I was WONDERING how long it would be before someone commented on the format of this story.
I expected the short sentences and lack of paragraphy (is that a word?) to annoy all of you from the start. I'm doing it on purpose. When I'm reading a Fic, sometimes, during long paragraphs, my mind wanders. Not because the fic is bad, but just because my attention span is rather short. So I decided to write this is small sentiments, statements, and descriptions.
I hope this does not take away from the story, although I see how it could have been aggravating in the last chapter. I'll try to be more conscious of the choppiness of the story, but I'm not promising everything. This is the way I'm writing this...sorry!
Aside from that, we've got E/C in this chapter, but it's not quite R yet...although I've heard you all loud and clear...
You love smut! j/k!
Now what's that daft Raoul up to?
Raoul slowly pulled off the gauze Madame Giry had wrapped around his head.
He kept his eyes closed for a moment.
Then he opened them, staring at the large mirror in his large bedroom.
The sight of his own face caused him to vomit.
Wiping his mouth, ignoring the mess on his floor, he glared at himself in the mirror.
More than thirty stitches ran down the length of his face.
The scar was going to be hideous.
He moved away from the mirror, feeling oddly numb.
Slowly, he moved to the far side of the master bedroom to where a safe lay inconspicuously within the wall, behind an oil painting he had never been quite fond of.
Clicking the lock to the appropriate code, Raoul swung the heavy door of the safe open.
Inside, lying amongst the thousands of dollars, jewels, and other precious family heirlooms was a mahogany box.
He lifted the box slowly with shaking hands.
He had not seen its contents in three years.
He took a breath as he opened the box.
There, gleaming as if no time had passed at all, was a white mask.
It was Erik's, given to Raoul by little Meg Giry, who had thought Raoul a hero following the events that transpired within the depths of the opera house the night the Phantom of the Opera had abducted Christine.
Raoul ran a shaking finger over the smooth, white surface of the mask.
It was freezing cold.
Despite himself, Raoul lifted the mask from the box and walked slowly back over to the mirror.
He stared at the hideous scar for a few more moments.
How could she have done this? How could Christine have actually injured him while protecting the man she wished to escape for so long? How could she have left with him?
Your blade pierced her skin as well, a nagging voice reminded Raoul.
Slowly, he lifted the half-mask to his face.
Christine's relaxed in Erik's embrace, listening to the steady beat of his heart through his chest.
He had pulled her close to him and she had obliged.
They both needed this, the closeness, the comfort.
Erik's bare arms were tight around her body, his cheek resting on the top of her head.
How right this felt! How long had they both waited to stand here, in each other's arms with no ultimatums?
Christine's head was still swimming with the effects of the brandy she had just consumed. She had heard that alcohol could desperately change the way a person behaved and had seen her share of drunks behind the scenes at the Opera Populaire…
it seemed that the effects of the drink were the same on the once pristine Miss Daee.
She pulled from Erik slightly to better observe his masked face.
He was looking down at her, his breath deep and even.
Before she even realized what she was doing, Christine's hand went to the lower corner of Erik's mask.
He grasped her wrist, knowing what she was about to do.
"No," he whispered, shaking his head.
Christine's eyes softened and she offered him a small smile. She slowly caressed the visible side of his face with her hand, causing him to close his eyes.
Again she moved her hand to the mask.
This time, he did not resist, yet he opened his eyes.
She could see the fear.
Unhurriedly, she eased her fingertips beneath the surprisingly heavy mask…
And removed it.
The horror of his face, she realized, was not as terrible as her mind remembered.
True, it was a dreadful deformity. Thin, parchment-textured skin stretched out over almost the entire right side of his face, marring what would have been breathtakingly beautiful features.
Half of his nose was concave, seemingly collapsed under the stress of the disfigurement.
Yet, it wasn't as horrible as she remembered.
He was watching her, his breath tight in his chest.
She brought her hands to the back of his head, pulling his face gently down to the level of hers.
She kissed the twisted flesh lovingly, allowing her lips to travel from his forehead down to his lips slowly.
They kissed, a soft gesture of tender feelings.
Christine could taste Erik's tears on her mouth.
In her embrace, Erik felt himself being eased back down onto the velvet chaise.
All at once, he collapsed into a softly heaving mass, his face buried in her hair, his unmasked forehead resting on her shoulder.
Christine had never experienced such a powerful man succumbing to emotions she could not imagine.
He grasped her waist, muttering her name, pulling her closer.
He lifted his head, brining his eyes to meet hers, which were also damp with tears.
"Christine…" he breathed.
She kissed him in response, moving quickly against his lips.
Intense feeling began to bubble. Erik allowed his hands to roam across her body, memorizing each curve.
He waited for the voices in his head to return, but they remained silent.
Christine whimpered, pulling him down on top of her.
He stretched his body out, gently easing his weight on top of her.
She ran her fingers amorously down his back, reveling in the feeling of the muscular physique beneath.
She wriggled, the sensation causing Erik to hiss back a curse, her body moving beneath him causing him to experience shocks coursing through his veins.
Suddenly, he pulled back, afraid that if he didn't he would not be able to stop himself.
"What's wrong?" Christine asked, looking up at him with moist lips and hazy eyes.
He caught the scent of brandy on her breath again.
She was drunk, he remembered suddenly.
He moved off of her abruptly, running his hands through his hair in pent up tension, his back to her.
Christine sat up. What had she done wrong?
Erik cleared his throat. "I fear such…activities…may not be the wisest choice, considering the levels of injury in this room," he said, his voice sounding odd.
Christine wrapped her arms around herself.
He turned, looking at her as she sat nervously on the chaise.
He sighed, moving back to one of his desks. He pulled open a draw and retrieved a stack of yellowed pages.
Walking over to her, he kept his eyes downcast as he held out the papers to her.
She took them from him after a moment.
Christine gasped as she read the contents of the pages.
Don Juan Triumphant.
She looked up at him quizzically.
"Why are you giving these to me, Erik?" She asked suspiciously.
Erik regarded her.
"This is what you wanted," he replied. He glared at her, his eyes looking…
hurt.
"This is why you came to my lair…this is why you intercepted Raoul's sword, is it not?" He pressed, sounding terse.
It was her turn to look hurt.
"You think…" she began. "You think this is why I sought you out?" She asked, her voice rising. "You think this is why I have kissed you? Touched you?"
She stood, shaking.
Erik merely continued to stare.
Christine took a deep breath.
"Well I have news for you, Erik. I don't care about the performance," she announced. "I don't care if the Opera Populaire falls victim to debt."
She was enraged, a combination of Erik's assumptions and the liquor.
"I only returned to grasp a small bit of the magic you brought me! I wanted to remain within the walls of the Opera Populaire to feel you…to hear you…to recapture just a small amount of the light that you brought to me!" She raged at him.
"Light…" Erik scoffed.
"Yes, Erik! You are not a creature of darkness…you are not the thing you think yourself to be! You have a heart, you can love…" She was crying now.
She moved closer to him, reaching out to touch his face again.
He pulled away slightly.
"I suppose I have been foolish to think all of our wounds could be mended, Erik," she said softly. "And I have no way to prove to you that I am here for you…not for this." She held up the manuscripts.
Then she looked at the fireplace, a thoughtful expression forming.
"Or do I?" She asked.
She looked at him for a moment before stalking purposely over to the roaring fire.
She stood there, the glow of the blaze making her appear even smaller than she was.
An angel in hell.
"I love you, Erik. I have always loved you. And for no other reason than because of the man you are."
And with that, she flung the papers into the fire.