To make up for the lack of chapter last week, have two chapters today :) Hope you like it! Happy reading! Things get interesting now...

*-* Erik VI - Singing Lessons

He'd been lost in his thoughts, admiring her, just feeling what precious little time he had with this new, beautiful Angel, appreciating how she looked at him, no fear in her eyes, and not even that hypnotized look he'd come to expect from the humans he sometimes met. It almost reminded him of the way his Christine had looked at him, so long ago, at the beginning, when he'd first appeared to her. Before he'd ruined everything.

He was reluctant to break the spell with his voice, if there was truly no spell on her.

That was why he'd almost missed what she'd said. She wanted him to teach her.

Voice lessons.

He'd wanted to hope for them, but now that she asked, he felt his old fears come running back. What if he ruined it all over again?

But she wanted him to.

And he felt powerless to resist her wishes.

Her wish was his command.

That much had never changed.

"You don't need to pay me," he replied, all smooth silk. "I would gladly help you. Hearing you improve will be my only reward. Not that you need much, truly," he added after a time.

She stood, abruptly and went to hug him.

"Thank you so much!" He stiffened under her touch, and she retreated.

"Hum. Sorry. I… I… It was too much, right?"

"Right."

He was stunned. His voice had failed him. That had never happened before.

His mind was blank.

She had touched him. He'd always taken care not to touch her. She might be able to look at him and live, but touching him was another curse altogether.

He'd briefly felt her warmth through their clothes, her beating heart thunderous in his ears, her excitement an irresistible perfume.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't talk, couldn't see. There was only the power of her delight like both blood and venom in his mouth, and it was unmaking him.

He was still standing, when she didn't say anything after that. Curious, how he hadn't fallen. He'd felt his legs trembling, though, and more feeling would have shattered him, in pieces over the beautiful tiled floor.

"Erik? Are you alright?"

He found his voice, regained mastery over his body, and put her scent and pleasure at the back of his mind. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

"Yes. I'll be delighted to teach you. When should we start? Do you have anything scheduled today?"

"Well. Actually, no. Could we… Could we start now?"

"Of course."

She was angry at herself. What a way to thank someone, nearly assaulting him! She was lucky he was well and hadn't sent her home right away. But no. He was still there, the slight shaking of his body gone.

And now he was leading her back to his living room, to the grand piano and the harp. She would hear him again! She couldn't wait to hear his beautiful, wonderful, magnificent voice in her ears again.

There was no more trace of his reaction to her hug as he moved through the house and settled at the piano. There. He sat down, his hands on the keys so elegant, so sweet and careful. Polished and yet reflecting nothing but the gentle candle light. A beautiful instrument, very much like the one he had in his throat. He was caressing the keys, letting forth an exquisite sound, arpeggios and melodies woven together in a waterfall of sounds.

She stopped moving, listening to his playing. Joy, freedom, pleasure, he was saying all of these in his music. Gone was the sorrow, the pleading for acceptance. This was rejoicing and rebirth, brought alive by the vivacious hands.

He turned to her, then, satisfied with the tuning of his piano.

"Shall we warm you up first, my dear?"

My dear.

How could he put all these feelings, evoke so many delicacies with a single word?

She nodded, her voice gone. She would need it, though. As he went up a scale, she followed, a bit throaty at first, and then forgetting where she was and who he was, with her goal and his words and advice the only things on her mind.

She was a singer, and she sang her heart out to him.

When she started, he almost stopped playing. Only a century of practice kept his hands on the keys, while he was devouring her with his eyes. He'd almost forgotten how beautifully she sounded. How had she ever gotten rejected?

It seemed impossible. Her scales were beautiful, pitch perfect, showing great ease and flexibility. When they started an aria, she was in control of her voice, and perfectly in character, lovely and playful as needed.

He was listening with great care, trying to see where she needed to improve, but her support was excellent, her breathing well-placed, her pronunciation precise.

What could there be missing from her voice? She was as good as his old Christine had been…

And then he heard it.

There was something lacking from her, that he wouldn't have noticed before.

There was not enough intention in her voice. Her acting needed improving. She was amazing, of course, but she could use a little more life in her emotions. And what a strange thing for him to teach would it be…

He might be a great singer, but he had too little control over his emotions to be acting adequately. His anger would be too great, his fear too frightening, his joy too intense. His pain and sorrow, soul-wrenching.

When she sang about the young beautiful Marguerite and her joy, it didn't feel real enough.

How would he ever teach her that?

After another aria, he stopped playing, and she looked down at him.

"You've been very silent," she commented. "Are there too many things to correct that you've been ignoring them?"

"Not at all. Your singing is excellent, and your technique is perfect. You have been well-taught, and there is very little I can teach you."

"But… That's impossible. You… I mean…"

"There is, however, an area where you could use more practice."

Would he dare?

He could feel her eyes on him, pleading and beautiful. Trusting.

"You feel things too deeply, but do not project them to your audience. You keep them for yourself. To touch your jury, you will need to expose yourself and make them see the real you."

She had been keeping a shell around herself, protecting herself from further pain and misery, but that had translated into her singing, and while she could human emotions, they didn't feel real anymore, because she didn't let herself feel them anymore.

She was still looking at him, nodding carefully, her eyes hiding what she was thinking.

"Picture the greatest joy in the world," he said as he began the accompaniement of another aria, Je veux vivre, from Gounod's Roméo et Juliette, on the piano. "Longing to live, and to love freely. Let it fill you completely."

She nodded again, closing her eyes. Her eyelids were fluttering, her chest rising as she took a long, deep breath.

"Now. Start again," he almost whispered, "but keep that passion into you. You want to live. You refuse that cage they've prepared for you. Can you feel that? This love, starting into you? Do you feel your heart beating so fast it's almost bursting out of your chest?"

He repeated the opening chords, letting his voice fill her ears, unwilling to turn seductive but unable to stop himself from sounding almost erotic.

She opened her eyes, and started the aria, a series of notes powerful and graceful, and added the words.

She was better, already, but not completely there yet.

He let her finish it, and returned to the beginning, as he whispered other words of advice in her ears.

"Picture that freedom, as you're coming of age, how your life is just beginning, how thrilling it feels."

"Don't you see it? All these doors, wide open, as they welcome you to your future? The successes in store? The great, epic love you will know, almost there for the taking?"

"Can you smell it? The scent and the taste of desire, the flowers and the champagne as you become the star you always dreamt you could be?"

He couldn't bear it. He left the piano, as she started singing again, and again, the aria a glorious melody in her throat, and came closer, closer, inching her chin higher, as her eyes fixed on his.

Her feelings were strong, now, her joy and thrill so powerful his skin was tingling.

He knew he should stop her, should stop this before something terrible happened, but…

« Douce flamme, reste dans mon âme, comme un doux trésor longtemps encore. »

"Gentle flame, remain in my soul, like a sweet treasure for a long time"

She was becoming irresistible again.

Better, much better.

She was singing, his voice bringing forth pictures and feelings she'd left buried in herself. Joy, irresistible joy and longing, how long had it been since she'd felt that? So unabashedly happy? Embracing the future and looking forward with bright eyes? She'd been living in the past, one day at a time, looking back at every turn. Now he was urging her to raise her eyes, raise her head and feel the new dawn, the hope and thrills of the future, how truly young she was, but hadn't felt in so very long. An old soul, she'd been.

His voice was waking her up, now. Evoking things she'd almost forgotten. Now her breathing was deeper, her heart beating with fierce intent. She was feeling alive, finding new meaning within the song.

Je veux vivre, she sang proudly, loudly, without shame or fear, letting the words imprint on her soul. And she sang the cadenza that followed, feeling as if he were pulling the joy from within her, pulling, pulling, until she was drowning in it, floating in it, and her arms were shaking, goose bumps on her skin, tears rising to her eyes as she looked in his, golden and bright and so intense, so deep…

When she was finished, she couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Her voice was gone, her heart was full and almost bursting, and she wanted him to speak again, to tell her she'd done well.

What had happened?

Now the high was receding, and reality was coming back fast. He was quiet, a feet from her, observing her. She should feel uncomfortable, but couldn't.

"Christine," he whispered. "Christine," he repeated, so reverently it broke her heart. "That was exquisite."

He was so very close, now, and there was eletricity in the air again. Heavy, purposeful current, linking them.

It was so very obvious, how attracted she was feeling, ridiculous, how much she wanted him right now. Most of all, his voice…

"Sing again," she pleaded. "Please."

And he did, and she was drowning in sound again, envelopped in warmth and art and beauty, crying at how beautiful it was.

"Sing with me, now," he asked her, feeling her pulling at him, unable to resist the appeal of her scent, her blood, her song.

And she joined his song.

There had never been such joy in performing before. Singing for him had been great, but this was another level. They were meant to be singing together, she just knew it.

They had clicked.

Their voices rose and fell together, and she had no words for it. Time had no meaning, when there was so much between them.

It felt as if every path had led her to this, this joining of voices and hearts.

She didn't believe in souls or magic or anything, but this was the closest thing there was.

And it was real.

She was vibrant and a queen next to him. All thoughts of rejection gone from her mind, only pleasure to unite her voice with his. He was skilled, too, responding to her every change in tone, his eyes fixed on hers.

From duet to aria to other duets, they explored her whole repertoire, all a cappella, not caring for accompaniement when together was more than enough.

She could have gone on and on, but he drew his voice to a close, with a long, beautiful, gentle note, his fingers coming to rest on her throat, his eyes so very intense, behind the mask.

"You should rest, now," he whispered, his breath tingling her chin that she had raised to look up to him. He was so tall, so close.

She couldn't resist the temptation.

She brought her hands to his face, too fast for him to react, and kissed him.