Erik

After the chaos of yesterday, his house was eerily quiet this morning. Then again, perhaps he and Raoul had created enough racket to silence the rest of them until at least early afternoon. Erik's mouth tightened in self-recrimination; he knew better than to lose his temper at the boy. That insinuation in Raoul's voice, however, suggesting that Erik would have kidnapped his own son and destroyed a home Christine loved just to bring the two of them back into his life, had sparked Erik's sleeping anger into a fully woken fury. His soul cried out for music to ease his frustration, as it always had. Shuddering with need, Erik swiftly abandoned the kitchen and quickly made his way to his sanctuary, his fingers already itching for the aching, dangerous notes of his masterpiece. How long had it been, since he had played Don Juan? Far too long. Conveniently ignoring the dangers of playing that, here, Erik ducked into his music-room and locked the door behind him. Before he could bar the other entrance, however, he discovered that he was not the first to search here for release from the sharp words spoken that morning.

Peering at it intently, Charles inserted what looked like a hairpin into the lock of one of Erik's chests. The boy wriggled the tool hopefully, then frowned as the catch failed to release. He sat back on his heels to study the lock.

For the briefest moment, Erik felt rage at this—albeit innocent—invasion of his privacy. The next, he was turning on his son the same contemplative gaze that Charles was favoring the lock with. Uncertain of how to proceed, Erik silently edged closer until he could kneel to the boy's level. To his credit, Charles leaped around with a guilty expression when he felt someone crouch down beside him. There were fresh tearstains on those pale, thin cheeks, and a misery Erik found uncomfortably familiar stared back at him from the child's amber gaze. "Angel, I'm sorry," Charles pleaded in a voice that managed, if only just, to avoid being a whimper. "I wanted to see more music—the fire hurt mine and yours is so beautiful . . ."

Staring into his son's eyes, Erik silently cursed Raoul de Chagny for even thinking he would light that blaze. "Let me show you," he replied, his voice gentle. Lifting up the hairpins, Erik carefully showed his boy how to add an extra twist at the end for this particular lock. He had never bothered having a key made; Erik reasoned that the day he was incapable of picking a lock was the day he ceased deserving access to the music stored in this chest.

Once Charles had mastered the lock, Erik thumbed through the compositions until he found something adequately approaching the young musician's skill level. He hesitated, then gave in to his own repressed instincts, scooping the child up in one arm and the music up in the other. He regretted this almost instantly, as one of Charles' hands pressed against his mask. Clenching his jaw, Erik placed the toddler on the piano bench. He kept his voice even, but firm. "You must not touch my mask, Charles, or I will not teach you this music. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Angel."

He should probably correct that behavior as well, but at the moment there was a significant lack of more appropriate titles. 'Papa' was taken, O.G. would be ridiculous, and he loathed the thought of his own son knowing him as 'Erik'. Angel it was, and Angel it would remain until Christine saw fit to change it—one way or another.

A wry smile twisted Erik's lips as he glanced at the piece before them. This . . . he had composed this the first night he had realized the child now sitting next to him on the piano bench was his son. "What is a changeling?" Charles asked suddenly, pointing to the title.

"I see you can read more than music," Erik answered. "Someday I shall tell you. First, you must learn to play it. Do you think you will be able to do so?"

The boy looked over the score. "May I try it at half tempo first?" Erik nodded his assent. He watched carefully as the young fingers began to move over the keys. Erik had forgotten that the childish hands, long though they might be, were nowhere near capable of spanning an octave, but Charles made some creative fingering adjustments which covered for that failing. When the piece ended, Erik quietly pointed out a missed sharp and three off-tempo measures; Charles nodded and began again. After the fifth run, the teacher asked for the work to be brought up to speed.

"Very good," Erik murmured at the end of a second perfect round. "Now—close your eyes." Charles obediently began to play the piece from memory; he made a few mistakes, but corrected them instantly. "Tell me if you can hear the difference," Erik instructed and played Changeling through with two slight deviations.

Charles opened his eyes when the song ended. "You changed to a third here, and again here," he said with confidence, pointing to the fourth and tenth measures.

"Excellent, Charles." He made no effort to hide the pride in his voice. Erik pulled a second composition from its place behind the first. "I believe I heard you practicing this yesterday, correct?" At the boy's nod, he pointed to a set of measures. "Why did you change the melody here?"

Charles' golden eyes glanced up as though making certain his Angel was not angry with him for modifying the composition. "It sounded a bit like something I wrote; I wanted to see if I could make it fit." Wordlessly, Erik located a blank score, a metal-nibbed pen, and an inkwell, and handed them to the child. Charles frowned in concentration, then began to scribble notes onto the staffs.

A warm, soft body suddenly pressed against Erik's other side. He smiled a little; she had been watching for at least the entire music lesson, if not the lock-picking incident before it. Slowly, Erik wrapped his arm around her and pulled Christine closer to him. He would not have thought that all three of them would fit comfortably onto the piano bench, but his son and his love were rapidly redefining Erik's idea of comfort. Christine laid her head against his shoulder and he tenderly kissed the top of it, breathing in the scent of her hair. Could this possibly be heaven?

Apparently not. "I'm going to look over the estate today. I should be back before nightfall," Raoul's voice cut into the quiet sound of Charles fingering a chord. Christine stiffened and reflexively tried to pull away; Erik held her firmly.

"Enjoy yourself," Erik replied dryly, allowing innuendo to drip from his tone. The unspoken because we will lay crackling in the air between the three of them.

Deftly slipping out of his grasp, Christine gave Erik a cool frown before going to her husband. "Come back safely," she murmured, gently touching Raoul's cheek. His lips twisted in what may have passed for a grin had it not been utterly lacking humor.

"Of course. Goodbye, Charles," Raoul called softly. Immediately the boy turned around and leaped off the bench to head toward the man he knew as his father. Picking him up, Raoul gently held the soft, dark head to his shoulder for a moment before releasing him.

"Will you look for my music, Papa?" Charles questioned as he was being set down.

Raoul nodded. Erik seethed. "The fire probably destroyed it, Charles, but I will look," the Comte reassured, a flicker of a glance spitting at his erstwhile rival.

A cold smile tugged at his lips as Erik inclined his head in an ironic bow. Raoul finished his goodbyes and exited, but the damage had been done; if there was a way of recapturing the peaceful mood of earlier, Erik did not know what it was. Christine, too, seemed to be searching for a way to breach the silence; the topic she chose was not one that met his approval. "You taught my son to pick locks, Erik," she scolded, her tone soft but not quite flippant enough.

"Au contraire, my dear. He already possessed that knowledge; I merely refined his skill." Erik turned from her, back to the piano that Charles had abandoned. He fingered an absent chord, knowing she would recognize it, and was rewarded with her hand tightly squeezing his shoulder.

"Not that, Erik. Please. Not with Charles and the girls in the house." Christine looked to where her son was poking at a device Erik had haphazardly set on the floor; she obviously hoped he had remembered that a child lived here now and would be getting into everything within reach.

"You don't protest it for your own sake?" He queried dryly. The last time she had heard Don Juan was after he had coaxed her into a wedding dress and then, for her own safety, locked her in her room. Christine was right to worry; it had never been meant for innocent ears.

The hand on his shoulder softened. "We do have a son," Christine reminded him quietly, leaning in close to him so that her lips tickled his ear.

"Watch your tongue," Erik answered just as softly, his hand drifting to her waist of its own accord. "You don't know just how good his hearing is." They both looked to where Charles was playing; he seemed utterly absorbed in his own world. "By the way, I forgot to inquire as to how much you heard, this morning."

"Does it matter?" Pulling away from him a little, Christine seemed to be making an attempt to compose herself. While he applauded the effort, the effect wasn't where she might have hoped it would be.

Erik watched her steadily. "I suppose it doesn't." He gave himself free reign to absorb her face, noting the changes in her from the girl she had been. There was sorrow, in her dark eyes, and knowledge that she had not possessed five years ago. Yet she was still his Christine, his beloved angel, and an old, treasured memory flashed into his mind. That sweet face, no longer innocent, as she woke for the first and only time in his arms . . . her head lifting from where she had rested against his chest as she leaned up to caress his cold lips with her warm mouth, beginning a new cascade of emotions and desires . . .

"Erik," Christine whispered hoarsely. She was leaning up against him on the bench, and he knew the passion in her eyes was a reflection of his own gaze. Wrapping his arms around her, he trailed his fingertips along her spine . . .

Charles saved them both. "Angel? What does this do?" He was pointing to another of Erik's contraptions. With a soft moan meant for Christine's ears alone, Erik pulled away from her.

Neither of them noticed Caron's disapproving glance as she passed by the open door.

Christine

Charles had been given a few of the strange trinkets kept around the music-room and returned to his nurses; now, Erik stood with his back to her, seemingly absorbed with the books on his shelves. What level of agony and ecstasy was this, for him to finally be real, not a hallucination or a dream—for Christine to be able to stand and stare at him, letting her eyes rove hungrily over his back, his arms, his legs, the long, thin hands clasped behind him—and yet for there to be this un-crossable distance between them? Just looking at him was worth everything, but it was an eternal distance short of what she needed.

Oh, wanton, wretched woman, she thought, her breath catching in her throat at Erik's slightest shift. When had she become so needy for his touch? Christine had lived five years lacking true touch, with a husband at her side who had never done more than desperately kiss her, hoping that he would be able to light some spark of response. Yet Erik, with that golden gaze just minutes ago, had drawn her to him as easily as if she were tied with spider-silk. Perhaps she was. His head had turned, and Erik was regarding her with one eye, his stare lingering over her as thoroughly as she had been drinking in him. There was a deep and almost feral delight in that eye; goodness, she hadn't said that thought out loud, had she?

"Wanton, my dear?" He said in an undertone, not troubling to take the amusement from his tone. She had said it out loud. Christine lifted her hand to her mouth and whirled around, putting her back to him as shame touched her cheeks. To say such a thing in front of a man who had never been her husband . . .

No, Erik had never been her husband. He was only the father of her child and the deepest love of her heart, and she knew him as she knew no one else. Or she had, once, when their two souls reached a level of understanding Christine had barely been able to comprehend. That had happened long before the night he had stolen her from the midst of a crowded auditorium; they had understood each other even when he was nothing but an angelic teacher. It was why she had been both relieved and horrified to find out he was merely a man . . .

His breath was on her ear, his body as close as he could be without touching her. Erik never had been one to initiate physical contact. "Sing for me," he suggested, his tone low.

"Sing with me," Christine retorted. She turned into his arms. "Why did you have to bait Raoul so when he left?"

The golden eyes that had been warmly staring into hers hardened. "I wasn't the only one baiting an opponent in that moment, if you cared to notice."

"He feels threatened by you. I wish you two wouldn't use Charles and me as game-pieces. This is not chess; we are not made of wood." Unlike pawns, Christine knew, she and her son were fragile—rough handling by either of these men and they would break.

Erik ignored the second half of her statement to lean in and breathe lightly upon her neck. "Should he feel threatened?"

Fingers moving without her leave to do so, Christine found her hands in his hair, cautiously stroking the ties of his mask. "If you're trying to seduce me, you're going to have to remove this."

He froze, the hands that had slowly moved to her back tightening, digging into her spine. "Don't, Christine. Don't even consider it."

"Don't consider letting you seduce me, or don't consider removing your mask? I miss you, Erik. All of you." When he didn't answer, Christine sighed and let her hands drop to the back of his neck. "Haven't you learned to trust me? Haven't you learned that I love you?"

"You're wearing a wedding ring, my dear," Erik stepped away, distancing himself from her. "And, if I may remind you, it is not mine. Kindly do not ask me to do anything you would hate me for; you should know by now that I have a certain difficulty in refusing your wishes."

He had to know she wasn't asking him to seduce her; Erik was simply being stubborn. "Removing your mask would not make me hate you, as you know very well."

A slow grin twisted what she could see of his mouth. "But Christine, darling, this mask is almost nine-tenths of what is keeping me from kissing you right now, and I'm quite sure your husband would disapprove."

"Oh." Christine looked away from him, embarrassed. In a very quiet voice, she made an attempt to change the subject. "What were you and Raoul fighting over this morning?"

"What we have been fighting over since our first realization of the other's existence."

"Oh," she murmured again. Silence filled the space between them.

After what he apparently felt was a long enough pause, Erik continued. "More specifically, he was accusing me of stealing Charles and setting your house on fire. Thereafter, I accused him of stealing you and Charles, and our discussion degenerated to the point at which you entered it."

"He what?" Christine stared at him. "How could he even think you would do either? And you were the one who gave me to him, if I remember correctly."

Erik raised his eyebrows at her. "Considering what he knows of my past, it is not so absurd an assumption. A phantom gets blamed for many things he had nothing to do with. As for giving you to him, I was dying; you needed protection."

Christine borrowed one of her beloved's favorite tools, the long, even stare that considered an opponent from head to toe. "For a man who has been dead five years, you are causing an incredible amount of contention."

Wincing slightly behind the mask, Erik sighed and ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. "I thought we had already covered this. I had no choice. I'm sorry. Do you think I wanted to watch from a distance as you raised my son with him? Do you honestly believe it didn't kill me, every moment spent knowing that you were married to someone else?"

"Then you do still love me." It was utterly unfair of her to ask; that quiet 'beloved', last night, when he had helped her from the boat, answered any questions she might have had after the shattering emotions of their duet. But he had not yet said it; she had not heard the words from him in five years, and she was aching to hear them now.

"Christine Daaé, if you doubt for one moment that my love for you has done anything but grow, you are severely mistaken." His tone was exasperated, reminiscent of the way he might speak to her if he was correcting an improperly sung note she had already failed to hit twice, but he was smiling.

Both of them chose to ignore his mistake. Here, in this music room, there was no Christine de Chagny.

--

Lindaleriel: I'm glad that you think I'm keeping him so well in character; I'm trying to. There will be more of him in the next chapter, I believe. I (usually) am quite fond of the boy, which is why I try to be relatively nice to him in my stories. I really do hate doing such horrible things to him . . . he's a sweetheart. However, my own heart was captured long ago by a certain deformed genius. I'm impressed that you like my story enough to keep reading despite the ECness. Thanks!

Mominator124: Eww. ECR. Ewwww ewww eww. Lol, Christine with cooties! The image made me laugh--a gradeschool Raoul and Erik shoving Christine back and forth--"you take her"! Thanks for running over to Angela Gloriosa, by the way; you are awesome, m'dear. Thanks for all the reviews! And as much as I like him, I must admit I had fun bringing Raoul to the boiling point--the house, his jealousy, the argument with Christine . . . poor boy.

phantomlovin4ever: Another loyal reader? Why, thank you! Here's an update for you--enjoy and thanks much!