Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime,
Say the word and I will follow you.
Share each day with me, each night, each morning,
Say you love me…
Erik woke up to an angel singing in the next room softly. He smiled when he heard her bump into a door by accident, and rose to help her out. He looked at her vainly trying to reach for an object up on a shelf. He chuckled and brought her book down. Christine blushed softly and thanked him.
"I did not know you had woken…I trust you slept well," she told him, heading towards a cabinet to get his clothing.
Erik stopped her and gave her a kiss. "Good morning is a much nicer way to say hello…and less time consuming, mon amour,"
She giggled and then grabbed a pillow of her bed. He stood there completely shocked when she hit him with it. His astounded eyes made her laugh and she explained her actions, "It's called a pillow fight. One might go as far as to describe it the one truly important childhood game. You take a pillow and proceed to try and hit the other person with it,"
"And the point or object of this game is…?"
"To have fun, of course!" and from there exploded an astounding pillow fight that children themselves could not have been in awe of. Christine was panting, Erik on top of her when she surrendered.
After an hour of making love, Erik's stomach made his leave the bed. Christine laughed unceremoniously at his growling stomach and he kissed her soundly. "My love, there is only one thing that stands between true love and unadultered hate, and that is my stomach, so f you will excuse me…" he said, running out the door.
Christine held in a grin when she entered the dining room, where Erik was scarfing down a plate of fine French breakfast food, the chef looking incredibly disgusted.
Once the breakfast was done and Erik's appetite appeased for the time being, he took her outside to gaze at the gardens. A simple rose pathway was Christine's favorite, and she adored just sitting beside their fragrance. She glanced at him behind a white rose as he picked a bouquet of red roses. Suddenly, all the roses were bunched together with a black ribbon, and she grinned once he handed them to her. Then he sang softly,
…Secretly possess you,
Open up your mind,
Let your fantasy unwind,
To the darkness that you know you cannot fight,
The darkness of the music of the night.
She stopped him, and sang more softly,
In sleep he sang to me,
In dreams he came,
That voice which calls to me,
And speaks my name.
And do I dream again?
For now I find,
The Phantom of the Opera is there,
Inside my mind.
He looked at her and she smiled, her hand clutching his. "Christine, you should not want to be with a monster, a demon of hell,"
"That is perhaps the problem. For you are not a demon on hell, a murderer perhaps, but everybody makes mistakes,"
"Not those, not of a murderer. Not of one who can only create pain and agony in what he most desires,"
"He desires to be loved, to be cared about. And he is."
"How can anyone love a beast?"
Christine stood up and walked over to where a pink rose patch lay. "Love not the shell, love the nut," she said, stroking the petals softly. "Love not the peel, love the orange," she whispered, as she plucked the rose, petal by petal. "Love not the box, love the candy. Love not the hide, love the meat. Love not the words, love the meaning. Love not the book, but the story. Love not the music, but what it makes you feel,"
She then walked away, her tears making small puddles where the rose petals flew from her hand.
Christine, I love you, he sang as he followed her inside the house.
