The smile he so loved was slowly fading as she watched him hang his head and stretch. Lowering her fingers at his soft suggestion, she hadn't realized she was doing it so often. "I'm sure I could find something to keep me occupied," she replied warmly, still watching him with that intense sort of wonder. "I never see you appearing tired in the least. I would think you would take advantage of it." Just teasing slightly, she stood slowly, watching the roll of his shoulders. Tentatively she reached out, fingers skimming the material of his robe. "I could make you some tea," she offered, trying to decide whether or not she should actually touch him to rub the muscle begging to be eased. "I am not all that tired. Just physically. My body is having a difficult time keeping up with my mind." When she mentioned tea he laughed softly. Their roles were switched; , usually he was the one to make the tea. The unmasked side of his mouth drew up in a partial grin and he glanced toward her. "If you would like. Though do you not think that drinking tea would have me do the opposite of what you wish me to? Perhaps that is why I do not sleep much." Lowering his head again he ignored the errant strands that flicked the side of his cheek. Tried to, anyway. He huffed at them once or twice, then gave up.
Deciding that yes, she did wish to touch him, she pressed her hand to the place where his shoulder met his neck, kneading as she often did to her own calf muscles. She didn't know what was good or bad, only what felt good to her when she did it to ease the tension after dance practice when she hadn't warmed up to a suitable degree. He tensed sharply at the first contact of her fingers, but when she began kneading, he urged himself to relax. He couldn't remember a time he last had a massage. Then again … he'd never had one beyond his own hands. He never let anyone get close enough to relieve the tension, not even the harem the Khanum had so .. kindly.. graced him with. Christine felt his muscles jump under her touch, and nearly pulled back. He tipped his head before she could, releasing an audible breath. And now, as her fingers touched the naked skin of his neck, tips brushing his lower back as they pushed against the muscle, she could feel the rampant beat of his heart, thudding thickly against the flesh.
"Well, you're being stubborn," she stated with a slight pout. "Since I'm quite sure you wouldn't sleep even if I asked it, I thought I should wake you completely so you won't look so dreadfully exhausted." Those falling hairs hadn't gone unnoticed, but for the moment, this was all she would give, as even this was tentative. Slowly he nodded, only half listening to her words, the other half masked by the thumping of his heart. "... If you would like to make the tea.." Trailing off, he shifted his forearms against his thighs and thoughtlessly tipped his head to the side, granting her fingers access to more skin. Reddening - though he couldn't see it - she took a step closer to be able to press her palm into the knot he called a muscle. "I don't think I ever drank so much tea until I met you," she continued softly, trying to keep herself conversing with him so she didn't feel so heated. It wasn't working.
Doing well in keeping the comfortable sound from his throat, he drew in a slow breath instead, then allowed it to pass between parted lips. Chuckling deeply, something she'd surely feel with her hand against his back, he glanced toward her briefly. "I have always had a penchant for tea and fine wine. Unfortunately, my wine supply is running low, and it is less expensive purchasing tea. There is a cafe that sells it by the pound." His thoughts turning toward the wine for a moment, he recalled he was supposed to go down into his cellar to see just how many barrels he had left. He just had to make sure that he didn't open the wrong barrel and end up spilling powder all over the place. "If you drank as much wine as you do tea, I'm afraid I wouldn't like to stay here at all. You'd certainly be a drunkard." She actually couldn't imagine that, even if it was amusing to imagine him guzzling wine instead of elegantly pouring another cup of tea.
"I could never be a drunkard. I enjoy wine, but only a glass or two. Same with brandy." He nodded toward the bottle. It was a good few months old, and not even half of it was gone. If only it was that easy to get rid of his tension. Then again … perhaps it was a good thing. She was …touching him, and of her own accord. Groaning low as she hit a particularly tense strip of muscle, he lifted his hands to cradle his brow against the meat of his palms, dutifully ignoring the uncomfortable press of porcelain against his eyebrow ridge. Tensing a bit herself as he groaned, she lifted both brows delicately and eased the pressure. "There? I can feel it." She easily dug the butt of her palm into the muscle, applying pressure and kneading warmly,. Though just the heat of her hand might do him good. For a moment, she was quiet. Then, "You really shouldn't sleep in that thing. I'm sure a mattress would make these knots go away..."
"Mm? What thing?" Cracking his eyes open, he glanced up toward her. T, then it clicked. "Oh. I have not slept on any type of bed for a while." A wry tilt came to his lips and he shook his head faintly. "I have a terrible habit of exhausting my body at a desk, and waking the next morning with my head buried in papers. Or upon the keys of my piano. It is during those times that I am glad that I am alone. It would be quite embarrassing otherwise." Christine laughed and didn't hide her smile for once, this time because her hands were occupied. "I'm afraid I saw you once like that, and I imagined you must've done the same last night, for I thought I heard you playing piano as I woke." She frowned delicately in confusion. "Or...it could have been in the dream. I think you were playing then, too." Her fingers continued their track, working along the line of muscle that felt the most in need of relaxation. She saw nothing truly wrong with this, though her conscience was eating at her a bit, telling her to step back. He had confessed something last night that should have changed the way she acted around him, but there was something in her that wouldn't let it change anything. She didn't want to be afraid of him, and there was as of yet no real reason for her to be so while they were alone. The notes were something of the above world. Down here, it was just them. No fears.
"I was playing earlier, though that was long before I rested down to read a book. Perhaps you heard me ... then." The final word slightly breathed out as her fingers continued to slide along the silk and against his back beneath. It was then that he realized how thankful he was she wasn't grazing her palm over skin. Not only because he didn't think he'd be able to take the intimate contact - more intimate than simply brushing his cheek - but he hardly wanted her to ask questions, or pity him for the map-work of scars lining his skin. He had seen many a beating in his time, from being recalcitrant as well as just looking the way he did. Sliding his brow from his hands, he turned his head to the side, resting the softness of his cheek against a palm. "Sleeping upon my piano is not a comfortable position to say the least."
"It was beautiful music," she said softly, working her long fingers into the knot and then drawing her free hand up to join it, just barely staying within the confines of the silk cloth. "I dreamt I went to watch you play it." Smiling, she looked down at his face. "Was it from your secret opera?"
"What I was playing earlier? I ... played a bit from it, yes. But then I began playing something different that came to mind. It is part of the opera now. That is what usually happens." If only he could have her do this all the time. There was that little nagging voice that told him ... he could. wouldn't listen, though. It wouldn't be right to keep her here against her will. But then ... it wouldn't be against her will if he could sink her so deeply into the thrall of his voice that ... that... He couldn't even think of the rest. He had little to no guilt over having done it before - it was all out of a childlike need to feel loved. He was that little porcelain doll, that perfect little boy that his mother didn't have. He could certainly enthrall her again and again, and eventually she would begin to need his voice and his musical haze like a drug. She would become an addict, able to feel pleasure only in his company. When she went to Raoul, he wouldn't be able to give that to her, and she would rush back to Erik with the need beating in her heart. She would bend easily to his every whim, would be whatever he wanted under his spell. Unaware of his thoughts, Christine pressed both hands to the muscle, drawing it out down the top portion of his back, at his shoulder blades. "Will you ever publish it?"
"Who would publish the work of someone that does not exist? If it is known that the Opera Ghost wears a mask, and I am seen with one, people may begin assuming. I could not chance that. I am tired of running … Here, below the opera house, is to be my tomb. I was here upon this building's first brick, and I will be here upon my final breath." With a despairing frown, Christine pulled her fingers away, filled with pity. As much as he might not want her to ever pity him, it was all she could feel at this moment. "I'll make you some tea." There was a hint of tears in her eyes and she wasn't entirely sure why. What was it to her if he never published? If he died down here without anyone knowing who he had been, the things he had done, what sort of kindness was hidden under the masks he wore? It broke something in her heart connected with his confession from the previous night. She couldn't have explained it if she tried.
Frowning as well, but for a different reason, he glanced back when she pulled her hands from him. Had he said something wrong? Looking back ... yes, he had. She didn't like hearing him speak of death as if it were nothing. Did she not know it was inevitable? He was aging, if not already at a considerable age. "Christine?" Lowering a hand, he patted the cushion next to him. "Come sit with me? Worry not over the tea right now. I am sure that the leaves are going nowhere." To someone who had murdered death might seem inevitable, but to a mere child, to a girl as innocent and perhaps overemotional as Christine, death would always come as a surprise. She lived her life as if everyone around her were immortal. It wasn't in her thoughts to so much as consider death until someone else considered it for her.
Turning in her progress, she glanced at him with large, tear-filled eyes, and slowly made her way back, lowering carefully to a sit beside him, half turned in his direction. As she sat she averted her gaze, not wishing him to see just how his comment had affected her, or to the degree to which it had affected her. Her thoughts were focused on death then, specifically Erik's. On his lonely existence. What would he do without her? How did he live his day after sleeping in that coffin and then waking only to think he would die here? It horrified her.
He lifted his hand and brought it beneath her chin, urging it to lift. Ducking his head down slightly he looked upon her face as best he could. He furrowed his brows lightly at the tears in her eyes, and he rose his hand further, pausing just at her cheek before brushing away the warm moisture with the pad of his thumb, not lingering longer than necessary. That simple, tender gesture provoked more to flow slowly down her cheeks like a stilted waterfall. "Do not cry. You know I cannot bear to see you cry," he stated softly, no more than a whisper, a gentle brush across her ear. Doing the same beneath her other eye, he drew his hand back, thoughtlessly spreading the lingering dampness between his thumb and index finger. "Death is so terrible, Erik," she breathed, again opening her eyes, choking out the words. "How can you speak of it so naturally? As if ... As if you thought you should die this moment and it wouldn't make any difference."
"It would not make any difference." He paused a moment, then shook his head. "The managers will have their peace, the others as well. And you ... you will be ..." trailing off, he couldn't even bring himself to speak the words of her being able to spend all the time she'd like with Raoul. That she would be free. "Christine, your voice is perfection. You have learned so much from my tutoring. I am afraid that there is nothing more I can teach you without it becoming redundant. You ... do not need me anymore." It was a strange feeling, ripping out his own heart before laying it further upon the line. It was what he had to do to protect himself. "I will never have peace if you are dead!" she sobbed, turning her face from him to wipe her own eyes, impishly rubbing at them to try and rip the tears away before they fell. It was horrible - first hearing Erik talk of his own death and then telling her he was through with her, as if he should die tonight and not care that he had affected her in many ways, that he had changed the course of her life. He had either ruined her - or made her twice what she had been before she met him. Hiding her face from him, she drew her knees up onto the couch and curled them under her body, resting her elbows on her thigh, face in her hands. "There must be a million things I do not yet know ... I am not perfect, Erik ... I'm not."
You would have more peace than you could imagine, he intoned, breathing out a soft sigh. She would have been much safer if he hadn't come into her life. She would have been able to accept her father's death eventually, and would not have been drawn into his world - into a triangle that was bound to become disastrous. He began to say something, though his words faltered as she turned from him, drawing into herself and covering of her face. He was at a point where he would have been tired of her tears … if he was angry. But right then he wasn't. He was just as crushed as she was, just as torn. Scooting closer, he lifted a hand, hovering it above her shoulder, tentatively. Eventually, the cool touch of his fingers rested upon her shoulder, and he guided her back toward his chest, feeling another sob shudder through her slight frame. "I'm sorry, Erik ... Even if I'm the only one in the world, I don't wish you to die. Ever. I couldn't bear it."
"Why?", he found himself asking. His brows drew inward as he looked over her face, finally settling upon her eyes. Raising his hand from her shoulder he brought it to her cheek again, grazing away the tears that had bathed their way down along her skin. "Why?", she echoed breathlessly. "Because you're human. Because you have affected my life. Because ...you have been guiding me for months now ... and I don't know what I should do without you." There was more that she couldn't bring herself to say, but at least the tears were slowing. "What difference would it make if I no longer tutored you? If you no longer came down here because you did not need to?" Now he was directing his words a certain way, just for his curiosity. If he meant nothing to her other than a tutor, then it shouldn't make any difference. He'd made her voice perfect, and if she didn't need to be tutored anymore, then she could simply go on with her life. She wouldn't need him. But ... if there was something more ... Perhaps he could assume that from her reaction, but he just wanted to make sure. Needed to.
She couldn't very well answer, 'Because I'm afraid you'll die alone', but she was thinking of it. Reaching up, she dried her tears with the tips of her fingers, making her cheeks pink from rubbing. "How can you stop tutoring me, when my voice is nothing like perfect?", she began softly, eyes imploring as they gazed into his own. She could see him, slowly withering away down here, alone, frustrated by people and their shallowness - of which she was guilty herself - driven to madness or despair or any number of horrible emotions. She liked him best when he smiled or was contentedly happy around her, and even if they'd met under strange and deceiving circumstances - even if she found herself in love with Raoul at the same time as knowing Erik felt something for her - she didn't want their acquaintanceship to end. Or whatever their relationship could be called. "There are other operas," she insisted, "other parts… There is still Carlotta. But ..." And here was where she needed to choose her words carefully. "... I would still want to see you, Erik, even if you grew frustrated with tutoring me."
Glancing away from her, he studied the ground - anything but her at that moment - and prepared to counter her words, at least until he looked back to that tear-filled gaze. His own softened some, and he nodded gently with a ghost of a smile upon the corner of his mouth. "I would never become frustrated with tutoring you, Christine. And your voice is perfect." Pausing, he absently moistened his lips, then continued. "But I am sure I can try to find a little flaw here and there, just to continue tutoring you." Even though he dearly wanted to be more than just a teacher. That could never be, though, no matter how much he dreamed of it. Her face brightened considerably and, for once, she didn't hide a bit of it. "I'm sure it won't be hard. My posture can be atrocious at times - there's that! And I don't practice as often as I should, and when I do, I don't always warm up properly, and I'm sure my acting could be better. And my tone, Erik! You know it can be terribly flat."
"Your tone is just fine. It was your pitch that needed the most work – though even that has become well done." While her acting could use a little work, that was something he couldn't help her with much. Being a vocal teacher was easy for him. The only acting he had done was before small crowds that laughed and jeered at him. Lowering his hand to the surface of the couch surface, he pressed up, feeling just a tad more sober than he was a bit ago. "I will make that tea instead. Perhaps some food as well?" Watching him, she nodded. "You'll eat something, too? Even if only a little?" Wiping the rest of her tears away, even though her eyes were still wet, she looked hopeful that he might at least make himself a smaller portion of whatever he would make her. "I'm afraid I am just a little hungry." Smiling a bit sheepishly, the corner of one side of her mouth rose more than the other. Her lips were fuller and pinker from her tears, though her eyes showed hardly a sign save for the wetness still trapped on her lashes and the rims, shimmering as her gaze shifted searchingly.
He drew his eyes over her face slowly, lingering only a moment upon her lips before his gaze found her own. "I will try," he conceded, dipping his chin in a nod, then turning a bit too swiftly away to make his path toward the kitchen. He already knew what to make: something simple yet filling, and a bit sweet as well. Sinking into the darkness of the kitchen, he built a shadow to chase away the shadows. Finding herself alone with Erik's gentle humming from the kitchen, she sat still for only a moment before drawing herself up. What she needed in order to really make the tears stop was to distract herself from thinking of Erik in this house that was to be his tomb. She moved into the library, smoothing out the soft wrinkles that had formed as she sat in the dress, and hummed a song of her own while running her fingers over the volumes of books. They had finished Arabian Nights, and she was anxious to come up with another story to occupy their time here, though she was thinking of asking Erik for a trip to the park tonight when it was dark enough - though how he could tell that was beyond her. Though it was morning to her, she had the suspicion that it was already mid-afternoon.
Able to smell the food as he prepared it, she glanced towards the door as her fingers hovered over an ancient collection of German fairy tales. Her eyes were finally drying, and for a brief moment, she let her thoughts move towards a strange image. One that consisted solely of Erik. As a husband. Particularly, as her husband. After all, he had everything she would really want in a husband - he was kind to her, he could cook wonderful meals, he enjoyed the things that she did, he was clean and proper and wealthy - and it was all shattered by the thought of where he lived and what lay behind the mask. She had never considered herself shallow until she met him, and now she felt like a low creature who didn't deserve Erik's regard. Glancing back to her book, her fingers skipped over the binding, moving to the next, a collection of folk tales from other countries. She picked it up, looking through it, trying to pull her thoughts entirely from Erik for a moment. Even as she skimmed the words, however, she found her thoughts clouded, and glanced frequently behind her, towards the library door.
With the crepe-like thin cakes rolled and sugared, he set some cups upon the tray, then picked it up to make his way back into the living room. Not seeing her there, he paused, glancing to her room, then over toward the library, doubting she would be any where other than those two spots. Seeing her once the angle of the doorway came into view, he studied her quietly as she read, then stepped in further to the piano. "Would you like to eat in here?" So caught within the words upon the page, it took her a moment or two to glance up, rosy lips smiling. "No, that's alright. I was just glancing through a few books." Closing it - she was still on the first sentence of the first page - she moved to replace it where she found it, sliding it between two older volumes, and moved out with him into the main room. "It smells wonderful!" she exclaimed before she even saw what he'd made.
"It is just a little recipe I found. They're called Norwegian pancakes." He regarded the rolled lengths of sweet bread and chuckled softly as he made his way back into the larger, cavernous room. "They look like crepes to me. But either way, they are delicious." Making his way over to the table, he lowered the weighted tray carefully. Placing her plate nearby, he slid his own to the couch and prepared the tea. He added sugar to hers and lifted the cup with thin fingers, offering it to her. Sitting down, she accepted the tea from him with a thank you, she raised it to her lips. Inhaling the warm fragrance, she tipped the cup, sipping the warm liquid with a contented sigh, eyes closing. After a moment, she opened them again and began to eat. Taking a cue from her silence, he fell to it as well, absently watching her while she cut into the rolled pastry.
"Could we visit the park tonight?" Breaking the silence after several minutes passed, her plate half emptied, she glanced up to him.
"Of course. You would have to dress warmly again. I believe it is still snowing." Pausing the cup before his lips, he nodded then set his plate aside and leaned back against the cushions.
Crossing his arms loosely over his stomach he tilted his head slightly, drawing his gaze up along her form, lingering over the unbound curls of her hair. There were times when he so desired to pass his fingers through them. She was ignorant of her beauty, that draw she had, and he had to suffer for it, especially when he recalled the smooth way her throat felt beneath his fingers, the light beating of her pulse that only became stronger...faster. He forced himself to glance away from her, over to the fireplace, absently watching the flickering of the flames held captive by the stone. That's how it was, wasn't it Erik? So much fire and it was held captive by your own stony insecurities. Inwardly glowering at the cynical voice, he shook his head faintly.
"I haven't sung in days. Perhaps I should...?"
"I would enjoy that, immensely. To the piano, then? Or perhaps you would like to sing without accompaniment?" He nodded toward the library as he leaned to gather the empty plates. Pressing to a stand, he approached the kitchen and placed the dishes on the nearest counter. "I think I may need the piano to keep me on key," she answered with a soft laugh, rising to move towards the library, lifting her voice lifted so that he could hear her. "I haven't so much as glanced at music since I last saw you, I'm afraid, so you'll have to be overly-patient with my slouching and bad tone." She was teasing, of course, because it was never as bad as she made it sound.
"You have not been practicing as I had told you to?" He lifted a brow as he returned to the sitting room, then made the detour to the library. She was already standing near the piano, clearing her throat faintly. Guiltily. He had given her freedom from her lessons for near to a week, and during that time with Raoul she hadn't sung more than she needed to. "No ... not really. The weeks before were intense, Erik," she began weakly, shrinking faintly beneath his intent gaze, as if he knew. "I wanted to relax." Nibbling upon her lower lip, she glanced away from him. His eyes remained upon her, looking through rather than at her. He drew in a slow breath and nodded. "Intense or not, it is good to at least sing a bit every day. A week of no practice could do more harm than good. We will start with the scales." Sitting upon the velvet cushion, he lifted the keyboard lid, pressing it back into the piano.
Nodding to him as she moved in front of the piano, she stood still, recalling all too vividly the dream in which she had sat beside him. Closing her eyes briefly - to banish or treasure these thoughts? - she began upon her scales after he gave the starting pitch. He began low, allowing her throat to form the sound easily before he directed her to the next key - mid C, then up toward E and G, then higher. He didn't take her too high, though; not so soon. As she sang he watched her quietly, then drew his eyes to the piano, spreading his fingers across the keys. He, too, had closed his eyes, listening to the sound of her voice before he began playing. It wasn't anything from Hannibal, or the soon to be performed Il Muto - not even from his own libretto, but a simple tune from Mozart to help him warm up his fingers. "Do you have a particular song you will sing for me tonight?"
