Paladin120

"You attended a performance at the Opera Populaire," Erik replied, his tone darker and more acidic than he'd intended. He realized it wasn't the proper response to her question, but he made no attempt to remedy the situation. He merely stared at her, dumbfounded by what he'd said and wanting to say more.

She blinked at him, obviously taken aback by his answer. "Is that an answer to my question?" she asked.

"I don't know how to answer you," he said softly.

She forced a smile. "I wondered what had happened to you," she told him. "When I…knew about everything."

"About Christine Daae, you mean to say?" he asked coldly. It was as though he couldn't stop himself from revealing the darkest edges of his thoughts, and he wanted to know what she'd learned or thought of him since he'd emerged into her life again, visible yet still unknown. "About my…undue affection for the girl?"

"Yes." She pursed her lips, her discomfort visibly increasing with each passing second. "We don't have to discuss this matter if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Does it make you uncomfortable to know what became of me?"

"It does," she admitted. "Of course it does."

"Why?"

Her arm extended and she placed a delicate hand over his. "Because you're my son and I loved you even when I couldn't find you. When Madame Giry told me that the child I was searching for was this…this phantom…I hardly believed her. But then I knew when she said your name and told me about you…I knew it was you."

He held back a shudder. "What did she say?"

"Nothing malicious," she assured him. "Merely that you had unrecognized talent—and that she truly wished you would reveal yourself to the opera managers because they would have at least looked through your work and fallen in love with it without the need for such…well, you understand. There were other ways."

He didn't nod, but he'd come to understand that there were other ways. It no longer mattered. He'd never return to Paris, and he'd never again see the opera house, Christine, or anyone else involved. It was for the better, but he still longed for closure, which he knew he'd never attain.

"And did she say I had an all too recognized love for a woman who wanted nothing to do with me? Who disgraced me on the stage before a full house?"

His mother shook her head. "She never said anything of the sort." Her hand pulled away for only a second before she grasped his firmly in the manner only a mother was capable of holding onto her child. It startled him, this unexpected closeness. "I've upset you. I apologize."

"It's still fresh," he mumbled, unable to look away from her hand atop his. The warmth of her was real, comforting yet still awkward. By name and appearance they were related, but where it mattered, he still didn't know what to think of her. "All of these mistakes I've made, they're still quite fresh in my mind, where they no longer belong."

"Why is that, do you think?" she asked.

"Because I need to remember what a fool I was so that I never, ever consider such actions again." He exhaled. "Because I enjoy tormenting myself in a way no one else could ever prod at me."

She offered a warm smile. "What happened with her, may I ask?"

"With Christine?"

She nodded, and he wondered why she didn't say her name aloud. Obviously she knew it. Everyone who'd heard of the opera fire and the abduction new the names Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny, and The Phantom. They were real, innocent people who deserved to be happy and in love. He was a dark, evil force lacking a name and a face.

He sat back, studied the petite hand still resting over his. "She had more talent than anyone else in that theater," he explained. "And she was wasting her voice rather than honing it. No one could see that she was a diamond in the rough, if you will."

"But you saw it?"

"I don't know what I saw," he snapped. "What I thought would be the greatest joy of my life ended with a catastrophe I will never be able to explain. A mistake," he said. "A mistake happened. And yet I don't fully regret it."

-o-

"It's still fresh," he mumbled, irritation in his voice. "All of these mistakes I've made, they're still quite fresh in my mind, where they no longer belong."

Sophia stood with her back against the wall and a tray in her hands that seemed to grow heavier by the second. Her heart raced, threatened to drown out the voices in the parlor. She hated herself for eavesdropping, but everything she'd overheard thus far was a mystery to her. An opera fire…a woman he'd loved…a disaster. He'd never mentioned any of these things to her, not once.

Jealousy, which she found foolish, filled her as he told his mother about the woman's voice, about his lack of regrets, about everything. The words glued themselves to her heart and threatened to suffocate her. Without much reason to do so, she hated this woman named Christine. Despite the obvious edge to Erik's voice, it still seemed as though he cared a great deal for her, which Sophia equated as Erik's inability to be completely in love with her.

"Why don't you regret it?" his mother asked, sounding surprised.

He sighed. "Because…" He paused and shifted in his chair. Sophia couldn't help herself a moment longer. She needed to see if his expression was filled with affection for another woman, a woman that wasn't Sophia.

"Psst."

From the corner of her clouded vision, she saw Citrine at the end of the hallway, her hands planted firmly on her hips and a sour expression on her face. Sophia froze, afraid that Citrine would say something and she'd be caught.

Citrine mouthed a question, which Sophia didn't understand. She found herself drawn to Erik's deep, perfectly masculine and captivating voice—which for the moment she didn't want to have captivate her.

"Because…" he started. "I know the difference between a perfect, unrealistic fantasy and what it's like to truly love someone. I've found I much prefer the faults of true love."

"Faults," Madame Turro said with a chuckle. "It's easier to relate to someone who isn't perfect."

"That is to say," he said quickly, "that Mademoiselle Daae had her faults, too. She had many, I'm sure, but I didn't know it. I suppose I didn't pay much heed to what was imperfect. Her voice…"

Sophia frowned, remembering how he'd once asked if she could sing. He'd been in love with an opera performer who apparently hadn't loved him back, which she'd known but had conveniently ignored. And now that he'd lost his beautiful, talented singer…had he settled for a housemaid who could pretend to play the piano?

"I know what you mean," Madame Turro replied. "I know precisely what you mean and how you felt."

He must have nodded or smiled because he didn't reply aloud. She looked to Citrine, who still had an expression meant to scold. Sophia didn't care what Citrine thought when she herself couldn't decide what she felt about the situation. She most certainly didn't want to hear that she was faulted, though she did appreciate the part where he'd said he'd found true love—assuming he'd meant her. Now she wasn't certain who he meant.

"And my own faults," he said as Sophia gulped back her tears, her faulted, hot tears. "Which are far more numerous than I care to count."

"I don't see it," Madame Turro said. "But perhaps as your mother that's my duty, to look past what you see on the surface and know what's true inside of you."

He gave a chuckle. "It's there, it's all there. Ask anyone in Paris." The floorboards creaked and Sophia jumped to attention at the sound of him rising from his seat. If she hesitated a moment longer he'd find her in the hallway. "Would you care for some tea or—"

"Here I am," Sophia announced awkwardly. "With fresh, hot tea and biscuits that Citrine prepared for you. I do hope I'm not interrupting an important conversation between the two of you. My apologies for intruding."

"You're not intruding, dearie," Madame Turro said with her usual polite tone.

"My apologies, Monsieur," she said softly.

Erik stared at her, his features tight, his expression filled with guilt or remorse, she couldn't tell which. It was obvious that he knew she'd overheard at least a portion of his conversation, though she gave him no opportunity to be upset with her. She wanted to reserve the right to be angry with him. His confession left her feeling betrayed by the man whom only hours earlier she'd wanted to spend the rest of her life with, and now he was a stranger.

"Sophia," he said gently.

She looked away, carefully avoiding Madame Turro's gaze and sidestepped around Erik, even though he'd purposely moved closer as though he wished to take the tray from her.

"Excuse me, Monsieur Belmont," she mumbled. "I do not wish to burn you."