A/N: So... the chapter you've all been anticipating. I hope it does not disappoint; I did not want to set off a whole lot of angst and misunderstandings that would only hamper the development of their relationship and the story.

Savannah White: This Opera Ghost is planning to retire and settle down once he gets the love of his life (;

Aria: I had to come up for a reason as to why Buquet died haha, I did not want Erik to simply go around murdering people like it was nobody's business. To do that, Buquet had to have a deeper characterization than just a "oh he died, whoops." XD

Masked Man 2: Oh yes, I think it's pretty much an Asian thing, a lot of my friends used to take piano lessons too... I stopped a couple of years back because it was getting to be too much to juggle on top of my school work, but I do already have the Grade 8 ABRSM, and was not interested in pursuing the diploma. I would probably have died at the hands of a strict teacher, I was such a lazy student! And to answer you, nope, it was a random ballet rat! Thankfully none of our favourite ballet rats are silly enough to be caught off guard in dark corners by Buquet and his slimy friend.

Wild Concerto: That's a lovely quote! It makes a lot of sense, too, and I will keep that in mind as I write. Thank you very much! :D And yes, Christine is around 13-14 years old as of now, so she won't be debuting any time soon (much too young).

Guest: I'm glad you found it funny. Happy reading! (:

Special thanks to skylight96 and Xsier for the fav/follow.

And now, on with the story!

Chapter 25: Conflicts

Paris, 1895

Erik ran as fast as he could through the tunnels, trying to ignore the burning pain searing through his forearm that was staining the crude bandage fashioned from a strip of cloth torn from the hem of his cloak a dark red. He was late.

When he finally reached the chapel passageway, he was a little out of breath. He paused, holding onto the wall to calm his breathing and make everything appear normal, before opening the passageway.

She was there already; she had been rather on time for their last few meetings. Erik winced slightly as she closed her hand around his tightly. His injured arm was his dominant one, and he wondered how he would be able to transport the two of them across the lake without her finding out. Her face was almost expressionless, but Erik could tell from the very slight frown that she was not in the best of moods.

As Erik handed her into the boat, and jumped in, grabbing the pole, his arm screamed silently in protest. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the pole through the still waters as best as he could, trying his best to ignore the dull ache in his arm and the wetness that suggested that the wound had bled through his makeshift bandage.

She was unusually quiet, but that was a good thing, for Erik found that he could barely concentrate on propelling the combined weights of the heavy gondola and both of them through the water. He doubted that he would be able to answer her questions and conversation with a clear mind. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face as he clenched his teeth once more and put his strength into rowing the gondola.

When they reached the opposite shore, he stumbled out of the boat clumsily, attempting to tether the boat to the stake without letting on that he was injured. If Amélie had noticed his unusual clumsiness or unease, she did not comment.

He straightened from tying the boat to the stake, and made to enter his house, eager to look for suitable bandages.

"Erik, wait, I need to ask you something." Amélie reached out and grabbed his arm, and a stab of pain shot through the wounded limb. Unable to help himself, Erik jerked involuntarily, shrugging off her grip, and giving a small moan of pain.

She looked hurt at his dismissive gesture. "Erik, I— "

Her eyes narrowed. Erik followed her gaze downward to his sleeve.

Oh, for damnation's sake.

His sleeve was stained with blood. His makeshift bandage had only lasted so long. The blood was not clearly visible against the dark fabric, but it was evident that there was a large, and spreading stain, across the cloth.

Her confused expression turned slowly to one of horror, and Erik winced, wondering how he would explain himself out of this situation; chances were that she would not believe his made-up stories anyway.

"Erik, you're hurt!" She grabbed his arm to get a closer look, and Erik hissed in pain, jerking it back.

"Ah, I'm sorry! But you—you're… does it…" She blinked incomprehensively at his stained sleeve, seemingly at a loss for words. "Oh, Erik, you're hurt!"

She looked vaguely faint, and Erik thought it best if she sat down. He pushed her shoulder gently, guiding her into the house and sitting her down on the divan, where she sat dumbly, still staring at his bloodied sleeve. When he arrived back from collecting a roll of bandages from a drawer, the first words blurted from her mouth made him smile a little despite the situation. She was so endearing.

"You're hurt!"

"Are you feeling alright, Amélie? That's the third time you've said it already."

She glared at him, and beckoned him to sit down. When he sat, she gingerly grasped his arm and placed it in her lap, rolling up the sleeve carefully. Erik let out a small yelp of pain as the sleeve rubbed against his wound.

"Just tear open the sleeve, Amélie. This shirt will never be saved from the bloodstains."

She grabbed two handfuls of shirt sleeve and wrenched the seams apart, with a lot more force than he thought necessary. His wound was not as bad as he had thought; it was not deep enough to require stitches, though it would probably hurt for quite a few days. The blood had crusted over the wound and dried, giving it a very morbid look, worse than it actually was. Erik knew that from enough experience with wounds inflicted upon his body. Amélie, however, did not.

He looked at her shocked expression and his heart cracked a little. He eased his arm gently back. "I'll clean and bandage this up, Amélie. It does not need stitches; I will be done quickly."

"No, I'll do it. How will you be able to do it with only one hand?" She stood quickly. "Let me get a cloth and the brandy."

As she quickly strode off to the pantry, he could have sworn he saw her swipe a hand across her eyes, and noticed a distinct glimmer of unshed tears.

Her actions were a little clumsy as she fumbled with the cork of the bottle and almost poured half the brandy over the divan. Her fingers trembled a little as she righted the bottle, and impulsively, Erik grabbed her hand with his good one.

"Easy." He squeezed her hand. "I can do this by myself, Amélie."

She shrugged off his hand. "No, I can do it." She took a couple of deep breaths and set about methodically cleaning out his wound thoroughly with the alcohol, and giving him perilous glances whenever he hissed in pain and jerked backward.

As she finished wiping off the excess alcohol from his wound, Erik felt something splash on his arm. He looked up in shock.

Her eyes were brimming with tears, but she said nothing. She merely sniffed, wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, and continued tending to his wound. Erik opened his mouth but found that he had no words to say.

Mutely, she unrolled one end of the bandage, and began to wrap his wound.

Her expression was unreadable as she wound the bandage slowly around his arm, taking care not to open the wound deeper.

"It is not as bad as it looks, Amélie." He said awkwardly, trying to ease the tension between them. She granted him with a deadly look that suggested she thought completely otherwise, but remained silent.

"I must be getting weak from years of leisure." He commented, trying again. "A couple of years ago, this cut would have been nothing—I would have felt no pain."

The corners of her lips tightened. "Are you going to tell me how you got hurt, or will you brush it off with another of your cryptic comments?"

"I… it will have to be the cryptic comments." He hated lying to her, and he hated keeping things from her, but he could barely tell her that he had gotten hurt, and almost discovered, in the process of attempting to kill someone.

"Erik, I…" She frowned then, a troubled expression on her face, and Erik sensed that whatever was on her mind was not quite about the injury she was wrapping up at the moment. She looked at him for a long while, and she slowly raised her hand up toward his face, and Erik found that he could not breathe.

Her fingers brushed gently over the good side of his face, a whisper of a touch, and then ghosted over to the white porcelain covering the other half of his face. Her face looked conflicted. He raised his hand and caught hers as it hovered above his face, and brought it down. Amélie bit her lip, and pulled her hand out of his.

"What is it, Amélie? You do not usually beat around the bush."

Amélie sighed. "Will you be completely honest with me, Erik?"

He did not answer, and already Amélie feared for the worst.

Then he nodded his head, albeit slowly, and Amélie felt somehow empowered to continue.

"Erik, have you been… have you been teaching Christine?"

He stiffened slightly, but forced himself to relax so quickly that Amélie might have missed it had she not been staring at him intently, waiting for his reaction. His small reflex action to her question had given her all the answers she needed.

"I do not know what you speak of, Amélie." He said slowly, heavily, looking away from her.

"Erik! Do not take me for a fool. I know when you are lying to me. Please, please be honest!" She pleaded. His mouth tightened obstinately.

"And what, then? What if I am? What will you do?" His words were mulish and petulant.

"I need to know why you're doing this, Erik. This could be dangerous! What if you are found out?"

"I know it's dangerous; Antoinette told me as much. But every plan comes with some sort of risk, and this is one I'm willing, no, I have, to take." He said stiffly. "If I manage to succeed, I will be able to put Christine on the stage of the Palais Garnier through my own means, and the opera house will be none the wiser. Debienne himself is in my grasp; he does everything I ask him to, and doing what I want will not be difficult."

"Have you thought about what could possibly happen if you're caught? What is it exactly that you wish to achieve from this farce of a plan?"

"I… have thought of a back-up plan, but I do not know if it will be as effective as I think. However, that is clearly not the point here, for I do not intend to be caught. It is a well thought-of plan." He frowned at her, clearly not pleased with her lack of appreciation for his plans. "Do you not see it, Amélie? I'm doing this for our—my future."

"No, I am not 'seeing' it! I see only the danger and the risk, and I see only the potential worry over you, should something go wrong with your plans. Can you not do this, Erik?" Amélie clutched his good arm. "Take it as a plea from me. If you want to stop living beneath the opera house, you only have to say it—you know that Madame Giry and I would do anything to help you. You don't have to… to… to exploit a young child."

"Exploit?" His eyes flashed, and he shook off the hand that had been clutching his arm, standing to stride around the room. "I am not exploiting anybody, Amélie. I want my work to be performed on this stage, and she wants to perform on the stage. There is nothing but mutual benefit. What, do you think me enough of a monster that I would be exploiting any child just to get to my dreams?"

"No, you know I do not think that of you, but you're missing my point! We worry for you, Erik. Is your music more important than us?"

"Know this, Amélie—you cannot help me. But Christine, Christine, she will make my music known to the world. She will perform what others will never be able to do as perfectly, and finally, my work will be made real. People will hear my music, and I will be able to stand proudly as a composer of my own right." He walked over to a table and picked up a folder of bound papers. "You, Amélie… you have always been more important than music, but I have to do this. I am not asking for your support—I ask only that you try to understand how important this is to me."

He walked to the door of his music room, and paused, his hand on the doorknob. "I think you should leave now. I need to work on my music." His brush-off felt cold, but not angry, just—just something like sadness and disappointment, and it cut Amélie hard.

He entered the room, and the door slammed behind him. Amélie stared in surprise; she had never known Erik to slam doors before. No, he was always so controlled, and so perfect in his movements—he did not slam doors, she did.

Loud streams of music echoed from the closed door, as though Erik was banging his elegant hands on the ivory keys of the organ, and that again surprised Amélie, for he hardly ever took his emotions out on his beloved organ. I wonder if this really means so much to him.

More important than music? Me?

Amélie sat on the divan, and pondered, her fingers twirling one of Erik's quills, doodling random squiggles on a scrap piece of parchment he had left lying around. The music got gradually louder, more frustrated, filled with anger and sadness and bitterness and a swirling maelstrom of negativity that left Amélie feeling extremely confused. She took that as a cue to leave.

She sighed, and stood, brushing off her skirts, before leaving his house to go through a route that did not require her crossing the lake, back to the outside world and the sunlight.

XXXXX

Later, when Erik had finally exhausted his emotions and left the room, he chanced upon a small scrap of paper with numerous crossing outs and scribbles.

I'm sorry. That was crossed out.

I did not mean—That was left unfinished, then hastily cancelled out with many strokes of ink.

Below those were several other illegible marks and scribbles, and finally, in clear and distinct writing were words that made Erik's heart swell with hope.

I understand. I will see you soon.

XXXXX

"Ahhhhhh!" There was a high-pitched, feminine shriek, and Amélie spotted a curly blond head making a beeline straight for her. She laughed as the little girl barreled straight into her, hugging her tightly around the waist.

"What's wrong, Dominique? Why are you screaming like that?" Amélie knelt to look the frightened girl in the eye. The little girl clasped her hands to her face adorably, her complexion pasty white.

"I-I saw the Opera Ghost, Amélie!" Dominique squealed, looking around wildly. "I saw him in the shadows, hovering about like he was about to eat me up! Save me, Amélie!"

Amélie looked into the distance behind the girl and saw a glimmer of a white mask within the shadows of the corridors, and a ghost of a smile, before the swirling of a cloak and darkness covered any visible person again. She struggled to hold in her giggles; Erik loved to scare the younger ballet rats to tease them, and Amélie found it adorable in a rather endearing way. She liked to think that it was because Erik enjoyed being around the children.

"Oh Dominique… the Opera Ghost isn't going to eat you up." She pinched the little girl's cheek playfully. "He was only trying to have fun with you."

"You-you really think so?" Dominique sniffed. "I thought he was coming to get me, like how he gets Carlotta! I-I don't want bad things happening to me!"

Mentally, Amélie cursed Erik for having played so many pranks on Carlotta; it had left him with a rather bad name. And goodness knows that should this plan of his fail, he needs every bit of support he can get from the opera house itself. What will happen if the members of this opera house turn on him?

"I promise you, Dominique, he was only playing with you. After all, even ghosts want to have some fun, right?" She patted the girl gently on the shoulder. "The Opera Ghost likes people who practice hard and do well, and you've been practicing hard, haven't you? Now run along and go play, it's break time."

Dominique wiped the tears off her face, and nodded at Amélie. "I will practice hard, so the Opera Ghost will have no reason to get me!" She was about to run off when she turned shyly and told Amélie, "He can play with us any day he wants to."

Amélie felt a strange feeling of warmth, and yet bitterness. Oh Erik, here are people who could be willing to accept you, but you and I both know that their reactions to your actual being will be completely unpredictable. Whether or not they accept you or shun you—that is a risk you are not willing to take.

"Very close to the Opera Ghost, aren't we, eh?" A slurred voice came from behind Amélie as she was about to leave. She turned, rolling her eyes mentally. It was Joseph Buquet, resident drunkard and chief stagehand.

"You're drunk, Buquet." Amélie curled her lip in distaste, and made to leave.

"Think ya too good for the likes of me, don't you? Since you 'ave the mighty Opera Ghost backin' you." Buquet bellowed, lunging forward, his face red and blotchy. Amélie's eyes widened in shock, and she struggled to maintain her composure, nimbly side-stepping his advances.

"Buquet, do us all a favour and stay out of the bottles. You will only drink yourself to an early death. Or perhaps that in itself is a favour to us." She said coldly, attempting to leave. Buquet grabbed her arm, his meaty hand encircling her limb in a tight grip.

"I may look drunk all the time, little girl, but I've been watchin' you, and I know what I see." He lowered his mouth to her ear, and growled his words in a chilling whisper. "All those times the Opera Ghost appeared? Every one screamed, but not you. You never screamed. You ain't scared of the mighty Opera Ghost, is that it, eh? Do you know him?"

Amélie grimaced as his sour breath wafted through her senses, a mixture of old alcohol and bad breath. She shook his hand off angrily. "Watch your words, Buquet; you know not what you speak of. I do not know the Opera Ghost, and I suggest you keep your mouth shut unless you wish to be on the receiving end of all his tricks from here on."

"That a threat, ain't it, little girl? What, you're goin' to turn the Opera Ghost on me?" Buquet laughed, but there was no humour in the laughter. "Well you pass him a message from me. I know he is no 'ghost'. He can fool every other idiot in this opera house, including that Debienne, but he can't fool me. I'll be watchin' him, waiting for my opportunity to take him down once and for all. I will be the hero, and he will be dead. You just remember that, little girl."

He swaggered past her, stumbling a little in his alcohol-induced haze. "Opera Ghost's whore." He hissed at her, and spat on the floor.

A/N: Ooooh, nasty. I wouldn't like to be any where near Erik if he ever found out what Buquet has been saying. Stay tuned for next week, and as usual, please read/review/follow/fav/let me know what you think! xx hazel