A/N: my-echo said: They belong together. They just do.

I whole-heartedly agree :)

Thank you so much, all of you, for the reviews, and on with the chap

Chapter Five

Oh, Christine.

The simple nearness of you makes me smile with quiet delight.

We stroll near Lake Averne. I dare to offer you my arm, and you link it with yours, thanking me quietly.

We walk in silence, before I speak of the papers you relinquished to me exactly one week ago.

I read them at a greedily fast pace, eager to know what they were about.

Eleven pages, there were, filled with your account of recent events.

In the pages, you were speaking to your former lover, the vicomte, but I see now why you decided to give them to me.

Snippets of the text will be forever engraved in my memory.

"Oh, Raoul," you wrote, your script oddly sloppy, as if you were trying to record your many thoughts as quickly as possible, "This feeling, this sensation, when I sing with him! When I am in a room with him! Beyond the fear, and the mystery, there is something more, something that I do not understand." A smile had graced my lips as I read those words, a smile of pure satisfaction. "Perhaps what I feel is evil, Raoul, for it is so nice, yet so unknown, and I have never felt it for you before."

And later on: "Oh, Raoul, I am so sorry. What I feel for you is simple, innocent. . . almost completely platonic in its chastity. But Raoul, with Erik, it's so different! He frightens me, yet he thrills me; I want to be as far away from him as possible, but at the same time, I never wish to leave! I stay with him for the sake of pity, but also, because I would have it no other way. Oh, Raoul, if only you understood. . . I wasn't completely truthful that night on the rooftop. . . I cannot say more. I am sorry, dear."

I speak with you of these passages, and you merely look away and blush a deep crimson.

"What you said to the boy on the rooftop. . . what was untruthful about it?" I ask you.

"Oh, Erik," you murmur. "Where to begin? It is not so much as I lied. . . I simply did not tell the whole truth, or avoided his questions altogether. . ."

I wait in silence for an example.

"He mentioned me hiding a love. . . accused me of loving more than one man. . . I denied it. . ."

A silence.

"But perhaps that is true," you whisper finally.

I turn towards you, though I do not speak. I only lean down slightly; you raise on your toes to help me plant a soft kiss on your forehead.

Closing my eyes, I allow my lips to linger on your skin longer than necessary. You do not object; you simply close your eyes, and sigh softly.

I pull apart. "Come, dear," I say. "It is getting late."

We walk back to the house in a comfortable silence, arms linked once more.

My mind is not entirely at ease, however. Although you answered me, your answers have only brought forth a new batch of questions.

But I realize that you need time.