The opera house was nearly completely dark except for what was illuminated by the thin crescent moon that shone down the rough the skylights and the occasional gas lamp left burning, and Christine very nearly regretted her course of action because of it. Why did it have to be so dark? She hated it.
She grew nervous, too, the more she thought about the Angel and the Ghost being the same person - after all, didn't the Ghost threaten the opera employees? Weren't a number of unfortunate 'accidents' said to be caused by him? But she tried to calm her breathing and recall how kind her Angel had been... before, at least. Surely he wouldn't hurt her - the Persian had said that the man hadn't wanted to hurt her.
She finally reached the entrances to the box seating. She gripped the dressing gown around her tightly, realizing that there was no going back now. Keeping her footsteps as quiet as possible, she approached the door with the number five above it. Everyone knew that Box Five was the Ghost's, and since the Ghost and her Angel were one and the same, then it stood to reason that she could contact him through this box. She reached a hand out to the doorknob, but it refused to turn - it was locked.
She looked around for a moment, at a loss of what to do, then she dropped to her knees. She folded the note in half and carefully slid it under the door as far as she could before hastily scrambling to her feet once more. Her task finished, she hurried back to her dormitory.
She crawled back into bed, pulling the sheets up to her chin - had the rustle of her sheets always been so loud? She held her breath for a few moments, but she didn't hear any of the other girls stirring and she gave a sigh of relief as it seemed she had succeeded in her plan.
Still - there was a lot to be nervous about. Leaving the note was by far the easiest part. She closed her eyes and tried to let that be a problem for another day.
Erik could hear the music from rehearsals even as he made his way up the winding spiral of steps inside the hollow pillar in Box Five - he was late, a frequent occurrence recently, though it had never been his habit before. Ever since he had seen that she had returned to the stage he waged a constant war with himself in regards to watching rehearsals - seeing her reminded him of her parting words to him, but seeing her on stage also reminded him that despite what he had put her through, she hadn't lost her spark or her love for singing.
He noticed the little piece of paper on the floor almost immediately after he stepped through the hidden door in the pillar and into the little room. He stopped down to pick it up, wondering why Madame Giry hasn't left it on the seat like she always did. He sat down, glancing at the stage - Christine wasn't on yet, and he'd take any opportunity to tune out Carlotta, who was singing at the moment.
He unfolded the note, quickly realizing that it wasn't from Madame Giry at all - there, at the bottom, was Christine's name. His heart had seemingly ceased to beat.
Monsieur Opera Ghost,
I have given it much thought and after a discussion with your Persian friend, I have decided that I wish to continue vocal lessons with you - provided that certain conditions are met, of course. If you also wish to continue as my tutor, please meet me in my dressing room tomorrow morning at seven, and we can discuss this matter further. - Christine
Monsieur Opera Ghost. His heart sank. He had given up the chance of being an angel to her in the hopes of the chance to be a man, but instead he was now only a ghost.
He felt irritated, also, at the mention of his "friend", even though he himself had asked the Daroga to talk with her. But he had only asked for him to apologize to her - how much of a "conversation" did "Erik is very sorry for the wretched excuse of a man that he is" actually warrant? What all had he said to her? "He used to strangle men back in Persia, I've seen him do it"? But no - she wouldn't want to continue lessons with him if she had been told that.
The rational part of his mind (a very small part, admittedly) told him that it would be a mistake to try and tutor her again - that if he had already accidentally hurt her once, he was likely to accidentally hurt her again.
But he so dearly wanted to make it all up to her somehow, and he couldn't very well make it up to her by refusing to even meet with her, could he? He had told the Daroga that he'd leave her alone, but surely this didn't count since she had contacted him, did it?
He watched the rest of the rehearsal with anxiety buzzing in his chest. Did she really want him to teach her again? What if it was a trap? Perhaps she was trying to lure him out so he could be arrested and dragged away. He shifted uncomfortably. It was a risk he was willing to take, he supposed. To not show up would hurt her further if she was sincere in her request - and if she wanted him out of the opera house and behind bars, well, he could hardly blame her. If that's how he had to make it up to her, that's what he'd do.
He ended up leaving before rehearsal was over (Christine's rehearsal was over, and that was all that mattered to him, really) and swiftly returned to his house underground, her note safely tucked in his pocket. He read it several more times that night before he retired to his coffin, leaving it on top of his dresser - a place he could see without much difficulty even as he lay down. His eyes were drawn there every so often as he'd wake from dozing off, still not quite believing it could be true.
Finally he rose and began to get ready for the morning.
He was impeccably dressed as he approached the final corner in the tunnel before reaching her mirror, but he paused to smooth down his already-smooth hair one last time. One last turn, and he would know what awaited him in her dressing room.
But there were no gendarmes in that little floral wallpapered room - only Christine, sitting on her chair and fiddling with a makeup brush. On first glance she appeared bored, but Erik knew her well enough to know that underneath the apparent boredom, she was actually nervous.
She was nervous because of him, and his heart twisted at the thought.
"Christine," he called softly.
She started, dropping the brush. Her eyes went wide, looking at the mirror for the first time since she had returned. She swallowed hard and nodded.
"Come in," she said, and the mirror opened.
He stepped through, but didn't come any closer after the first step out of the mirror. He still remembered how she had flinched from him when he had started to draw closer when they first met in person.
Her brow crinkled. He was still wearing that ridiculous mask that covered half of his face - more than half, really, all of his nose and all of his forehead and down to his chin on one side - and she couldn't imagine what purpose it served. She put it from her mind, though - she had bigger issues to tackle with him than his silly mask.
"Do you wish to keep teaching me, then?" she asked meekly.
"Of course I do, Christine. You were an ideal student, and you have a great deal of potential. Any teacher would be blessed to have you as a student."
"I want to be prima donna one day," she told him, and he nodded.
He didn't seem surprised by her ambitions, so she continued.
"I've taken lessons from a number of vocal teachers in the past, at the conservatoire. They helped, of course... but no one has managed to take my voice to the heights that you have," she paused, afraid that she had made herself sound too dependent on his skills, so she added - "yet."
He nodded again.
"You truly wish to continue lessons with me, then?" he asked, scarcely believing his luck. "After- after..."
She pressed her lips into a thin line.
"Why should your poor decision making keep me from gaining the skills I need to improve my voice?" she shot back.
He lowered his eyes to floor, suddenly ashamed. It was as though she'd dumped a cold bucket of water on him, and he was reminded that she was doing this in spite of him, not because of him.
"So I want to keep doing lessons," she said, taking a deep breath. "But we can't go on as we did before, obviously."
"Your conditions?"
She gave a brief nod.
"My first condition is that you can't ever lie to me again. I don't care what it's about. I don't care if it's an innocent lie, or if you think you're doing it to spare my feelings. No lying. About anything."
"I swear it to you, Christine, I won't lie to you anymore."
"The second condition is that you have stop all of this Ghost nonsense. It ends now."
He frowned. He wanted to comply with her every wish, but-
"Christine, that's how I make my money. It's my only source of income - I won't even be able to afford food if I stop."
She frowned in turn. Why couldn't he just teach lessons and charge the students? She didn't understand.
"Then the Ghost can't seriously scare anyone, and you can't hurt anyone."
"I've never hurt any-" he began to protest, but she stared blankly at him and he knew this was not the time to argue about whether or not he had been at fault when that stagehand had stepped in the path of the bucket of sand he had dropped to stage, leaving the stagehand with a concussion.
He tugged on his sleeves, knowing he was beaten.
"The Ghost will not harm anyone," he conceded.
She wasn't entirely pleased with how that had turned out, even with his promise of his not hurting anyone he was still lying to others even if he wasn't lying to her. Her mind raced to find something, anything, to add that might make up for the compromise she hadn't foreseen, and she blurted the first thing she came up with that sounded acceptable to her.
"You're going to come to church with me, too."
His eyes snapped to hers, incredulous.
"Church?" he parroted.
She nodded.
"Christine, I- I don't leave the opera house," he shrugged helplessly. "I mean, sometimes I do, but-"
"You don't have to leave the opera house, there's a chapel right here and a priest conducts a sermon once a month."
His shoulders sagged. He was aware of the monthly sermons held in the little chapel, a time he always made sure to avoid lest he accidentally be discovered. He could go with her, he assumed, though it would be difficult. The sermons were sparsely attended, and he hated the thought of the priest staring at him. Still-
He nodded, accepting.
"That's all," she said quietly. "I just- I just wanted some assurance that you'd be good."
"And you have it, Christine," he said eagerly.
She twisted her hands a little, both of them standing in silence for a few moments.
"Did you ever watch me undress?" her face burned at the question, and she was certain she wouldn't have had the courage to even ask if not for the familiarity that existed between them from when she had thought of him as an angel. Besides, given their history, any semblance of formality or propriety was surely useless by now.
"Ch- Christine!" he sputtered, sounding scandalized, and she noted with faint amusement the way his face turned red. "I would never! Please believe me, I would never do something like that to you."
The pleading look of hurt on his face convinced her.
She almost thanked him for not exploiting her in that way, but she held her tongue because she realized how strange it would be to applaud him for basic decency. It put her a little more at ease to hear it from him, though she did wonder for a moment if he could even be trusted to tell the truth at all at this point.
"What are your intentions towards me, now that you're a man?"
He stared dumbly at her.
"Intentions?" he said at last. "To be your teacher, of course-"
"You were my teacher when you were my angel," she frowned. "But you aren't my angel anymore, so I want to know how you expect us to get on from this point. What do you wish to be to me, if not my angel and besides my teacher?"
He couldn't gather the nerve to look her in the eye, instead studying the threadbare carpet. He didn't remember when his throat had last been this dry. It would be easiest to simply say he only wanted to be her teacher and nothing more, but he had promised the truth to her in all things.
He felt like a child again there before her, as though he were standing in front of his mother once more and she was waiting for his request so she could rage and scream at him before locking him in his room. She had shouted that she hated him, too, and as he remembered things he'd rather forget he found he couldn't even bring his eyes to glance at the hem of Christine's dress.
Christine. She was not his mother, he told himself, trying to convince himself that she would never be so cruel as his mother had been - but of course, she had already said she hated him, and so had his mother, so perhaps his mother wasn't being cruel to him all that time - perhaps she was simply being honest - perhaps there was something deeply flawed inside of him after all that caused others to rightly revile him - perhaps he truly did deserve it.
He could feel her steady gaze on him, but still couldn't bring himself to look at her, so he missed the way she was looking at him - open and honest, firm yet kind as she waited patiently for his reply, not at all how his mother used to look at him.
He took a tremulous breath before answering, finally saying the shameful words out loud, preparing to be verbally accosted or perhaps have something thrown at him.
"I only wish to be your respectful friend."
It was the honest truth, the words he couldn't even tell the Daroga. Even after everything, he still dreamed of a future where they might laugh and talk as they had when he was an angel, except now with him as a man. He knew it wouldn't ever truly happen - but he could dream. He could always dream.
"And as your respectful friend, please know that I don't expect anything in return, not even your friendship, if you don't freely wish to give it."
"I see," her voice gave away nothing.
He suddenly couldn't bear to be in the same room with her after confessing his wish - she hated him and still he groveled at her feet nearly begging for a scrap of kindness and saying he wanted to be her friend and all she could reply with was 'I see' - it was too much for him to cope with.
"Thank you for the opportunity to teach you again, Christine, and I truly am sorry for my deception," he turned to go through the mirror again. "I will see you at your usual days and times for your lessons, if that still works for you."
"Wait!" she called out, and he froze mid-step.
He turned to glance back at her.
"What's your name?"
She realized in all of this she'd never even heard his real name. She couldn't call him Angel anymore, obviously, but it also felt obnoxious to have to call him Opera Ghost - no more titles, she thought to herself. He was a man now, nothing more, and men had names.
He stared for a moment, blinking several times. His name? Her question flustered him. How long had it been since someone had asked him what his name was? When was the last time his tongue formed those syllables in a context that wasn't in the midst of a fit? Did he even remember his own name?
"Erik," he finally said.
She nodded.
"Erik. Very well, Erik, this weekend is the sermon in the chapel. I expect to see you there."
"Of course," his gaze lingered on her one second longer before turning and carefully sliding the mirror back in place with him behind it.