A/N: A big GRACIAS (thank you en espanol) goes out to my reviewers—Phantom of the Past (you are very enthusiastic…YAY enthusiasm!), Hopeyheartbear (glad you like it!), Doomed Delight (nice…thank you), Aislin of the Shadows (Cliffhangers are fun! And yes, I wrote two of the verses…the originals didn't fit…the first goes to the tune Mdm. Giry was singing to/scolding Joseph Buquet, the second to the tune when the Phantom sings of how his mother "feared and loathed" him), Arwenprincessrivendell (I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying!), StrangeGirl (nope, not a one-shot…what, you think I'd make a fanfic about Phantom of the Opera without the Phantom? LOL…), Jamy (glad to know this means so much to you as to have you get up early on a Sat. morning!), and Neo-lover72 (I shall keep going…)
I have also taken the liberty of adding a few lyrics to the lines Christine sings in Don Juan. Please don't sue me!
And now for the chapter that is earning this story a "PG-13" rating…get ready for some…
PASSION
"No, Christine, you must push the sound out, it cannot do it by itself. Once again, from measure sixteen." He resumed his position on the organ bench, Christine standing beside him.
"…No thoughts within her head, but thoughts of joy…
No dreams within her…"
He stood up violently, and Christine jumped. Almost apologetically, he gently placed his hand on her arm softly, murmuring, "You must bring the song from here…" He put his other hand lightly on her stomach, "…to here." Slowly he made his way up her body and to her neck, sliding his fingers to her lips until he cupped her chin in his palm. "And stand up straighter; your body is an instrument. Right now, you do not own it." He gently pushed on the small of her back. "Once more."
For a moment, she did nothing, still lingering between the lines of fantasy and reality. Then she nodded and opened her mouth, only to stop again. "Ange…Erik, why are we doing Don Juan? You have spent six long years here; surely you must have done some musical work…"
He smiled bitterly. "Perfection, Christine, calls for persistence." He moved his hand from her shoulder to her hip. "Besides, my Don Juan became mere ash after the fire," he whispered darkly in her ear, his lips tickling the side of her neck.
Of course…she had forgotten the fire. Hesitantly, she said, "From the top, then?" Erik resumed his place on the seat and struck a thunderous chord. Clearing her throat, she started again.
"…No thoughts within her head, but thoughts of joy.
No dreams within her heart, but dreams of love…!
And as she walks, she sings of other times,
Of days in the sun and nights in his arms,
Of soft caresses and tender songs…"
It took a few seconds for her to recognize the silence that echoed through the chamber…the organ was no longer playing. She turned to see Erik staring at her, his emerald-blue eyes glowing soothingly in the candlelight. Her cheeks colored to a deep rose, and she fiddled with a strand of hair. He stood up and tucked it behind her ear, his eyes never leaving her face.
"Why did you come back, Christine?"
"I told you, Erik…Raoul was…"
"No." He cupped his hand behind her head and leaned her face towards his. "Why did you come back to me?"
She gazed up at him, the same question running through her mind. And then she realized. "Because when I was with Raoul, I never felt the same as I did when I was with you. It's the difference between infatuation and…"
His lips parted slightly, and he grasped her shoulder. "And what, Christine?" he prompted.
"And love, I think."
-
As he stood on the empty stairs, looking up at the ornate French décor that lined the abandoned building, Raoul was bombarded with memories of the past and recollections from six years ago that had not left him alone in sleep. The Masquerade…he peered through the window, looking up at the staircase on which the Phantom had paraded down, dressed in his "Masque of the Red Death" costume, eyes blackened, sword drawn…
"Christine, what are you afraid of…?"
He had understood, maybe subconsciously, what it was she feared. Even in his skepticism, he could not deny that he had felt a presence…he wished he could call it evil, but it wasn't. It had been dark, yes, and cold…but not evil. Loneliness…isolation, perhaps. No comfort from anything or anyone.
Well, almost anyone…
What was it about that man, that monster, that called to Christine so? What was it that made her cry out to him in the darkness, and weep, inconsolable, at the sight of a broken rose? What was it that he, Raoul, could not fulfill? Christine had been his…his wife, his Vicomtess, his flawless, untainted beauty. There had been a time when he had been able to take a walk down the street, arm in arm with his wife, and have men turn around and look lustily after her…she had not noticed, but Raoul had; and each time, he held his head just a bit higher. What happened to her, what made her long for something so hideous…?
'Pity' was the answer he gave himself. Christine felt sorry for the creature, felt he was excused for his wrong doings because of his disfigured face. Yes, Christine did not love that thing…how could anyone?
If she did not truly care for the Phantom, which Raoul felt sure of, then it was up to him to find them and save his lovely Christine. And if she really was down in the pits of that madman's lair, he would have to slay his wife's captor. He did not realize it, but something inside him wanted her to be there. If she was, he could destroy her nightmares…no more waking up in the middle of the dark to hear her singing to him, no more unnecessary tears…
But the door was locked. Stumped, Raoul ran his fingers through his hair, thinking back to something, anything that could help get him inside. His mind wandered through the thick jungles of his memories of the Opera Populaire…and then, suddenly, it came to him. He was in a back room, Madam Giry's, he believed, and she was telling him a story…
"He strangled a man…I helped him escape…took him to the Opera house…through a small gate near the back…down to the dungeons…
and there he lived…"
A small gate in the back. To the dungeons. So there was another way into the theater… Raoul looked up at the sky; it was blackening, tiny pinpricks of light scattered through the night. Not much time… He hurried down the stairs and ran down the alley, searching…
And then he saw it. Rusty iron bars, built down in the gutter of the sidewalk. Slowly, he stepped into the trench and peered into the Opera house. He saw dusty floors, a stained-glass window…but no sign of Christine. He grasped the bars, preparing to pull, when he let out a sudden shout. A huge, plump rat scurried by, dropping in through the gate and disappearing into the darkness. Wiping a hand across his forehead, he wrapped his fists around the rails and pulled…
-
Christine wasn't sure what woke her. All she knew was that when she opened her eyes, she was greeted with an empty stillness that rang through the room, causing the black netting around her bed to flutter without a breeze. Groaning, she rolled over and buried her face in the mountains of pillows beneath her. She laid there for a few moments, listening to the varying degrees of silence. As her mind wandered, she found herself thinking more and more of Erik.
Every night was the same; when she became drowsy, she would tell him she planned to retire for the night. He would respond with a grunt, too focused on his musical work to answer, and she would leave, always with a slight, disappointed pause. And when the sun peeked over the horizon, his deep voice would awaken her softly as it called to her from above, his face floating above her as if on a cloud.
That night, however, she had barely been asleep for a half-hour when she was jolted awake. If she had been having a dream, the memory of it had escaped her. When she found she could not fall back to sleep, she silently sat up and dangled her legs over the side of the bed. Slipping a long silk red robe over her cream colored lace night gown, both a gift from Erik, she pulled open the door and stepped out.
Though the chamber was always covered in shadows, to Christine, tonight it seemed unusually dark. Her eyes scanned for him, searching for his body lurking in the corner. She saw him sitting by a table, his body hunched over his desk. As she walked around him, hidden within the blackness, he spoke, his voice clear and loud. "Couldn't sleep, Christine?"
She stopped, surprised that he knew she had entered. "No," she replied frankly. "I'm curious, Erik. Why is it that you never sleep?"
Christine could see him smile, the corners of his lips turning upward slightly in the darkness. "But I do sleep, Christine. Just very rarely."
"Why?" she repeated, drawing closer to him.
He straightened up and glanced at her, his eyes sparkling. "Why should I? Humans sleep when the sun goes down, during the most beautiful time of day. And for such a thing as sleep." He turned back to his work. "What do we accomplish by sleeping that makes it so valuable?"
Christine walked up to him, head cocked to one side. "Sometimes I miss you in the darkness, though, Erik." She kissed him softly on the cheek. "Good night."
-
She was awakened for the second time that night, but this time she knew what it was that shook her from her slumber.
The door to her room opened, then shut a moment later, allowing for a small click to echo through the walls. Christine sat up and looked into the shadows. "Erik?" she whispered guardedly. Instead of answering, the figure struck a match and lit the small candle that he held in his hand. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw who stood in the doorway: a bare-chested Erik. His hair hung limply in his face, and he watched her in silence.
For a moment, neither of them moved. They simply looked at each other, their minds both locked on the same thought. Christine was the first to stir, slowly sliding her silk sheets off herself, her eyes never trailing from his body. Slipping off the bed gracefully, she stood before him, the hem of her nightgown caught above her thigh. Erik remained stock-still, his feet rooted to the spot, not a muscle on his body giving even the slightest twitch…until Christine placed her hand on the center of his chest. She felt him tense beneath her fingers, then he relaxed, stroking her hair wordlessly. Then he leaned towards her, slowly and dramatically, and kissed her, full and firm.
Everything after that was a whirlwind of heat and passion for Christine, all his touches and caresses melting together. She felt him on her, everywhere at once: her ears, her lips, her neck, her breasts, her hips, her legs. Nothing was left unexposed. All his actions were so different…Erik was so different. Raoul…when she had made love to him, he had been gentle, quiet, almost unmoved. Erik was deep, a bottomless cavern, and when he touched her, she felt as if she was on fire.
He led her, stumbling backwards almost gracefully, to the swan-shaped bed, laying her on the blankets. Christine reached up to his face, the black mask blending in with the shadows. She held him fiercely, stroking his face, running her fingers through his hair. They became one, blood racing, a sleeping bud bursting into bloom. Fires consumed them, a raging inferno all around them. Everything was spinning wildly, out of control…and then, as Christine caressed his cheek, she felt the mask fall from his face to the ground.
Erik instantly froze within her, and, upon meeting his eyes, she found his expression to be one of stunned horror. He began to withdraw, to become cold again, when Christine pulled him to her. She reached up and kissed the right side of his face, the flesh beneath her lips warm and sweating. When she let go, he shuddered against her, and she felt a tear drip onto her bare shoulder. "My love is not for this," she murmured, stroking his deformity tenderly, "but for this." She placed her hand over his heart, and she felt the beating beneath her fingers quicken.
He came back to her, full and strong.
