A Little Illumination

POTO belongs to its creators.

"The love of a family is life's greatest blessing."

-Anonymous

She broke the surface into consciousness to the hot suction of Erik's mouth on her breast. With a gasp, Christine arched up, hungry, so very hungry for him. Pleasure melted over her like butter. She stroked his head, urging him on with broken fragments of words, cherishing the solid curve of his skull, the flexible curves of his prominent ears. Dream-addled, she imagined the two of them floating together on a blood-warm sea, skin dissolving until their naked souls fused like soap bubbles . . .

Her lover's bright eyes were like shards of gemstones, capturing the moon's cold fire. Candle flame danced across his body and Christine saw her battered Adam, shaped and molded not by his Creator's loving touch, but by the brutal adversity of a hostile world. Christine's restless caressing hands found the scars on his back. She wanted to pull him inside her, hide him from the world and its cruelties. Erik's graceful hand trapped hers against his jaw and her palm tingled at the rasp of beard stubble.

She watched dreamily as his full red mouth mapped a meandering path across her chest to her other breast. Pleasure's burn differed from the tender dance of their first joining, or the blind hunger of the second. This was . . . voluptuous, languid. No need to rush, they had forever . . . Her womb ached, but from use or the yearning for him to fill it, she didn't know or particularly care. The borders that defined the world no longer held sway, swallowed by the magic of love.

A longing for completion rose in her. He saw, he knew, he was in her soul; of course he knew only his beautiful body could complete her pleasure! Christine broke this sacred silence with a low sigh as he filled her. She was made for him, did he feel it in the way her body kissed and suckled every inch of him? They found nature's rhythm, each deep stroke eloquent with the wet sounds of their shared pleasure. Her mewling cries mingled with his hoarse grunts in their own duet.

Time stretched and rippled. Christine soared to heights of pleasure again and again, Erik still hard and hungry inside her. The edges of her vision pulsed as her body gathered, tightened, pleading with him to join her in oblivion. An animal sound of arousal left his lips and the calculated plunge and swivel of his hips changed to wild, pounding strokes charging toward release. A mutual climax blasted through them, shattering her into sobbing pieces, filling her up with hot spurts of his seed.

She lay tucked against his side, her head pillowed on his shoulder. A pleasant ache pervaded her body. For so long, she had reached for her Angel and the fleeting joy of his voice and his presence. The man Erik had proven to be even more mysterious and elusive than the Angel. Absently, she caressed the pattern of scar tissue roping his wrist. Her scarred Adam, her damaged Angel. His voice, hoarse with sleep and his passionate vocalizations, moved over her like the rub of mink's fur.

"I broke a mirror once. A well-meaning clergyman bound my wrists."

Christine's dreamy, heavy-lidded indolence vanished. She swallowed hard and focused on the rise and fall of his chest, the faint sound of his breathing. Proof that he was alive and with her.

"How-" she swallowed, started again, "how old were you?"

"Six."

The answer was swift and succinct. A brutal commentary housed in three letters. Christine could think of no words to soothe. 'I'm sorry' seemed so weak as to be abhorrent. Instead, she spoke with tiny, adoring kisses along the interior of his wrist, where his pulse beat so strong. Her Erik was so resilient, the beauty of his soul so dauntlessly brilliant. The hand she worshipped groped for hers, stilling her. One grey-blue eye, the hue of a wisp of silver cloud on a moonlit night popped open to regard her.

"It's all right, my love. It doesn't hurt anymore." They lapsed into silence, but far from an uncomfortable one.

Erik rolled onto his side, his graceful musician's fingers toying with the wild curls fanned across the pillow. Christine rolled to face him and they spent several more quiet minutes admiring each other. The candles were dying down, but Christine found she wasn't afraid. As long as Erik was with her, the darkness held no more terror for her.

"How long may I stay here with you?" she asked.

Because she couldn't resist, she leaned forward and kissed him. Barely a brush really, simply delighting in the freedom to kiss and touch him. This segued into another, deeper kiss that she felt all the way down to her toes. A few delicious moments of kissing passed before Erik had the breath or inclination to answer.

"That depends entirely upon your wishes, my love," he said carefully.

"What do you mean?" she asked, frowning.

"A better question would be, perhaps, do you wish to return to the stage? It does not have to be the Populaire, if the meddlesome junk men are odious to you—by the way, remind me to strangle Firmin upon the first opportunity. After his drunken pawing at the Bal Masque, he more than deserves it!—but I digress." Christine smothered a giggle at hint of Erik's protective anger, before mellowing into contemplation. Christine rubbed the sole of her foot along his hairy, muscled calf.

"I do love singing for the stage," she said softly, "but all the scheming and back-stabbing and animosity I could do without. There seems to be quite a lot of that."

Despite her misgivings, something in her quailed at the thought of leaving this opera house, where she had spent so many years of happiness.

"If not the Populaire, where could we go?"

Erik would think her foolish, but even this simple talk, the casual use of 'we' sent a thrill through her. To plan a future together made the events of the past twenty-four hours more real.

"Any opera house in the world would count themselves supremely blessed to have you grace their stage," Erik said, accompanying the words with feather light caresses along her back, tangling his hands in her hair. Christine squirmed in delight at both the compliment and the touching. It made her want to arch and purr like a cat.

"Thank you," she whispered. Erik's lazy grin could only be classified as smug.

"But I have received specific offers from La Monnaie, La Fenice, and La Scala."

"O—Offers? For me?" Christine stuttered, a smile dawning on her face, "Erik, you're incorrigible!"

Erik grinned.

"Always, my dear. The choice is yours."

"You have a say in this too, Erik. You are my teacher, without you I couldn't carry a note. And your operas, I'm sure there are hundreds of people clamoring for them." He snorted.

"Nonsense and hardly, respectively. But I appreciate the sentiment. I personally have no preference. France, Italy, England, all the wonders of the world pale in comparison to you."

Christine sighed, basking in the sun of Erik's love. His compliments made her blush and smile. God, how she loved this man!

"La Scala," she whispered with something like reverence.

"Those Italian lessons were not solely for the purpose of torturing you, my dear," Erik teased.

"Point taken, Maestro," Christine said, eyes narrowed in mock irritation, "But whatever my feelings about the Populaire or its present management, I am still under contract. I should return there."

"I doubt our performance during Don Juan has done anything to endear you to our beloved managers. Your honor is commendable, but I think they would be more than willing to sever your contract, if only to appease that Italian cow."

Christine giggled again, sharply aware that his hands had wandered from her back to her buttocks, which he now stroked and squeezed appreciatively.

"Speaking of overweight Italians, what did you do to Piangi? When you took the stage with me?" she said, tracing ticklish patterns on his chest and belly.

"I snagged him with my lasso and yanked him into a closet. The Daroga was kind enough to stand guard at the door." The image drew a shocked laugh from Christine. Mmm, this was almost as good as their physical intimacy, just laughing and talking together.

Almost.

"Now, I noticed you still haven't answered the question, my love. What is it you want?" he purred, nuzzling her hair, burrowing as close as possible.

"I'd like a honeymoon," she blurted.

Erik peeled back far enough to look at her. Suddenly, looking in his eyes was much too embarrassing. She instead watched the flame of a candle on the stand near the bed. A drop of liquid wax beaded and fell before her gaze. Erik's voice unfurled its smoky tendrils and enveloped her.

"Do you? I must confess, I am sorely tempted to keep you here—in my home, in my bed—forever."

There was the faintest silvery underlining to the last word, hinting at every manner of delicious torment. Heat bloomed under her skin at the thought of spending an eternity as Erik's willing slave. Those warm, callus-roughened hands tugged her close, close enough to feel the evidence of his arousal against her thigh. Christine exhaled a shaky breath, enraptured and excited. His bright eyes narrowed, regarding her speculatively.

"But this is an imperfect home is it not, my maiden of spring?" Christine cast a glance around the rough, pitted stone of his room, imagining the layers of stone and earth between her and the sun. Far from feeling smothered, she felt cozy, safe.

"No, I like it. The quiet is almost . . . sacred. Like inside a church."

Erik halted his gentle seduction, his expression blank. Christine shifted restively in his grip, wondering why her compliment affected him so. As close as they were, she felt the laugh deep in his chest, flowing up and out and filling the air with its rich bounty. He rolled onto his back, mirth shaking his broad chest. Christine sat up, smiling uncertainly. Part of her was in awe of how beautiful he was when he laughed, another part wanted to smack him for directing said laugh at her.

"What's so funny?" she demanded, pouting a little. To his credit, her husband quickly sobered, even as a smile quivered on his mouth.

"Forgive me, love. I don't mean to laugh at you. I've just discovered a rather amusing irony. For the past several years, I have invested no small amount of time, effort and hundreds of thousands of francs building a home—a home I hoped that we would one day share . . . and . . . and you prefer the sewer!" Erik let out another bark of laughter, shaking his head.

"You—you built a house for me?" Christine asked, flattered.

"Of course." he said, frowning with offended dignity, "Nothing less would do. Not for you." A soft sound escaped Christine's lips and she fell upon him, covering his beloved face in kisses. She broke away before he was distracted.

"Tell me about it." With a soft little sigh, he snuggled closer to her in the pocket of warmth beneath the bedclothes and began to talk.

As he spoke, his voice twisted and wove, painting pictures of a graceful country manor, rich with light and promise. Christine lay atop him, chin balanced on his chest. She felt dazzled by how his eyes lit up when he spoke on a subject that interested him, and stunned with gratitude that he would share such a beautiful vision with her.

In so many ways, she was ordinary. She could sing, but compared to the scope of Erik's genius and other, more attractive ballet rats, Christine would always feel small, plain, unimportant. Christine snuggled closer, burying her face against his chest, feeling his fingers toy with her hair. She would happily spin through space, an unremarkable chunk of rock circling this benevolent sun that bathed her in love and light and beauty for as long as he would let her.

XXX

He was far too happy to slip into any sleep deeper than a doze, deliciously aware of her steady breathing and subtle shiftings beneath the coverlet. But, persuaded by the exhaustion permeating his bones, Erik soon fell into a deep sleep and woke disoriented. The candles guttered into useless pools of wax, the cold darkness of his home now breathed deep around the bed. Sleep and pleasure had dulled his mind, and it took him several moments to orient himself. No dream, no hallucination, no exercise in futile longing.

No, this was a delicious reality: a once poor and unhappy Erik now lay in the sleeping embrace of an Angel. The soft caress of her breath against his chest tickled wonderfully. Her hair fanned across his shoulder and arm—warm, living silk woven into the most delightful curls!—not to mention the unspeakable delight of her naked body curled against his side, her leg twined with his. Erik purred, whiling away several minutes cataloguing the novel sensations of sharing a bed with Christine. Erik relished the memory of their passion, breathed deep of its musk permeating the bedclothes. Each moment would be a talisman for him to cherish. The knowledge that no one else had ever or would ever have her this way added fresh dimension to their pleasure. Her presence in his bed bore its inevitable fruit and he was hard.

Erik stroked her arm draped across his belly and sighed. He could not burden her with his fleshly hunger again. From his studies he knew there would be discomfort, and taking his pleasure while she felt pain was utterly out of the question. His thoughts trudged reluctantly from the haven of his marriage bed up and up to the cold light of logic. Erik had been hunted long enough to sense a trap, and the de Chagny boy's abrupt retreat reeked of suspicion. He had thought the boy incapable of guile, but this was surprisingly cunning: to pull back, to wait. Erik allowed a small smug smile to touch his lips. The boy simply had no idea who he was dealing with.

A sudden thought occurred to him, urged him to slither free from his wife's sleeping embrace and grope in the darkness for his breeches. He remembered Christine's childhood fear of the dark, and swore she would not have a single unpleasant memory of their honeymoon.

XXX

Brother.

There was a time when Raoul thought he knew what that word meant. As different as they were, he thought he and Philippe shared a close and loving relationship, based on trust. Lies! Why else would Philippe keep such a thing from him? Damn it, he knew and said nothing! The events of the past months scrolled through his mind. Revulsion rippled through him, nausea clenching his gut in time with every bump in the road.

The silence in the de Chagny carriage was suffocating. Philippe's words hung between them like a swaying corpse. The macabre notion turned Raoul's thoughts toward the tired track of Josef Buquet, the Giovanni girl, and countless others. Those long, skeletal hands, dripping with blood, were touching Christine. And she welcomed it. Obscene. Revolting. Heartbreaking.

He couldn't sit still. He peered out of the carriage window. Thank God, they were at the de Chagny townhouse. Raoul kicked open the door and jumped from the still-moving carriage, sucking in great lungfuls of cold night air. His coat had been lost somewhere between Populaire and the carriage, but Raoul welcomed the chill down through his vest, shirt and against the fire burning in his chest. Philippe disembarked at a more sedate pace, Raoul could hear the deliberate squeak of his shoes on icy cobbles.

"Raoul-" he began, laying a hand on his shoulder. Raoul pivoted, grasping a handful of his brother's lapel until they were nose to nose.

"How long have you known?" he spat fiercely.

"Raoul-" again, that condescension! That accursed smugness! It made him want to hit Philippe again.

"How long?" Philippe's steel eyes, clear and calm and sober, held Raoul's crackling blue unwavering.

"Since Father died."

An abstract thought marveled at the duality of his reaction. On the one hand, he was overwhelmingly relieved that Philippe had not known this terrible secret for scant weeks, and on the other, he hated that his father and brother had not trusted him with the knowledge. Questions bubbled up and dammed in his throat.

"Come, let's go inside. I believe a nip of brandy is in order."

Shivering, Raoul followed his brother inside and flung himself into the low chair by the fire. Tersely, Philippe dismissed the servants and poured a generous amount. It looked like liquid gold in the wide glass. An arch of an inky brow offered Raoul one. He shook his head. He wanted to be clear-headed.

Philippe tossed aside coat and vest and sat in his shirtsleeves across from Raoul. He heaved a sigh, looking wan and weary. The play of firelight cast half his face in shadow. Presented with half the image, Raoul was smote by the fugitive resemblance between Philippe and his—and Rousseau in the tilt of cheekbone, the shape of his mouth. Raoul dropped his gaze. Philippe threw back his brandy and scrubbed his face with his hands.

"I apologize for the blunt delivery, little brother. But I had to act or you would have burned the Populaire to the ground chasing him down through those tunnels."

"Christine-"

"Made her choice. And it wasn't you," Philippe cut in. Raoul flinched at the casual cruelty of the statement, clenching his good hand in a rigid fist. Philippe arched a brow.

"Am I wrong? I found her performance explicit enough."

"Rousseau had her-"

"What? Hypnotized? 'The wonderful alchemy that turned sound to liquid gold in my ears?' Our brother's voice has that effect." Premonition scraped up his spine like a corpse's fingernail. Where had he heard those words before?

"What did you say?" Raoul asked. Philippe's smile was brittle.

"What's say I start at the beginning, hmm?" Raoul swallowed any further protest and nodded. Seeing his agreement, some of the tension seeped out of Philippe and he leaned back on the couch, arms braced along the back in his usual louche posture.

"I was just a boy when I first heard the name Erik Rousseau. Running like a hellion through the Château, I heard Father whispering to someone. It was odd, I thought, it wasn't in his study where he normally met with friends. So I heard the man talk about a young masked magician, tall with black hair. From the way the man described his voice and even the deformity on the right side of his face, I wanted to meet this magician and have him teach me his tricks, show me his scars. Father saw me and I earned ten strokes with the belt for just hearing about him." Philippe paused, measuring Raoul's reaction. He leaned forward, hands folded earnestly between his knees.

"Raoul, I swear, all I knew for years was that Rousseau was dangerous and he had a grudge against our family. That is all Father would tell me." The edges of Raoul's anger began to soften and blur. He knew what it was like to bear the crack of the belt and not know exactly what he had done wrong.

"I believe you, Philippe," he said quietly. Relief etched into his handsome features, Philippe cleared his throat and searched for the words to continue.

"Then you told me about Christine's teacher and-"

"A masked man named Erik Rousseau," Raoul said, finally understanding.

"Yes. I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to challenge him to a duel!" A faint flicker of his old irreverent amusement lit his tired face and Raoul smiled despite himself. He scratched his arm just above the plaster cast.

"I had little choice in the matter." A moment's pause, with only the fire crackling to itself.

"So, when Father died?" Raoul prompted. Philippe's jaw clenched.

"So Father was dying. Christine had just brought you back to the Château when Father summoned me." Philippe glanced sharply to one side and Raoul knew it to be a gesture meant to hide emotion. Whether the grief of a lost father, or the feelings of betrayal upon learning the secret, Raoul could sympathize.

"He sat me down and told me the whole sordid story." A thought occurred to Raoul, cutting through the grief and anger and betrayal like a knife.

Brother.

"Rousseau can't be legitimate." Philippe barked a quick, mirthless laugh.

"Odd, isn't it, that we would hope our father committed adultery instead of having such a brother!" Raoul acknowledged the irony with a snort.

"The answer is no. Rousseau—Erik—is a legitimate de Chagny heir. Not only that, he is the eldest." The enormity of it dawned on Raoul. By the divine right of primogeniture, Rousseau was the true Comte de Chagny. In one fell swoop, he could strip both Raoul and Philippe of their title and inheritance.

"How?" Raoul whispered. A sort of dark triumph lit Philippe's eyes, a morbid relief in sharing a terrible burden.

"Simple. Father was married once before Mother." Somehow, this made their father's betrayal more heinous. Not only had he hidden away a son, but a wife? Erased as if she never existed?

"Who was she?"

"Her name was Hélène Moureau. God, you should have seen him talk about her, Raoul! And with Mother standing right next to him! He still loved her. On his deathbed he still loved her."

"What happened to her?" God, was she still alive somewhere?

"She died in childbirth. In Father's opinion, it was merciful, before she saw the monstrosity of her son's face. Father was broken-hearted."

"So he sent the child away?" Philippe's stony face spoke volumes. The cold-blooded decision to cut off his firstborn made Raoul passionately grateful for his good looks. He looked at his feared, adored father in a new light.

"He couldn't bear to look at the boy that had killed his beloved Hélène. He regretted it, after a time, he said. But when he contacted the woman he paid to care for the boy, she said he ran away." Philippe couldn't seem to bear the words any longer; he leapt to his feet and began pacing the length of the room. Raoul watched. He couldn't remember ever seeing Philippe so agitated.

"The old bastard! He should have kept him here, or told us about him sooner! We could have helped him, we could have-" Raoul rose. This new, serious Philippe was a stranger to him.

"Philippe! You aren't seriously feeling sympathy for Rousseau, are you? He's a murderer-"

"Despised and unwanted from birth."

"He's mad-"

"A genius."

"He's-"

"Our brother!"

Raoul stared at his brother as if he had never seen him before.

"You would welcome him? After everything he's done to me?" he pounded his chest, "You would choose the shadow of dream rather than your own brother?" Philippe yanked Raoul into an embrace.

"No. Never, little brother. Never him over you," he whispered fiercely in his ear, "but Father wanted me to do this. He wanted me to set right what we took from him."

"It wasn't our fault what happened to him. Why must we suffer?"

Why must I suffer so? He has Christine, why must he take Philippe too?

Philippe pulled back and held him at arm's length, washed in a tiger's gold and black.

"You're right, it wasn't our fault. But it wasn't his either for being unlucky enough to be born first."

xxxxxx

A/N: So the plot marches ahead! But don't worry, plenty of E/C goodness in store!

Tell me what you think!