So you think that Erik, a self imposed recluse whose never so much as touched the opposite sex without feeling awkward, would be hot in the sack? This is my interpretation, my thoughts on: 'What if Leroux!Erik decided to hold Christine to her promise to be his living wife?' Unfortunately he is not Gerik, and being a sex god may take some practice...

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The Wedding Night

They stood across from each other in the darkness, silent, unsure. She knew when she had made her choice that this moment would come, but she wasn't prepared for it.

And, so it seemed, neither was he.

She twisted her hands into the white folds of the wedding dress, searching for a way to end the heavy silence. "I, ah, it was a lovely ceremony, wasn't it?" She asked softly, glancing at him.

She heard a sigh. "Yes, my dear, yes it was." Those gold cat eyes were staring at her. He was still wearing the mask.

She hated herself for it, but if he did not volunteer, she would not ask him to remove it this night.

He said nothing more, but moved closer to her until she could see the dark suit hanging off of his thin frame, the small gold band around one long finger.

Christineinstinctively stepped back, and then gave a little fluttering laugh. "I'm sorry, I'm just…nervous, that's all."

"As am I," his voice was so soft she could barely hear him.

There was a movement, and suddenlyErik was on his knees before her. Carefully he lifted the hem of her dress and pressed it to his partially exposed lips.

"Christine," he murmured, "You have made me the happiest man on earth today. I have had a kiss from you, and now you are my wife, and there is nothing else I could ask for. You do not need to worry…I need nothing more…" He trailed off uncertainly and gazed up at her with adoration.

Christine took a deep breath, tears in her eyes. She looked down at the man before her for a long moment before finally sinking to her knees to face him. She gathered his hands, so painfully cold, and stared at the long thin fingers, not daring to look him in the eyes.

"I am your wife, Erik," she whispered shakily. "And this is a real marriage. Whatever the previous circumstances I am here with you now, this is our fate, and I," she paused, before blurting out, "This is a real marriage! I will not…I can not hide from that."

Those gold eyes registered surprise and disbelief so overwhelming that he couldn't speak. He opened his mouth tentatively, but no sound emerged, and she once again saw tears in his eyes.

Christine rose and took his hand, guiding him like she knew she would always have to guide him in this new life. "Come," she whispered, "and help me with this."

She turned around and took deep, even breaths, holding on to her determination. He was still silent, but his hands were shaking as he slowly unbuttoned the back of the dress and helped her struggle out of it, then unknotted and unlaced the heavy corset, leaving her only in light under layers.

Christine was afraid that he could hear her heart. It was so loud in her own ears, so loud and frantic. Her mouth was dry. Oh God, to be a wife!

He spoke quietly as she turned to face him. "There is no Angel of Music," he whispered, his voice echoing the past. "There is only Erik."

Quietly, like a child asking permission, he kissed her forehead with a reverence that stunned and shamed her. She knew, she knew that she ought to take off the mask, comfort him in that small way, but though she had seen his face so often before she could not bear it on this night. Not when she was so close to losing her sanity.

Instead she leaned forward and brushed his dry lips with hers, then led him to the bed. "My husband," she whispered, though she didn't know if she said it for his comfort or her own.

The final undressing was awkward. She was modest andshy, with no experience in sexual love beyond a few heated kisses once, a long time ago it seemed, with Raoul. She felt him avert his gaze and was suddenly relieved and gratefulas shetried to struggle quickly with the last of her clothing. Her under layers, stockings, and buckled shoes she kicked to the side, though she left her last light shift on as a final consent to modesty.

Christine secluded herself in covers before weakly calling for him to turn his head. He did, slowly, and stared at her small figure in the bed for a long time before moving to the other side.

He undressed in darkness, and she did not look, did not turn her head until she felt his chilled form lay next to her.

They laid there silently for a long time until her breath finally evened out and she felt the courage to press one of his cold hands between her own.

"You're always so cold," she whispered. Helooked at her unblinkingly, like a great cat, before shifting his gaze to stare at their entwined hands as if he had never seen them before.

"I am," he said. "But I am not…I am not inside. I live, I love…inside."

Hesitantly, as if still asking for permission, he took one of her hands and placed it on his emaciated chest. The soft waver of a heartbeat echoed into her palm, and there, right above his heart, he was warm. Christine closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the quiet vibrations of his heart, and for a moment, with her eyes closed, it all felt so wonderfully normal.

"My husband," she whispered again. "Ought we…?"

He was silent for a moment, before murmuring, "My wife," in that heartbreakingly beautiful voice of his. "You truly would have this…you…how can you bear…Christine…"

"Erik," she whispered, her eyes closed, close to tears. She removed her hand from his thin chest and held her arms rigidly at her sides, as if preparing for battle. "I am…just…." She felt like a stuttering child and clenched her jaw shut before nodding furiously.

Finally, slowly, she felt his cool form move closer to her. One long hand trailed down her arm.Christineopened her eyes to find him staring at her and for a moment she saw herself as he saw her: so beautiful, the loveliest, most cherished thing he'd ever seen, this broken young girl whowas brave enough to lie in his bed and call herself his wife. She saw the doubt, could almost feel the words he couldn't say hang in the air.

"How can you bear to be with someone like me? How can you bear to lie with a monster?"

Christine saw the doubt, and suddenly pity and some other unnameable emotion caused her to stretch her arms and pull his still figure toward her, to settle his frail weight on top of her body. "Husband," she almost-whispered, tracing the words in air with her lips. He moved, briefly, and she tensed.

But it was over before it even began, and he moved off of her without his usual grace; awkward, embarrassed, and surely red under the stiff dark leather of the mask. Christine just lay there, unsure of what to do.

"Oh…dear…" was all she managed to say. He rolled over and turned his back on her.

"I'm sorry," he said in a clipped, tense voice. "I, I was just, well I've never done this before and I was…" he made a bitter, irritated gesture into the air. "Overexcited. It won't happen again."

"Oh," she said again, totally unsure of what to say, her mouth gaping for words. "Oh no, it's ok, I mean, if you want to try again, or…I don't know…do you…?"

He made another sharp gesture in the air. "In a few minutes," he said, and then, softer, "should you still desire to. Should you not come to your senses and go running."

Christine placed a tentative hand on her shoulder and winced as she feltthe muscletense. "I will never come to my senses," she whispered. His shoulder started to shake under her hand, and for a moment she was afraid that he was crying, but when he turned to face her his eyes were bright and she realized he was doing the one thing she never expected of him in this situation.

He was laughing.

One long white hand traced her face, though in the darkness it no longer felt cold. "Oh Christine," he said through his soft mirth. "I certainly hope that you never do."

She smiled at him, a small, tender upturning of the lips that was barely there at all, but it was the first smile that had graced her face for days, and he saw it for what it was. Perhaps it was not love, not yet, not quite, but it was there, her smile that was only for him, that was real, that was his. He saw in that smile more than he had ever heard in her words.

Erikmoved his hand from her cheek to those softly curved lips, and whispered, "Christine, you are my world, and I promise to love you and care for you forever. I would do anything for your happiness."

His words hung in the air, and for the first time they did not sound like a threat.

Christine took his thin form in her arms and pressed her head to his chest to hear that steady heartbeat in her ear, feel it thrum in her own chest next to her heart. "I know," she said. "I know."

He moved once again on top of her and she guided him gently, her fear gone in that one delicate moment of connection. The pain was real, discomfortpushing ather until it hurt, stretching and pulling delicate tissue beforebreaking that final, sensitive barrier. She bit her lip and waited for it to be over, waited for the sheer uncomfortable pressing, aching pain to end. And when it did she felt relieved, like a huge weight had been lifted off of her chest, like her destiny had finally been decided.

Christine turned to the man lying next her, his eyes sad and questioning. He moved his lips softly.

"I'm sorry that it wasn't…I'm sorry."

Christine smiled for him again before reaching over to quietly remove the mask. "I've heard that it gets better with time," she said conversationally, kissing his withered cheek goodnight. "Please don't feel badly. This is new to both of us. I didn't expect you to be some of…" she paused, searching for the right words. "Adonis, virginal sex god figure. You're just you. And we'll survive together, and be happy I think…as husband and wife."

She slept well that night, her first night as a married woman.

He stayed awake for longer, contemplating her strength and feeling for the first time in his life completely and inescapably lucky before finally falling asleep next her, a husband at last.

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