It had started normally enough, because the fact of the matter was that Christine Daaé often felt run down. There would be numerous days she'd feel extra tired, that she wouldn't sleep well or simply didn't feel good - being a performer could be a draining profession, and she put her very soul into her work. She didn't need to have a reason such a sickness to feel unwell at times. But on this occasion, it was the appearance of a cough that worried her and made her think something was wrong.
Surely she had merely breathed in an irritant, that was all. But the day came and went and still she coughed. Two days later, to her horror, she also coughed at the start of her lesson with Erik.
Erik stopped, staring at her silently for a moment. He didn't like how that cough had sounded.
"Christine, are you alright?"
She nodded.
"I'm fine, Erik."
He watched her closely in the gas light of her dressing room, how she fidgeted under his gaze, how her eyes were glassy and how her breathing was shallow and a few beads of sweat gathered on her brow. She stifled another cough, hoping he wouldn't notice.
"Christine, no - you're ill, dear," he righted himself from where he had been leaning against the wall, uncrossing his arms as he walked closer to her.
He stood in front of her, his gaze turning troubled, and he removed one of his gloves.
"May I?" he hovered the back of his hand above her forehead, waiting for her permission.
She gave a little nod, and he gently rested his hand on her skin. He was certain that she would have felt warm to him regardless, but now her skin felt like a firebrand.
She looked up at him, startled. His hand felt like ice. She must be sicker than she realized, she thought. How high must her temperature be to make him feel that cold? It frightened her.
"You're burning up, Christine. No singing today - no singing at all until this passes," he tutted. "You're quite sick, I'm afraid."
She wrung her hands. She was afraid to admit that she was sick, that it might be serious.
"But I don't want to be sick, Erik," she whined desperately.
"Unfortunately, my dear, that does not change the fact that you are," he said, then hesitated. "Do you want to come stay with me until you're better?"
If she had to be sick, she would prefer to be with someone she trusted rather than to suffer up in her dormitory all alone.
"Yes, please," she said in a small voice.
He nodded, relieved.
"You write a note for whoever will be missing you for the next few days, and then pack whatever you'll need from your room. I'll make the rest of the preparations."
She went to her vanity and pulled out a piece of paper to begin a note to the ballet mistress. She'd tell her she had fallen sick and was staying with a family friend until she was better. Erik had disappeared when she glanced up. She wondered what preparations exactly he was making, but her head ached to think too hard, so she left it be. She quickly scrawled up another note to Meg and then one to the managers, and finally one to Raoul before she left to find Meg's mother.
Madame Giry was in her office as usual, and she smiled warmly when she saw Christine come in.
"Hello Madame Giry," she said politely. "Would you be able to deliver some notes for me?"
Madame Giry's blood ran cold for a second - the mere mention of notes always made her think of the Ghost. She dismissed the fear - Christine was a sweet, innocent girl, she would never get tangled up in the affair with the Opera Ghost, surely.
"Of course, Christine," she nodded. "I trust all is well?"
Christine's brow furrowed.
"I'm- I'm not feeling so well, you see. I need a few days off to recover, I think. I'll be staying with a family friend for just a little while," she handed her the letters.
"Oh, you poor thing! Well, I hope you recover quickly, then."
Her notes delivered and pleasant words with Madame Giry exchanged, Christine made her way to her dormitory to pack a few articles of clothing.
Finally she stood in her dressing room, facing the mirror as she clutched the large purse she had put her extra clothing in. She felt terribly tired, more so than the few simple errands should have accounted for. The mirror opened and she gathered her strength to step up into it. She was quiet as they walked down the staircase behind the walls.
She blinked a few times at the sight that was suddenly before her - there was a horse in the catacombs. Oh, but not just any horse-
"Cesar!" Christine brightened when she recognized the big white horse that was often utilized in performances, either pulling scenery or as an actor himself.
"Oh, Cesar," she patted his nose and rested her aching head on his neck, and Cesar made a soft noise as he pushed his nose into her hand.
Erik was surprised.
"You two know each other, I take it?"
Christine nodded.
"Of course, I love Cesar," she smiled.
Erik knew it was shameful to feel jealous of a horse, but still-
"You are acquainted because of his work on the stage, I assume?"
"Yes, mostly. Sometimes," she ducked her head. "Sometimes I sneak down to the stables to give him a sugar cube or an apple, too. He's such a good horse."
She gave him another pat.
"How long have you been doing that?" Erik asked, amused.
She shrugged.
"Oh, years now, I suppose."
"Before you even knew me as the Angel?"
"Yes," she hesitated. "Why?"
His lips quirked in a smile.
"Cesar is my horse. He lives and works at the opera, but he's mine, still - legally he's the Daroga's, but that's a mere technicality," he waved a hand.
Christine turned her face to press it against Cesar's neck, hoping to hide her blush. She hadn't had any idea at the time that she was feeding and visiting the Opera Ghost's horse - or even Erik's horse, for that matter. There were a number of horses in the opera's stables, and she loved them all, but Cesar had always been her favorite.
"What's he doing here?" she asked.
"He's here to take you to my home."
He motioned to the overturned crate he had waiting near Cesar, and Christine climbed up and sat across his back. The horse seemed quite comfortable in the tunnels, and Christine was terribly grateful that Erik had thought of such a thing, since she was quite exhausted. It was nice to not have to walk so far.
Erik glanced back at her every so often. She looked so tired, like she might fall asleep at any moment. He was glad he had brought Cesar. The only other option would have been to carry her himself - but as appealing as the though of holding her in his arms like that was, he knew it wasn't truly an option at all, so Cesar it had to be.
Erik kept quiet for most of the journey to the lake - she hadn't said anything, but he had noticed how she flinched a little each time he had spoken, so he assumed that the echoing noise in the tunnels was aggravating a headache of hers. The clip-clop of Cesar's hooves on the stones made her frown a little, but she absentmindedly ran her fingers through his mane, thinking on how strange it was not only to see the big horse here but know who, exactly, he belonged to.
Erik watched those little fingers lithely thread through the long white hair, and couldn't help but wonder how marvelous it might feel on his own scalp. He dared, for a moment, to imagine them not in his wig, but in his own hair. Would Christine run her fingers through it just like that? If his hair had one redeeming quality about it, it was that it was rather soft. But it also thinning and grayed (something it had been for ages), and in the last few years, receding. He pushed the thought away. She wouldn't like doing a such thing, he was certain, regardless of how soft it was. Better not to think on it at all.
They reached the bank of the lake, and Erik belatedly realized there was no crate for her step down on here. He hesitated for a moment, but Christine did not.
"Will you help me?" she asked, arms outstretched.
His heart leapt into his throat and he could only nod. He moved in close, and she placed her hands on his shoulders. The universe seemed to slow to a halt for him when he put his hands on her waist to lift her to the ground. He desperately tried to memorize every fleeting moment, every sensation of the movement - her hands weakly gripping his shoulders, the fabric of her dress underneath his fingers and the stiff corset underneath of that, the little "oof" sound she made when her feet touched the ground, the entire realness of her under his hands, solid and tangible and Christine and - and it was over. Just like that the moment was gone, fading into the past, into memory.
He pulled back, stepping away from her, his hands clenching and and unclenching, his mind reeling.
He scolded himself that she had only asked because she felt ill and simply wanted to get into a soft bed and sleep her sickness away as soon as could - if she had to let a monster touch her briefly in order to expedite that, wouldn't she?
She turned to Cesar and hugged him one last time, patting his neck before pressing a kiss to his cheek. She then got into the boat and sat down wearily.
Erik glared at his horse as it stood there blinking, too stupid to realize the gift it had been blessed with. But still, Erik too had been blessed with something - his hands still tingled pleasantly.
He got in the boat behind Christine and pushed them away from the bank with the pole. Christine suddenly turned to him.
"Oh! What about Cesar?"
He glanced back at the animal as it watched them on the water.
"Well he can't come with us to the house," Erik stated.
Her brow furrowed in confusion.
"What? No, I mean he can't just stand there forever."
The blessed loop of memory he had been replying in his mind cleared and he then fully understand her question.
"Ah. Once you get settled I will return and take him back to the stables. He's quite used to being down here, he'll be fine till then."
She nodded, and he was touched that, even in the midst of feeling so unwell, she still found it in herself to care about even an animal.
Once in his house, he led her to the sitting room before taking her luggage to her room for her.
"Do you need anything?" he asked. "Something to eat or to drink?"
She shook her and simply sat on the floor next to the fireplace, which had a lovely fire burning brightly in it.
"Will you be alright on your own for a bit?"
"Yes," she said quietly. "Thank you, Erik."
He watched her a moment longer. She seemed to be feeling worse as time went on, and though he was hesitant to leave her, he knew the longer he tarried the worse she would be - if he left quickly and hurried back, he would be there in time for when she truly felt worse. Besides, poor Cesar really couldn't stand there all night.
He made his way quickly across the lake and took Cesar back to the stables. He tended to him there, settling him in for the night.
Once finished with everything, he ran a hand through his mane, thinking of Christine's hand that had been there earlier. He would love to hold Christine's hand. Would their fingers twine together the same way hers had twined in Cesar's mane?
His eyes fell on his horse's cheek, the very one Christine had kissed. He, too, had given Cesar a kiss on occasion. If he were to do so now, it would not be so odd... if he happened to place his lips in the same spot that hers had touched, well...
Cesar turned his long face to look at his master, uncertain of why the man was just standing there. Was he going to give him a sugar cube or not?
Erik's jaw clenched as the judging stare from the animal brought a wave of shame. He turned to leave, pretending he hadn't even considered such a vulgar course of action, but Cesar bit at his sleeve before he could get out of reach.
Erik sighed. It wasn't his horse's fault that he had fallen into obsessive love with a young woman who could never return his feelings. He walked to the end of the stables and opened the box that stored the treats, pulling out a few sugar cubes, which he gave to Cesar. He patted the horse as it happily crunched on the sugar, and Erik let his mind wander to a life where he could ride and care for Cesar every day instead of secret, sporadic visits like these. He gave him one last pat - and one last sugar cube - and left for his house once more.
Christine huddled as close to fire as common sense would allow, her arms wrapped around her knees. She didn't like being alone at that moment, but his house was comforting. It all held the memory of him, and she knew he would be back soon enough.
She cursed her own irrationality over the subject of sickness. Other people didn't get worked up over a little fever, a little cough, surely not. They took it in stride and thought nothing of it and were better in a few days. Other people weren't filled with unspeakable dread that getting sick was the beginning of the end of everything.
Other people had not watched their father die of an illness when they were nine years old.
Her only anchor in a world that was so often changing, he had insisted to her that he was fine right up until the last few months, but even she could see that he had not been fine. Even when they had gone to live with Mamma and the Professor, he had said that it would be a little while longer and he would get better. But he hadn't gotten better. She had Mamma and the Professor afterwards, but she had felt truly alone for a long time. Her anchor was gone, and she had been left to be tossed about on the rough waters of life all by herself.
How could she trust that she would get better when anyone said so? Were people just patronizing her, placating her? Pretending everything was fine so as to not worry her? She could not abide that! Why couldn't people just trust her with the truth? Why hadn't Papa? How was she to prepare for the future if she was constantly kept in the dark as to what that future would be? She hadn't been ready to lose him back then, and she wasn't ready to lose everything - everyone - she had here now and move on to whatever came next.
"Christine, I'm back," Erik called out.
He came into the sitting room and frowned.
"You're too close to the fire," he fretted. "Scoot back a little."
She shrugged but scooted back.
"I'm cold," her voice sounded so small and weak.
"Sit right there, I'm going to make you some tea."
She sat closer to the fire again once he left, and stared into the flames, her eyes stinging but not just because of the heat and brightness.
Erik returned and leaned down to hand her a cup of tea.
"Are you alright, dear? You looked a little lost in thought," he asked kindly.
She blinked up at him and smiled weakly.
"I'm just being silly, I'm afraid. It's just- well, I haven't been sick since I was a little girl. The last time I was sick, Papa was still here. He cooked me soup and he played the violin for me," she paused, looking at the flames again. "I'm just not used to being sick."
There was an odd little waver in her voice, and Erik did not like it.
She coughed again, stronger than she had before.
"Hmm," he frowned.
She looked up, suddenly worried.
"What? Do you think it's serious?"
"I'm worried for your voice, Christine."
Her face crumpled.
"Oh," she breathed. "Do you think I might lose my voice entirely?"
Erik said nothing.
"It- it will come back eventually, even if I lose it, won't it?"
Erik glanced at the fire.
"Erik!" she was on the verge of hysterical tears.
"You'll be fine, Christine," he crooned, sitting next to her. "I don't want you to worry about a single thing, sweet. The fever will pass, and so will the cough, and you'll be just fine."
She pressed her forehead to her knees, eyes shut tightly.
"Erik," she whispered.
"Hmm?"
She felt utterly ridiculous asking him, but her fever ravaged mind would not let her be unless she knew the answer.
"Would you still be my friend even if I couldn't sing anymore?"
There was a pause, and she sniffled because she was suddenly afraid of his answer.
"Of course I would, Christine."
The words were spoken with a serious air, as though they were a vow.
"And you'll sing again, you'll see."
He had never wanted so dearly to take her in his arms and hold her, and he very nearly did so. Wouldn't she feel safe in his arms? Wouldn't she be comforted by his presence? He was almost certain she would - almost. What he was certain about was that he couldn't abide the shame he knew would follow should he try to embrace her and she asked him to stop - or even worse, if he made her too uncomfortable to ask him to stop.
She nodded her head a little.
"If you say so," she said softly.
"I do say so," he said firmly, and stood up. "Now stay right there, I'm going to get you something else to drink."
He left for the kitchen, and she slowly lifted her head to stare at the fire again. She watched the flames lick and consume the logs and she could feel the flames in her own veins curling around her heart, making it beat fast, seeping into her joints and making them ache, pounding behind her eyes, burning her throat. She clenched her hands around the fabric of her skirts. Every part of her wanted to fight against this strange sickness coursing through her, wanted to do something, anything, to make it leave that instant. But she knew fighting against it was hopeless.
Papa had tried to fight it, too, once upon a time.
She could still see his blood spotted handkerchief every time she closed her eyes, and with each cough she found rising in her own throat, she tried to push it down again lest she pull back her own hand from her mouth and see that same blood.
She started a little when Erik returned and was suddenly, silently, standing beside her. He handed her a steaming mug of something that smelled strongly of strange herbs.
"Drink all of this," he told her gently. "I know it's not the best taste, but it will help you."
She held it in both hands and drank it down in a few large sips. He was right about the taste, and she hoped he was right about it helping. She handed the empty cup back to him to place on the table, and she wiped the backs of her hands over her eyes, a small whine in her throat as tears fell down her cheeks.
"Christine! Surely it wasn't that terrible, was it?" he tried to joke, but she didn't laugh.
"Sweet, what's wrong?" he was seriously concerned now.
"I don't want to die," she whimpered, and he stared at her, dumbstruck.
Die? Perhaps he had needlessly frightened her about her voice (though it was still a worry in the back of his own mind), but why on earth would she think she would die from a simple fever and cough?
"You aren't going to die, darling girl," he said softly, shaking his head a little.
Ah, but that's what Papa said about himself, too. I'm just a little under the weather, Christine - I'm sure I'll be fine
"Come now," he held his hands out her in case she needed help getting up. "Let's get you to bed. I'm sure your fever will have broken when you wake up, and you'll feel much better by then."
She reach out and took his hands, using them to help pull herself up. But the medicine and her sickness and how quickly she stood all worked against her, causing her head to spin. She wobbled and nearly fell, but Erik caught her with a hand on her back. She placed her own hand on his shoulder, hoping for balance.
A thought occurred to him.
"Christine," he started. "Ah, I'm quite sorry, my dear, but I don't think you should lock your door tonight - you are unwell, and I would hate for you to take a turn for the worse and not be able to get help."
She looked up at him, her brow furrowing in confusing.
"But I never lock my door when I stay here," she said.