Christine
One month. Christine smiled to herself as she drew a warm bath; today marked one month that she had spent with Erik. They'd had a few rough moments, to be sure, and a deep scare—she shivered at the memory of the Baron de Riviet—but for the most part it had been one long paradise.
As she drew on her corset, she smiled at the memory of the first time, mortified, she had silently begged for Erik's help. Now that small, intimate moment was a beloved daily ritual. This morning, Erik's hands lingered at her waist when he finished the ties; Christine felt him draw her back against him. She shivered as a thrill went through here when Erik pressed a not-so-chaste kiss into the hollow of her throat. "You're trembling," he observed dryly, his lips still mere inches from her skin. "Cold?"
"You know it isn't the cold," Christine whispered, brushing her fingers along the left side of his face.
He just smiled and released her. "Dress, my dear, quickly."
Erik
I was sitting at the piano when she came back out, my fingers idly modifying an old theme. Christine sat by my side and leaned her head against my shoulder. "Erik," she murmured, "It's been—"
"Shh." I cut her off gently. "Patience, love. 'Tis a virtue." I looked at my watch. "You're late, you know. Rehearsal starts in half an hour." The opening of, ironically, Hannibal was tonight; it was her final contracted performance.
"Erik!" She protested. I gave her my most innocuous look. "Very well, play your games."
I grinned and kissed her nose. "Breakfast, then I will walk you to the theatre."
"Will you be watching tonight?"
"Of course." Thinking of my other plans for tonight, I added, "And I will meet you in your dressing room after."
"Oh, will you now?" Christine gave me a slow, coy wink; I kissed her cheek and carried her to the kitchen.
Christine
It was her best performance yet. After the final curtain, Christine hurried to her dressing room. As she approached, she was startled to find the bouquets of flowers that usually adorned her room after a performance lining the hallway instead. The opera manager, Sanchez, was waiting for her by the door marked Daae. He shrugged as she indicated the flowers with a questioning look. "He was very insistent, Miss Daae." The manager hesitated. "He told me he was your teacher—" here he traced the shape of a mask on his own features. "I was not certain—he is known to you, then?"
Christine smiled and nodded. "Yes, and I know he can be very . . . demanding. Thank you, Signeur."
Still, the manager hesitated. "We can get an escort for you, you know, miss . . . is he then, just a teacher?"
"Teacher," she whispered, looking at the door, "friend, beloved, and fiancé. Thank you, Sanchez, but no escort will be needed. Good evening."
"Happiness to you both, then," he murmured and departed.
Biting her lip, Christine opened the door.
It was immediately clear why Erik had banned the other flowers from her room; here, every surface was covered with roses of the deepest red, glowing in the candlelight. There was a small table set for two in the center of the room, with a covered dish and a white rose in a vase in the middle of it. Despite herself, Christine gasped; it was gorgeous.
The door clicked shut behind her. "Like it, my dear?" Erik's voice spoke in her ear as his hands on her shoulders guided her to a seat. He tenderly kissed her cheek, then sat down beside her, his immaculate evening dress reminding her of other dinners at his home in years past.
Christine knew her eyes were shining as she gently touched his hand. "It's beautiful, Erik."
The meal was perfectly French; he had even managed crème brulee. They spoke quietly and comfortably, or watched each other in easy silence. When they had both finished, Erik stood and held his hand out to her. "A dance, Christine?" he asked softly. She smiled her acceptance, and though the cramped dressing-room grew no smaller, they managed a simple, graceful dance to the song Erik had written for her. The melody, coming from beneath the roses in one corner, slowed, then stopped, and they were left holding each other closely.
Erik closed his eyes for a moment, then met her gaze evenly and began to speak.
"You know my sins, Christine. You know the demons of my—rather spectacularly haunted—past. You have seen my temper; I have even killed in front of you.
"And you know that I do not ask this lightly. I would die rather than hurt you, kill rather than have one of my devils return to harm you. I cannot help but feel my past will catch up with me sometime, and I would not put you through the hell there will be to pay when that happens.
"And yet," he continued, his voice becoming tender, "You also know that I love you. Beyond reason, beyond life, beyond all the darkness in this world, I love you. You are the only light my life has ever known; you are my inspiration and my heart. I love your gentleness with me and your strength with my pain; I love your rare and precious little soul, your quiet heart, your young mind. I love you when you laugh, when you cry, in silence or in song, when you give me a well-earned slap, when you sing, when you grow. I love that you have come to understand my strange sense of humor, even though it means you know to look past my irony and see heart's truth." Christine was crying now, tears slipping down her face as he knelt before her. "I love you. And so despite my fear for you, despite my reservations, I am once again asking you to marry me."
She fell to her knees and buried her face in his shoulder, only just managing to choke out a simple, "With all my heart."
Erik
The wedding took us two weeks to prepare for; they passed in a moment. Even finding a priest who would perform a wedding ceremony for a masked man was far easier than I expected.
In fact, the mask's only problem was Christine.
The morning of our wedding had arrived; as I usually did not sleep with the mask on, I had set it on the low table by the sofa. I don't know how early she must have gotten up to whisk it away, but when I awoke at dawn, it had disappeared and she refused to tell me where she had hid it. "I am not marrying the mask. I am marrying the man behind it," Christine insisted.
"I know, Christine," I grumbled. "But the man who wears the mask would very much like to have it returned to him!" She shook her head; I yanked irritably—though not too hard—at her corset strings. "I'll steal your veil," I threatened ominously. She shook her head again, though she was smiling slightly. I sighed, finished tying the laces, and pulled her close. "What do I have to do to get it back?" She hesitated, then glanced away from me and blushed. "Christine," I warned, shaking her gently.
"All right!" She gasped, but when she met my gaze her eyes were stern. "You can have it back today, if," she blurted, "you will leave it off tonight."
She was blushing furiously now, but she did not look away from me. I dropped my hands from her waist in surprise, but covered it by neatly raising one eyebrow at her. "You mean what, precisely?"
"I mean, Erik, that that mask is not entering my room. You may wear it now, or you may wear it later and sleep alone."
Could she ever understand how much it meant to me to hear her say that—and mean it? "I love you," I murmured, leaning down to kiss her. "May I have it back, then? I promise," I added quietly as she opened her mouth to ask for my word. She pulled away from me and briefly vanished into her room. When she returned, she was wearing her wedding dress and had the white half-mask in her hands. I could not resist teasing her as I put it on. "I thought you said it wasn't allowed there," I muttered.
"Not when you're wearing it, it isn't," she agreed complacently.
I kissed her palms. She looked so beautiful; I had seen her in a wedding dress once before, but this was real in a way that vision never had been. "Angel," I whispered and led her to the piano. We were still quite early; the ceremony was set for early evening.
We spent a pleasant, easy day lounging about the apartment; as dusk approached, I beckoned for her to come. The butterflies in my stomach were reflected on her face as she took my arm and we began the short walk to the chapel.
The wedding ceremony in the quiet, dim church was a blur to me; all I remember is our voices echoing as we whispered, "With this ring, I thee wed," Christine's dark eyes shimmering with tears as I lifted her veil, the sweet fire of our first kiss as husband and wife.
I will never forget the words she said to me that night; I was surprised at my own nervousness, but she had simply removed the mask and told me, "I remember the first night you brought me here. I could see the same hunger in your eyes that I see now, and the same fear—the belief that you are wrong to need what you so want. I love you, Erik; I am yours, and you are mine. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in life and death and through whatever may happen, I am sworn to you and am yours mind, body, and soul." She reached up to kiss me; just before our lips met, Christine whispered, "There is no sin in love between a man and his wife."
As it had before—in the cellars of the Opera, that first night I saw her in the hotel, and a hundred times since—her kiss changed everything.