Christine

Erik's kiss was sweet, tender—and all the sweeter when he didn't pull away after I tangled my fingers into his hair. This was not a kiss about the passion he had been teasing me with; it was the kiss he might have given me, had I not fainted, the first night he brought me to his home, a gentle kiss, telling more than words could of his love for me. After a moment, we parted, but it was without the pain that had ended our last two kisses. I was still held securely in his arms, and those piercing eyes were searching my own brown gaze. For what? Sincerity? Love? I did not know. I answered the only way I could—the only certain process I knew of for assuring him that I did love him and that I would not be leaving him. "Erik?"

He was instantly wary of me; I could feel his muscles stiffening. "Yes, Christine?" We both knew what I was going to ask; my fingers were tracing the outline of the mask against his face, touching him with a gentleness no other had shown him. For a moment, hope rose in my soul and I actually believed that he would let me back into his heart so easily. The moment ended; Erik jerked his face out of my reach. "No," he said simply. His eyes met mine and the last time I had torn his mask off flashed between us—me, in the peasant garb of Aminta, he in the formal attire and black mask of Don Juan, singing words he had written out of our own love until I reached up and ripped away his identity in front of over a thousand people, right in the middle of the only performance of his life's work—no, forgiveness for that moment would not come easily, and I should not have expected it to. Wordlessly I turned to the shelves and selected a book at random; I had sat down before I realized that it was not written in any language I could recognize.

Any remaining ease between us was gone.

I seem to have a particular talent for shattering tenderness in him. It is not under my command, no more than are the pieces of my heart that cause him to be tender to me in the first place. If I never learn anything else about Erik, I will always know this: I can control neither his love nor his hate. Those are for him alone; the two doors in his heart that I have no conscious influence over. Strange, how it seems I am still their unwitting key, even though he is trying to lock me from them both.

He loved me. I was sure of it, as sure as I was that I loved him. But as he had once told me, fear and love are closely held in the soul, and so are love and hate. Anything could push either of us over the edge from one to the other. I made one more desperate attempt to win his heart back, trying to prove to us both that I was no more the indecisive child who could not handle his all-encompassing love: I sang.

Laying the book aside, I stood and let my voice carry to him everything I could never say.

Erik

I have never been capable of turning away from her voice. That perfect pitch, her angelic tones raising from the depths of her soul to caress the air about us with pure sound—no, her voice was the one argument she could make that I had to listen to.

"Once a lifetime

Once a memory

Once you were all that I could see

Sharing a heart

Sharing a soul

Sharing all we ever could be

Why did I leave

Why did you stay

Why can't we see past what we were

Not an angel

Not a demon

Nothing other than you and me . . ."

I refused to react. Her voice trailed off; she had been putting her own lyrics to an old work of mine, and I shivered inside at how well the two fit together. Nothing showed on my face of how I felt; I merely raised an eyebrow. Christine glared at me. "Are you quite finished?" I asked.

"No." I was unprepared for her next words. "Pitiful creature of darkness—"

Christine gasped as I forcibly grabbed her wrist and shook her. "Don't you dare sing to me of that night. Do you understand?" How had she made me this angry? Just moments earlier we had been sharing a kiss—and such a kiss!—but her insistence on seeing my face had brought up all the old barriers and all the old memories. Forget the ring, still glittering on her finger; rings, as Christine had so aptly shown me before, can be removed. I could not think of anything she could do to assuage my anger and my hurt at her betrayal; what a fool I had been, to think that merely having her with me again would heal all the wounds.

Tears were streaming down her face, but her gaze was angry. "Let me go, Erik," Christine demanded, her voice sharpening. I tightened my grip on her wrist, ignoring how delicate she felt under my touch.

"I asked you a question, Christine. Answer it."

"Why should I?" She struggled against my hold, trying to get free, so I spun her around and used my other arm to wrap around her waist, holding her back tightly against my chest. Christine made a praiseworthy attempt to stomp on my foot, but I deftly avoided her and hooked her leg with my own; there would be no more stamping unless she wished to lose her balance completely. "It's only a mask, Erik!"

"Then why," I snarled in her ear, "are you so obsessed with looking beneath it? Does my ruined face hold a twisted fascination for you, my dear? I had no idea you could be that sick."

Christine utilized the only weapon left to her—she banged her head back into my chest in frustration. "Sick? Obsessed? I hadn't realized we had started talking about you, Erik. Who created a dummy of me? Who made me believe he was an angel so that he could control me? You kidnapped me off a stage in the midst of a show and almost forced me to marry you—not to mention the deaths you caused in my name—how dare you talk to me about a sick obsession!"

Deaths I caused—could she really not say 'murders'? Even now? I could feel my fingers squeezing even tighter around her—if one of us wasn't careful, I was really going to hurt her. "At least I knew my own feelings—or have you forgotten that you were willfully playing with two hearts? I may have been—" 'have been', what a laugh, I would be entranced with her till the day I died—"a little too enthusiastic in my pursuit of you, but don't forget I let you go."

The last thing I was expecting from her was a bitter laugh. "Let me go? Oh no, Erik; you may have let me go, but I will never be free of you."

"That makes two of us." Not sure who I was more disgusted with—her or myself—I flung Christine onto the couch, none-too-gently. It wasn't the first time I had violently thrown her away from me; that first time she had taken my mask off, for instance . . . at least this time she landed on the couch and not the floor.

What a moment for Nadir to enter—and with that wretched boy at his heels.

Christine

I did not hit the couch hard; it was only surprise that caused me to gasp. He was usually so gentle with me that I sometimes forgot Erik's strength.

Dream-like, I watched as Nadir and Raoul came into the room. We had not heard a bell ring; but then, as loud as we had been shouting, it was easy to assume that we had missed it. For a moment I truly did not believe that they were real; then Raoul rushed past Erik and knelt by my side, his hand worriedly stroking my forehead as he glared at my angel of darkness. "Shh, darling, I'm here—are you alright? He hasn't hurt you too badly, has he?"

I heard a growl coming from my already-enraged beloved; a warning that if I did not take control of the situation rapidly, he would make no promises about Raoul's life-expectancy. "Of course I'm fine. Erik would not really harm me." I gently pushed away his hand and sat up.

The Persian raised an eyebrow, looking between Erik and me with a strained expression. I couldn't help but noticed that his hand was casually resting on his cheek—I was not the only one who recognized the mind-frame Erik was in. "If you will permit my contradiction, mademoiselle, that throw looked anything but harmless. And your wrist is bruising."

Erik opened his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it. "I am fine, daroga. Now," I glanced back and forth at Nadir and Raoul, forcing my tone to be even and normal, "was there a reason for your visit?"

I could not decide which of the three looked more stunned. Finally, Raoul managed to stutter, "We . . . were coming to rescue you, Christine." He motioned to the shadows around the music-room. "Surely . . ." Poor Raoul. I had always baffled him; his voice faltered now as he contemplated me. "Surely you didn't choose this, Christine?"

Pain was clearly etched on Erik's features as he closed his eyes. Here we were again; my choice. And he, at least, had no doubts about what that choice would be. I could see him mentally cursing both of us for ever letting me back into his home. "Yes," I told Raoul simply, turning away from the sight of my angel's pain. For once—just once—I was making the decision I should have made the first time Raoul asked me to dinner, and I was going to see it through. "I did, and I still do. I'm sorry, Raoul, but this is where I belong." I resisted the urge to touch his cheek one last time; it would do no good to hurt him further than I already had. "If you gentlemen have no other reason for intruding, I believe my fiancé and I have a discussion we need to finish." I was borrowing Erik's dry tone of voice; at the moment it didn't look as though he would be using it any time soon.

For a moment Nadir stared at me, as though questioning my motives or my sanity—or both—but then he pulled Raoul to his feet. "Even you and I cannot argue with that, my friend," he said, leading my former sweetheart from the room. I could not help but compare the stricken look on Raoul's face to the expression Erik had worn as I left his home the night of Don Juan; Raoul was shocked and hurt. Erik had been devastated.

Erik. His eyes had opened and he was gazing at me with an expression just as shaken as the ones Nadir and Raoul had given me. I found that I did not want to continue our . . . discussion . . . just then; I had no desire to explain anything to him. Not now; despite what I had told the Persian, my wrist was aching fiercely. I stood, and, ignoring the fact that it was still early afternoon, simply told Erik, "I'm going to bed," before disappearing to lock myself in my room.

A/N: I know Erik is a teensy bit violent in this chapter, but sometimes I get sick of writing the perfectly controlled Erik—especially when I'm basing this off the movie. Gerik has control issues. Love him dearly, but he does. Hope it doesn't bug anyone and that you're all still liking this. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

WildPixieChild: Thanks! Another reader always makes my day. : )

Anacari: Thanks, here's another chappie for you—thanks for your faithful reviews!

Mz. Kelsi: Yay! Another reviewer—I'm glad you like it. Here's some more!

AMaskandanAngel: Updating for you, m'dear. Hope you like!

Prying Pandora: Thanks for reviewing (again!). Lol, yes, teasing Erik is very fun to write. Of course, so is AngryErik and SadErik and basically all the other Eriks. . . .