The Muse

Light drifted into the bedroom, casting sun on a couple tangled in sheets.

Erik groaned and absently threw an arm over his face, shielding his eyes from the harrowing light. A soft giggle greeted him and he was immediately reminded that Christine was in his bed and she was smiling.

"I was afraid of this," Erik mumbled.

"Afraid of what?"

"You are a morning person. It horrifies me."

Laughter bubbled from Christine's throat, surprising and warm. "That horrifies you?"

"Yes. It is quite off-putting and unpleasant. It horrifies me."

Christine laughed again.

"Why do you find this so funny?" His brow was creased and he wore a scowl of sorts but that was how he usually looked so Christine dismissed it. Erik being Erik.

"I find the word 'horrifying' a little … extreme. And ironic. There are many more things you should be horrified of than my sunny disposition upon waking," she drawled, the corners of her mouth turned up in amusement.

"Interesting. Such as?"

"Well," Christine paused, biting her lip in thought. Surely, a Phantom was not scared of mice or rats or cobwebs or many of the terrible little creatures that had inhabited his abode. But she was. Grinning, she started, "When I was a child, I used to – no, it is too embarrassing. You'll laugh."

"Maybe. Is that so terrible?"

They stared at one another, goofy grins plastered across their faces. It was a dare.

Wordlessly, Christine got up on her knees and gathered the sheets in her hands. Erik was puzzled and amused, for Christine seemed not to worry for her nudity. He watched her breasts sway as she tied the ends of each sheet to the bedposts. She had a small beauty mark on the base of her spine and a scar on her right ankle. Otherwise, her skin was unmarred. He memorized her as if taking a photograph. She was so beautiful.

Tying the last knot, Christine explained, "When I was young, I used to be afraid of the dark, so I would make my bed into a fort of sorts with sheets and –"

"Canons?"

Christine giggled. "No, something much more impregnable than that. Blankets."

"Ah, blankets. They have protected me from certain death on more than one occasion. It's the softness that throws people off, I think. People always overlook the blanket because of its softness. They should know: never underestimate the blanket."

"And you say I'm sprightly in the morning," Christine grinned, amused. "Here you are, presenting witty conjecture and all I can offer is instruction on making a fort with blankets."

"And sheets. Don't forget the sheets."

Erik turned away, and scratched the ruined side of his face. He often found that it itched after a night sleeping on a pillow; something about the fabric made his eyes water and skin crawl.

As he rapidly blinked his drooped eye (it was often slow to react upon waking), he asked, "What were you trying to keep out?"

"Oh, the usual round of suspects. Vampires, spiders, demons, Napoleon …"

Erik burst out laughing, his afflicted face forgotten. "You were afraid of Napoleon?"

"Yes! Weren't you?" She looked as though, for all the world, this was a perfectly sensible thing to say. Erik supposed it was but Napoleon had never been on his shortlist of phobias.

"Living underground affords you the luxury of not mattering to society." Erik shrugged. "He was also very small."

"Exactly!"

"You feared him because he was small?" He had to hear this.

"Yes," Christine replied seriously. "He could have been anywhere. My closet, under the bed … Are you alright?"

Erik's face was contorted, his lips stretched and pressed together tightly, tears threatening to stream from his eyes. She grabbed for his shoulder, asking again if he was alright. The look of concern and seriousness of her tone was too much. He opened his mouth and sound came frothing out, loud and uproarious, clanging against the walls with all the intensity of a snare drum. Christine stared at him, almost horrified. Then the shock wore away and she realized, Erik is laughing. Booming, raucous, free laughter emanated from his throat like water bubbling from a brook. Erik was embarrassed but he could not stop, not with the sheer look of shock on Christine's face, nor their present surroundings. We're under a blanket-fort, for god's sake!

"I'm alright," he gasped, "It's really not that amusing, it's just … unexpected." He chuckled softly, gaining control of the sensation but still a smile lingered.

"Oh," Christine replied quietly, still a little flustered at his sudden laughter (and not a little proud that she was the cause of it). "Well," she began, crossing her arms across her naked chest, "You should think about it. He really was quite frightening."

"Ah, but you had your mighty sheets and faithful blankets," he replied, pulling her toward him. Christine settled into his arms. Erik vaguely wondered if Christine had had this conversation with Raoul. Did Raoul know of her Napoleon phobia and fabric forts? He prayed Raoul was none the wiser. Hugging her close to him, he prayed that this moment was just for them.

Christine grew increasingly uncomfortable. They had laughed, shared secrets and this? Felt good. Wonderful. Like home. And yet she could not tear herself away.

"I suppose it is silly," Christine murmured into his chest, fumbling to cover her inner struggle. "There are many other things to fear."

Pause. Hoping to turn the focus away from herself, lest she blurt out something truly regretful – Love! Like love, you idiot! – she asked, "What did you fear as a child?"

"Also Napoleon."

"You jest," Christine slapped him lightly. "Do you not wish to tell me?"

"Forgive them father, they know not what they do – or ask."

"I figured you to be a – "

"Heathen?"

Christine frowned.

"The Good Book is just that. It is the shepherd's blind sheep who have twisted its meaning over time."

Erik sighed, rubbed his forehead. He hoped she did not sense his nervousness or his racing heart. He was afraid; it was an altogether new sensation. No, not new. Just forgotten. He knew not how to tell her this without offending her. What he feared now was the same as what he had as a child: inside. That someone would see behind – no, beyond the mask – was his only true horror. For Christine to know he was just as ugly and twisted on the inside as he was in appearance would shatter him. Confessions leech sin from the soul but Erik was not ready to yet be clean.

"Mirrors. I hated mirrors. My mother had all the mirrors in the house removed upon my birth. I did not truly see myself – aside from dirty bath water or my reflection in a spoon – until much later. The neighbourhood boys – they thought it would be amusing to …"

Christine bit her lip, trying hard not to cry. Oh, how foolish – he had only just begun! But the cruelty Erik must have suffered in the hands of children who did not know better … She herself possessed traumatic childhood memories (mockeries, rumours, pranks) but she knew they could not compare.

"You don't have to tell me," Christine whispered softly.

"I know I don't. I think I want to. I have never … Secrets are like spoiled milk. They can only last so long before it begins to rot from the inside out."

A sharp rap on the door. Erik let out a great sigh. The servants knew not to ever bother him while he was in his room or composing unless it was important. Planting a chaste kiss on her forehead, he rolled out of bed, slipped on his robe and mask and stalked toward the door.

Maria's fearful face greeted him and he returned her insolence with a glare.

"I am so sorry, Master –" Erik's raised hand cut her off and she finished quickly, "Senor Kvelsak insists he see you."

Erik ran a hand through his hair, and furrowed his brows. He was not to meet Dimitri for another few hours, so why was he early? The light-hearted mood of before leaving him, he ground out, "Tell Senor Kvelsak to make himself at home in the sitting room. I will be down shortly."

Maria nodded quickly and practically took off in a run. Turning back to the bed, he almost laughed again at the sight of Christine huddled in her makeshift fort. He crawled underneath, careful not to disturb the sheets and settled himself over Christine, her legs accommodating his hips between her. He dropped his head into her neck.

"I wish I could stay here all day," he murmured into her hair.

"Me too. But you must …?"

"I am afraid I have to leave you for a short while. Dimitri – the friend I told you about earlier? He is here on business." He sounded as if this were the most unreasonable and unfortunate of events to befall him. "And he is a whole day early," he muttered, mostly to himself, as he rolled away.

"What ever shall I do without you, Erik?" Christine cried out mockingly, gripping his arm as he tried to retreat.

Erik sighed. "Absolutely horrifying." She giggled and he could not help but smile.

"I am not worried. Surely, nothing can get in this fortress."

"Erik," Christine spoke quietly, "I would like to get out – if you do not mind."

Erik's heart began racing. Fear crashed over him in an awesome wave and for a moment he worried that she wanted to leave him. Now. More so, he was afraid he would let her go.

Feigning nonchalance, faced her to ask, "Where would you like to go?"

"I would like to see the city. It sounds quite beautiful from the way you described it earlier."

So relieved she had not asked to leave him, he quickly said yes.

He leaned in to kiss her, but she stopped him. Frowning, she wedged the mask off his face. "If I am to have one rule as the lady of this house, it is that you do not kiss me with that thing on your face."

That is the strangest request anyone has ever asked of me, Erik thought. Never did he entertain the thought that someone would actually want to see his face. "If you wish it so," he said doubtfully.

"I do," Christine replied sternly. Stroking his face, she added, "Especially in our fortress."

"Our?"

Christine shrugged. "I suppose I must grant you part ownership as the proprietor of these sheets."

"And this bed."

"Yes. It would be unseemly not to grant you some credit, despite the fortress being my idea."

"May I be the muse?"

Christine frowned. "I thought I was the muse?"

"Always," he replied softly, stroking an errant curl away from her face.

Christine smiled, and for a fleeting moment, Erik swore she looked sad. But he dismissed this at the words, "You may kiss me now."

He obliged her, for what choice did he have? To not kiss her is no choice at all, but mere torture. To kiss her is a gift I surely do not deserve. But he kept his thoughts to himself, for it was better for everyone that way. He could speak and things would change and reality would crash upon him like a tidal wave upon the surf. He could awaken from this lovely dream – for that's what it was, wasn't it? Fleeting glimpses of serenity – Christine's pale leg slung over his thigh – laughter and light in a cocoon of their own making.