New Year's came and went, and the departure of the first month and a half of the year brought the arrival of a much-anticipated visitor.
Erik heard the gossip and chatter about it, of course - a vicomte was going to be in attendance to the show that evening. He paid it little mind, thinking that it had little to do with him. Before Christine, perhaps, he would have schemed to somehow extort a little extra money out of the situation, but he had promised her. He would have paid much closer attention to it all had he known that his dear student was going to dinner with said vicomte after the show.
Christine barely had a moment to herself in her dressing room before the knock came at her door.
"Little Lottie?"
"Come in," she called, picking up the white rose that had been left on her vanity.
Erik had been here, but she presumed he had already left - he almost never stayed after leaving a rose when the performance was over, and if he was lingering, well, he would leave soon enough once he saw Raoul.
Raoul entered the little room, beaming.
"You were magnificent tonight!"
She laughed.
"I was in the chorus," she teased. "How could you even tell my voice apart from the girls?"
"Oh, I could always pick your voice out of the crowd, Christine," he said warmly, and she couldn't help the flush that creeped across her cheeks.
"I have to change before we go to dinner, would you give me a few minutes?"
"Of course! Here, this is for you," he thrust out his hand which was clutching a bouquet of pink roses that he had been hiding behind his back.
"Oh, Raoul! Thank you!"
She took the roses from him and he exited the room, allowing her to change out of her costume and into her dress for the evening.
The roses were truly lovely, and she couldn't help but let her mind wander to Meg's words from before Christmas. Did he really feel that way about her? Surely not, they were just friends... Weren't they? It's not as though he had asked to court her. It was just dinner.
And what a dinner - Christine so rarely ate at restaurants, especially not ones as fine the one Raoul took her to. He regaled her with tales from when he was away, described the sea in such a way that made Christine long to see it, and ordered plate after plate of food.
"Have you tried caviar before?"
She shook her head, and Raoul flagged down the waiter to order some.
"I think the worst thing about being on a ship for so long is the food," he wrinkled his nose. "It's the same food over and over! But the sea - oh, there's nothing like it, Christine. It's so beautiful."
"It sounds just lovely, the way you describe it."
"It is," he nodded. "It's dangerous, too, when the storms come up so quickly, but honestly I love it."
He paused for a moment, looking down at the mostly empty plates adorning the table.
"Except for the food," he grinned, and Christine giggled.
"Is food the only thing you miss?"
"No, of course not! I miss France," he nodded decisively. "And- and you."
Christine nearly choked on her champagne, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
"Raoul!" she cried after she managed to swallow her drink. "You're too much!"
Raoul straightened in his chair, smoothing down the collar on his jacket. He smiled a little awkwardly. Laughter hadn't exactly been the reaction he was aiming for.
The waiter brought their caviar and Raoul showed her how to spoon some out onto a little piece of toast.
She eagerly took a bite, then made a face.
Raoul took a bite himself.
"It's good, isn't it?" he asked around the toast in his mouth.
Christine brought a hand up to her mouth, trying not to spit it out.
"Oh, it's- it's something," she said, still attempting to chew but her efforts being continually thwarted by how the tiny orbs seemed to go everywhere in her mouth except between her teeth.
Raoul chuckled.
"You'll get used to it, trust me. It can be a bit of an acquired taste."
Christine smiled politely, not sure of how to tell him that it wasn't particularly a taste she wished to acquire.
But after the caviar there were seasoned chicken wings and crab legs and pasta covered in cheese and slices of chocolate cake and bowls of sherbet and the rest of a bottle of champagne, until Christine thought for certain she couldn't eat another bite for days and she feared that Raoul would catch a scolding from his older brother for having spent so much money.
"I'm only back for such a short time, you know," he said as put on his coat and scarf in preparation to go outside. "I find I wish to spend as much of my time as I can with you, Christine. Would you take a walk with me?"
"Of course, Raoul. I'd love to," she wrapped herself in her hooded cape and they stepped outside.
Once out on the sidewalk, Raoul put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close as they walked. If the action was just a little more than what would strictly be classified as brotherly, Christine decided to overlook it. It felt nice, anyway, and it was rather chilly out still.
They walked that way for a while until they came to a park where they decided to sit on a bench. The sun had set long ago, and the stars were twinkling overhead. They sat close together, and if she scooted a little closer to him to lean her head on his shoulder as she peered upwards at the heavens, well, it only seemed natural in the moment.
Raoul glanced at her, entranced by how the starlight sparkled in her eyes, the way the cold air made her cheeks and nose go pink. She was so beautiful. He squeezed his hand on her shoulder a little, and couldn't help but notice how she shivered at the action.
In a moment of sudden boldness, he leaned over and kissed the side of her mouth.
It was a fleeting, impulsive thing, gently placed, and his face flushed as he looked away afterwards. Had he the courage to look at her, he would have seen that her face had turned just as red as his.
It was not her first kiss - it was not even her first kiss with Raoul, although Raoul had been her first kiss so many years ago. (It had taken place in the gardens of the Comte de Chagny, when a nearly eight-year-old Raoul had given a slightly baffled but very flattered seven-year-old Christine the best approximation of a kiss on the lips as he could muster before grabbing her hand and dragging her before his father and her papa who were on the porch discussing music, declaring with all the certainty that only a childlike mind can devise that he and Christine were going to get married one day. It was a declaration that was only met with good natured laughter from both of their fathers, causing Raoul a great deal of confusion and hurt. Why didn't they believe him? At least Christine hadn't laughed - she had looked surprised, but she had nodded acceptingly to his plan.)
This kiss under the sliver of a crescent moon in the park, was, however, her first kiss that had brought such feelings with it, and it came as somewhat of a surprise.
Butterflies. Strange butterflies, not quite like the ones she got before going on stage - not quite like any she'd had before. They were warmer, somehow, and they seemed to spread out through her body more. They felt gentle, in a way, but at the same time not, and the contradiction confused her. It almost reminded her of something she had seen the previous summer, when the traveling circus had come to town. There had been a contraption in the Tent of Technological Wonders, a thing called a Climbing Arc that seemed to only be two copper wires sticking straight up - until a switch was flipped and suddenly a burst of white-blue electricity climbed its way up the wires with a crackling noise that was both exciting and frightening. Christine and Meg had stared at the strange thing for the longest time, electricity going up and up, over and over, and it had quite imprinted itself into her memory.
Perhaps these butterflies were made of copper, too - perhaps there was electricity going through their delicate wings, and that was why she could feel those sparks with every flutter and flit.
She blamed it almost entirely on the champagne they had during dinner, though truth be told they hadn't even finished the bottle between the two of them. But it had to be the champagne, the champagne and the way the breeze rustled the leaves in the trees and made the sweet smelling flowers nod, the way the stars twinkled and the thin moon glowed - all of those things had conspired together against her to bring about this new sensation. All of those things... and Raoul. Raoul holding her around the shoulders, Raoul's warm hand on her arm. Raoul's soft lips.
While she was sure that the blame lay mostly on the champagne, she couldn't help but feel some of it was Meg's fault, too - surely she wouldn't have been even thinking such things to begin with had Meg not been filling her head with the Vicomte's supposed undying love for her. She though again of Meg's description of how she felt whenever Dmitry looked at her, and she wondered if this had been what she was talking about. She rested her head on Raoul's shoulder as she pondered it.
The feeling faded, as did the night. Raoul escorted her back to the opera house, and they parted with the assurance that they would meet as often as they could for the rest of the week that he was in Paris.
Christine climbed the many stairs leading to the entrance, having insisted that he need not actually take her inside. She doubted anyone would still be up at that hour, but still she didn't wish for any gossip to spread if they should be seen together so late at night.
They met nearly every day for the rest of the week, sometimes for dinner, sometimes for a walk, and sometimes for only a few moments in between her rehearsals. He kissed her again, on occasion, and sometimes she felt the butterflies afterwards but not always. A kiss on the hand, gentlemanly and refined, hardly seemed reason for them to appear. A kiss on the cheek was more likely to bring them about. She was secretly glad that she didn't feel them all the time when she was around him - while she did consider it a pleasant feeling, she could scarcely imagine how she would get on if she always felt like that. It muddled her mind and confused her words, and she counted herself lucky that it was a fleeting sensation - and pitied poor Meg who was probably getting nothing done in ballet class if that was how she felt all the time around Dmitry.
At last the week was over, and Raoul was preparing to leave once more. She accompanied him to the shipyard to see him off. He gathered her close and hugged her tightly, an embrace she returned with equal fervency. He let her go and took both her hands in his, bringing then up to his lips and kissing them.
"You know I care for you a great deal, Christine," he told her.
She nodded.
"I care for you too, Raoul. Stay safe on your expedition, and write me lots of letters, okay?"
"I promise you, I will."
She watched as he dragged his luggage up the ramp with him, and waved as the ship pulled out of the dock. She continued waving, as did he, until she could no longer pick him out in the crowd of people on the ship as it sailed into the distance.
She sighed and turned to begin her journey back to the opera house. She would miss him, of course, but she had plenty to busy herself with in the meantime.