Disclaimer: The usual. I do not own POTO, only the storyline and the unaffliliated characters.

Note: 'Acerbitas' translates from Latin as 'bitterness' or 'sorrow.'

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Lee

Acerbitas

Christine

It was peaceful.

A faint golden press of light against her closed eyes, a soothing hand upon her hair, stroking in loving repetition. Christine felt a smile curving her lips, opened her eyes. The sun met her vision with a scattering of glittering motes, questing rays. Her mind woke slowly, unhurried. She lay on the divan, her head pillowed in Erik's lap.

She turned her head slightly; his hand paused on her hair, a question in the blue eyes made incandescent by the sun. The sun was unflinching on his unmasked face, but it was not that which held her riveted, the pale, living marble on the left, mangled and scarred on the right. It was not the contrast of flesh and flesh that kept her eyes on him. It would never be that, she realized.

It was the way in which he was looking at her. Such a raw longing, pure need. Adoration- her breath caught- love. But, even now, a hesitation as she awoke. The tentative hover of his hand, worrying her curls, the stillness of his body, betrayed his uncertainty. Her heart stirred, psyche straining toward him through the flesh.

She linked her hands behind his neck and pulled his lips down to hers. A flush of energy flowered through her, she was acutely aware of the sunlight that warmed her- or was it his touch? His arms slipped around her back, supporting her. Christine was almost awed by the tender reverence with which he held her. Had anyone ever touched her so softly, so deeply before? Had anyone ever held her like this before, as though she were all that mattered?

She sat up, tracing the curve of his faint smile. Curling up beside him, she lay her head on his shoulder, his intent eyes sending a rush of warmth through her. A wordless longing to be near him, touching him, drove her closer. Her hand settled over his heart, the beat of it under her hand a quiet revelation. "Did you sleep at all?"

Erik shook his head, smiling slightly. He brushed a stray hair back from her face. "No, I... I just wanted to watch you sleep. Does it trouble you?" His eyes were entirely serious.

A soft laugh escaped her. "There are worse ways to wake up." She kissed his cheek lightly. "It was... very agreeable."

His eyes gleamed with amusement. "Is that so, Christine?" he asked, voice soft, intimate, as he twined a chestnut curl around his fingers.

She found the combination of his voice and touch distracting; she wanted nothing more than to sink into them. Christine closed her eyes, falling back against him.

This was peace.

Erik

She looked so- otherworldly- as she lay against him. A loving angel, seraphim in repose. Ivory skin touched with gold under the sun, incandescent, her eyes closed, features serene. He twisted a strand of the heavy cascade of auburn, sifting the gleaming fall through his fingers, feeling her shiver slightly in response. She settled more closely against him.

Did he dare...?

He tilted her chin up with his free hand, felt a pulse of shock as his lips touched hers, like the sensation of a hot torrent of water, fading into a comforting warmth as he submerged himself within it. Her slim fingers slid through his hair in entranced fascination, inflicting a joy that was almost painful, that- in the light of day, she met him still, touched him with equal longing. It was both soothing and intoxicating, the reality of her body against his. He was drunk on her, a mortal that had tasted the ambrosia of the Heaven, and now felt all things ashen in its absence.

He pulled back; her eyes opened slowly, entranced, glowing. They shimmered with a hazy brilliance, the luster of sunlight through mist. Warm mahogany, gazing back at him with wonder and care. She took his hand, stood. He joined her at the gentle tug of her hand. She led him down the hall, the skylights gilding them with the misty light of dawn. His arm slid around her shoulders; she leaned against him in answer. Passing through the living room, she slid the door open, looking up briefly into his eyes in the reflection in the glass, before going out onto the terrace. The amber dawn washed over her shoulder, creating a strange halo of flame-like light over her pale skin.

He hesitated. She looked back into his eyes, smiled slightly. "It's all right, Erik." Her mahogany eyes spoke a promise. She held out her hand once more, and, after a moment's hesitation, he took it.

Erik stepped out into the sun, the scents of summer hanging languidly in the dawn air, drifting on a light breeze. The leaves of some climbing vine blended into the verdant park beyond. He had stood here sometimes, under clouded moonlight, safe under the obscurity of its play of light and shadow. But never in the light of day. The dawn touched the leaves with gold, an incandescent brilliance around the serated edges. Under the golden light, it seemed a lost Garden of Paradise, some small corner of Eden. A strange sense of mysticism descended, he had never stood within the green arbor under the golden light of dawn. It breathed growth, renewal, surrounding them in a mystery as subtle and potent as music.

He seated himself beside her, running a hand over the smooth wood, just beginning to warm under the tentative fingers of the sun. She took both his hands in hers, held them loosely, gently. "Erik, may we talk about something?"

He caressed the back of them, tinted with pale amber in the early sunlight. Her eyes were questioning, faintly troubled. He gave her a reassuring smile. "Anything you wish, Christine."

Christine

She sat up a little straighter, eyes intent. She slid back the white sleeve to reveal his neatly bandaged wrist. "I want to talk about this, Erik." Her hands cradled his wrist, gently, as though she held a young bird, tentative over his exposed skin, pale and smooth as the skin under the gauze was not.

She saw a mometary flicker of surprise in his face. He seemed slightly more wary now, his relaxation melting into a faint air of tension, some chary predator poised for flight. His eyes searched hers, touched golden with dawn, uncertain, the currents in them like light-crowned waves.

But he did not move away. She took this as a sign to continue, keeping her hold on his wrist loose, lightly brushing her fingers over the exposed skin. "Would you tell me why? Why you did this? I still don't understand." I want to know why you've been hurting yourself, Erik. I want to know- so it won't happen again.

So I won't ever see you hurt again.

His lips moved briefly in something bearing only faint resemblance to a smile. As though he found the idea that she would comprehend his darkness next to impossible; a gesture that caused a part of her to smolder. Had he forgotten her own losses? While Christine had never known the darkness of blood shed under nightfall, she understood the pain and apathy that could spawn it. It was true that she could not understand why he had chosen this way, but she understood the dark road that had led him to the differing paths of which it was one way. Whatever he thought, she was not so innocent or ignorant as that. She was ready to tell him as much, when another thought struck her.

He doesn't see what he does to himself as darkness. He sees himself as the darkness... and he could never imagine me as dark. Small wonder, then, that he didn't expect her to understand.

She inhaled, let it out slowly, and continued with a quieter, milder query. "Why this, Erik?" Can you trust me? Was it possible that now, after last night, she could get him to open to her?

She could only hope.

He took a steadying breath. His voice was quiet, calm. Collected. "It's... it was a matter of self-control. If I could shed my own blood so easily, if I could withstand the pain I could inflict upon myself, who else could harm me? If I could learn to master pain, I could make myself immune to it. If I could learn such self-control, no one could break it. Or me." he ended softly. His eyes met hers, unwavering. He seemed to be waiting for her response, wary, a hum of tension infusing the early air.

A shiver traced her spine at the ring of truth in his voice, this quiet confession and conviction. How in heaven... how can he say such things? How, with his twisted logic, could he have convinced himself of this? Christine had heard the adage that pain made one stronger- but to inflict that pain on oneself on purpose? The idea snatched her breath from her throat, chilled her with cold like streaks of ice melting through her body. To purposely hurt oneself in a mad chase, a vain effort for stability and strength... How can he believe such things?

She sought his eyes with hers, piercing the clear blue in an effort to meet the soul behind. "It's not healthy, Erik." She felt his hand tense in hers as she continued, her words coming faster, flooding like water from a shattered vase, uncontrollable, inevitable in the wake of the consuming deluge of her emotions. "It's wrong- for God's sake, Erik, this doesn't make you stronger." Her hands had tightened on his wrist, try as she might, she could not force them to relax. Her voice held only the barest semblence of calm, riddled as it was with desperation. "It's twisting you!" Oh, Erik, how can you believe such things?

Her breath was coming faster now, heart beginning to speed. She knew she should keep calm. Yet, in the face of this, seeing the path of self-destruction he had strayed down, how could she? The urge to bring him back from his shadows was overwhelming, insatiable, overcoming reason and composure. The voice within her was at a roar, sweeping judgement and logic aside.

He drew back from her. "Who are you to judge me, Christine?" His voice was cool, distant. His eyes blazed with the war of emotions he would not allow his voice to convey, summer skies flickering with storms. She felt his old guards rising in response to her outburst.

Her skin prickled in the light breeze, the air crackling with faint electricity. "I am not judging you, Erik." Never that. A sense of urgency overtook her. She fought to keep her voice calm. She couldn't lose him now. If she were to fail to reach him, to make him understand, what disaster would occur? She couldn't even imagine his reaction. Would he stay? Would he go? Would he argue with her, or merely run from what she was trying to tell him?

"You're giving a fine impression of it." he replied softly. But the quiet of his voice could not mask the darkness. An undercurrent had entered his voice, a strange intensity that she could not yet decipher. He stood, putting distance between them.

Christine felt more than a little exasperated at her apparent powerlessness in the situation. "Erik, I'm trying to understand! I'm trying to help you!" She stood, stepped toward him. I love you- won't you let me help you?

His voice overran hers, heated as he stepped away from her. "I don't need you to fix me, Christine!" The blue eyes blazed with things she could not even begin to define- hurt, anger, pride, a strange longing. It was an odd play of light and shadow in his eyes, desire and denial.

Her heart tightened, rebelling against his withdrawal. Damn your pride, Erik. "Well you clearly weren't going to help yourself!" The words were snatched out of her before she could take them back.

But now- looking at his face, she wished she could. Shit. Why did I-

A moment of silence stretched, a moment in which she wondered if she had ruined this completely. Erik? She reached out to him tentatively, fingers brushing his sleeve. Erik? She didn't know whether she spoke his name or not, only that he tensed under her hand.

He met her eyes with ones that were a storm of regret, longing. Something akin to anger, desperation. There was bitterness in the set of his mouth, the stillness of him. "No." His voice was quiet, completely drained of all emotion. "I helped you."

She stood there as he left. It had never been more tempting to go after him, to drag him back from the shadows he clung to so stubbornly. Christine started after him, halted. No. Not now. If she went after him now, whatever she tried to say would only fuel the hurt between them. It was the last thing she needed to do. No. He needs to cool off, and... so do I.

Before she went after him and did something even more monumentally stupid.

Dimly, she heard the sound of something breaking. Christine winced. Why couldn't she have been more tactful, less hysteric about this? Why couldn't she have told him that it wasn't him she feared or distrusted, it was the shadow he had succumbed to. Had she alienated him completely, with her inability to help him or make him understand?

Time will tell. She leaned against the rail, the metal a cool pressure on her arms. Christine clung to the sensation, grounding her in the whirlwind of emotion. She willed the turbulence inside to still patience. Only time will tell, Christine.

For now, all she could do was wait.

Erik

"It's not healthy, Erik. It's wrong- for God's sake, Erik, this doesn't make you stronger." The pain, the almost frantic concern in her eyes and voice. Her fingers dug into his skin, tense, stiff. "It's twisting you!"

The sound of her speeding breath filled the silence. Her worry filled the air, a troubled, dissonant aura around them, whispering through the sunlit leaves.

But, Erik thought as he recalled her words, wasn't he twisted already? Wasn't that what had driven him to this in the first place? Didn't she understand what his control meant to him, the great calm, safety, it represented?

But, whispered a voice in the back of his mind, what if she's right?

Like hell. As understanding, as compassionate as she was, as much as he loved her, Christine did not realize the number of times it had saved him from a greater darkness. As much as he longed to have her in his life, he did not wish to bring her into his darkness. She had never lived under his nightfall, and never would.

And yet she still entered it fearlessly. A thread of guilt twined through him at the remembrance. The storming night when she had crossed his threshold and joined her voice to his for no other purpose than to comfort. For no other reason than that she cared.

You shouldn't have been so harsh with her.

And how on earth he was to fix that, he had no idea. As well as he knew her, as much as he loved her, there were times when he had no idea what to say or do. Times when her ability to transcend his barriers, when she found his vulnerability, that he reacted out of pure survivalist instinct.

And so he ended up hurting her.

You held her in your arms during the night, and managed to alienate her the following morning. Well done, Erik.

The day passed slowly, awkward, as they passed each other in the hall. She could not quite seem to meet his eyes, and in all due fairness, he couldn't hold hers either. There was a strained sort of silence between them, an abbreviated attempt to touch, cut off as they pulled back in uncertainty. Words could not be found- not that they were needed. They saw enough in eyes and the subtle language of the body. He saw the pained look in her eyes as she realized that he wore the mask once more.

But only words could heal this. Words that he could not seem to find.

How he was to erase that pain, to release what had so long been a comfort to him, he didn't know. He still had trouble understanding why she would prefer him not to wear the mask, even if he could accept that she didn't want him to. But... how to explain that to her, he didn't know. In the wake of that morning, it was difficult to find the words to heal this when his earlier words had done nothing but hurt her.

Why, when he had used them all his life, were words so cursed difficult now? Why did they flee him at a single glance of her troubled eyes?

The piano beckoned invitingly under the moonlight. It at least, he could understand. Through it, there was never any doubt, no stumble in the speech of song. No chance of miscommunication. It allowed an apology that he could not seem to find the words for. She had always understood when he spoke to her through music.

And even when he had not been speaking to her.

His music swiftly took a darker turn as he poured his regret into it, knowing that she would hear it, quick, dissonant. His apology, his concern. Reaching for her once more, seeking to touch her with the notes of his soul. Not calling, merely brushing the mind with tentative remorse. Not searing, only brushing with the heat of the fire. He sought to emulate that rain-filled night, where she had joined her voice to his, reassuring him, comforting him.

Could this comfort her?

He had no doubt she would understand the meaning of the music, should she hear it. What she would do, he had no idea. Whether this would be enough to heal what had been torn, he didn't know.

He recalled the hysteria of her breathing, the wide eyes so bright on his this morning.

Was that fear?

A trace of wondering rose, spiraling from the depths of the subconscious to the surface of his waking mind. Did she fear for him?

His heart seemed to still. If that was true, what had he done to her today?

He left the piano, drifting ghostlike down the hall to her room. It seemed monumental, as though he walked in some ancient ruin, dusted with the sands of time, heavy air that had not heard the echo of a footfall for an eon. Even the shadows were unmoving, laying silent and blanketing with thick darkness.

She was deep in the grips of sleep, as he watched her. The moonlight gleamed on her carelessly tumbled chestnut curls and ivory skin. An odd, serene melancholy lit her face. Christine. His Christine. What disservice had he done her, she who only wanted to help him? Had he truly frightened her with his penchant- his all-consuming need for self-control?

If that was true... Tomorrow. Let her sleep tonight. Talk to her tomorrow.

Erik caressed the back of her hand lightly. "I'm sorry, Christine." His voice was less than a whisper, hanging like fragile silk upon the air. His eyes searched her face, the features calm in repose, lashes still, breathing deep and even. And yet, even as she slept, there was sadness in her features. He brushed his fingers over her palm lightly, a sympathy for the young woman who continuelly drew him from darkness rising. Christine.

Her fingers curled around his in sleep.

Raoul

Her innocence. Her altruism.

These were the things that had first attracted him to Christine Daae. The way her dark eyes lit with wistfulness one moment and concern the next. Much as hers had.

Looking at the photograph, he could see it in her eyes. The bright sky was soft against her profile, her faraway eyes. An errant strand flickered over her ivory skin, gleaming copper where the sun struck it. She seemed not to notice it, her intensity focused on something beyond the physical world.

She had not noticed that he had taken the photograph until after the fact. After she heard the click, pulled from her dream-world, she had given him an odd smile that he could not decipher. It had not quite reached her eyes, in which there was almost a tragedy, compassion

He wished she had smiled for him, truly smiled, the break of sunlight over the horizon. When she did, it evoked a strong nostalgia that he would cling to, a strangely intense joy that recalled something just beyond his reach.

He wished she would smile for him.