To make up for the long absence, here's a second update :) Hope you enjoy it, I loved writing it!

*-* Erik VIII & Christine IX - A Symphony of Light

She was drawn to him again, all along, while she sang, filling her voice with everything he inspired her. Hope, so much hope for the future. With him, and his help, she would become the prima donna she'd always dreamt of. With him by her side, nothing and no one would ever frighten her, reduce her to tears and a closed up shell.

When she looked back to him, to his adoration-filled eyes, to his arms locked over the keys, unmoving, shaken by the emotions she had evoked in him, the master of the Voice, she would have cried too.

"I'm ready for another one," she asserted.

He could only nod, and move on to the next challenging aria.

For hours, they rehearsed, and he directed her acting, letting her fill her voice with the right emotions, but every time, now, she amazed him with her control, her clarity, with how well she responded to his demands. She was the perfect student, and there was nothing holding her back now.

She gave him everything that she was.

It was frightening, perhaps, how much she trusted him, already, how much she let him see from her own darkest, deepest fears. But this connection was still there, linking them, and it soothed her fears. She could trust him.

He stopped her after a particularly fulfilling session, and led her to the kitchen where he began cooking for her. It was long past midday, after all, and she was starving.

First things first, a drink of water.

"Don't you ever eat?" she asked as she nursed her glass. "Or drink?"

"I am not hungry yet. I have a sort of eating disorder, you could say, and a fragile stomach."

She nodded, letting her nose appreciate the flavors of the meat cooking over the pan, the vegetables frying in their olive oil. For someone who was a picky eater, he sure knew how to cook.

Nothing had changed from yesterday when she'd joined him in his kitchen for the first time. She was sitting down, observing him, the precision of his hands cutting, preparing, setting down everything. His movements were still graceful, purposeful, not a hair out of place. It was like watching a ballet, and the smell added a very nice flavor to the dance of his body, arms and hands.

As before, she could hardly keep away from watching his fingers. Those hands could do so much, and what would they feel like in other circumstances? She was dying to know…

All too soon, hunger almost forgotten, he set down a healthy plate before her, and sat in front of her.

"Help yourself," he purred.

Again, this time, he didn't look at her, fixing his eyes on the candles around them, not even blinking.

And how delicious it was. She could hardly keep from moaning, for it was so delicate, so good, everything cooked to perfection and well-seasoned. Were there things he didn't master? Musician, composer, architect, cook? What other arts could she add to his growing list of talents?

In a few moments, she had finished, not daring to lick her fingers or the plate. It'd been that good. It'd been a long time since she'd eaten something made with so much intent, just for her.

Her father…

Her father used to cook for her.

And just like that, her mood fell again.

He'd been watching her, from the corner of his eyes, enjoying her little sighs and moans very much. Another part of his anatomy had particularly loved noticing those, but he'd kept it away. Thirst for her blood was enough, he didn't need to add another hunger for her body. And yet, what a lovely body. Her mouth, whether to sing or to eat, looked so soft, her lips, her tongue, he could watch those for the whole day.

Her hair, so pretty and wild. Her hands, her fingers, her wrists, delicate and yet moving with intent, care.

And now, her face had closed. Melancholy darkening her features.

"Is something the matter?" he asked her.

"My father used to cook for me, too," she began. "This reminded me of him. Thank you for this meal, it was delicious."

He understood what she hadn't said. My father's dead, and I'm not over it yet.

I don't know if I ever will.

"My pleasure."

He did look into her eyes, now. She was so very pretty, even in sadness, but he wanted to smooth the worry lines of her face, draw his fingers on her cheeks, trace the curve of her lips, see how delicate her pale eyelids truly were. Were they as soft as they looked?

The air was almost electric, tension rising, and then he stood, and the link was broken.

"You have sung amazingly, this morning. You must not tire your voice, and it would be best to rest it for the day. We can begin again tomorrow, if it suits you."

Oh.

To say she was disappointed would a lie. She was not ready to leave yet. She hadn't had her fill of him, his voice, his music.

"Do you mind very much if I stay some more? I would love to hear you play again. One of your compositions, perhaps?"

Time spent in her company had been such a delight, he was sad to tell her to go and rest, but he meant it. She needed to care for her voice, and if that meant she left him for the day, he was alright with that.

But now, she pleaded with him, asked him to play again for her. His own music, as well. Could he ever resist her? And all that she asked him?

No.

Old or new Christine, that wouldn't change, it seemed.

After he put the dishes in the sink, he went to his living room and sat down at the piano. She followed without a word, but neither needed to speak. What would be created under his fingers would fill this empty void much better than any words either of them could utter.

Delicately, with purpose, he placed his hands over the keys, hovering just the tiniest bit of a moment, before he delved into a symphony of sounds and colors. So rich, so fluid, so full of everything, she put a hand over her heart, and closed her eyes.

He was not alone at the piano, but had a thousand hands, and each had a mind of its own, drawing joy, sadness, hope, anger and desire from every note. With every stroke, he painted a landscape so vast and changing, filled with all the wonders of the earth. Her mind drowned in it, replacing every sad thought she might have had left from mentioning her father.

This was life.

Every turn and every road well-travelled. Every bend, every setback, and in the end, she could only wait for it, expecting it at every deepening chord, but it wasn't the end, not yet, growing again stronger and more joyous.

It might have been only seconds, or maybe hours, she couldn't tell, for when it was over, he was still the same, she was still the same, and yet everything felt different.

Such music…

Such wonderful, life-changing music.

Her heart couldn't admit it was over, and was still frantically hammering against her chest, her blood hot and pounding inside her veins. She was trembling, more alive than ever before.

She could have died, right there, and then, having witnessed more wonders than in all that she could ever live afterwards.

He was looking at her. Such intent in his eyes. Pleased with himself, too, if the little smile at the corner of his lips was any indication.

And it was night, already. She'd spent four hours standing next to him, lost in his music and the magnificence of his opus.

"What's it called?"

"I don't know yet."

"Find it a name. This deserves everything. And you play beautifully."

It seemed she could only form short sentences, her brain short-wired after that experience. How could she go back home now, having, once again, felt so much more today?

"I can't go home yet," she whispered. "Not after that."

"I am glad you enjoyed it."

And he meant it. He had watched her, at times, when he opened his eyes to see how she found his composition, and had liked what he saw. Every little fluttering of her eyelids, every curve of her mouth. He saw the goosebumps on her arms, heard her heart drumming, her blood pulsing, and her smell. Most of all, her smell had enhanced his playing. She filled him with so much fire and hope he could only try to translate it into sound.

"Where do you find such inspiration? Where did you learn how to play like that? Who taught you? Even as a singer, you must have had a teacher…"

Would she dare?

Small steps, first.

She slowly approached him, from over the piano where she'd leaned against, and sat down next to him. He moved, barely noticeable, just to ensure she wouldn't touch him. Still, they were very, very close.

She could smell him, from that distance. See his mask, and how nearly perfectly it was designed. Feel his breath on her skin.

"I was self-taught," he finally said. "I've always loved music, ever since I was a boy. Books have been my best friends, too, and it was there that I learnt to read notes, and other techniques. Through trial and error, I became a decent singer, and a decent pianist. From there, I traveled a lot, and found other instruments. The violin, the harp, the organ are only a few of what I have mastered over the years. And I have had a lot of time to practice."

He laughed, his joke lost on her, obviously.

She couldn't believe it. It wasn't unheard of, of course, to rise to such mastery on one's own, but still. He was very talented to begin with.

"You are so talented, I can't believe I have never heard of you, before, Erik. You could do everything you want, and yet you're here, in the middle of nowhere. Why don't you go and conquer the world? Why don't you share your music with the world? They would love you."

Where could he even begin to answer? His face was the first thing, even if now it was less of a hurdle than it had felt in the past. But now, he was a vampire, and people would wonder why the greatest musician the opera scene had ever encountered never seemed to age or die. And before her, he had lost those dreams for himself. Betrayed by the world and what hope at love he ever thought he'd have, he could never go back into that universe. Burnt once was enough.

What could he tell her?

He had to, the old woman had reminded him this very morning. She would be understanding, the seer had foretold. But still. It felt like such an impossible step…

"I wear a mask," he blurted out. "I am deformed, from birth, and the world can't bear the sight of me. Believe me, I know, I've tried."

And failed.

Those words were hanging over her head, resonating in her ears, even when he hadn't even uttered them. Such terrible, tragic pain. She was right, then. And she wasn't surprised to hear about how the world had rejected him. Her stories were filled with such tales, and there was nothing the world hated more than ugliness. Of body, of course. The ugliest minds and hearts were still reigning over far more places than she could imagine, she was keenly aware of that, and was reminded nearly every day.

So she nodded, gravely.

"I understand. The world isn't kind to geniuses."

She reached out, to take his hand, keeping her gesture slow. She would not frighten him.

"Thank you for telling me. It must not have been easy."

No, it wasn't, and yet, with her, it had almost felt like the easiest thing in the world. She kept stroking his hand in hers, and the warmth was so unusual, so nice…

Why did she take it so well? Why did she try to understand him?

Oh, he should have sent her away. Left her alone and kept to his own darkness. But her light, her warmth, her gentleness, were intoxicating.

He just couldn't force her out. If she wanted to be there, so be it.

Still. There was always the vampire detail. He was dying to taste her blood, to feel how her heart would pulse against his chest, to know how she would react to his fangs piercing her fair skin. Would she cry? Would she moan? Would she scream of horror, or bring him closer still?

Over the years, all the humans he'd ever tasted had blended into the same pattern. He would charm them to ensure they never felt anything, never remembered anything. Blind to his actions as they were to his condition.

But She… She was not like them. He wanted to reveal himself, to see if she really was as kind as she seemed, as every sense was whispering to him. Stupid, crazy, completely mad, perhaps, but…

With her so close, his mind was not as sharp as he would prefer. Would she fear the vampire or the face of the monster more? That was the question that he needed answered, if ever something were to happen.

So many thoughts, in his head, twirling and tangling. He wanted to kiss her again. She had never stopped looking at him, perhaps as frozen as he felt, her mind filled with questions as much as his own.

But no.

He had plenty of time, and he would court her properly. Become a friend, first.

And then…

Then, they would see.

After all, even if all he wanted truly happened, and she didn't fear him, or run away and leave him, she remained a human. Whether in ten years or a hundred, she would grow old and die. Unless he turned her.

He'd never done it, and had sworn, long ago, to his then friend he would never endanger human beings. A condition for his survival. He'd stood by that promise over the years. And despite how much he'd wanted to, it had always been the line he hadn't crossed with his old Christine. That would have solved all his problems. He'd have waited for the boy she loved to die, with her as immortal as he was, and they could have been together forever, enjoying music and discussion and everything else the world had to offer them.

An agony, of course, to know that this decision had saved her and yet doomed her to a mortal death, too. She would never have forgiven him for his betrayal, and in allowing her to remain human, he'd broken his own heart forever.

Despite that, he didn't regret it. He lived with the reminder of how much he'd loved her, and missed her, never soothed, never forgotten, but he'd done right by her. He'd respected her choice.

The hardest lesson he'd ever learnt.

In the end, she had made her choice.

One day, soon, he would have to let his new Angel make her own choice. But for that to ever happen, she needed to have all the information.

He needed to tell her.

But not today. Today was for enjoying her company, her pretty smile, and the tenderness of her hand over his.

Tomorrow, he would begin to plan his future, and whether she would ever allow him in hers.