Thanks for sticking around with this story. I really appreciate it.
To say that Nadir feared for what he would find in Erik's flat was a gross understatement. Erik, when unsupervised, had a tendency to ruin at least one life, whether it be his own or someone else's.
Nadir was terrified. Would he find Erik's flat empty, with the masked man gone without a sign, or would he find blood smeared all over the walls, along with his friend's poor corpse? Nadir sure hoped that he would not find that.
He grimaced. How would I explain that to Christine?
Yet the apartment was quiet when he entered. It wasn't clean by any means- there was a pile of shattered glass beneath the mantle and a mess of papers on the floor, but there was no blood. No dead bodies, be it Erik's or otherwise. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Nadir began by sweeping up the music sheets into a neat and tidy pile, placing them upon the piano. The instrument had a layer of dust on it, he noticed numbly. The Persian's eyebrows knit together with concern as he turned to survey the rest of the room. One of the armchairs was overturned, but besides that, everything in the parlor was as it should be (albeit the neglected feel of the room.) He moved on to the kitchen.
Nadir flinched as glass crunched underfoot, and he looked down to examine an empty, former wine glass.
"Oh my," he whispered.
The entire kitchen was a mess. The liquor cabinet was in pieces, simply a puddle of wood shards on the tile. The wine glass that had just met its unceremonious end was not the only vessel on the floor.
It took him a while to locate a dustpan to collect the sharp pieces with, and it took even longer for Nadir to make the kitchen look even slightly presentable. Eventually Nadir simply gave up, padding back into the living room. It was time to stop beating around the bush and simply finish what he came here to do.
"Erik?" he called. There was no response.
Apprehension filled Nadir as he stepped down the hallway where he knew Erik's bedroom must lay. There were only three doors, but all were closed shut. Nadir once more worried what he would find behind Erik's door. He was not prepared to take care of a dead body.
He chose a random door, slowly opening it to reveal a small bedroom.
Immediately Nadir realized this was where Gustave had stayed. The room was painted pale blue, and the (cheap) carpet was not something that Erik would have ever normally picked for himself. The only sign that anyone had ever slept in the room was the wrinkled bed sheets where the boy had slept, and some sketches strewn on a desk.
The Persian closed the door and moved on to the next room. This door was locked. Nadir had his answer.
He rapped on the wood a few times. After a moment or two (it felt more like an hour had passed,) the locked clicked and the knob turned, revealing a rumpled and very angry Erik.
"What the hell are you doing here?" the masked man hissed. His fierce amber eyes glared down at Nadir. Bright and angry.
"I came here to make sure you hadn't drowned in your own misery, friend." he retorted, pushing past Erik into the room.
The bed was a mess, the covers yanked off and onto the floor, everything that had (at one point) been on Erik's bedside table was a mess on the thick carpet. It would be hell to clean.
"Would you care to explain why you have decided to barge into my flat, without my permission?" The former Phantom growled from the entrance, one bony hand still wrapped tightly around the doorknob. As Nadir turned to examine his friend, he noticed how skinny Erik had gotten. He had always been unhealthily thin, but this was a shock compared to how fit he had seemed just a week or two ago.
"Great Allah!" the Persian gasped. "Erik, have you eaten at all?"
"Why should I? There's no point in me going on anymore." the man replied. Nadir gave him a blank stare as the other man continued ranting.
"Gustave and Christine have moved on, what do I have left? Nothing but useless love cantatas and arias that will never be sung. I have no worth, foolish Persian!"
With ever word Erik seemed to take a step forward, before he and Nadir were standing barely a foot apart. Erik loomed a good head above Nadir, but slowly Erik's anger deflated, and he leaned back. There was a long breath, and the masked man seemed to collapse inwardly on himself.
"I have no worth…"
Nadir hushed him, planting his hands on the other man's shoulders. "I wouldn't say that, my friend. You have plenty of worth, just look at Phantasma all around you. Someone worthless could not even dream up such a place."
Erik breathed a shuddery sigh, shaking his head slightly and backing out of his grip gently. "And what," he swallowed, "Do you suppose I should do without Christine at the season-closing production? She was my catch- the only reason anyone would buy any tickets. If it doesn't draw in any money, what shall I tell the employees?"
"Erik…" Nadir interrupted. "Christine didn't leave, and she's not going to. I saw her today."
A pause, then:
"W-what?" Erik swung around to stare, wide-eyed at Nadir. "You are pulling my leg, Nadir. This is no joking manner."
"I'm not kidding, Erik. I saw her at rehearsals this afternoon. I was as shocked as you were, but she said she was planning on following through with her promise. She'll still be presenting."
The silence in the room that followed his statement made Nadir worry that the masked man was about to go into cardiac arrest. Erik stood stock-still in shock, the only motion being the tense clenching and unclenching of his hands.
Eventually, Erik regained control of his functions, giving himself a slight shake and turning his back on Nadir.
"Then," he breathed. "It seems that she is an even bigger of a fool than you are."
XXxxXX
Erik busied himself for the next few minutes by cleaning up the house the best that he could, mostly to ignore Nadir and secondly to gather his thoughts.
Christine had… stayed?
The concept was so terribly foreign to him, the idea slipping through his fingers every time it flashed in his mind.
She was here. Still in New York. She isn't going to leave.
She's still singing. For him.
Erik hissed as he absentmindedly sliced his finger on a sharp piece of glass. Drops of blood beaded at the cut, as he examined it ruefully.
"You hurt yourself," came the tired voice of the Persian. "You'd best wash it out before it gets infected."
"No need to mother me, Daroga," Erik growled. "I've survived the past forty-something years without one-I do not need you to tell me what to do."
The only response he received was an irritated exhale.
Nevertheless, Erik cleaned the cut and wrapped the finger in a small bandage. The injury wasn't too deep, after all.
And then, later one, once he was all alone, Erik knew what he had to do.
His cloak and hat were set out, untouched from their usual hooks by the door. He slid them on with ease, foregoing changing into a nicer shirt or pants, and headed out into the black of night.
It couldn't have been any later than 1:00 AM, after all. He hadn't bothered to check.
Erik treasured his privacy to a great amount, not usually wishing to go out in public all too often. Besides the times he spent out managing his employees at the Opera house (and occasionally the rest of the park, but he had others to do that job for him. He was more of a fund-raiser of sorts than an actual owner at times,) he did most of his work at home or in his office. But he hated that office, so he tried not to use it all too often. It was stifling, and suffocating, and so damn dreary. Unlike the rest of his glorious opera house.
And now he found himself at the side door of the building in question, his cloak clutched tightly around himself. He slid inside the side entrance without any issues.
Erik found himself at a loss upon arrival at his destination. Since completion of her dressing room (and it had always been envisioned as hers, even subconsciously,) he had not stepped foot inside of the cursed room.
And now he was standing in front of the large, floor to ceiling mirror that stood in the very back on it. He hated himself. He hated himself so terribly much at that moment.
Yet still he found a piece of parchment (and a pen) and quickly scribbled out his note. He decided to forego any other quirks that had accompanied his letters to her in the past. This one was simple written with black ink, no special signature, no red rose, no nothing. Just Christine written on the front.
There wasn't anything else I can do, he found himself realizing, almost numbly. It's all up to her now.
Only she could decide whether to accept or decline what he had in mind.
And while his heartbeat accelerated at the thought of her, he still felt that oh-so familiar pang of anxiety he was coming to loath.
XXxxXX
Christine Daae was exhausted. Gustave had awoken from a nightmare a little past midnight (something to do with a castle and ghosts- he was hardly coherent,) and she had been unable to fall back asleep. She had managed to spill her tea on her dress after she had just changed out of her nightgown, and by the time she was ready to depart, she had been a full two hours late.
She said a fleeting 'hello' to Meg and a few of the other ballerinas, before stumbling to her dressing room. Perhaps she could take a nice and short nap before practicing by herself for a few hours?
But no, there was a letter on her desk, and her name was written on it. She recognized that handwriting. How could she ever forget?
After not hearing a word from him for over two weeks, she was still surprised. She read the letter with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
Christine,
I have recently been informed that you are indeed going to proceed with singing the aria at the season-finishing performance.
In that case, you will most likely require a tutor once more. I can return your voice to its former splendor. I formally request that you allow me to teach you once more.
No strings attached, no catch. I will not expect anything more of you than your voice, and you can leave at any moment you wish.
If you wish to decline my invitation, take the paper- burn it- throw it away for all I care. I shall never bother you again and once more I shall mention that you would be free to leave. If you accept, leave the letter here and arrive in two days time at rehearsal. Unless you have any objections, we shall practice in a small studio at the other end of the theatre. Meg will know what room, simply ask her if you cannot find it.
Cordially, Erik.
She read it again. And again.
She squeezed the paper a few times to make sure it wasn't real, and that this wasn't another dream where she would wake up, back in France. Christine folded it in half and simply held the note in her hands.
It was so formal she didn't quite know what to think. She had been practicing by herself for the most part, but she was no fool and knew how much more helpful it would be to be taught once more by Erik. Her voice had been spectacular under his instructions, and she wanted nothing more than instructions.
They could both benefit from this arrangement.
Christine steadily set the note back down where she had found it, turning away to face the mirror as if she could simply ignore the letter on her desk. She ran through her scales, keeping her eyes trained on her reflection.
But she still found her gaze drifting over to the desk, her thoughts trained on anything but her practice. After she faltered in her notes a few too many times, Christine excused herself to sit down on the sette, settling her chin on her hand, staring at the desk that sat adjacent.
Christine leaned back on the couch, yawning a little as she did so. After all, she was very tired. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to finally take that short nap she had been thinking about.
She hadn't meant to fall asleep long past the afternoon. It was a good six hours later when she awoke, rehearsals having ended a while ago. Christine swore under her breath, jerking up and running a hand through her now-mussed hair. She'd have to run to race home, that was for sure.
XXxxXX
Raoul accosted her the moment she stepped through the door.
"Where were you?" he breathed, his hands wrapped around her forearms.
"A-at work, why-"
"You were gone so long, I didn't know what to think! I was terrified, Christine. What kept you so late?"
She pried herself from his grip, half-heartedly glaring at him as she hung her hat on the designated hook.
"I was tired, and so I took a nap. It was not my intention to sleep as long as I did. I am sorry."
Raoul appeared satisfied by her explanation, leaning back and glancing warily at the hallway. Gustave must have been in his room.
"I didn't mean to yell at you," he sighed after a moment.
This caught her attention. Christine turned to look at him.
"I know I've been high-strung lately. I know it seems ridiculous but…"
"But?"
Now he was the one to turn away, sitting on the couch and rubbing his face.
"Back when Gustave was missing, a small part of me was worried that it was the Phantom that had him in his grips. Crazy, right? That creature is long-dead, and yet he still haunts me beyond the grave." He twisted in his chair to see her reaction. "Isn't it crazy?"
Her brow furrowed, but she did not reply immediately as she moved to sit across from him.
"I don't think there's any use dwelling on it anymore. Gustave is safe, the Phantom is gone."
He hummed noncommittally. "For a few moments I was worried that you had been spending time with him, and that's why you were so late."
Christine smiled at him softly.
"Raoul.. I think you need some sleep. You must be tired, and you've had a few too many beers."
"I've only had a few," he complained, his accompanying yawn betraying his exhaustion.
"'Only a few' is a few too many," she muttered beneath her breath, holding out a hand and helping him up. He appeared to have not heard, but even if he had it wouldn't have been much big of a deal. Raoul was well aware how much she disliked his drinking. It wasn't that he was violent or mean when drunk (If he had, she would have left him as soon as his addiction began-) she simply appreciated a spouse that was all there, as so to speak.
"It's only eight o'clock," he huffed as she opened the bedroom door, but yielded beneath her warm hands as she gently pushed him.
"Goodnight, dear," she said and headed back into the parlor. She'd follow him in an hour or two, but she wasn't yet ready to sleep. Not when her nerves were as spiked as they were with memories of that afternoon.
Perhaps a late night cup of tea would do her some good. Chamomile tea, preferably.
While waiting for her drink to ready, she hurried and quietly changed out of her day dress into a comfortable nightgown. It was her favorite, one that she had made sure to bring back from France. While most of her nightgowns were off-white, this one was a soft blue with ruffles along the neckline and at the bottom hem. She breathed a sigh of relief to be freed from the restricting corset, her hands playing absentmindedly with the sides of the dress.
A few minutes later she stood before the large window, mug in hand. Christine stared out at the street below, which was void of any people at this time at night. She raised a hand to the glass, pressing her palm against it after a moment and watching the fingerprints left behind.
"It has to be around ten by now," she murmured, stifling a yawn of her own as she retracted her hand from the surface, preparing to close the drapes and call it a night.
And then she noticed something.
She blinked, and her stomach did a small somersault.
On the railing of the deck sat a rose, all alone, with a black satin bow tied around the stem.
I am BEGGING for reviews. On my knees. Please drop a review. What did you think of his letter? What do you think will happen next?