The Pieces

A/N: Hello faithful readers! I know I have been a bad author but I swear it's been for a good reason. Exams/essays/partying (as a result of the first two) have gotten in the way of Erik and Christine, but I am pretty much done school at this point so look for the fic updates to pick up from now on.

Longblacksatinlace – you were bang-on with the "Buffy." You rock, my dear.

Thank you to everyone who has continued to review – I would not be able to keeping going on with this fic if you weren't still supportive.

About the chapter: This is a new style for me and I understand some people may be confused. But be patient, for more is on the way.

Thanks to my beta, agentsculder and don't forget to review!

She was a supple young thing, with eyes that were neither hard nor soft, but in that in between stage. Almost gelatinous, they were. Dark as dusky caverns and pining with need, she looked up at him adoringly as her hair cascaded around her in loose brown curls.

They hadn't seen on another in quite some time. Erik had preferred to keep his distance after they had made love. He did not want her to become too attached, nor did he want to hurt her as he had done before. This girl was fragile although she had a somewhat stony veneer but Erik could see past all that. Still, he wore his mask even when covered by nothing more than silk sheets and the pretension of love.

She twisted in his bed as he rode her, her nose wrinkling slightly as her mouthed formed an "O" of pleasure and tiny gasps escaped her lips. If only for a few minutes, hours, nights, he could lose himself in her and find peace. She could feel loved, nestled underneath him and sheathing his cock. The part of her that was woman loved to be filled, loved to have a part of a man so cold burning in her warmth.

After he was done and she had cried out his name in a last hapless moan, he rolled off of her as he always did, adjusted his mask as was necessary and disposed of the French letter. He was careful of her; he did not want to pass on his defective seed which surely would promise a poisoned gift to the face of his unborn child.

Sighing that satisfied sigh woman make when they are without words, she rolled over and looked at him, her gaze as thoughtful as it was glazed in foggy pleasure. He always liked this part, after he was spent and wordlessness fell between the two. She looked thoroughly tousled, warm and pink in afterglow. But then she spoke.

"Erik, would you have me again tomorrow? Or should I wait in vain?" She was teasing of course, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a false smile. His eyes did not meet his lips but she didn't notice.

"I shall have to meet with a business partner tomorrow about my opera. You know I want to finance a play in Paris," he chided briskly, turning away from her as he got to his feet.

His body was lean, dark, beautiful. The scars on his back seemed out of place in the wondrous flesh, as is a night sky without moon and stars. Sinewy muscles stretched his thighs which were hard and long, up to his narrow waist and jutting hipbones. His torso was strong and masculine, but not overly so. The way he walked disregarded all this, for he was a man of pride and strength, one who had fought and scratched and scrambled under blows in his life. The slope of his shoulder showed the stiffness of one ready to take flight or fight at anytime. Although his physical beauty was indelible, he relished the dark inside. Only the right side of his face betrayed him.

She pouted behind his back. "No matter," she sighed dramatically. "My husband shall be missing me anyway."

Erik chuckled without humour. He poured a drink, downed it in a cultured swallow and grimaced at himself in the mirror, as was his way. Soon, he would forget her.

………………………………………………

The patio was lovely. Marble tables and dove grey brick were a pleasant prelude to the punch of colour around Christine. Pink gardenias, golden sunflowers, periwinkle snap dragons and white roses exploded around her, illuminated by the crass blare of the sun. Her dress was a dusty rose and her hands were folded. The delicate white china sitting on the table was sharp and rich. It was all so beautiful.

Brigitte approached Christine with a silver tray balanced in her hands bearing yet more tea and butter croissants. Christine would have none. Brigitte grimaced.

As Brigitte placed the tray on the patio table, Christine seemed to snap out of her reverie and, startled, uttered a too-fast greeting. Brigitte simply smiled.

"We are selling the Bordeaux house," Christine murmured, her thoughts drifting away once more.

"Yes," Brigitte replied. "I know."

"I will miss it," Christine said absently, rubbing her elbow.

"Ha! I won't."

Christine had to chuckle a little, but it was short-lived. Her face became grave and she nodded. "Yes, I should think that you would not at all."

Brigitte's indignance left her and her hands slipped off her hips.

"Really, Christine, I am sorry to make you feel that way. It – "

"— Was not so bad?" Christine finished, a tight smile alighting her mouth. They had been here before. Would they ever leave?

"Yes, yes, it wasn't so bad." She worried at her skirts for a moment. "He let me go." Then she looked up, confusion and curiosity making the words burst from her like a dam.

"Will you – do you think you will see him again?"

If it was possible for all blood to leave the body and the heart to stop pumping immediately, Christine would have resembled what it would look like. She looked at Brigitte and the sight unnerved her. Childish hopefulness and hateful regret. It was a strange sight.

………………………………

In Madrid, Italian opera and zarzuelas were the most popular acts at the Teatro Real Opera House. Tonight was the premiere of the opera "La Bella," the story of a beautiful young noblewoman who betrays her husband for a lowly servant. The servant becomes so obsessed with Bella and, unbelieving that a woman as beautiful as her could love him, kills her when he suspects her of infidelity. The servant realizes what his madness has driven him to and takes his own life.

Erik was never one for subtlety.

He watched in shadow as if nothing had changed. The play had been composed by a Senor Villi Tempesta, according to the program that evening. Only Jean Trudeau was privy to the real composer's identity. The manuscript had been passed to him with strict orders and bartered around to the finest operas in Madrid. Madrid's finest opera house had taken the bait.

A box seat had been reserved for Erik. Miguel Delgado, the manager, observed the adjacent box with a frown. No one was occupying the seat he had specifically kept open for Falla. The mystery shrouding this man was irritating but a facetious and lucrative selling point. The theatre had sold out opening night, a good sign for a fledgling production. Despite the composer's reluctance to reveal himself outside of couriers and go-betweens, the play really was wonderful: dark, gritty, romantic and superbly over-the-top. Besides, any tragic romance was bound to draw in weepy noblewomen and soft-hearted war veterans.

Not that any of this mattered to him, so long as he was paid. Artistic endeavour or no, this was still a business.

The curtain fell and the audience rose in applause. The resounding accolades boomed throughout the theatre, rattling the floor under Erik's feet. He was in shadow, always would be, but it did not embitter him. The cloak of darkness and anonymity suited him. He was crazy like that. The thought made him smile as tears rolled down his cheeks. His music, his music …

……………………………………..

Brigitte and Christine sat in the kitchen in silence, one knitting, the other reading. Christine saw the words, must have read the same paragraph at least twelve times, but it would not register. She could not even find solace within her own mind. She was frustrated, on edge, annoyed, pissed off, frightened, taut like the strings of a violin.

He was coming, any moment he would be here. He would look in her eyes and know, like a fog lifting.

Brigitte was acting as if everything were all right, like she hadn't just walked in the door at midnight, free of manacles and confusion. She was overly talkative at times, disturbingly silent and thoughtful at others. God knows what she was thinking. She'd forgiven Christine, had reluctantly understood him.

Your chains are still mine. You belong to me.

Brigitte had been shackled because of her, but Christine had not been the one to release her.

The clock ticked away.

……………………………………………

She had almost attacked him, grinding her mouth against his like a wanton whore. He had been taken aback, but had kept up, responding to her rough, seeking tongue with his own soft, supple one. She had removed her clothes and waited under the covers, modesty claiming her for a short while.

Raoul looked at her, amazement and a twinge of masculine pride in his eyes. They had not seen each other in a while; her ardour was understandable. That she had wanted him so made him hard and he ducked his chin. He could not help but be somewhat boyish in the face of her overwhelming womanhood.

Scrambling out of his own clothes like a slack-tongued teenager, he tripped once and fumbled more than twice. Kicking his trousers aside and shedding his drawers, he hurried to her side, awkwardly fitting himself on top of her.

Raoul could not help chiding himself for this sudden whack of inexperience, but she was looking at him, her eyes so wide, and needing him.

He was inside her now, gentling his thrusts within her as she gripped his shoulder, staring over his. Tears glistened her eyes. She gripped his hips and tightened her legs, wound around his waist, drawing him further inside of her, harder.

Raoul bit his lip. God, it had never been like this before. He propped himself up on his elbows, first on her hair then, seeing his mistake, readjusted. He moved quickly, encouraged by her moans, louder and louder.

Don't think, don't think, don't think, she chastised herself in silence. It feels good, it feels good, it feels good.

Her nails dug into his back and Raoul grunted in surprise.

"You're so beautiful, so beautiful," he hissed out, stroking her face.

His skin was clammy under her hands and one of his teeth was crooked. His hair fell in his face, obscuring his best features: his eyes.

"More," she said, her voice gravely. Christine looked determined. "Hard."

Like a dog eager to please its master, he continued his assault on her body.

He felt soft to her now. So soft. She cried in his shoulder as he lay asleep beside her.

………………………………………………..

There was a property on the outskirts of Madrid that had been abandoned for some time. No one took notice of it one way or the other.

Lately, it had begun to quietly flourish. The lawn looked neater, tidier, but restrained. It was not bedecked with gaudy flowers or gargantuan statues. Very little light came from the windows at night and only footmen and servants entered and left its doors.

There may not be life inside, but there was definitely money.

…………………………………………..

Erik had been to Milan, Nice, Rome and it looked like Paris would be next.

Looking into the mirror, he straightened his cravat. Where his music went, he would follow, even if it led him to the bowels of hell. Paris, hell – they were often interchangeable.

God, it would be a triumphant return. Champagne bursts and flutes meeting in a toast, fireworks blazing the sky, gossip being exchanged like petty change. All the nobles he had scorned and hated would be there, paying homage to his art even as the memory of the Phantom turned their thoughts bitter. Common people were never none the wiser, and nobles were the worst kind of common.

He walked about his mansion now in the daytime, the curtains drawn, a habit from his past that he could not shake. Perhaps he did not want to shake it; it was a comfort, a reminder of what he was. Erik could not deny that he was not entirely good, and some of his darkness came from himself and not his face. This face had earned loathing and hatred but he had been responsible for his development. He had not been good.

The house which he now lived in as a free man was spectacular, ornate, luxurious, darkly rich. Only the finest accoutrements adorned his living space. Leather, silk, satin, velvet. Black, cranberry, dusky rose, midnight blue. It was beautiful; he was surrounded by beauty, all as a result of his hands.

He examined them now: perfect, smooth, masculine hands not without the lines of time and labour. From his hands came his music, the emissaries responsible for his vast wealth. His pseudonym could be heard throughout Europe and his operas (he had turned out three to the public in only eight short months) were flourishing, rousing successes.

He sipped wine at his balcony at night, facing away from the city and into the dawn. He could read without candlelight; the sun was his willing servant now. At times, he took his horse into town in the wee hours of the early morning and toured around this city that he owned. It was grim satisfaction, it was beautiful. It was everything he had ever wanted.

He closed his fists now, watching as the veins popped and his skin became flushed. This was happiness, he told himself. This was enough.

He walked up the swirling, mahogany wood stairs to his lush bedroom affixed with soft candlelight and furniture that whispered "money." His organ was there, shiny ebony and soft ivory keys. Her picture was there, laboured over for months. Her lips dripped with rubies and her hair as dark and winding as the nights he spent alone thinking of her. He touched her lips now, looked into her pleading eyes and shuddered. He ripped the picture from its frame, viciously tore it into pieces. He had longed for her forever and always and it constantly ended the same way. He had a new life now and had found in himself peace and satisfaction. But not her, never her.

So it would be Paris after all.

……………………………………………….

Raoul was a good husband. Every night, he would hold her, kiss the tip of her nose and murmur good will into her ear. Her good qualities were vast and he was never at a loss for words. She was cold now, but Raoul did not notice. Not entirely, anyway.

Christine often cried to the point that it became as natural as waking. Her shame ran deep and never ending, bound for an ocean of misery she knew she would drown in.

Her finery was endless, her beautiful dresses, homes, meals, parties all around her. She loved her husband, she loved Brigitte. They were very similar to Christine. She could feel delicate and naïve under their watch. She was not delicate and naïve. Erik had rid her of that.

Erik.

She had tried everything. She had thought of him. She had forced herself into a frenzy of busyness so torrid that she barely had a thought to herself and collapsed in her bed, falling asleep instantly. But then he came to her in her dreams, sometimes just talking to her. Those dreams were worse than the ones when they made love. One dream in particular haunted her; she dreamt it over and over again. Floating away, away …

Now she had settled into the noble lifestyle, the false smile always there and the petty gossip falling from her lips before she could stop it. Even as the noxious words fell from her mouth, she felt helpless, just as when she fucked her husband without looking into his eyes.

Brigitte looked at her in a way that made her feel as though she was staring through iron bars.

She had flirted with the stable boy. More than once, she had enticed him with uncouth words. It was not uncommon for a noblewoman to take a lover.

But she could not, and worst of all, it was not because of the man she was married to.

Sometimes she would drink, lacing her poison with laudanum. She wrote in her diary often and visited the grave of her father less. She laughed until she cried and she ached endlessly. In private, always in private. She felt confined to this house and daylight gave her no joy. She was not free.

……………………………………………..

Dear Christine,

I am so excited for this play! I have been working so hard in the corps and I find that I am improving every day (if I do say so myself). That snooty cow Marie has been giving me the nastiest looks because of my success. She is a lot like Carlotta but without half the charm.

I hope you will come to opening night next week. The opera has been very successful elsewhere and hopefully it will be just as successful here (for my sake!). It is very different than anything we ever did at the Opera Populaire, but familiar somehow.

I am rambling now but I hope to see you next week. I have enclosed two tickets for you and Raoul to join us should be inclined. I had to wrestle the managers for these so you better acquiesce to my request, Madame de Chagny!

Love,

Meg