright of Gaston Leroux.

Thanks once again to my Beta.

Perfect

"Why do you want me dressed in this?"

Erik looked up at the sound of Christine's voice. His eyes softened when he saw her standing in the doorway, nervously plucking at the fabric of the himation.

Rising, he crossed the room to take her hand and led her to a stool.

This is how I see you: a goddess. You are my muse, my Euterpe. Christine, I am nothing without you.

Christine felt her heart lighten at his gentle, complimenting words. Sitting down, she busied herself by arranging her skirts to hide her smile.

Taking her hand in his, he bowed over it, his eyes catching and holding hers. He stared entranced into Christine's eyes. He could not bring himself to look away. In her eyes, he saw all the truths she was unable to tell. He read her thoughts: her uncertainty, her excitement, her trust, her admiration and her love. In her eyes he saw softness- where he felt safe and longed to be.

With a gentle, supporting squeeze of her hand, he picked up a laurel wreath and began to weave it through Christine's hair. He would never tire of touching her. The feel of her silken hair over his fingers filled him with wonder and pleasure; and judging by Christine's closed eyes, she was enjoying the sensation as much he was.

With her hair dressed, Erik spent the next few moments instructing her how to position her body. He wanted his painting to be just how he saw Christine- perfect.

Straighten your left leg, and bend your right, my angel. Good. He handed her a flute. Hold it like this, he said touching her hands and placing the instrument in her hands. He tried once again to ignore the fluttering in his chest as his hands touched hers.

Erik said nothing else as he settled himself at his canvas. He took another moment to consider her posture.

Christine, look at me. Move at your hips and look me in the eye.

"Perfect," he whispered to himself when she nervously raised her eyes to his.

Now, do not move.

Erik spent the next several hours sketching Christine as his muse. When he was satisfied with the charcoal sketch, he turned to his paints. As the hours passed, Christine felt herself becoming increasingly restless.

She shifted ever so slightly, tired of sitting in the one position for four hours. Four hours… It had been four hours since he had spoken to her, since his hands had been threaded through her hair. Four hours since his hands had so gently touched hers as though she truly was a goddess.

She loved the way her took such great care of her. He spoilt her, sang to her, cared for her and loved her. He treated her as though she was a porcelain doll, which would break if he did not take care. When he touched her, he was so gentle; it was almost as if he was not touching her at all. Behind the brief caresses, there was a world of meaning. Each caress spoke of all the emotions they were not brave enough to share. Each caress confessed their love to the other.

Christine, what are you thinking?

Christine averted her eyes from his knowing eyes. Glancing down at the floor, she refused to answer.

"Continue whatever it was that you were thinking about; it put the most beautiful glow in your eyes."

He had been staring into her eyes for a few moments, noting the changes in the blue depths. They were clouded with boredom, and then suddenly they took on a sparkle, which lit up her face. The number of times he had seen her eyes sparkle in such a way! He had wanted to capture that look on canvas since he first saw it. Now, he would have his opportunity.

Erik continued to study Christine intensely, considering the shadows that fell across her body, unaware of her wavering focus. He turned away from her to dab more paint on his brush.

"Erik, when will I be able to see the painting?" Christine asked impatiently as she craned her neck to glimpse at the canvas.

Looking up, Erik's brush paused above the canvas. "You have moved. Straighten your back."

With a frown, Christine repositioned her body the way Erik had posed her hours ago.

When another hour passed without a word spoken, Christine sighed.

"Erik, please, may we finish for tonight? I do not think I can sit like this a moment longer."

Looking up from his canvas, Erik became aware of Christine's fatigue. Standing quickly, he made his way to her and assisted her to stand.

"I'm sorry, Christine. I lost track of the time," he said softy, her hand still clasped in his.

Christine raised her other hand to caress his mask, her eyes gentle, accepting his apology.

"When may I see the portrait?" she asked shyly as she continued to caress his face.

"When it is finished," Erik answered simply as he removed the wreath from her hair.

"When will that be?" Christine asked, as she raised her free hand, so that her fingers could entwine in his and her hair.

"After a considerable number of sittings."

Christine sighed.

"I want the painting to be an exact replica of you. But that will not be possible. I will just have to do my best." He raised both of her hands to his lips for a brief kiss.

"Why not?" queried Christine.

"I cannot achieve perfection, Christine. To me, you are perfect."

'To me, you are perfect.' is quoted from Richard Curtis' Love Actually.