The bella prima donna - the phrase as insulting to his ears as her presence in these walls - insisted on taking her breakfast quite late in the morning, on the veranda overseeing the street below. It was part of her grand tradition, part of her pre-performance superstitious practices. She claimed, in her ugly and grating voice, that to see the masses beneath teaming with excitement for the upcoming show provided her with just enough excitement to propel her through the performance at her ultimate peak. In reality, these adoring throngs were nothing more than imagination. The hurried crowds bustling in the street below were not at all concerned with her and her ridiculous showcase, their thoughts and intentions turned more to crossing the street without getting crushed, the errands they had to run, getting back to their jobs or families.

Completely blinded by her own psychotic fantasies, she persisted in waving to those moving about below, pausing only to feed her equally ludicrously coiffed dogs a scrap from the table, or kiss them full on the mouth.

Everything about the woman was ridiculous.

She was fortunately so engrossed in her ministrations that she never noticed the brief disappearance of her champagne flute. Nor its sudden reappearance moments later, considerably bubblier than it left.

The understudy, a plump and sallow girl, had been a fair bit easier. He delivered the concoction via injection into a berry scone. She didn't question its placement on her dressing table, and gobbled it down almost immediately.

It took less than an hour for the news to spread. He heard it from the giddily screeching ballet girls, their voices a mix of horror and absolute glee.

"She vomited up her breakfast right in his lap! And again and again... she didn't stop until she'd coughed up her stockings!"

"Both of them, came down with it suddenly!"

"I hear it's a flu."

"No, no... maladies sexuellement."

There was a gasp and some tittering laughter.

"Well, I heard they were out drinking..."

He moved away from the crowd, feeling the smile spread. In three days time they would both have it quite out of their systems, and hopefully both be a bit humbled by their individual performances.

Moving through the flys, he was jarred by the vision of something he hadn't quite expected. Christine Daae stood beneath him, nervously poised. He wondered if the news had yet reached her. Before he could think to act, the corps de ballet surrounded her, regaling her at once with the tale of hilarity, the shrill voice of one Meg Giry rising above the others. His eyes narrowed. He had been overly generous to little Meg, and she remained as silly and impermanent as ever. Why, for the favor granted by her mother this very day he had promised to arrange her promotion. Yet she didn't behave a bit the prima ballerina she supposedly aspired to.

As if she had heard his thoughts, Madame Giry made her way through the crowd of tulle and white satin. Her words were low and terse, but he didn't need to hear them... after all, hadn't he written this little speech for her?

"Christine Daae will perform tonight. Her placement on the list of understudies was decided days ago. She is instructed to return to her dressing room until she is called for." She curtly thrust forth the letter confirming her statement, signed in the shaky hand of A. Moncharmin. Oh, this little bit of arranging had been hardly easy. He'd nearly had to threaten the man's entire genetic line in order to get him to acquiesce. But, gripped firmly in the cold hand of terror, he knew they would at least allow her this one night. This one chance.

It was all she needed.

He watched Christine move from the crowd in a daze, her face still trained on the words before her. With her so engrossed, it was easy enough to traverse the few hundred yards down below, up the side passageway, and into the corridor behind her dressing room mirror. There he waited for her arrival, every nerve needling in pain until the moment she opened the door, removed her cloak from her curls, and laid the letter on the dressing table.

"You're early..." he said quietly. "But better early than late. I hope you took adequate time for rest and food, you're going to need your strength tonight."

She'd never questioned his decision to have her practice solely from the upcoming opera's libretto. If she felt confusion in his insistence she perfected the lyrics and notes, she never showed it, not in the entirety of his tutelage.

Only once did she lose her temper, lashing out at him in exhaustion and frustration, demanding things from him that froze him in place. She'd showed such will and passion, such determination to not be left alone at the end of their session. Without thinking, he'd crossed the space between them, so close he could feel the angry puffs of air from her lips. It had been a new moon that night, the rehearsal space was pitch black. She shifted suddenly, as if she knew he stood so close, her face turning slightly upward, lips still parted. A strangled sob escaped her mouth, and a delirium-inducing wave of her warm breath hit his lower lip. Everything grew heavy, his grip on reality blurred. He realized with horror that he had raised a hand, reaching out, hellbent on pulling her to him.

Erik did the only reasonable thing he could think to do. He ran. For three days he hid from her, locked away in his empty house, pacing the carpets like a great caged beast until he was quite sure he had this impulse under control. When he returned, the guilt was overwhelming, she appeared to have neither slept nor ate, hovering in that stage of near insanity, waiting for that final slip.

As he saw her now, alive and healthy save the paleness that could only be borne of shock and nerves, he knew he could never wound her like that again. Not even if she demanded the unthinkable from him could he completely withdraw from her life. She, for whatever reason, needed him as he needed her.

If only it were in the same way.

"Marquerite," he continued, wrapping the word in tendrils of affection, "is an emotional role. You must draw on that tonight. Even more than I have required in your practices. She is someone who awakens to the siren's call of love, someone who knows its exquisite sting quite keenly. And even though it is all trickery, she believes in her heart that there is no other man for her in this world. You must sing as if you believe that as well." His eyes lowered, his words coming even though his mind railed against their meaning, "You must draw on that feeling of perfect love lost. You must remember what it is to be in love, and to have that love removed. Surely there is something you can cling to, surely you have felt that rush tempered by bitterness." His hands were fists at his side. She needed to channel the emotion, even if he couldn't bear to think of who ran through her head while she did so. He'd never thought of Christine experiencing love with anyone... but it had undoubtedly happened before. Something chaste and fleeting that caused that same enlightenment he'd felt the first time he'd heard her sing.

With a dull sinking sensation, he realized she'd probably feel it again. Even as he would remain here, shackled by the chains of her memory and the sour refrain of what-might-have-been, she would continue to experience love. With someone else.

Not with him.

He choked back the cry of frustration and rage, knowing that his words had betrayed him. Even now, after they had relentlessly escaped his lips, he knew the pathetic and deplorable sadness had infused every syllable. How he must sound, her glorious angel, jealous and maudlin. Hiding from her even though he desired her above all others.