Raoul sat in his room, his thoughts a mess. His mind went from Christine and the way presses were having a field day on her (Why had so great a treasure been kept from them all that time? Why had Andre and Firmin applied to Daae, when Carlotta was gone? Did they know of her hidden genius? And, if they knew of it, why had they kept it hidden? And why had she kept it hidden? Oddly enough, she was not known to have a professor of singing at that moment. She had often said she meant to practice alone for the future. The whole thing was a mystery), to the voice and who it could possibly had been, to his casual dismissal of the 'angel of music' as one of her flights of fancy, to Christine's mellifluous voice (the whole house went mad, rising to its feet, shouting, cheering, clapping, while Christine stood there and smiled like an angel), to that horrible roar telling him to stay away from Christine, to those skimpy clothes in her closet, to his foolish believe that when she claimed to have been visited by the angel of music he believed she meant that as she sang she felt as if an angel had graced her, to that snarling false angel critiquing his fashion and his adoration for Christine, to that tiny pimple-like bump on Christine's cheek that made her look as if he was crying all the time, to the glimmer of white in the mirror, to Christine's beautiful eyes.

His thoughts veered wildly between Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine—STOP!

"Stop!" he shrieked, not even meaning to speak aloud. His hands went to his forehead.

Christine had not been pretty as a child.

She had been an awkward thing, full of fancy. But Raoul had been obsessed with her, even when they teased one another. She called him a pansy, he called her a klutz. He stuck out his tongue, she threw dirt in his face. One day she said that there was no angel of music. She burst into tears, and he had to kiss her to silence her.

His first kiss.

And again he thought of the angel of music. But not the mysterious voice. He thought of Christine's father, a Swedish violinist who loved to tell stories. The angel of music was in every story he told.

"Every great musician," he told them, with utmost seriousness, as Christine watched his face with rapture, a friendly face framed in black curls. "Every great artist received a visit from the Angel at least once in his life. Sometimes the Angel leans over their cradle, as happened to Lotte," here he cast a fond smile at his daughter. Raoul grinned at her, but she didn't look at him. Her head was in the clouds, as usual. In the clouds with her mysterious angel.

"And that is how there are little prodigies who play the fiddle at six better than men at fifty, which, you must admit, is very wonderful. Sometimes, the Angel comes much later, because the children are naughty and won't learn their lessons or practice their scales. And, sometimes, he does not come at all, because the children have a bad heart or a bad conscience."

"Do I have a bad heart, Daddy?" little Christine had wanted to know. Raoul stared at her eyes—even now, they were so guileless, like a child's—and wondered how she could even think her heart was anything but perfect, no matter how gawky she was.

"No," Daddy Daae had replied. "Your heart is as clear and pure as a crystal."

"Then why haven't I seen the angel of music?" She was pouting now. So charming, unbearably so. Raoul had always wanted his lips as pretty as hers. His brother constantly tormented him about the flavored, deep pink gloss he put on.

"No one ever sees the Angel; but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him. He often comes when they least expect him, when they are sad and disheartened. Then their ears suddenly perceive celestial harmonies, a divine voice, which they remember all their lives. Persons who are visited by the Angel quiver with a thrill unknown to the rest of mankind. And they can not touch an instrument, or open their mouths to sing, without producing sounds that put all other human sounds to shame. Then people who do not know that the Angel has visited those persons say that they have genius."

Little Christine had asked her father if she had ever heard the angel of music. He shook his head sadly. "Only in my dreams, little Lotte." Then his eyes lit up. "But you will hear him one day, child! When I am in Heaven, I will send him to you!"

Raoul could never completely focus on those stories. But he memorized Daddy Daae's stories, every one of them, because those stories made her eyes glow. He loved to bask in that glow, young though he was. He had been so young he still remembered those stories. They were imprinted in his mind, like all the beautiful things of his youth. He remembered telling Christine how much he wished the angel would visit him.

She clapped her hands, grinning happily. Her face had been so young. It was still so young. But it was perfect now, where it had been unformed.

"When the angel comes, we can listen to him together. You can sing to the angel with me, Raoul."

He had taken her promise to heart. Every day he practiced singing, in the hopes that they would sing together some day. Even when he grew too old to believe in the angel of music, he still wanted to sing with her.

He had not forgotten. He would never forget.

So why had she?

«§Ж§»

He had watched him, every day since he first came. In that time, his hatred grew until it was something so vast it could drown him, if he were not already drowning in love.

He knew the boy loved his Christine, though she herself either did not believe it or did not want to admit it. Day after day she lit a candle and sang to him, pleading, groveling, making a far bigger deal of it than she should have.

Occasionally he would respond. He grew angrier and angrier, but he did not let himself insult her. There was nothing about her to insult. He insulted the boy instead. It was easy. He hated everything about that charming youth.

He criticized his hair, his voice, his clothes, his girlish lips. He asked, scathingly, if he was even a man. Had his parents simply made an error in naming him?

She proved her guilt when told her precious angel that the boy meant nothing, that he was just a friend from her childhood, nothing more, nothing less. Why would she say this? he replied. In all his mockery of the Vicomte, he had not since the first day accused him of being in love with his angel. If he was nothing more than a friend, as she said, why would she avoid him? She would speak to him as she would any other friend, light airy conversations about memories and the stories of Little Lotte. She would not be on her knees, praying for forgiveness, unless she believed there was something to be forgiven.

She began to cry.

Nothing could infuriate or sadden him more than that. Why was she crying? It was the boy, he said, or rather sang. He called her his dear child and reminded her that he would never do anything to hurt her. He was as warm, as gentle, as he could. Anything was better than these tears.

Anything.

She cried harder and sang that the boy—'Raoul,' she called him. What a disgusting name. So common, so pretty, rather too masculine for the boy, with no feminine counterpart—was just a friend, and she would have spoken to him, not of love but of frocks and picnics and chocolates.

Fanciful things, he mused, but all could lead to romance. Why not? he had asked her.

Because you hate him! she wailed, and he softened. The boy a threat. Young girls were prone to flights of fancy, to marrying a man for his beauty. But not this one. She avoided her childhood friend for his sake! And so pretty a friend. He smiled, though she could not see him.

The smile fell. He would never have an enchanting smile, as the boy did. What if, as he feared, his voice was good?

I must hear him sing.

For the rest of the night, he was as adoring as possible. By the time she had to leave, he had decided what to do. If he is but a friend, your coolness will hurt him, he informed her. The flash of fear which crossed her eyes made him grind his teeth, but he remained tender.

Speak to him, he told her. Tomorrow is the day you go to the graveyard, is it not?

She went every week. He told Christine to go, and take her friend with her. He reminded her that she would always have her beside him, while the boy would not linger for long.

Christine wept, but in joy now. She showered him with praise of his kindness and mercy, but he told her mildly that he was neither kind nor merciful. He made her compose a note to him, telling the boy to meet her at his father's grave. He told Christine that he would make her father's violin play, if he was pleased with her. He told her he would play for both of them.

Christine was so thrilled he did not know whether to be pleased or irritated. Then she began to sing a song of praise to her Angel of Music, and he decided to be pleased.

The letter was sent, and Christine worshipped him for it. Tomorrow he would follow Christine to the graveyard. He needed to know more about this Vicomte de Chagny.

«§Ж§»

Would it be easier if I just used Erik's name? I wanted to wait until he actually told Raoul, but if it's too confusing I can just use it outright.
This was going to be a lot longer, but so few people reviewed it depressed me. So I cut out three fourths of it. Here I bring the finished score.
Three reviews and I update. And if you want them to meet face-to-face, it'll take five. And no romance until ten!