Shame, Shame, Shame
I don't make any money doing this. Too bad.
"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine."
Song of Solomon 1:2
xxxx
Erik couldn't think. The only relevant fact, the only lucid thing in the throbbing hellish haze he wandered in was: I am a fool. Blood roared in his ears, desire made even the touch of his clothing on his naked skin unbearable. Dimly, he heard a door slam and Christine's stifled sobs. He regretted her wounded feelings, but was quietly amazed that anything coherent at all had left his lips after she . . . A tortured groan left his lips and he staggered to the storage room, closing and locking the door with shaking hands.
No help for it.
He had to . . .
He freed his throbbing organ from its imprisonment and hid its turgid eagerness within the grasp of a linen towel. He closed his eyes and felt again the plush press of Christine's lips against his, the flavor of her mouth. She tasted so sweet! He felt again her urgent writhing in his lap, the helpless, hungry tension gathering, gathering . . . oh God!
Erik bit his lip to stifle his cries of rapture as he found blessed release. He slumped down to his knees and adjusted his clothing. He tossed aside the towel in disgust. A rueful smile touched his lips. At least he hadn't damned them both by taking her. It had been a close thing. Feeling her climax in his arms with only a thin barrier of cloth separating him from her delicious wet heat . . .
Erik struggled to stifle the film of erotic images scrolling through his head, but Christine had shattered him, decimated him with the sublime beauty of her pleasure. He craved it more than morphine, more than music. He untied the mask and dabbed sweat from his twisted visage with his sleeve. Erik's tongue darted out to touch his lips, as if to savor any lingering bit of Christine's taste and touch.
"She kissed me. Christine kissed me."
The words sounded so strange said aloud, like the lilt of an unfamiliar language. The first kiss of his life, and given freely by his Angel! Nothing less than a miracle! Christine had given him a gift more precious than gold and he would treasure it until his dying day. His words in the sweating aftermath had been for her honor, and his sanity. Erik needed room to breathe, to think. Utterly impossible when her sex kissed his thigh with its humid warmth, with those huge, sleepy brown eyes staring at him as if he had hung the moon. Reality hit him like a punch in the gut. Christine was still young, innocent, and in Minette's stern charge.
Then Christine blurted her knowledge of his drawings and the encounter slid into focus. In her generosity of spirit, would Christine not think to offer her poor lovesick teacher a scrap of affection? A kiss was so negligible among humankind. A kiss in greeting, in parting, in the showing of both sisterly and lover-like affection. How was he to discern its nuances? True, flying apart in sobbing pleasure was not the act of a compassionate student, but was she perhaps swept away in it, delighted by the novel pleasures of a man's touch? Erik laughed bitterly at the thought. A man? When had he found the audacity to think of himself as such? A monster wearing the mask of a gentleman, a crude pantomime of what Christine deserved.
Erik was reeling drunkenly in unfamiliar territory. Sweating and wrecked from their encounter, what was he to do now? The faint jangle of keys caught his attention. He rose to his feet, adjusting his trousers, tightening the laces of his shirt, finger-combing his hair and retying the mask. He stepped out of his sanctuary to find Minette standing just inside the portcullis, head cocked to the sound of Christine's weeping and her hazel eyes blazing into his. Erik managed a stiff bow.
"Good afternoon, Madame Giry."
XXX
Christine's body acted quite without her consent, joints loosening and heat blooming at the soft purr of Erik's voice outside the door. How had she endured the beauty of his voice? Now, it seemed as warm and tangible as the touch of his lips, his hands, stroking and caressing. The cool, clipped tones of Madame's voice were antidotes to the sweet cloud of Erik's influence.
Madame!
Here?
And Christine sniveling behind a locked door, disheveled with the evidence of desire dampening her nightgown. She leapt to her feet and within minutes was dressed in her dove grey gown with her hair respectably pinned. Her eyes were probably swollen and bloodshot from weeping, but there was no helping that. Madame rapped gently on the door.
"Christine?" her mothering tone brought another rush of tears to her eyes. A small, shy part of her longed for the childlike simplicity of days long gone. What she felt for Erik was too foreign, too wild for her to understand.
"M—Madame?" Christine quavered, unbolting the door. Madame's beloved face, so similar to her daughter's, filled Christine's vision and Christine flew into her arms.
"Are you all right, my dear?" she murmured, stroking Christine's ringlets.
"I'm fine. Just fine," she replied. Christine pulled back.
"What are you doing here, Madame? The production doesn't begin for another two days." Christine darted a swift glance at Erik and found him staring dispassionately out at the lake. Hurt anger flared to riotous life. He didn't even have the decency to look her in the eye? Had she repulsed him when she . . . when she . . . Madame Giry arched a brow.
"It was a part of mine and Erik's agreement that I was free to come whenever I wished to see how you were faring. I am long overdue."
"I've made excellent progress on Ill Muto," Christine mumbled, acutely aware of Erik's potent charisma sucking all the air from the room. It grazed along her skin even beneath the chafe of her clothing, the roots of her hair. Madame smiled gently, cupping Christine's chin.
"I have no doubt of that. In fact, if you are so confident in your progress, I would like for you to accompany me back aboveground. There is much work to be done: practice with the chorus, dress rehearsal, fittings for your costumes and the like."
"That depends entirely on the opinion of my Maestro." Christine glanced at Erik. His gaze alighted on her, as cold and distant as an Arctic sea. Her heart rose to her throat, tears threatened.
Say something! She willed him.
"I am perfectly amendable to Madame's suggestion. You shall do splendidly, my dear. All of Paris shall be eating from the palm of your hand." While the words were warm and polite, the tone of his voice was like a rush of icy air from an open window. Christine reeled in hurt confusion. He loved her! Why was he pushing her away? From miles away, she felt herself offer a brittle smile and heard her voice reply: "You are too kind, Maestro." Madame's keen eyes darted between them.
"Very good. I will help you gather your things, Christine."
Dazed, Christine allowed herself to be shuttled and herded, like a frail little lamb. She griped her bundle with white-knuckled hands as Madame led her through the door hidden in the stone near the portcullis. All under the remorseless blue-grey gaze of the wolf.
Say something! Call me back! Keep me with you. I belong with you. She thought, looking back at him.
Erik held her gaze for a heartbeat, then turned his back to her. The soft, maddening notes of his music trailed after her like the lingering scent of wildflowers.
The world only seemed real again when Christine crossed the threshold into Madame's rooms. These humble rooms where she had spent her childhood, before she graduated to the ballet dormitories at the age of twelve. Even after she and Meg moved to the dormitories, they often supped and argued and whiled away pleasant hours reading on that worn rug. Meg emerged from her room and uttered a squeal. Christine replied in kind and soon they were whirling around the room in an exuberant embrace. The bruise on her cheek had mellowed from purple into an ugly green, barely noticeable under skillful application of cosmetics.
"Oh Christine! I've missed you!" Meg whispered in her ear.
"I've missed you too. How has practice been? Outshining the rest of the corps like always?" Meg shrugged, a smile flirting with the corners of her mouth.
"Perhaps." She glanced slyly at Madame, who set Christine's bundle of clothes into the hamper to be taken to the launderer's in the morning.
"Not that Maman could ever give me a solo. The junk men wouldn't stand for it. Not when Adele and Jacqueline lift their skirts for-"
"Meg!" Madame interrupted sharply. Meg glared mutinously at her mother.
"We all know it's true," she muttered. Madame's mouth thinned.
"Then it doesn't bear mentioning." Madame made for her office.
"I have some work to do, but after supper we must get to work on your costumes, Christine."
"Yes, Madame," Christine murmured. As soon as the door shut behind her mother, Meg grasped Christine's hands and tugged her towards the low couch.
"How was your week with Monsieur Erik? Tell me every detail!" Christine bit her lip. What she felt for Erik was so confusing and wonderful and terrible. Christine wanted time to organize her thoughts and feelings into some semblance of normalcy before she described them. Canny Meg would know if she was lying. Christine squeezed Meg's hands, so small and wiry in her grip.
"It was . . . interesting," she began cautiously. Meg's brows rose.
"Interesting? Oh, with such florid descriptions like that how can I not be absolutely green with envy? Come on, Christine! It's me you're talking to. What was he like in his home? Did he ever take off his mask? Did he kiss you?"
"That's none of your business," Christine snapped, hating her prim, snobbish tone almost as much as the images and sensations the word 'kiss' brought to mind. Meg sank back against the couch, disengaging their joined hands.
"Pardon me for wanting to know more about the man who saved my life, for wanting to know if you'd finally kissed the man you're so madly in love with."
No. She wasn't in love with him. She couldn't be. Love didn't mean despair, desperation, this almost savage longing. Whatever she felt for Erik, it wasn't love. Christine laid a hand on Meg's knee.
"I'm sorry. I'm very tired and Erik and I had a . . . a quarrel." Meg's expression softened immediately.
"Oh Christine, I'm sorry." A heartbeat's pause, "Do you want to talk about it?" Christine shook her head mutely. Meg shrugged, a devilish gleam entering her dark gaze.
"Very well then. Perhaps I won't tell you about the chat I had with the Vicomte de Chagny yesterday." Christine shot up straight, eyes flying wide.
"What? Raoul was here? What did he say?"
"Tit for tat, Christine," Meg said with a smug grin. And Christine could only laugh at Meg's devilish mischief.
Two days flew by in the bustle and cacophony of rehearsal, the poking and prodding and tugging of fittings, the venomous glares of fellow ballet rats and the constant chatter of the managers and La Carlotta, squawking like noisy jays. Amidst this frenetic activity, Christine congratulated herself on how little she thought of her dark Maestro. She refused to call him by his name now, a vain attempt to purchase distance from him. Despite her will's steady resolve, her dreaming mind presented her the brief moments spent in his arms and woke her gasping on the cusp of pleasure. Left bereft and unfulfilled, Christine prayed she had not cried out for him in her sleep.
Rumor circulated that Christine had followed the path of Adele and Jacqueline under the tutelage of La Sorelli. None but the nastier few believed them in Christine's case, but curse her yearning body for betraying her in this manner!
Christine's voice rose in crystalline purity over the untold rows of velvet seats:
Poor fool, he makes me laugh
Haha haha
Time I tried to get a better better half!
Poor fool, he doesn't know
If he knew the truth, he'd never ever go!
The notes were perfect, the lyrics crisp and easy, but the tone rang false. Drat! Christine thought, scowling as the dancers pirouetted gracefully around her. Between the incident with the morphine and their encounter, there had been little time for her Maestro to tackle the intricacies of the Countess's inner motivations. There were only a handful of people who could find any fault in her performance, but unfortunately, she was one of them. Without perfection, the core of the narrative was ineffective.
Monsieur Reyer scrutinized her through his round spectacles, his long, foxy face pinched in a sour expression. He tapped his baton on the back of the music stand and Madame corralled the ballet rats. The discordant cacophony of the practicing orchestra died down.
"Is there some problem, Miss Daae? Are you displeased?" Sarcasm laced the conductor's words and Christine flushed under the feeling of hundreds of pairs of eyes trained on her—most of them hostile. She looked down at the scuffed boards beneath her feet. How she longed to seep between the cracks and disappear!
Didn't her Maestro realize that catapulting her into fame would step on a great deal of toes, ruffle countless feathers, and not just La Carlotta's? Of course not. His word was law in his kingdom, his will a blistering force that could twist the world into a shape that he desired.
"N—No, Monsieur. There is no problem," Christine whispered. She darted a quick glance around. Madame and Meg were gone. Called aside by the managers? A pinched smile touched Reyer's thin lips.
"A new diva cannot afford any sour looks, Miss Daae. Especially when your lauded Maestro is a wanted criminal." The shame and embarrassment melted under a sudden blast of anger. What had she done to deserve such treatment? How could Raoul do such a thing in pursuit of her?
Words welled up and spewed forth before she could stop them: "On the contrary, Monsieur, since my premiere in Hannibal, I have earned my keep a thousand times over. I may look as I please. The charges against my teacher are false and will be dropped soon enough." A small inward part of herself watched from far away as this strange Christine's eyes blazed into Reyer's, uncaring of the titter and murmur of conversation rippling behind her.
"Now you call our esteemed patron a liar?" Reyer said incredulously, his sagging jaw revealing several rotten molars. Her heart slammed against her ribs, as stunned as everyone else by her audacity.
"In this matter, he is mistaken." her voice was cool, her tone mild, as if remarking on the price of a bolt of cloth. The press of their eyes was hot, stabbing. Christine repressed the urge to squirm.
"You have a very high opinion of your teacher, Miss Daae." How did Reyer make those words sound insulting?
"I do," Christine said.
Rehearsal continued after that, stilted and awkward. No one expected the shy Swedish songbird to voice protest.
XXX
The Daroga's steady brown gaze followed him as he paced in restless turns across the cramped space of his study. Christine had become a ghost that haunted every corner of his home. Erik could find no rest there, not with her scent lingering in his bedclothes, with the echo of her angelic voice ringing in his ear, with the memory of the velvet heat of her mouth making his dreams a fiery hell of tormented longing. A fire crackled in the grate, flickering in golden tongues through the golden depths of the Daroga's brandy. Erik realized from a faint faraway place that he was being terribly rude, barging into Nadir's home at an ungodly hour without a word of explanation. Daroga's thick skin made him an invaluable companion. When he said as much, the Daroga let out a throaty laugh.
"Oh my friend, you are in a rare mood if you offer compliments without the slightest shred of sarcasm. Please sit, and tell me what the little Daae has done now to throw you into such a fit." Nadir gestured toward the wingback chair across the chessboard from him, but Erik was possessed by a crackling energy, not to be soothed by the temptations of a stimulating match and lively conversation.
"Christine's effect on my mood is none of your business," Erik snapped without heat. The Daroga responded with an arched brow.
"Is that a fact? I would make it my business when these moods bring unannounced guests to my home at one o' clock in the morning."
"Old men such as yourself never sleep and enjoy hearing the sound of your own voice, especially when raised in lecture."
"And lovesick fools such as yourself pace around like madmen all because of a slip of a girl."
"Lovesick? More definitely. But it is more madness with dignity, I think," Erik said softly, too dazed to rise to the bait.
"Christine kissed me," he blurted.
"Or I kissed her. I'm not sure which."
His fingertips grazed his lips, still incredulous over the fact himself. Nadir's other brow rose to join its fellow in such a complete expression of surprise that Erik chuckled. Nadir rose with a creaking slowness that reminded Erik that he was no longer the spry, resilient chief of police he had met so many years ago in Russia. The image of mortality pierced him a sudden rush of affection for the poor, beleaguered Nadir.
"Erik, my friend," he began, "I know you love the little Daae, but . . . but is she . . . did . . . Allah forgive me, but did she leave your home still a virgin?"
Affection froze; anger was more comfortable and familiar. When he spoke, the words were thick with venom.
"Since I have the face of a monster, I must invariably act like one, no?" Daroga's dark eyes widened.
"Erik, you misunderstand me. It is custom for a young woman-"
"We are not in Persia, you senile old fool!"
"I realize that. But even in cosmopolitan Paris, I believe it is preferable for a young lady to be wed a virgin, is that not so?" the Daroga countered, unperturbed by Erik's show of temper.
Erik dragged in a long breath, striving for calm. The Daroga had an uncanny talent for scenting out all that Erik felt guilty for. Did their searing, passionate kiss count towards the loss of her honor? Entirely ignorant of such matters himself, he was too mortified by embarrassment to ask Nadir's opinion on the matter.
"Yes. Perhaps it would ease you to know that Christine escaped the beast's lair with her honor intact. By the grace of God and His angels, surely," Erik snapped. The Daroga nodded, unsurprised.
"Good. I had hoped that your love for her would overpower your lust." Erik grunted and threw back a shot of brandy. He sank into the chair across from Nadir and attempted in vain to order the wild strands of his hair.
"When she kissed me, I felt . . . whole," he whispered.
"So the little Daae is aware of your affections?" The Daroga probed.
"Yes. Unfortunately." Nadir's brow furrowed, sipping his brandy.
"What part of this is misfortune, Erik? She knows the secret you've been dragging behind you like a lead weight these past few years. How is that not good news?" Erik bit his tongue to stifle mocking words. It was a straightforward question, after all. The combination of brandy and agitation made him a blade-tongued adder.
"Because, Daroga, Christine has a very kind heart." His Persian friend nodded impatiently.
"And?" he prompted.
"And is it not plausible that a soul as kind as Christine's would bestow some meager morsel of affection upon her poor, lovesick teacher out of pity?" the last word came out as a low epithet. Worse than scorn, worse that cruelty surely! His pride would not tolerate it. To his surprise, the Daroga uttered a bark of laughter, then seeing Erik was deadly serious, swallowed any other expression of mirth.
"Erik, surely you don't think-"
"Why else would she, Daroga?" Nadir heaved a heavy sigh, raking his fingers though his hair, now more grey than black.
"Yes, there are some women who would stoop to kiss you out of pity, out of spite. But the little Daae is not one of them. Have you ever considered that she might return your feelings?" Erik surged forward in his chair, knocking over a few chess pieces as he leaned over the table.
"I have never known you to ask stupid questions. Don't force me to revise my opinion of you." The Daroga grunted low in his throat, but said nothing.
A tense, contemplative silence filled the next few moments, the fire murmuring to itself in the grate. Nadir pushed his chair back on its hind legs, leaning back far enough to snag the brandy decanter from its stand. Erik muttered a word of thanks as he was poured another drink, grasping the proverbial olive branch.
Now was one of the rare times when he did not feel the itching urge to melt into the shadows and seek the frigid solitude of his home. Perhaps it was because Nadir had seen every atrocity he performed in Persia as the khanum's Angel of Doom and still called him friend. However naïve and foolish that decision might be.
"You risked much to come here tonight. I don't know whether to be honored or annoyed." Erik snorted.
"You are mistaken, Daroga. I risked nothing coming here. Despite the dubious legality of the Vicomte's warrant, I could evade the emperor's gendarmes in my sleep."
"The gendarmes do have one advantage, perhaps the most important one in catching a fugitive: they know where to look for you. At the premiere tomorrow night, will you not be in Box Five?"
"I will not leave Christine," Erik replied, frowning. The old policeman leaned back comfortably in his chair, folding his hands over the small mound of a thickening paunch.
"There will be a trap set for you there. That's what I would do to catch you."
XXX
"Five minutes, Ma'amselle," murmured an errand boy's voice through the door of her dressing room. Due to Madame's careful planning, there was no frantic rush to don her costume and thanks to her Maestro there was no fear that she had forgotten the lyrics or notes. They were engrained in her bones. A faint warble of sweet apprehension gathered in her stomach at the thought of his grey-blue eyes watching her, the pulsating thrill of his presence surrounding her. Christine pressed a steadying hand against her belly, unconsciously mimicking Madame Giry's nervous gesture of touching her crucifix.
Dread gathered in her belly as she stepped out of the dressing room and tottled toward the stage, impeded by the billows of her skirt, the heavy wig on her head and the five inch heels on her feet. After her little tantrum during rehearsal yesterday, the general resentment hidden just under the surface was bursting into full-grown hostility. Words like 'slut' and 'criminal' flew like darts at her from all sides, and more than once a set piece 'accidentally' came close to injuring her.
Fame was a double-edged sword, she thought wryly. Why had she ever wanted it in the first place?
Christine could hear Piangi singing the opening number, the theatrical lilt of his laughter booming from the stage, loud enough to reach the farthest box. It was a full house, from what she heard. Twenty-three hundred seats. Forty-six hundred eyes trained solely on the capering dancers, the heavy-set Piangi looking like a painted characteriture in his stage cosmetics, and her. The scene ended with a flourish from the orchestra.
She felt the prickle of unfriendly eyes and glanced over her shoulder to find La Carlotta's dowdy maid—whom she affectionately called 'Mother'—standing behind her, watching her. Christine offered a tentative smile, only to be met with a sullen glare. The thin mouth on her florid, puffy features looked like a pinched purse-string, her eyes the flat, black shine of a button. Christine shrugged off the unsettled feeling in her belly and watched the opera through the narrow aperture of the curtain.
A small tray of gargling water sat tucked in a niche and Christine took a draught, swilled the tangy mixture of water and lemon around in her mouth and thriftily swallowed two gulps for good measure. She took a fortifying breath and stepped on the stage.
Halfway through her opening scene, Christine felt . . . strange. The garish spotlights danced drunkenly behind her eyes, her lips felt numb, garbling the last line of the aria. The scene dragged on for a small eternity. Christine struggled against the leaden dread, creeping fear. The part of herself tied to Erik yearned, grasped at his fleeting shadow presence.
He wasn't there.
She couldn't feel him.
She was alone. Meg, who was dressed as one of the Count's maids, sidled close.
"Christine? Are you all right?" the words reached her from far away. Meg's face swam in and out of focus. All she could see was the maid's black button eyes, the flat, unfathomable look. A word floated through the ether.
Drugged.
The stage reached up to swallow her.
xxxxxx
A/N: Sorry it's taken so long to update, dear readers. This chappie was a struggle to write, for some reason. (shrugs) Oh well. Thank you everyone for your kind reviews. Keep 'em coming!