He rustled through a drawer in the work room and pulled out a small container, taking it with him as he walked Christine back to the sitting room with their tea.

She sat down on the couch again, sipping at her drink, and Erik examined the ballet slippers.

"I have special solvent that will get stains like this out, I'll be right back," he told her.

She nodded and picked up one of the shoes. The little container he had placed on the couch contained all kinds of threads and various sizes of needles, and she found some suited to the work that needed to be done. She hummed a little to herself as she threaded the needle and began to repair the stitches around the edge of the shoe.

It was that scene that Erik walked in upon, his breath catching in his throat.

Christine, sitting on his couch, her cup of tea cooling on the table next to her, consumed in her domestic task, humming the very song he had played for her just earlier.

How right she looked there in his sitting room, as though it were her room too.

He had worked so hard to make his house a home for him, and though it felt comfortable and he enjoyed it, he realized that none of his own efforts could ever compare to the simple act of having Christine there with him. Christine in his house made it a home far more than anything else could.

His hand squeezed tight around the glass bottle of cleaner, his feet unwilling to take another step.

How right she looked there in the little house that could be her home as well. How wrong it felt to trap her underground, a sweet little bird in a grim stone cage.

He forced his feet forward and sat on the couch with her. If he was a little closer to her than he was the previous time, she didn't notice, or at least she didn't comment on it.

He unstoppered the bottle and poured a little of the liquid onto a small towel before rubbing it over the stains on the slipper, and Christine watched with interest as it bubbled and fizzed.

A grin came across her face as Erik continued to clean the slipper, and he couldn't help but notice.

"What's so funny?" he asked, frowning.

Christine stifled a giggle.

"Jammes is terrified of you, you know - there are certain hallways she refuses to down because she thinks the Opera Ghost will get her."

"Hmph."

"So I was just thinking of the look on her face if she ever knew who it was who helped to fix her shoes," her smile widened.

His frown deepened.

"Perhaps she should have taken better care of them, then," he grumbled, and Christine laughed.

"Thank you, though, Erik - those stains would have been terribly difficult for me to get out," her lips quirked. "Perhaps a note from the Ghost would convince her to not wear them outside anymore."

"You shouldn't tease, Christine," he said dryly. "Especially when you know that it's within the realm of possibility that I just might do that very thing."

They worked in silence for a little while, exchanging the shoes once they were each finished with the one they were holding.

"Did you build your house yourself?"

He nodded.

"I did, for the most part. Although it's not really finished, not truly - there are always improvements to be made, you know."

"Like the lights?" she ventured, and he paused.

"You're a very attentive one - yes, like the lights. I'm in the process of switching over to electric. The kitchen is already finished, and the entryway is next. Eventually I'll probably switch every room over to electric."

"Why did you stop being an architect?" she finally posed the question that had been eating at her ever since learning he had designed the opera house.

He continued to scrub at the slipper as though he hadn't heard her, though she knew that he had by the tightness in his jaw. He was silent for so long that she began to think he wasn't going to answer at all.

"I got tired," he said after a while. "Tired of dealing with people, tired of the stares, of the questions. Just... tired. Of everything. I had decided that the Opera Populaire would be my last work, so I included a small area that I could live in, and I fully intended to simply disappear, become a ghost. And for so long I did," he dared a glance at her, then added softly. "Until you."

She was staring intently at her work, at the little shining silver needle darting though the pink silk, but Erik knew she was listening closely.

"I hadn't realized, I suppose, how lonely solitude could become," he continued. "Even though it was what I had constantly wished for when I was younger - to be left alone."

"Do you ever think about going back to it? To architecture?"

"Not really," he admitted. "I haven't had reason to, I suppose."

He hesitated a moment, weighing the wisdom of continuing.

"Sometimes," he said haltingly. "Sometimes I think about designing a house to live in somewhere up there, in the countryside, perhaps. And I think that if I did, maybe I would do architectural designs again so I would have an honest income."

He suddenly fell silent, not telling her the part of the daydream where he lived above and out in the world because he had a wife, a pretty little wife who needed sunshine and fresh air and a husband who didn't live in a sewer.

"But there's no point to doing that, not really," was all he said to conclude it.

And really, without a wife, there was little point to the whole idea. It had been something that would float through his head once every few months, but it had been appearing to him with increasing frequency once he had realized his feelings towards Christine. But she would never be his wife, so they would never have need of a house to live together in, so there was no point - even though he had already drawn up a design for a house he thought would please her.

"You still could," Christine insisted. "There's plenty of point. There's nothing keeping you here underground - you could move anywhere you wanted to."

He smiled a little. His poor, naive Christine.

"Of course there's something keeping me here," he teased her gently. "Who else would train your voice, my dear, if Erik was traipsing about in the forest and drawing blueprints?"

Christine narrowed her eyes at him, but she was smiling.

She was about to retort that she could easily visit him in the forest to still take her lessons, when he pulled out his pocket watch with a look of near panic on his face - his own words had suddenly reminded him of why, exactly, Christine was even in his home in the first place.

"Christine!" he cried, looking at the time. "Your lesson!"

He held the watch out for her to look at. The shoes had taken longer than either of them had realized.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry to have imposed on you so long, Erik-" she began.

She didn't have the faintest clue what else he would have been doing with his day, but she wasn't so presumptuous as to assume it would revolve around her, or could simply be put on hold because she wished it.

"No, no, my dear, I am sorry for keeping you so long. You only wanted to do your lesson," he said mournfully.

She had only wanted to learn the new songs, and instead he had spirited her away to his underground lair and made her listen to his music and his pathetic stories, showing her a portrait of his mother as though she cared about those kinds of things. He was an old fool.

Her brow furrowed.

"Can we still do the lesson? Maybe just a short one, if you still have time?" she asked, concerned. "I understand if you don't, though - have time, that is."

Erik stood and walked over to a bookshelf, placing the bottle of solvent on one of the shelves.

"We can do as long of a lesson as you'd like, Christine," he murmured, still not facing her. "Provided you don't mind tarrying so long in the house of a monster."

A look of hurt flashed across her face, but he didn't see it. She looked down at the newly repaired and clean pointe shoe in her hands and frowned. Why did he have to talk about himself like that?

"No," she said in a small voice, fiddling with the shoe. "I don't mind staying so long, because I don't think I'm in a monster's house."

He turned to rebuff her thoughts, but as soon as she caught his eye, she smiled weakly and added, "I don't think a monster could choose such tasteful wallpaper."

Her comment threw off his train of thought, and he glanced at the wallpaper in surprise. She laughed a little at that, but Erik noticed her eyes still looked sad. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps her denial of the truth was what she needed to continue her lessons, a way to rationalize it. She couldn't truly believe her own words, could she?

Still, he nodded a little and found the space on the shelves that held some of his sheet music. He pulled out a particular book of music, and flipped through the pages, handing her some.

"These are the songs that would be yours, if you get the part," he told her.

She looked them over with great interest, and when she had seen all of them she handed them back to him and stood, smoothing out her skirt.

"Will you play them for me? So I can hear them and get a better feel."

"Of course."

They ended up going through each song twice, once with Erik playing and singing so she could know what they were supposed to sound like (she was terribly glad that his back was to her, so he couldn't see how hard she had to bite her lip to stifle her giggles at how odd it sounded to hear him sing such feminine lyrics - perhaps it wouldn't have been so strange had he not chosen to sing several octaves higher than his normal voice. She hadn't been expecting it, and had nearly burst into laughter when he started), and then he played it again and she tried to sing it as best she could.

Erik offered little critique during the lesson, instead letting her simply get used to the new songs. There would be time for memorization and perfection later. They discussed the role for a little while, and after what turned out to be a lesson of typical length, Christine gathered her shawl and Jammes' slippers as he prepared to take her back above once more.

It was as they were about to walk out the door that suddenly Christine's stomach growled. Erik paused, and she looked away in mortification.

"Christine," he chided. "When was the last time you ate?"

Her face turned red.

"Dinner last night, I suppose," she mumbled.

He closed the door and locked it again, pointing her in the direction of the kitchen.

"That won't do at all, Christine. Let's get you something to eat right now."

She followed him back to his kitchen. Had she known, at the time, to turn his own question back on him, she would have found that he hadn't eaten in three days, but she had no way of knowing such a thing. He felt just fine on that amount of food, but he simply would not stand for poor Christine to go hungry - she must eat.

He gestured to a tall chair on the other side of the counter in the kitchen, and began digging around in the pantry. She sat and waited for him.

"Why did you skip breakfast, my dear?" he asked gently.

Was she not able to afford enough food? He would see to that. Was she concerned with her appearance and on a diet, as so many of the other ballet rats were? He would have strong words with whoever made her feel that way. Was she ill? He could make a great many potions and and cures - he could heal her, and if not, he could fund a visit to a real doctor and pay for her treatment there.

"I just didn't have time, really," she shrugged a little.

"What do you mean? You had all morning."

"Well… I didn't sleep too well last night, so I wasn't able to get up very early. Then I had ballet practice right after I woke up, and I had to change out of my leotard before our lesson, and then Jammes-" she shrugged again.

"Why didn't you sleep well?"

"The other girls in the dormitory can be so loud," she sighed. "And sometimes my bed just isn't very comfortable. I suppose I don't often get a good night's sleep, really. I have a lot on my mind, typically."

"You are running yourself quite ragged, sweet," he frowned as he placed a plate of bread and cheese and salted meat in front of her.

He watched as she ate the food, and a thought occurred to him. He didn't like it, but he felt it had to be said.

"Perhaps we should cut back on your lessons."

"Oh, Erik, no! No, I don't want to do that!" she cried.

"But you need your rest, Christine, and you can't skip meals like that. It's not good for your health, and if you aren't healthy you won't be able to reach your full potential with your voice."

"I'm fine, Erik! Just- just a little tired is all," she pouted.

He shook his head.

"I'm not taking any chances, Christine."

She picked at her bread, rolling tiny pieces into little balls before putting them in her mouth.

"But I'll miss you," she finally mumbled, casting a doleful look at him.

He furrowed his brow. His heart sped up at those words, but he knew she only mean that she would miss his instruction, not him.

"It's not forever, you know. We'll aim to meet three times a week, not five like we have been."

"Four times," she protested.

"Christine," he huffed. "I am not negotiating with you on this."

"Four," she pleaded with him.

He rolled his eyes and turned away.

"Please, Erik - four times a week and I promise I'll make time for food and sleep and everything else - and if I don't, if I can't fit it all in, then we can do three times a week. Please."

He sighed heavily but relented. It was a heady thing, to be wanted. He was unused to it.

"Four times," he nodded. "But you must take care of yourself. If you are not averse to it, I would think we should continue your lessons here, for the most part - it offers much more privacy. Especially now that Jammes might be listening."

She nodded eagerly.

"But," he continued. "there will be days where a lesson can only be accommodated upstairs - you might not alway have time for the trip here, or you might not feel up to so much travel. We will decide as we go, yes?"

Christine beamed at him, and he found himself returning the smile as well, despite his better judgment. It felt like he had lost, in a way - but could he ever really lose when he was still spending the majority of the days of week with her?

Still, he felt guilty that he hadn't taken her needs into account before this. It was practically his own fault that she had skipped breakfast - everyone in the opera house was so demanding, the ballet mistress, the managers, the directors, everyone wanting the performers to give their best without any thought for the rest of the numerous people also demanding their best, and he had been no better. He must do better in the future, must make certain he was not asking too much of her and that she was doing well.

For her part, Christine was oddly happy. She felt so strangely at home in the little house by the underground lake, something she hadn't been expecting at all. It was almost cozy, really, and she was pleased that she'd get to spend more time in it. She was also pleased she'd still be spending time around him. It was an unlikely friendship, perhaps, but she truly did enjoy his company.

There were times, when they were together, that she managed to forget he was a genius and he was simply her friend - it was impossible to forget his genius when they were in a lesson, of course, but when they were simply talking over a plate of snacks and a cup of tea, it felt so natural and normal. There were times when she even managed to forget his mask.

She'd think sometimes on the Persian's words to her, so long ago. Erik was a humorous man, and very kind to her. He could hold a conversation well, most of the time, though he did have a few odd habits. She often wondered what he would have been like had he had the chance to live normally - without years of solitude and torture and anguish. If he was this warm and sweet with her after all that he had been through, what would he have been like had he grown up surrounded by friends and family, well cared for and loved?

So they began to have their lessons at his house, not always, but at least twice every week. When their lessons were upstairs, every noise made them jump and pause, afraid that they had been found out. How much easier it was to simply disappear for a handful of hours when they had the chance, to not have to worry about anyone or anything else in the world, to sit on his couch and rest her feet (he would insist, even though she rarely felt tired from the walk), or to sit in the kitchen as he prepared food for her, to listen to him play his compositions for her - much easier, indeed. Much more enjoyable.

Even the trips through the tunnels were becoming enjoyable, swiftly transforming from something silent and ominous to another chance to talk with Erik, the light of the lantern almost cheery and the drip of the water almost relaxing. Almost.

Things settled into a comfortable routine, and she always looked forward to the times she could spend in his house (and with him) - in fact, she nearly looked forward to it almost as much as he did, though of course neither one knew this.

Things were going well, until one day they weren't.