A/N This sort of fell out of my fingers. I hope you enjoy!
Meg was a cruel and unusual sort of friend. She'd just up and volunteered Christine to stand there before the new managers knowing that the information they'd just dropped was significant to her.
Raoul?
But her mind couldn't dwell on an old childhood friend, nor on her teacher who had indeed prepared her this moment almost an entire year ago.
Joseph Buquet should've been the one standing here fixing his own mistake of dropping the scenery he was stringing up during Carlotta's private performance, not her.
The madame seemed disinclined to allower her an escape, however, and motioned for her to sing.
Like it hadn't been months since Erik had given her a final lesson, she stepped forward and sang with her entire being. If nothing else, she could at least not embarrass herself. If she excelled, it was because it felt necessary.
She could be living a dream, and that evening before the audience was certainly what it felt like. While Meg was still on her list of people who she'd half-heartedly chastise, Christine gave that up quickly when her mother brought down the blow on the ballet's admittedly abominable performance. Of course, the younger Giry hadn't flubbed, but the Madame was a leader by example and tough love.
Christine didn't miss it and was glad for her putting her forth to Carlotta's spot.
She gave her kind but reserved words of encouragement and then a nostalgic smile.
"He would be pleased… wherever he is."
The parting sentiment from Madame Giry made her heart ache.
Leaving her with a note, her attention fell hard on the discoordinated ballerinas. Christine made a face, but the Madame seemed to have no comment, only offering a shrug and finally leaving her to it.
Stark against the noise of the corridors, her dressing room was a silent relief and she sunk into it, changing from her evening's wares into something modest to sleep in before reading the note with just a few words scribbled on it, memories from long ago.
Christine wouldn't dare hope, didn't let herself, until Raoul knocked on her door and proclaimed his memory of her himself. Then, as if it was inevitable they talk about it, he brought up her father.
"Father is dead, Raoul."
It made him uncomfortable as he breezed past the information like he hadn't spent a whole summer begging Gustave to play him a song.
"We should go to supper, Little Lotte. I insist."
"It's quite late, really-" she attempted, but he stood and began to head for the door.
"You get ready, I will get my hat. Just a few minutes… Christine."
He gave her an enchanted smile she would be a fool to deny, and the chance to get to know him again tugged at her heart.
This show wasn't even supposed to be hers, none of them were. In fact she should be slaving away with the ballet, not in a dressing room all on her own, awaiting a meal with a boy she hadn't seen in a handful of years.
She re-dressed anyways.
Supper sounded grand, the performance had drained her, and truthfully she was hungry.
Another knock on her door, and assuming it was Raoul with his silly hat, she called for him to come in and rounded the changing screen.
It was not Raoul.
"Erik," the name left her lips like a prayer, and he smiled at her, too.
What a night it seemed to be.
"You know," he filled in, seeing as her mouth was probably permanently stuck open, "I thought Carlotta might have run when I suggested she should, but this worked out in your favor much better. You seemed ready. There was still something holding you back when I left."
He looked confident, holding a hat far different to the one Raoul would show up with at any moment, but she couldn't think about him them.
God, she'd spent years with this man, learning from him, all for him to come back and tell her she seemed ready? Hadn't he missed her too?
Christine rushed up to him and hugged him, propriety be damned.
His arms went around her in an instant. Breathing him in was like being on the seaside of Uppsala again, even more so than Raoul. Erik had coached her through her father's death, had given her a gift only promised to her by a fictional angel. Her father may have been close to speaking reality if he meant Erik, however.
"You're back. Why are you back? And where did you go?" She demanded, tears in her eyes. For heaven's sake she'd missed him.
"Christine," he said gently, peeling her from him and looking into her eyes. He must have put his hat down, her hands were both encased in his. "I can't imagine you're very happy with me-"
"You left without saying anything, we almost thought you dead until we saw your name on one of Carotta's Italian papers, a star in Rome…"
She trailed off, unsure what to say to him about the whole thing. Her heart had broken when he'd left, and her and the Madame had assumed the worst. Then Carlotta's paper, the lead he'd taken in La Traviatta, and his supposed romance with the woman who'd brought him there.
"It was very last minute, I know, Christine."
"Then explain yourself." She broke away from him and sat down, forgetting all about Raoul and his hat.
Moving his from where he'd placed it on the chaise, he sat too, looking far less the confident musician she knew him to be as he spun the black rim in his fingers.
"There was a development here in the opera I couldn't withstand. Not wanting any harm to come to you, I decided to take up Signora Mariposa's offer to sponsor my limited engagement in Rome. If I thought telling you would have spared you this, I would have," he said with a tone that made her believe him. She hated how well he could convince her, she always had.
His voice was the purest on Earth, uncompared and the world knew it too. Christine was his only student, and he'd been her one figure of molding to fit into the world of opera. The Madame had only ever experienced the ballet, unable to input on the acting and signing, all of which Christine had strived to accomplish.
He'd led her into a fine voice, but his earlier statement was right. She hadn't been ready to use it until now.
Over the past year, without him there, she'd gained a way of her own through the Populaire. Still scared beyond wit when Meg volunteered her for Carlotta's role, she didn't pass up the chance. And now he was here, having seen her, watched her do what he always knew she could.
"So you left because… what happened? Nothing here has changed!"
Erik took her hand, leaning on his thighs to come down to her level. He was so tall.
"You have," he said, smiling all the while, "You truly have."
A tear slipped from Christine's eyes, and before she could take her hand and wipe it away, he took the liberty with his handkerchief.
"Christine, I fear that I-"
Another knock, but Raoul did not wait to be summoned inside, merely opened her door and looked bristled at the way they were sitting.
"I apologize, Christine, I wasn't aware-"
"Vicomte de Chagny?" Erik said, giving her a look that said they were not done and turned to Raoul, "Do you often barge into a ladies room without her permission?"
"Christine-"
"I think an apology is owed, Monsieur. I, for one, put my money into this opera house with respect for its inhabitants."
Unable to help Raoul, and almost unwilling, Christine only watched.
He was ill at ease now, lips tight.
"Apologies, Mademoiselle Daae, in excitement for our supper I may have forgotten my manners."
Erik did not seem satisfied but looked to her as if she should be saying something.
It hadn't bothered her all that much besides the fact he'd interrupted whatever it was Erik had to say. His disappearance was still unexplained. She hadn't changed enough for him to just leave her.
"Apology accepted, Raoul."
He smiled at her.
Erik merely frowned.
"I fear I've intruded on a planned evening, I shall see myself out. Remember to loosen your shoulders before the coloratura, Christine, lest they hurt in the morning."
With a slight nod and tilt of his hat, he was gone.
She'd wanted to talk longer, considering it had been a whole year since she'd seen him last and well, she missed him. Her mind was so full of it, having hardly forgotten in the past few months. The excitement of the day had just wiped nearly everything from her mind.
Raoul offered her his arm and inquired who the other gentleman was, seeming satisfied that Erik at least was willing to protect her in her father's stead.
It was a strange comparison in her mind, for Erik wasn't like her father at all. He was real and didn't subject himself to the fantasies her father had played through, because while the fantasies were lovely, it left her ill prepared to deal with situations just like this.
Raoul was attempting to court her, and having Erik tell her men would try to do this, especially as she gained attention in larger roles, had been a much needed warning. Even if she thought herself unworthy of the attention.
Her father had simply said she would succeed with the help of an angel and her wildest dreams would come true. Christine loved her father, but he was half-delusional at the end, and even somewhat at the beginning too.
Supper was lovely, catching up with Raoul was invigorating, but it still left an ache in her heart to finish her conversation with Erik that seemed like it might never be resolved if he was just going to disappear again.
When she returned to the Opera house, Christine found no sleep in bed and instead opted for the roof. It was a cold autumn, but her cloak was warm and soft regardless. Maybe the breeze would lull her into sleep.
Instead, as she pushed the door open, she found another person there occupying her space. As luck would have it, it was someone she knew, someone who had only just recently returned.
He turned to see her, and she couldn't help herself at needing to be the first to say, "You never finished what you were going to tell me."
"If you aim to stay in Carlotta's place tomorrow evening for Il Muto, you need sleep. Not words."
She scoffed, heading his way and attempting to be intimidating. Her head held high and back straighter than Meg's, she didn't compare. His height didn't help, and she wasn't exactly wearing proper clothing, so her intimidation tactics fell short. Though she doubted they would have worked in any circumstance against him.
"I want to know why you left. I wracked my brain trying to think how I changed while I was at supper with Raoul and came up short. I haven't changed at all, you couldn't have anticipated me being in this role over a year ago. I needed you."
"Obviously not," he snapped, but his face changed, softening. "You've done well coming into your own. If I had stayed, Christine, you would have been content to be my pupil for eternity. I wanted you to break free."
Something about the word break carved a hole in her chest, made her eyes water, but she tried not to think of it.
Raoul wanted to meet her for supper again, another dinner for a proper courtship.
She wanted to be sick.
Moving to the edge, Christine looked over the distance at the city, breathing in the fresh air of a night in Paris. The romance of night time had been taught to her by this man, and if he kept upsetting her, he was going to ruin it.
"Did you enjoy your meal with your boy?"
"Raoul was persistent, I would have rather slept. Though it was pleasant to see him again."
No sounds came from her left, but he joined her in her watch.
"Why not just push me instead of waiting for me to come into my own? I would have listened."
"It wouldn't have been your choice, I needed you to be on stage because you made yourself go."
"The Madame kept me on stage tonight."
"Hardly," he said with a laugh, "She would have let you bolt with a look of those eyes of yours. She's much less tolerant to a pout than she wants to be. You know that."
"How did you know I'd make the choice tonight? If that was why you'd left then it would have been too serendipitous of you to show up now."
Turning towards him, Christine was shocked to see him so uncomfortable. His jaw was set tight and face white.
"Are you well?"
"Tell me, Christine, is the Vicomte attempting to court you?"
Her mind went blank and a million miles ahead in a single moment.
"Yes, it seems his intention, but-"
"Then I think it a wonderful match, and I wish you the best. That's quite a jump in society, I hope you are prepared to forfeit the stage."
He walked away, headed towards the opera house, his shoulders set the way they would be whenever she purposefully missed notes to rile him up.
"Erik!"
She'd stopped him, but there was no sign he wanted to face her. Unsure she was even going to get a reply, Christine rubbed her hands with worry.
"Do you have… intentions… towards me? Is that why you left, you thought I might not feel the same?"
"And would you?"
"You're a coward."
Turning finally, she got a good look at his face, twisted with pain.
"As much worth as I have Christine, I could never have expressed this desire in me for you, not until now since you've dissected it from the worst parts of me. I've always been a good person despite the ample opportunities I've had to use my good looks and money and talents otherwise. Much like the young Vicomte who after years of not seeing you, arrives with naught but a single rose as if you don't deserve the entire garden he plucked it from. He who takes you to supper because he demanded you go, and you did. I fell too far into your mind as a replacement for your father while I put you at a distance as you grew and I came to love you."
Christine swallowed her words. Anything she said would have fallen short, unable to leap the divide in which he'd created.
It was a good thing she danced better than she spoke.
A brisk few steps and she was in his arms, lips pressed to his, her hands firm on his lapel.
When nothing besides having to tell him another thing on her mind broke them apart, she was slightly winded.
"You're not my father, not even close. Don't ever put words in my mouth again, Maestro."
He seemed baffled, but the smile he gave was back to his normal self.
"And my tongue?"
God, she'd missed his crassness.
"You really should sleep, Christine," he added, his eyes roaming over her and warming her skin with the look. "We'll talk about what this means in the morning."
"It means you're going to tell me you love me again, and I'll probably return the sentiment. It means that I'm going to have to tell Raoul we are better off as friendly companions as opposed to a courting couple. Lastly, I think it means you're going to walk me to my room like a kind gentleman, and kiss me goodnight."
"Antoinette is going to have my head for this," he scorned, light and playful as he offered his arm.
"I'll give her those eyes you said turned her over if I must."
"How long… how long have you felt this way?"
"Just before you left I had intended to at least make it obvious. I wanted… I wanted you to see me as more than just a student."
"I did, it's why I left, Christine. I'm quite the bit older than you, you know."
"Yes," she sighed dramatically, "Madame Giry talks about the year you were intent on courting her when Meg was five. I'll never forget, but I would prefer not to be reminded after you've just kissed me."
"And your appropriately aged suitor?"
"You're my suitor, I've decided. He is a wallop who entered my dressing room without my permission. I'm sure he'll make a lovely patron to the arts."
"He only donates half of what he's telling his parents," Erik said suddenly. "The rest he gambles."
"And you were going to let me court him?" She asked aghast, attempting to keep her voice down as they walked the halls.The last thing she needed was the Madame finding them before they were ready.
"I was feeling spiteful," he told her indignantly.
She accepted the kiss on her temple for what it was and wondered briefly if Carlotta would be back or she'd actually get to play the Countess tomorrow evening.
Either way, Erik would be in the crowd watching, proud of her for finally putting herself out there. For the kiss or for the performance was up for interpretation.
They babbled quietly all the way to her room where he let her go with a chaste kiss, their privacy on the roof gone.
It had been quite the day for Christine, but she looked forward to the rest of them as long as Erik did not attempt to make any decisions for her, or them again, all on his own.
