Calendar
...
Write for Christine, not the audience. Not yourself.
...
With a satisfied sigh, Erik dropped his pen and surveyed the work. There were two now, actually. One was a now a triumph, with or without vocals. In it, a well trained voice would be lifted on overlapping layers of delicate strings, golden horns, and thunderous drums. It ended with an understated measure, like an uncomplicated signature at the end of a blockbuster novel.
The second was for her. Written specifically for her. He'd spent a week stripping the texture and decorations off the song for Christine, leaving behind a clean melody ripe for a spotlight and microphone.
It had been a challenge. Not many torch songs were written for sopranos. Erik supposed that made it a triumph as well.
The words, too, were as close to his heart as anything he'd ever written. After so many years of staying out of sight, behind the scenes, setting the stage for other people's stories, here he was putting his own out there. He'd forgotten how vulnerable it made him feel.
Can't put lyrics behind a mask.
A glance at the clock made him wince and he set the work aside to polish later. He had to be up and at the theater in a few hours, and while it was only a Tuesday, there was still work to be done. Schedules to build; hours to fill.
With a sidestep around the dog bed, Erik snuck back into his bedroom and slid under the covers. Warmth. There was warmth here and he sought it out.
"Hmmm? Can't sleep?" Christine rolled towards him, bringing that heat with her. A lifetime of people turning away and even in sleep she turns towards him.
"Sorry I woke you."
A push at his knees. Erik tried to make room, but a clumsy grip pulled him closer until she slid her leg between his, then started pushing his shirt up. Kisses warmed away the chill and Erik's heart juddered under her lips. Unimaginable, this sleepy intimacy, but he lifted up when she tugged at his soft pants and rolled with her, surrounded by her.
He hadn't expected it, wouldn't have thought to even ask, but he cherished every time she reached for him, every kiss and touch. Lazy and slow movements contrasted with heightened senses, sharp and aware. Angles and cushions, the shape of sighs and the color of melodies. Harmonious counterpoint and accompaniment. The cozy smell of sleep was quickly saturated with lovemaking and Erik braced his weight, sliding a hand under her to anchor himself, lest he float away.
The hours could wait. It was just a Tuesday.
…
There would be three separate productions of The Nutcracker that year. The youth academy would run for two nights first, followed by a four night engagement with the amateur guild, and finally the professionals would take the rest of the season, running from mid December to Christmas eve. Each run had increasingly complex sets and props, so downtime would be tight. And yet.
Erik flipped the calendar over to a blank sheet and picked up his pen. Things went wrong at the best, newest theaters, and his was neither. It was safe and functional, but reliability and polish weren't her strong suits. All performers knew the holidays were madness and one mishap or overlooked detail could derail days of coveted stage time. While that might be true, Erik also knew that families liked the bright lights and escape of theater. Even his.
He started scribbling. When he finished two hours later, there was room for nearly every regular performing group to have time, provided everyone played nice. The quartets could have their holiday shows, along with the madrigals, the high school band, carolers and yes, even the Rocky Horror fans could get in a special holiday themed night, though they were absolutely not allowed in until the ballet crowd was completely gone.
That left one slot. It took half the morning, but he'd carved out one slot on a quieter night, before the last amateur Nutcracker performance. He'd even picked out a name, Torch Hour with Christine Daae.
Now he just had to ask her.
As he pressed the heels of his hands against his aching forehead, a knock came at his door. "Boss? Got a letter."
Erik slipped on his mask and unlocked his door. "Are you serious? An actual letter?"
The stage hand shrugged. "No kidding," she said as she shoved the letter into Erik's hands and hurried back to the stage.
The paper was thick and heavy. Actual stationery. With a seal on the back? Really? He turned over the letter to find out who had the fetish.
The Historical Society. What in the world did they want?
...
It was a cold evening. Christine snuggled under a blanket and sang under her breath while she sketched while Erik brewed tea. The edge of the folder with her music was growing dog eared from his nervous picking and the mindless task was helpful. Sort of.
"What are you working on?"
Christine smiled. "I was just drawing a set I saw once. I liked the curving lines, so I'm just playing with them a little." She held up her notebook for him to see.
It was simple. Absurdly so. It was the kind of design that the untrained could grasp and therefore thought it was easy. What the untrained did not know was how hard it was to take difficult things and make them look easy.
He swallowed. The folder would fall apart if he didn't ask soon. "Would you consider doing some more work for the theater?" For me?
Christine set her sketchpad aside and joined him in the kitchen. She opened her arms and wrapped Erik in a hug so the blanket cocooned them. "Love to. Whatcha got?"
He had the calendar in his bag. "I need to get the seasonal playbills out in time for The Nutcrackers."
She looked up. "I thought it was just The Nutcracker?"
"Not when you have three productions," he said and reluctantly left her arms to get the calendar. Christine took it and glanced down the list, skimming. Erik watched her and carefully poured tea.
Her gaze paused, and stalled. Oh, she saw it.
Christine looked up. "What's this?"
"The, ah, schedule." He sipped and it was too hot.
"No," she pointed to the line. Her line. With her name on it. "I mean what is this?"
Erik took another sip to buy a few seconds. "You said you wanted to perform," his voice sounded small. He never sounded small. "It's a short set, just three or four songs."
"But, I'm not not ready. I'll have to practice." Christine set down the schedule and
stared at it warily.
Erik put aside his tea and reached for the music folder. "But you have been. We've been getting ready for months. You sing twice that much every night for fun with me. And, there's three weeks. That's plenty of time"
She let the blanket fall off one shoulder. "For what?"
The dog-eared folder was right there, waiting. Erik took a deep breath. "Plenty of time for this." He opened the folder and handed her the sheets.
She did not just read it. She devoured it. By the time Christine reached the end of the piece, her eyes swam with tears.
Oh. Oh no. It was too much. It was over the top. He'd tried to make something sweet, something pretty and honest that said everything in his heart and he'd gone and made her cry. Erik reached to take the pages. "If you don't like it-"
With a soft whump, she had him pinned against the counter. "I love it," she held the pages tightly in one hand and stroked his cheek, his bare skin, with the other. "Don't you dare change anything."
…
A few days of practice and Christine was able to perform his song without tears. A few runs on stage and she'd work out the worst jitters. She'd nearly backed out when he suggested the staff pianist accompany her, so Erik wisely decided to never mention the idea again.
And so he would play for her. Her stage debut, and he would not see it.
But he would hear it. Feel it. Be a part of it, from the safety of the pit. Somebody else would have to announce her or he'd have to jog from the microphone in his gangly, masked glory, and descend into the orchestra pit to play for his angel.
Christ, he hated being a living metaphor.
A text message interrupted his moody grump.
.
Finished the playbill. Want to pop down and proof before I sent it to your printer?
.
Thank god. He'd actually make a deadline for once. Everything he'd had printed lately had been an emergency rush job. He'd paid the penalty fee in tickets last time.
.
Bringing a cocktail, you angel.
.
He double checked the number on the door before he knocked, then nearly dropped the glass when she opened the door.
"Hey there," she said with a kiss, "I had to edit your regular ads to keep them in line with the season, didn't think that would be a problem," Christine said as she closed the door behind him. "Any objections to an ugly sweater themed page? No?"
Erik stared at nothing. He thought his apartment was bare. Christine's studio had… nothing. A computer, one cushion on the floor, a dog bed, and a mattress on a platform.
She passed around him and talked on. "Your printer said they'll handle the pagination, so I didn't bother, but if it saves a bit per page, I can get that done by tomorrow. Oh, and I meant to ask, is the back page set or did you want me to add something along with the normal quote? A menorah or wreath, maybe? Erik?"
The walls were bare. A free calendar with cats from the animal shelter, mostly blank boxes. Mr. Pretty bounced at his legs happily.
"Erik?" Christine looked nervous. "Is something wrong?"
Everything. Absolutely everything was wrong and needed to be fixed. Now.
"Live with me."
She froze. "What?"
"I'll push the piano to the side of the room and buy you a desk. My closet's too big anyway."
Christine looked to the side. "I, um…"
Erik set the drink on the counter. "Sorry, I didn't phrase it as a question. Will you live with me?"
She blinked, glanced at the dog, the computer, then went to the counter and brushed at the condensation from the glass. When she finally looked up, she wiped her eyes, smiling.
"Well, you play a mean piano, and you totally bought those blankets for me. Your pros column is in good shape."
"Does it help if I say please?"
It did.
...
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