:A/N: Merry Christmas! Please tell me honestly what you think about this chapter.

:Disclaimer: Over and over again this drill. I don't own POTO. Are we done now?

:Claimer: MY Maxime! MY cook!

:Beta-Reader: Lady-Miranda-Van-Tassel This chapter is not beta-read, I repeat. My beta is probably off to holidays. I'll repost the beta-read version.

:Thanks to Zidler's Strawberry (don't take my jokes so seriously! P), Lady-Miranda-Van-Tassel, Meg Giry and Robika:

:Far Cry:

: Chapter 13 : The Anti-heros:

Didn't she want to rise high? Didn't she have aims to fight for, to kill for, to die for? Didn't she always feel she'd give everything for being la Phantomess? Maxime nodded her head, sobbing about the dream bubbles which were about to vanish. She pulled the pillow closer to her heart. Was she the heroine who became the anti-heroine? The looser, the common failure, the anti-role-model? What would she tell her children which she wouldn't have anyway one day – that their mother failed to fulfill her dreams because of a man? No! How right the Phantom had been – how unworthy she was!

Tears dropped on the pillow while she stared into the dark, wishing she had never been born. Left alone she had betrayed him with another man, how did she intrinstically dare to make him angry at all? Had she forgotten what he was capable of? Oh how she hated herself! The anti-heroine sobbed again and turned to the wall, freezing. 'I messed up.' And indeed, she did.

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At about the same time, Christine sat up in bed to stare once again at Raoul's painting. She had postponed to visit the Phantom until a day later, for she had found something much more interesting to do: Fight for what she thought was love.

Although Christine was a rather pitiful character, she had her hopes and dreams, too. Who would have thought. There she was, dreaming of a marriage to somebody who didn't love her – not even liked her at all, thinking they'd make a lovely couple.

'Maybe he'll finally dare to ask me to marry him in a couple of days. He simply must remember me!' Her memory of him was amazingly strong, she still knew what he had smelled like as a child. It was a mixed smell, full of milk and honey. These days, he smelled different – the innocent smell was gone, or so she thought. 'And if he doesn't ask me, I'll wait. Wait until the sun stops shining!' When she lay back down on the bed, she did not rethink her decision, forgetting completely that the sun stopped shining every evening when it got darker and darker, and when would come what most people called 'night'.

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Meg Giry sat down on her desk, carefully unpacking her ink bottle. Then, her lank, trembling fingers picked up a quill that had fallen to the ground while she was nervously hushing around, trying to find a solution to her problems. And she had found a solution. Thus not being very rational, it would surely calm her aching heart, and that was what a solution was supposed to do. It would help her sleep again.

Slowly unfolding the paper on the desk, she thought about which words to use to express her feelings. They needed to be carefully picked, thought about for minutes, otherwise the letter wouldn't be satisfying enough. Neither for the writer, nor for the reader.

But how to start a love letter? She had never written one. She had never even felt those feelings – and for a split of a second, she almost thought somebody could have cursed her. Soon, she was successful calming herself down. The letter had already taken enough of her time, she would start writing it. Nothing would stop her.

When minutes later what had seemed like ages her mother knocked on the door, she winced. Mme Giry entered the room, closing the door behind her.

"Mother," Meg pressed through half-closed lips, "I didn't know you were out." Her shaking finger pointed at her mother's cloak.

"I'm back already."

"Where have you been?"

"None of your business," her mother's voice coldly snapped back. "I would have told you if it mattered, apparently, you didn't need to know. The reason for my coming here at such a late hour is that I wanted to remind you of your duties."

"Which would be…?"

"Going to bed early. Just to name one of them." With that, her mother left the room.

Astonished, Meg stared at her fingers. Her mother still treated her like a small child from time to time, although it had seemed to get better. Obviously, her assuming this development was wrong. 'How would she think of me if she knew about my feelings?' With that, Meg decided to remain silent about them, impressed by what had just happened. Her mother most certainly would not understand and simply suggest to dig away those childish feelings. Meg could hear her saying that.

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Antoinette slowly put her cloak on a chair. It had been a long evening full of mixed emotions, leaving her behind alone. She hadn't wanted Raoul to convince her everything would be all right. On their second night together, she simply could no longer push away how irresponsibly they acted. And her overwhelmed mind couldn't keep its mouth shut. 'Why did I spoil everything by talking about it? Why?'

Not understanding herself anymore, she got undressed to finally get to bed. Yes, it was irresponsible. Their love was forbidden, firstly by the Phantom, and secondly by all good manners. Since he was Le Vicomte, there would be no possible future for them together.

"Raoul, we need to talk."

"About what?"

"We can't stay together. I will not come back tomorrow. We need to stop this. Your love frightens me off. It destroys everything I built up in the last years, left alone what it does to Erik."

"Who's Erik?"

"Forget about it. I won't come back, did you hear me? I don't want you to linger around me. I simply can't stand this. We need to save the Opera, and as soon as Erik finds out that our love puts your relationship to Christine in danger, we're mush."

He had nodded. Simply nodded. Simply? 'Did it take him a lot to react like that?' Antoinette shook her head, not knowing how to deal with the situation. 'Was that the right decision?' Wiping away the tears that rolled down her face, deep inside of her she knew it was not right. She knew that love was the only path she wanted to wander on, to dance on, to roll on. But on the other hand, her head controlled her and apparently, it had won again. It always won. 'I hate myself for what I did. I experienced real love for the first time, and what did I do to my lover?'

She wanted to save them. Both of them. And all of them. The risks were high, and she didn't dare to play any further games with Erik. She's had enough of games. Her head would controll her, she'd let it be. It was bad she had given in. She wouldn't do it again.

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Erik kept shooting darts at a painting that was not Christine's. His hands were capable of painting, too, and so he had painted Maxime.

Words ran though his head.

Betrayed lover.

Unfaithful.

Lover.

Betrayed.

Hated.

Loved.

Silent.

Dead.

Screaming.

Hate.

Heat.

Swallow her.

Punish.

Blood.

He was a deamon, deep inside, and he'd always be. There was no sense in trusting people, for they all betrayed him. And especially Maxime, she who he wanted to make famous, powerfull, his wife, she had betrayed him most! Aren't those who love you the most capable people of hurting you?

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"Can I bring you something?"

"Yes. A tea maybe." Raoul nodded, his mind far away. "A tea. Black."

He had taken her words seriously and would follow her 'instructions' just the way she wanted him to. If that was the only way he could 'save' her, make her happy, he'd do it. He'd take this as a man, strong, willing to tear his feelings apart for somebody else.

When he was drinking his cup of tea some minutes later, he couldn't stop the tears dropping out of the corners of his eyes.

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And so,

Another day at the Opera

Brought nothing but tears

The only hero was Raoul, so strong,

But all the others

Gave in their mistakes

And so,

Another day at the Opera

Passed.

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