Six
He had not forgotten.
When she had come, he was hiding. He had heard the back door of the Opera Populaire creep open, and was instantly on his guard— even now he had phenomenal hearing, even after late fifty years, most of which had been spent in close contact with some very loud instrument or other. The organ was only the latest— and for a while he had feared it would never play again—
He went up the quickest way to the ground floor of the opera house, winding along passages only he had ever seen, only he would ever be able to find. When he saw her, just a glimpse at first as she entered the opera house proper, his breath caught in his throat and he thought he would die.
He thought he had died.
He thought an angel had come for him.
No, this was a woman. Christine was a woman, not an angel— and he would never make that mistake again— he had been so sure she would stay with him, so positive— even though he threw in the threat to the young Vicomte as well— that was just it, only a threat, nothing more— he would do the Vicomte no harm, that was certain.
And then Christine—
And then Christine kissed him—
He debated with himself for days, weeks afterwards, as to what that meant. Was it simply a way to defuse an admittedly awkward situation? Or did she— was she— could she—
Her lips were so soft, the softest things he'd ever felt, the only things ever to touch his face— she was so warm, so warm against him, and he was ashamed, embarrassed because he knew how cold he was, he knew exactly how cold—
Christine was a woman, and she had made her choice— only— she'd never actually said it. Words were important to Erik, sometimes they were all he had, and when they were not said, he felt their loss. Christine had not spoken her choice. Granted, it was implied in her actions—
Her actions—
More of reactions, he supposed.
Perhaps the whole thing had been a mistake, a dreadful miscarriage on his part. Perhaps he should have left things as they were, and not dared to hope for more.
Could any man be damned simply for hoping— or is it just Erik?
But he would not take all the blame, oh no, not all of it, certainly not all. Some of it most definitely belonged to the girl and her young man. It was their names he cursed in the deep of night when he could not sleep— and it was she he begged forgiveness from when he became remorseful.
And now she was here, she had come back—
For the first time in a very, very long time, hope had leapt into his heart. It had him by the throat— it choked him— he thought he was dying—
Christine was hurrying now, having finished staring in wonder at the deserted opera house around her, hurrying towards the cellars, through the only entrance she knew of, the opening behind the mirror in her former dressing room. The mirror was long gone now, the opening would have gaped open like a wound had some considerate soul not dragged a large, heavy chest of drawers in front of it. He watched her for a moment, struggling with the weight of the unwieldy furniture, then was gone, back down to the lair beyond the lake to wait for her.
She came, soon enough. She was quicker than he would have thought, having surmounted even the obstacle of the lake. She came wading through the water, totally drenched, shivering, clutching her arms about herself— she looked bedraggled and forlorn and abject and exquisitely, painfully beautiful.
He had waited as long as he could, watching her crumple to the ground in tears, biting his fingers till they bled to keep himself from crying out to her, waited for her to pull herself together and stand back up to say a last goodbye—
Even then he did not really believe she had come back to stay.
His mind, his wicked, madman's mind, said she had. Of course, it whispered treacherously to him, of course she has. She loves you, she has always loved you, why should she not return to where she longs to be?
But his heart knew better. His heart was wiser.
It wasn't until she said she was not married that his heart began to believe—
To Erik, all his actions from that moment had been completely rational. She had come to stay, and so there was no reason for the main entrance. He could get out if he needed to, get out and obtain provisions, buy or steal anything she wished— he would descend even to that for Christine. He would do anything for Christine.
Except—
When she drew him down besides her on the bed, his mind was crowded with a million voices shouting at him, all shouting in unison, all shouting the same thing—
"Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong!"
He had ignored them, but only briefly. His body had taken over, but only for such a short time—
Then he returned to himself. He knew her. She would play tricks on him, play him false. It did not matter what her eyes said to him as he left her there — the eyes could lie. The eyes could be made to lie.
The body could be made to lie as well, and the way she felt under him, open invitation, must be blatant deception. There was no reason for him to trust her, or anything she did, or anything she said.
Even if her eyes were pleading, begging him, begging him, begging—
He could slough all that off. He was not insane. He was not insane.
Look.
Look at his fingers, his age-tempered hands. They did not shake. They did not move unless he willed them to. Surely an insane man would not have such control.
His fingers longed to be buried in Christine's hair, his mouth ached to feel her kisses—
Surely an insane man would not have such control—?
