The Opera

A/N: I've had a lot to deal with the past week and I hope you guys forgive me for breaking my promise of more frequent updates. I hope to have things (school, apartment, etc) sorted out better this week so I can get back to writing. I already have a chapter written two chapters after this one done.

Thanks to my beta, agentsculder, who didn't like my "silly skin" comment (jokes!). Don't forget to review.

Christine gazed at herself in the mirror. Her dress was fabulous, ridiculously ornate and just as outrageously expensive. She had spared no expense on this dress, an original she had custom-made from the finest blood red brocade and taffeta. The bodice was low-cut but not garishly so, and laced with fine black lace. She was cinched in tightly at the waist (although she was already small, almost frail) that bloomed into a full skirt. A luminous black bustle decorated the back and ruby jewellery dripped from her ears and neck.

Brigitte entered the room, her head ducked slightly and her hands folded before her.

"Oh, Madame, you look beautiful," she murmured.

Christine raised an eyebrow at her hurried tone. "Yes, I suppose I should make those rich old birds jealous in this fine ensemble."

Her voice grew sharp at the mention of socialites who were friends of the de Chagnys. A look of sternness, of malicious quality, creased her brow for a moment, but then she laughed with a toss of her hair. She sat at the vanity table, touching white powder to her face in even strokes. Brigitte hurried behind Christine to worry at her hair.

"Amelie wore the most hideous confection to the last gala, I just cannot wait to see what she has in store this time," Christine added with a pretty cackle. "Oh, and would you believe it? She is back with Francois."

"You must be joking," Brigitte replied, nonplussed.

"Oh, no, I am not. If Monsieur LaJeunesse were ever to discover the couple ensconced in a compromising position or two …" Christine made a slicing motion across her throat.

It would serve her right, Christine thought. Poor Francois, he was in love with Amelie. Why Amelie would sink her claws into a kind-hearted soul like that boy was unthinkable.

Suddenly, Christine was overcome with a seething hate, one that consumed her heart, boiling fiery in her chest. Amelie was nothing more than an ill-bred, inbred cheating whore. Then what are you? a tiny voice piped up. Shame coloured her cheeks at the thought, and she became silent, sullen.

Brigitte noticed the change and shrugged her shoulders. Christine was prone to these lapses of withdrawal. Usual or not, Brigitte was annoyed.

"Why does Amelie concern you, Madame?" Brigitte asked, forcing curiosity into her voice, although her tone was somewhat subdued. Needle her, but don't prattle on like a Pharisee.

Surprised, Christine lifted her head and locked eyes with Brigitte in the mirror for a moment. Then her shoulders sagged and she chirped, "She told me. You know that." Christine grew self-conscious at the topic. She shrugged, but on the inside, she thought, she is judging me. You've done the same cowardly sin.

Christine dropped her eyes, but not before she saw the look of consternation across Brigitte's face. Indignantly, she raised a hand to her chest as if taking an oath and said, "You know I would not concern myself with their petty drama."

Brigitte nodded. She lies well now, that is what changed. Dropping her hands from Christine's wild curls, she amended, Would I have done the same? Sighing slightly, she felt bad because she knew she could not do what Christine had done.

"Of course not, Madame."

She had not used her first name. Irritated, Christine rose from the vanity and drew herself up to her full height as she faced Brigitte. Her mouth formed a tight line, an imitation of a grin, and she leaned forward, taking Brigitte's shoulders in her hands.

"Oh, dear Brigitte. You are lucky not to be in the position of a noblewoman. I am afraid it would be too much for you." With a short laugh and an endearing squeeze, she added, "Sometimes it is too much for even me." Christine gave a slight wink and turned away, her false smile falling with her dainty footsteps.

She cursed herself inwardly as she walked away. You've hurt her, you fool. You are so awfully unfeeling at times.

I can't help it, it is not my fault, she fought back, her pace quickening as she rounded the exquisite decorated halls of the de Chagny estate. She did not take in the classic, twinkling chandelier above nor the rich paintings adorning the golden wood borders and elaborately designed walls. It was lovely, all so lovely.

The ugliness inside Christine only seemed to grow. She was aware, but unwilling to fight back. It was easier to sink into the cold depths, embrace her most base of instincts. Life is hard, she must allow herself to take the road most travelled at times.

Brigitte was insolent at times, anyway. She never knew when to hold her tongue. Christine secretly thought Brigitte was in love with Raoul. But, God, she loved her. My best friend, my closest soul, Christine thought.

Her eyes became misty. It was all so familiar. The walls that, when she re-examined them or cursed their existence, broke and let loose pain, agony, tears, god-awful self-pity. I know better.

She found herself outside Raoul's personal quarters and immediately stiffened, her back becoming ramrod straight. Careful to assemble into perfect, detached – don't forget delicate, her mind supplied bitterly – poise, Christine knocked on the door to announce her presence. Now, she lived to please Raoul. She wanted nothing more than to be his perfect wife.

Pausing for the five seconds she ticked off in her head and mindful to make as little noise as possible when turning the knob, Christine quietly swept into the room.

………………………………………………..

He watched from above.

Different opera house, same single-minded herd, he thought. It was still the same, as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed.

………………………………………………

Christine fell but Erik was quick enough to catch her. She had fainted at the site of the woman before her.

Erik deftly carried Christine to her bed and placed her on the pillow. I want to devour her, he thought. He touched her cheek, the sensation through his gloved hand enough to send tingles playfully running up his spine. Erik leaned in, inhaled the same skin he had just touched, wondering in the soft baby rose scent of her skin.

Clenching his jaw, he quelled against the lusty throb that went through him. His eyes went to the tips of her breasts, the blustery cream fabric barely encasing her chest, which heaved softly as Christine slept. His voice carried on, and he stepped out of the room, forcing his hand to close the drapery and leave her.

Leave her be, goddammit, his mind screamed. She is a girl, an innocent. Your puerile thoughts only taint her goodness and what you say you feel for her.

I love her, oh God, I love her, he raged back. "Be practical," he rasped under his breath, clenching his fists, willing away the pain of his cock straining against his pants. "Be practical. Leave – just forget this." He had never touched a woman, never slipped inside another's warmth. No caress, no tender touch, no pursed lips ever fell against his skin. Reading about gentleness and kindness was like reading a fantasy novel. It was a concept not based in this reality. Love was alien, tenderness was a fable.

He kept his mirrors around for a purpose. He stormed over to one sheathed in a velvet curtain and ripped it away. His lips had curled into a snarl, and a smattering of sweat beaded his brow. His eyebrows were narrowed, almost a cartoonish, raging caricature of himself. But his ugliness only grew darker. That black hole that swallows me like oil, dark, glistening, thick oil. It was all consuming and impossible to rid.

She responded to him. He had seen it in her eyes, her lips which fell open in a quirky O, her tongue unconsciously caressing her mouth. He sucked on his touch, relishing in the sensation of what a kiss might be like. He imagined her soft lips, touched his fingers to his own. Just to see her, just to touch her …

His heart beat sped up, and he staggered back to her, loathing himself more and more with every step. Lecherous, disgusting fool! To give in to his most basic instincts – it was worse than anything he could imagine. It made him like the others, flawed human beings who brushed their hair until it shined and exuded false confidence, who whittled through life with an insincere smile and the wild stupidity of wanting to fit in. To be like them was worse than death. He was a god above them, a god forced to dwell underground despite his internal beauty and genius. Forgive them father, he often smirked, they know not what they do.

He was at the threshold, and seeing her brought him back. She broke his heart. Silly, foolish heart that let him know he was still human. The sound of his pulse had always reassured him in a childlike way. He knew it was foolish to let anatomy determine who he was, but he was humbled at times. His face humbled him the rest of the time. I am not a god, he thought as his eyes whisked up her body. The iridescent shimmer of her stockings caught his eye and he swallowed. His mind suddenly became a playground for romance-novel adjectives, but he was too absorbed with her skin, her silly, pale skin, to notice the irony.

He removed his gloves with shaky hands. I only want to touch her a little, only a little. He grimaced hard. God would not allow him anything more than a glimpse, a grazing finger. Flesh is weak, flesh is weak. Reaching out a hand, he trembled.

She shifted a little in her sleep, and moaned low in a throat. Erik snatched back his hand, desperately watching her eyes. Did they flicker? Did I see them open? Her left finger twitched.

His body seemed to move of its own accord, and with sickening envy he watched himself as if from afar as his hands resumed their trek and found her throat. It was with the helplessness of a baby that he watched himself, his oddly masculine hands that seemed so out of place touching her soft skin, the swell of her breasts making him breath catch in his throat. He drew one long finger across the lace, feeling the edge of the corset which was ostensibly rough next to her fine flesh. He wanted to crawl inside her, know what it felt like to be encased by her softness and warmth. He wanted her to take care of him, love him and hold him gently in her arms as she rocked him back and forth. Touching her waist, flat under the corset, he wanted to fuck her.

Even as the bile threatened to leap forward and choke him, he ventured further, wondering at the curves or waist as it gently expanded to her hips than dipped again at the apex of her thighs. Would she be warm in the middle, slightly damp, like the books said? His mouth was dry, his erection was painful and his knuckles threatened to snap from his hands. Wouldn't it be funny if I no longer had knuckles? Somewhat like having a limp cock. He would have chuckled at the irony had his arousal been less insistent.

He drifted away, trailing his hands down the side of her thighs, coming across the stockings once more. They were lacy at the tops and gauzy. Mother had worn stockings, he thought absently. He drew away from her slightly, troubled by the thought of his mother. The smoothness of her lean leg brought him back to his senses – or perhaps, I am no longer with my senses.

His mind grew blank again, the pounding of his heart making his breath uneven and sending blood rushing to his ears. He wanted to feel all of her, wanted to steal a piece from her. She is mine, if only for a moment.

With unsettling precision, he rolled away her stockings, occasionally stinging his fingers on her warm skin and sending bolts of sensation through his body and down to his core. He stuffed them into his waistcoat and closed his eyes. He placed his hand on her bare thigh, unable to bear looking at and touching her simultaneously. As his hand crept forward, he thought, Why is she so warm? He moved closer to her core, trembling at the contact, and with revulsion and a perverse fascination he could not shake, touched her.

She is warm, somewhat damp. Her skin is impossibly soft. Maybe it is so soft because of her youth.

I am old. Will I hurt her with my hands? They are rough, they might scratch her. I might! I might scratch her.

Oh God, I am old. I feel alive touching her. Monster, despicable monster.

You would not give her up. She is a young girl, a young girl …

The screaming in his head tormented him, and he tore himself away violently. Erik fell to his knees and poured his suddenly throbbing head into his hands. Despicable monster! He shook slightly and stumbled to his feet. In his shame, he remembered to make his escape a quiet one, lest Christine awaken and witness his crime.

Christ, I'd touched her. She was asleep, dreaming of the stage and goodness, her father. Her father. Did she think me her father? Why shouldn't she, you disgusting fool.

Reaching his room, he tore a canvas of Christine silhouette from the wall and collapsed on the bed. With a hateful vengeance that curled his toes, he ripped open his pants and grabbed himself forcefully. With a seething rage that unmercifully clenched his hands, he pumped his cock with a rawness that caused him aching. He could feel his skin beginning to chafe, but bit his teeth together to bear it. He held her picture in front of him with his free hand, glaring at it. Live through this, he told himself. Love her through this. This is enough.

With a savage cry, he came, spilling white lot liquid onto his hands. His semen stained his hands, making them slick and sticky.

He curled into a fetal position. The canvas clutched in his hands wrinkled in his ruthless grip. You are weak, you are nothing. This was not the only time he had watched Christine, unaware of his presence, and stroked himself to completion. Every time, he felt the same self-hate, mocking and disgust for his person. But he could not deny himself. Or her. Bloody Casanova, aren't you?

"Self-pitying fool," he said out loud, his voice thick. "You play the role so well."

Rolling to his feet, he straightened, refusing to acknowledge submission to his physical senses. He changed his jacket rudely, adjusting his clothing in a self-effacing manner. His touch was just a little too harsh, his jaw clenched a little too tightly. She deserves better, a delicate love, a china love.

"China love," he murmured. Striding to his organ, he banished his thoughts from his mind and composed. Only then, when he punished his fingers, pounding the keys and thrashing his body about sensually, did he feel in control. But he was a slave to her, his muse. The need in me, and Christine, he thought, They drive me to this, to my genius.

He played and thought of the Orient.

………………………………………

Christine arrived at the Paris Opera with Amelie at her side and Raoul in tow behind her. He frowned at her arched back, shaking with the shrill laughter that echoed around her. She held a beautifully manicured hand to her chest and giggled without the accompaniment of her eyes. Or sincerity, Raoul thought.

This life had changed her; he had realized that long ago. She had grown accustomed to the finery, ordering this gown and that hat, always receptive to offers for more jewellery. But she did smile so when he adorned her with gifts, and he lived for her lips to turn upwards because of him. To see her happiness bloom before his eyes gave him comfort and filled him with a pride only a husband in love could feel. This beautiful creature belonged to him and him alone. She blossomed under his hands.

They filed forward, Christine and Amelie throwing out salutations like batons. The gossip swirled around them in a gusty wind. Everyone was cordial with one another. No touch was too harsh, only the barest utterance of a handshake as if the mere acquiescence to contact another was special and laboured gift. If Christine's touch were a sound, it would be a whisper.

She was delicate and monstrously sexual, a sage of virginal innocence and wielded sensuality. Her dress, puckered here and tailored there, was nothing if not erotic. He had gaped upon seeing her at his door, her lips scarlet and eyes flashing. She had wordlessly slipped onto his desk top and crossed her legs, leaning back languorously. Her heels tapped up and down to a silent melody. As he approached, she uncrossed her legs. He took her without a word as she looked at the painting behind him.

Now, as she gracefully alighted the steps of the opulent lobby, she remembered that it had been a Delacroix painting. The name escaped her, but she remembered that there had been men on horses and one of the men had wore a tunic of the most beautiful colour. She had mentally reminded herself to have a dress made just like it.

Someone touched her arm, and she turned. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open.

"Meg!"

"Christine!"

The two women squealed like school girls and the nobles glared at the vicomtess unrepentantly. Christine blushed, and took Meg's hand in her own, leading her away from the flock.

"Oh, Meg, you look wonderful," Christine sighed, taking in her friend's small shape and pretty blonde hair framing cherub-like features. Meg was in full make-up and looked like a painted little doll.

"You must be crazy," she chided like old times. "I look like a clown in this make-up and this dress."

Truthfully, Meg did look a little foolish.

"Well, it's … a night look, I suppose."

Meg gaped at the audacity of her friend and slapped her playfully on the shoulder. The two dissolved in giggles. Dear Meg, Christine thought. Looking at her now, Christine became sad. I miss being like her.

A dark-clad figure caught her eye and Christine froze. Christine's face fell as she barely registered the form of a man and a flash of white. He moved too quickly for Christine to be sure, but for one cold, endless second, she thought it was him.

"Erik," Christine whispered, no longer conscious of where she was. When she thought of him, it was as if time ceased.

Confused, Meg called out to her, "Christine?"

You are delusional, Christine. Wake up. Christine turned back to her friend and forced a smile. You do that so well, don't you, dear?

"Nothing, Meg," she chastised awkwardly. Seeing bewilderment, Christine coughed and amended, "Old habits die hard."

With a knowing smile, Meg smiled and held her friend's shoulders. Her eyes crinkled in the way people's do when they are sad. Die hard or not at all, Meg thought.

"Come with me," she said, clasping Christine's hand in her own. "I will give you the grand tour."

"Meg, dear, I have been here before," Christine replied, relieved that Meg had believed her. Or felt so sorry for her crazy friend that she mercifully changed the subject to spare me more embarrassment.

"Perhaps," Meg replied with a wicked grin, "but I will show you what you haven't seen."