:Author's Note: Okay, so here's my fifth chapter. I hope you'll like it. Is there anyone who wants to be a reliable beta-reader? People told me my grammar sucks.

:Claimer: Maxime's mine! She's mine! Heheh! But I don't mind if you create your own, big-boobed, blonde ballerina. Really.

:Disclaimer: I don't own POTO and don't even know if I want to. But it's a pity Mme. Giry wasn't my idea. sighs

Chapter 5 : Tears

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"I will tell him," Christine sighed and sat down on her bed. Meg leaned over. "What?" She was astonished. "Christine, you can't – he's a Vicomte. You really, really can't tell him."

"But I love him!" She dramatically crossed her legs and elogated her fingers to have a look at her perfect nails. "I love him more than… more than… Meg, help me."

"More than your life?" Meg shook her head and rolled her eyes. "No, really, Chris, you can't do this. He's practically out of your sight!"

"Why? We played together when we were kids." She closed her eyes. "I can still see it in front of my inner eye…"

"Chris, now look at what is in front of your eyes: Did he pay any attention to you?" Meg's eyes widened in hope that her …dear… friend might, finally, see the truth. But destiny had other plans for her.

"There's a handsome, intelligent man, and he has amazing eyes…"

"Okay, okay," Meg cried out loud, "didn't need to hear that. Then just go. But if he says 'no,' you have to promise me that you never ever use his name in my presence again!" She glared at her.

"Okie-dokie," she agreed and stood up. "I can't lose, anyway," she said, declaring her immortality of love and left the room. Meg shook her head again. 'This is not going to turn out nice,' she thought. 'And later, it's me who has to wipe her mascara-eyes!'

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Antoinette sat in front of her mirror and stared into her eyes, thinking about the impending evening. The sunlight fell into her room and reflected the brooch's gemstones, which lay on the table in front of her. She remembered sitting there eighteen years ago, a smile on her face, and how she prepared for a dinner with her ex-husband.

'It was no mistake,' she thought and eyed the brooch, 'today I have a beautiful ballerina as a daughter. But eighteen years ago, he wasn't a Vicomte. I never dated out of rank.' She sighed. She had never put it on again in all those years. She wanted to leave behind what time had elapsed, and the brooch was one of those things. It was her only jewelry. Her mother had given it to her in hope she'd marry a nice man who could feed her. 'She had no clue I'd be so stupid to date a Vicomte,' she thought, 'and she wouldn't be proud of me, too.' Her stupidity made her mad at herself. 'Why? Why? This has to stay professional, otherwise I'll embarrass the whole Opera.' She decided it was a business meeting, for they really had to talk about the future of the Opera. She would, although, wear the brooch. Bewitching him was not allowed, but a little beauty could help the atmosphere at work.88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

"She's going to tell WHOM?" Maxime's eyes widened. "NO!" She didn't believe her ears. "No, really?"

"Yes," Meg nodded her head, "but please don't tell anybody. I just need your help! Christine will …"

"You mean she will tell him about her love?"

"Yeah," Meg expressed her feelings, "that is exactly what will happen. She'll embarrass the whole Opera for that! He will leave!"

"God, no," Maxime's eyes almost popped out of her head as well as her breasts ran in danger to jump out of her cleavage.

"Somebody has to stop her!" Both of them jumped to their feet, risking again that their breasts would flee, and ran out of the room.

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But two feet were much faster than Maxime and Meg, who, to protect their guilty, were much more distracted by keeping their breasts in form, almost crawled. The expression of fear on their faces was impressing, so everybody who stood in their way jumped aside to let them pass. Their moths hanging open, they screamed "nooooooooooooo," slowly. But as already mentioned, Christine was faster. She ran, her look-through-dress half open, showing her underwear, as fast as she could. Her big eyes were wide in anticipation when she reached the Hall.

"Raoul!"

The man dressed in black looked up to her. She tood on the stairs, breathing heavily. Her smile told him something unwanted was going to happen. She quickly brought her hair back to what it had been before she ran and sighed. "Raoul," she whispered again and came closer. "Raoul," she repeated and a cleaner who was just working on the other stairs rolled her eyes.

"Excuse me? Do I know you?" He swayed his had and frowned.

"But don't you know me?"

"No," he said and stepped back. "I don't. Should I?"

"Well, we played together when we were little."

"Ah," he didn't remember, "good."

"But it doesn't matter because I have changed." She waggled her breasts and touched her hair. "I am much better now. Much more interesting." But then she remembered the virgin-thing she had practiced in front of her mirror (the Phantom had watched her and felt the urge to vomit). She immediately changed the expression on her face to that of a lamb. "But still untouched," she breathed.

Raoul frowned again. Christine's eyes began to look like a overfloating pail. Her lower lip trembled a second later. "Aren't you attracted by me?"

"Well, what was your name again?"

She cried out loud and fell to the ground. "I love you, Raoul, don't you see it?" She touched his feet, after which he immediately stepped back again. He was helpless and didn't know how to react. Instead of sticking to her virgin-image, Christine waggled her butt through the air. "I'm attractive," she screamed, "and now you have to begin to drool after me!"

Raoul scratched his head. "Madame," he began to speak, but paused again. He was interrupted by two breathless ballerinas running down the stairs. One of them stopped.

"Darn it," she said loudly, "we're too late. She already spoiled any left career possibilities." Meg nodded, "…if she ever had any."

Raoul couldn't decide who of them had bigger breasts and looked away, slightly blushing. "Ladies?"

"Excuse us, Monsieur Le Vicomte, it's just that she didn't take her medicine this morning," Maxime said and came closer.

Meg sat down next to the crying Christine on the ground and touched her trembling shoulder. "Chris, let's go, there's no sense in that," she whispered. Meanwhile, Maxime stared at Raoul, her mouth hanging open.

"I caaaaahn't," Christine kept on crying, "he doesn't get it! I love you!"

"Yes, it's okay," Meg tried to calm her down, "let's go upstairs and I'll make you a while chocolate. Okay?"

"Nooooh, I have to be slim for my dreamboy!" She looked up as if to expect him to agree. But he didn't move, so she stood up. "Well, if he wants me to be fat, I'll just eat!" She sighed.

"I'm sorry, but I don't want you to be anything. Just leave me alone, please." He said it so friendly that Maxime smiled. 'He's not mean at all,' she thought.

Christine cried on, turning away and running upstairs. Meg and Maxime excused once more and left, too. The cleaner giggled.

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Raoul sat down on a chair and waited for Madame to come down. He was impatient to see her again, having dreamt of her the whole night how she lay in his arms and whispered his name, again and again. He remembered every detail of the night. Madame's footsteps tore him out of his day-dreams. He quickly stood up, his eyes shining. "Good evening, Madame," he whispered and took her hand to breathe a kiss on it. "I hope you had a pleasant day so far," he said and smiled.

She nodded. "There was only a ballerina with a nervous collapse," she said and felt how his fingers caressed hers. She withdrew her hand and turned to leave. "Let us go," she said, her voice trembling.

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The Phantom went back down to his catacombs. He had watched both of the scenes and felt the urge to vomit again. The dramatic hurt his eyes, ears and brain. His knees trembled in disgust. 'Are there no people left with intelligence?', he wondered and shook his head. 'God, help me.'

Having reached his lair, he screamed a girl-scream into the darkness. Christine was sitting on his bed, combing her hair, wiping her eyes and sobbing. "Erik," she called for him when she saw him, "come here, my lover." A shiver ran down his spine. 'God, NO.' But he came closer, slowly, as if not to scare the tiger. "Come closer," she whispered, ripped off her dress and revealed to him that she was, this time, not wearing underwear. He immediately rose his hand to his eyes. "Christine," he said reproachfully, "you didn't dress very well."

"But I wanted to surprise you," she said in a sexy-voice. The Phantom dared to look at her. "Please, what's the matter? Can't you just leave?"
"But don't you want me to sing for you?"

"I found somebody else to sing for me."

"Who is it?"

"None of your business."

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Maxime got undressed to sit down in the bathtub. "Torture her, Torture her slowly, so that she'll never come back," she sang, "torture her, torture her sweetly," she sang on and on.

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"Anyway, take me." Christine groaned. "Please."

"Leave," he gave back, "NOW."

"But Erik –"

"I told you to leave," he screamed, "now!"

She didn't move. "Leave, you bloody –"

"Erik, don't you use that word for me! I am your lover!"

"Not a virgin anymore?"
"Never wanted to be one."
"Ah," he sighed, "now go!" His angry eyes glared at her. "NOW!"

She didn't move. He hit her in the face. "LEAVE," he screamed again. She made him aggressive, so aggressive that he forgot all his manners. She began to cry again.

"I'll come back, I promise, when your mood is degenerated again!" She left.

'God, please don't,' he thought, sitting down on his bed. 'I have to think something up.' Then, the picture of Madame Giry and Raoul came back to his mind. An evil smirk escaped his lips.

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"Life is so unfair!" Christine ate more hot chocolate and cried, her face in a deep red.

"Indeed," Meg said and gave her a spoon so that she didn't have to eat it with her fingers. "Why don't you sleep a little?"

"I wanna talk to my mommy!"

"But Chris, she's not here."

"Where is she?", she pouted.

"She's – out."

"Where?"

'Darn,' Meg thought, 'if I tell her she's with Raoul, she'll smash her head against the wall. Hey. Why not tell her?' But then, the social part of her character alarmed her. 'You can't make her attempt suicide. That's not fair. Wait. Actually, for all the other people in this world, it is fair –' Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud moan. "Tell me!", Christine urged.

"She is out, buying pointes."

"This late? It's already dark."

"Well, yes. That's what she told me."

"Oh. Cool." Christine grabbed the spoon and ate more chocolate. "Well. Tomorrow, I'll go back down to him. I'm so super sexy, he will drool." 'Yeah,' Meg thought, 'why don't you go and annoy him instead of me?'

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"Let us talk about the Opera," Madame said and laid the spoon aside. "It is a very important matter for both of us. Much more important than the matter "me" is," she added and drank more water.

"Well, I planned on making the ballet the character of this Opera. We don't really have good singers anymore. Let us push the ballet forward." He saw her eyes shining. "You like that idea?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, as short as her mother had taught her to reply to men.

His hand came closer and closer to hers on the table, the longer they sat there. Madame didn't think about his hand anymore. She wanted to concentrate on the matter. "So, the ballet?"

"Yes," he remembered what he had said, "the ballet. I saw you and I have to admit you are a very strict and good teacher."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." She drank more water, nervous again because his hand came closer for another inch. But he used the chance and touched her hand. She coughed loudly, her face turning red. "Are you okay?" he asked alarmed.

She just nodded her head and kept on coughing. "Yes," she pressed out of her mouth and calmed down. His hand still placed on hers, his fingers started to caress hers again. She looked at him. "Monsieur, please," she said. "We need to stop talking about me."

"Why?"

"Because you are a Vicomte and I am a ballet teacher. There is no way for us to ever …"

"Ever what? The only thing I want is to talk to you."

"Then why is your hand on mine?"

"You don't want it?"

"That's not what I said – but –"

"Well, why should it be wrong, then?"

"Because both of us have responsibilities. The Opera, for example," she went on, "It is a very important part of my life."

"So will I be."

She frowned. "Monsieur, please," her hand began to tremble, "you scare me."

"Why?"

"Because you are the first man in years to touch me at all."

"Then let it be."

"I can't"

"We'll see," he said, again self-certain.

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:Author's Note: So, what do you think? Leave a review. I like constructive criticism.

:Thanks to: Queen-Chick, Meg Giry, skylinechick07 (especially for reading a story she has actually no clue about), and last but of course not least MadameGiryMiranda: