If I owned POTO I would be writing it because…?
This is my first 'Phanfic', and my first serious one-shot. Flames welcome, I'll give as good as I get. Enjoy.
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No one ever knew how Christine's heart broke with his song.
Each and every time, not only when she heard, among the crashing stonework and howling mob, his tormented voice, but when he accused Raoul in wild fury, comforted when she was confused, and told her of his underground kingdom and sanctuary. Each time, her heart found a reason to mourn the man, no matter how much she reminded herself of his deformity, his ruthlessness, his rage. His uncontrollable anger was certainly something to worry about, he wouldn't be so alienated if he could only talk to someone and not fly into a frenzy or sulk if they didn't accept him, or his terms. The sweet, tender part of him, the role that she found as equally seductive as the Phantom in all his confidence, beautifully voiced glory. And what showed when he spoke of his opera, the music and work of his life, when he looked upon the velvet seats and worn wood paneling, the flightiness of the ballet girls and the frenzy backstage before Opening…. Something was reflected in his eyes, the same that reflected in hers for the madcap grandeur that was the Opera Populaire. Perhaps being at harmony with the atmosphere?
Pride?
Love?
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No one ever knew how Erik let her tear his life apart.
Oh yes, he played the aloof and bitter outcast quite well, so well, in fact, no one suspected a shred of humanity was left in him. He had bared his true self, literally and metaphorically, to the one he had admired and adored from afar….Oh, her. The child that shook his confidence to it's very foundation, the self-assurance that had taken years of torture, writing, and assurance that he was better than any of these men, smarter, a superior composer, singer, and better achieved then they could ever dream of being...But its seemed that he was not infallible to love. Obsession? It might have been, it still might be, but oh, how he doubted it all in her presence…Was he mesmerized by her voice, or the fact that she was the first woman he had ever come in contact with? Was there really affection behind those innocent eyes, or was he wishing it so hard that his own imagination merely fashioned it to keep the heart from further agony? But it didn't matter really, this misery was sweet, and he was going to enjoy it, even the anguish around the edges, as long he dared. His poise shattered, his domain crushed, his reputation ruined, and his hide sought after by the scum of society, he wondered why he missed her…
The voice, so rapt and reassuring…
The touch hesitant and tantalizing…
The fact that one day she might look and not cringe, touch and not flinch, and maybe love without caring…