Five
Erik fought.
He stood on the edge of a cliff— a precipice of desire yawed beneath him, and he fought desperately, danced away to keep his body from throwing itself off, heedless of the destruction that must inevitably follow.
How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?
His hands caught at Christine's arms suddenly and she gasped. They forced her down on the bed as he levered himself up above her. His gaze burned into her eyes.
"We will not be had, you and I," he said. "We are monsters and madmen. We are not animals."
He pushed himself off her and walked away, moving slowly and stiffly like an old man, without any of his usual grace.
Perhaps he was an old man.
Christine watched him go.
Just how long had Erik been around?
What kind of tricks did he know— what kind of game was he playing to leave her in this state?
He had been heavy with the warmth of reality, that great weight on her, his skin suddenly no longer cold, blossoming into life under her fingertips—
She sighed, because she didn't think she could bear to cry any more that day.
He had been right— it was late— and perhaps everything she did was a mistake. Perhaps she should leave things as they had been, and never hope for more. The light was gone now— he hadn't taken it with him but somehow it had gone out. Her door was ajar as he'd left it and she didn't dare leave her bed to close it. There were monsters under the bed—
She turned her head to the wall and waited patiently for the tears to come. When they did they were born of frustrated longing more than anything else, and this surprised her. They had the same effect, however, and she rocked herself slowly as she cried herself to sleep.
She slept dreamlessly, more deeply than she had in years. She hadn't slept like that since she was a child and would drift off with her father sitting in a chair by the fire, violin in hand, eyes kind and face warm.
Her last thought was a wish that when she awoke, she would remember nothing of what had happened, that Erik's rejection of her would be wiped from her mind.
But when morning came, as it did in the usual manner without regard for her feelings, she sat up in bed and instantly her thoughts flew to the night before. Erik's eyes burning into her, his hands on her, the gate sliding shut—
She cowered back onto the bed, drawing the musty covers up to her chin and shutting her eyes tightly. She did not want to get up. She did not ever want to see Erik, or anyone, ever again.
There was silence from the main rooms, anyway. Perhaps Erik wasn't even awake yet. Perhaps he lay in the coffin in which he slept, eyes closed, arms crossed atop his chest, breathing slowly—
She was overcome by a desire to find out what he looked like when he slept.
It was strong enough to cause her to leave the dubious refuge of the bed and venture to the door. It was shut now— by Erik's hand, no doubt. He probably feared her intrusion on him once more, she thought bitterly— he must think her all things awful for the overtures she'd made, when they hadn't been invited.
Only—
They had.
No. It had been a figment of her imagination, that was all— the result of two months of dreaming about him, for, awake and asleep, he had not left her mind for a moment. And this wasn't what she had come down here for anyway—
She shivered as she realized she had accomplished what she had come down here for, and yet she could not leave. And it wasn't just because of the gate.
Erik, your soul binds me to you more surely than any chains—
She had done with thinking— she had to do something. Steeling herself before the door, she reached down towards the knob, a sudden fear breaking over her as she did so— suppose it should be locked? He had locked her in here before—
It was not locked.
She opened the door and caught her breath.
Erik was not asleep.
He sat at the great organ, hands at his sides, head bowed. His wasted form was so utterly still and silent that for a moment she feared he must be dead. But in response to her cry, his head lifted, and he stared with those implacable blue eyes at the ceiling for a moment, running one hand through his sparse hair. All of his grace was back in his body— gone was the hint of age that she had seen the night before, when he denied her.
This didn't make things better.
It made them worse.
Christine clutched her arms to her chest and hugged herself, biting her lip, waiting for him to say something.
He stood, a fluid motion, and stepped away from the organ. His eyes turned back towards her and she shivered.
His lips moved.
She could not hear what he said.
Her helpless expression seemed to indicate as much to him, and he cleared his throat and tried again.
"Breakfast, my dear?" he enquired, all the marks of a gallant gentleman on his face.
He fed her. It was poor food, especially when compared to the sumptuous meals she ate when she dined with Raoul de Chagny— but then Raoul never cooked for himself. He employed three cooks at home, one for each meal. Erik prepared her food himself, washing his hands gravely first, moving slowly and deliberately.
This—
This was the proud Phantom of the Opera?
This was the man who would kill for her— he would cook for her too?
The absurdity of the situation struck her at that moment and she laughed. Erik looked at her with startled eyes. She laughed on, utterly unable to stop herself— he did not join her in her gaiety, but returned his gaze to the meal he was devising and concentrated on that. Christine laughed, laughed until she could make no more sound, until she ran out of breath and noise. She sat in dead silence as Erik brought her food and set the plate before her, giving her a deep and somehow mocking bow.
See what I do for you, said his eyes.
She looked up and met his gaze.
No, he would not say anything about the night before. He had probably already forgotten it.
