As the train brought her ever closer to Pairs, she could feel her heart start to beat faster. Would he want to talk to her? Would he even open the door when she arrived? Would he be short with her like he had been in his letters? But she had to do this. She didn't think she could ever fully feel peace again unless she said what she needed to say to him.
Her first stop she headed to once she got off the train was her father's gravesite. She wished that he could have lived long enough to see her triumph on the stage, to hear her fully trained voice. She wished he could have been there to introduce his dear friend to her, so that she could have gotten to know him with her father there, so that by the time he was actually gone, she and Erik would have already been close and could have naturally fallen into each other. She wished that he hadn't had to go at all, that he could still be here now, five years from now, ten, fifteen—that he was still able to feel the sun on his face and play his violin with such joy and eat his favorite meals. She wished she could show him her new cooking skills just once.
By the time her cab brought her to Erik's doorstep, she had dried her eyes and touched up her makeup. She was ready to see her old teacher again—if he would allow it.
Erik was pacing the floor as Ayesha watched him curiously from the armrest of the couch. Christine had arrived in Paris, he was certain of it. And she was on her way to his very doorstep, he was certain of that, also. She had said as much in her letter. If he wanted to see her, all he had to do was open the door and usher her in. If not, well. He could simply pretend he wasn't home. She had practically spelled it out in her letter—I would greatly love to see you again, my dear maestro. I do hope you'll be home at noon on Wednesday. If you aren't and wish to see me too, drop Meg a line and she can tell me and we can meet up elsewhere. I want to talk to you, but I understand that you're very busy at times.
She had given him the perfect out. He didn't need to see her. It would probably be best if he didn't.
But he wanted to see her. A man as smart as him should know better, but he dearly wanted to see her too. It had been a whole year without her. He didn't need her. He had a life—a meager one, but it was his—outside of her. And yet—
He wanted to see his student face to face at least one more time.
There was a knock on the door, and he started. Ayesha twitched her ears. He cast a glance at his cat before heading to the front door.
Once there, he took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves before opening the door for her. They both paused, each of them just as surprised as the other that they were both here again. He held the door open for her, too overwhelmed for words, and she smiled at him as she entered.
Time felt like it had stopped for Christine as she gazed up at him. The memories of the last encounter they'd shared flooded her mind unbidden, the memories she'd had to content herself with on so many lonely nights in Brussels. She wanted to fall into his arms and embrace him and be embraced. His fine suit was a little baggy on his tall frame, and she wanted to ask if he'd been eating enough lately. His hair was a little more gray at the edges, and she was curious if under the mask his face held a few more lines than when she'd seen him last. It had been so long, and so much had changed, and she wanted to weep in grief and regret and joy and relief. Instead she merely stood on his doorstep, eyes wide and unblinking as she tried to find the words to greet the man who had been so influential in her life—so influential and so badly treated.
She wondered if he, too, could look at her and see the ghost of the last year haunting her countenance, if Thomas had been correct and her youthful enjoyment of newfound freedom had irreversibly stained her somehow. Would Erik turn her away if he knew?
Erik was struck silent in temporary disbelief at the vision of loveliness before him. He let his eyes trail over her, knowing he needed to say something but uncertain what. Her hair was glossy and pinned fashionably, her powdered nose just as delicate as he'd remembered. She wore a lovely necklace strung with pearls and a blue stone, accentuating the cut—the very low cut, he couldn't help how his eyes lingered—of the neckline of her beautiful dress. His mouth was suddenly dry and useless. He had, on his most shameful nights, ardently recalled every dip and curve of her body, but memory was nothing next to being here with her again. His face felt like it was on fire under the mask.
"I've missed you," she finally breathed.
"You look—" he ran a hand through his hair, eyes still glued to the daring amount of cleavage on display. "You look amazing, my dear."
She beamed at his compliment, but her nervousness was still there. She half wanted to avoid the topic she knew she needed to bring up, but he deserved to hear the truth, no matter how shameful it made her feel.
To her instant relief, he opened the door wide and ushered her in.
They exchanged polite, awkward, belated greetings as they walked side by side to the living room, where Ayesha was sitting in front of the fireplace. Upon Christine's entrance, Ayesha turned to look at her, taking one second before she began to yowl horribly, darting out of the room at top speed. Christine smiled wryly.
"I see Ayesha is the same as always," she noted, and Erik chuckled.
"Some things never change, it seems," he agreed.
Some things might not change, but Christine did notice a few changes in the room since she'd been there last.
"You got a new couch," she remarked, surprised.
"Yes," he said simply.
She glanced from it to him and back again.
"You got rid of the other one?"
"I did."
"But it was your mother's couch."
"It was," he agreed, his voice deceptively nonchalant.
"Oh." The likely reasons he had parted with his beloved mother's couch were not lost on her. She couldn't blame him for not wanting it, not after certain memories were tied so strongly to it, but the implication settled heavily upon her—
She'd ruined one of the few remaining connections he'd had to his dear mother.
"Would you like some tea?" He offered.
"Yes, thank you."
He left for the kitchen and she felt awkward just standing there by herself, so she followed him. She stood shyly in the kitchen, watching him light his samovar. He glanced at her as he prepared their teacups, smiling slightly.
"I wanted to talk to you about something," she said softly.
"You may speak," he told her.
"I have so much to say, I hardly know where to start."
"Start anywhere, I suppose. Is everything okay?" He paused, giving her a look of concern.
"I guess that depends, really." She picked at her nails nervously. She certainly didn't feel like a famous opera star at the moment.
He poured a cup of tea for her and slid the cup towards her. She took it gratefully, taking a long drink from it. He slowly sipped from his own cup, still watching her. When she managed to meet his eye, she saw no judgment there, and it gave her the courage to say what she needed to say.
"I need to say something about—about our marriage."
He set his cup down, tilting his head slightly. She was silent, trying to gauge his reaction, and he nodded for her to continue.
"Erik, I was so awful to you back then. In so many ways. I wish I could make it up to you somehow. I thought love was so many other things than what it is. I thought it was about passion that sweeps you off your feet, or something that you could sample like a cake at a bakery and leave after that. I was afraid that it might be obeying someone because a little piece of paper said you had to. But I can see it now, so clearly. Love was when you looked after me when I was broken. It was when you pushed aside your own hurts to look after me, when you patiently helped me get better for my own sake. Love was letting me go to Brussels even when you wanted me to stay, because you knew how much it would mean to me. Love isn't perfumed letters and flowery words and butterflies and kisses—well, maybe it can be, sometimes. Maybe they're a part of love, but they don't mean anything without real love underneath. Real love is putting the other person first, it's caring about them more than you care about your own wants. And you have loved me like that for so long, Erik. I am so sorry that I couldn't see that sooner. I know nothing can ever make it better for you, but I am so sorry I treated you the way I did."
She set her tea down, folding her hands in her lap. The words hung in the air between her and him.
Erik ducked his head. He didn't know what to say to all this, if anything even needed to be said. Perhaps she merely needed to say it all, like a confession, to clear her mind and her heart.
"You deserve someone who loves you like that," she continued, blinking hard against the tears threatening in the corners of her eyes. "And I know that I am much too late in this, but being away for so long made me realize something. I love you, Erik. I don't know when or how it happened, but I do. I don't expect you to return the feeling, not after everything that's happened—everything I put you through. But there's two things I needed to tell you, to let you know. I am sorry for what I did to you, and I love you."
He reached out and cradled the side of her face in one hand, thumb brushing across her delicate cheekbone as she stared up into his eyes, her brow creased under the weight of her own confession.
"Talk is cheap, Christine," he said quietly. "Words are so easily given, promises made, and broken just as easily. Words don't mean anything to me, not anymore."
He would have expected the younger Christine he had known to burst into tears at her rebuffed confession of love, but this Christine only nodded slightly, placing her own hand over his hand on her face, holding it there.
"I know," she said sadly. "I know."
She let her hand fall away with a soft sigh, and he let go of her. He turned from her, unable to bear her gaze on him any longer, and took his almost empty teacup to the kitchen. Part of him was screaming at himself to pull her close and kiss her hard, to marry her again, to live happily ever after with her now that she was willing, but he was not strong enough to lose her again. If she changed her mind, if she didn't really mean it—he could not. He could not go through that again.
He cleared his throat, trying to find his words as he came back into the living room.
"I—I appreciate the sentiment, Christine," he said, his voice a little rough with unshed tears. "But I didn't always love you like that. I know there were plenty of times, especially in the beginning, when I did not. And I am sorry for those."
"You've grown," she said simply. "We both have. That's in the past, for me at least. Those times when you—it's over now. We are both not those people any longer. Time changes people."
He would have liked to believe it was true, that time could change a person. But he was afraid he had been the same old Erik since the day he was born and would be till the day he died. He certainly didn't feel any different.
"A lovely sentiment," he repeated in a murmur.
She wiped the backs of her hands over her eyes, trying to clear the tears away. She hadn't expected Erik to share her feelings, not anymore, but it still hurt to think about. She'd taken his love and trampled all over it without ever realizing the worth of the precious gift she'd held in her hands and tossed carelessly aside until it was too late.
"I'll think of you in Vienna," she said as she came to stand next to him, trying to tame the tremble in her voice. "I think of you often. I never would have gotten these opportunities without you. May—may I hug you?"
He said nothing but held his arms open to her and she quickly fell into his embrace, squeezing her eyes shut as she hugged him tightly. If she could only do it all over again—
She pulled back from him at last, teary eyed and sniffling.
"I'm sorry," she said, laughing a little even as she cried. "I must look a fright."
"You are always beautiful, Christine," he said kindly. "Are you leaving soon for Vienna?"
She nodded, dabbing at her face with her handkerchief.
"Tonight! I'm seeing Meg and then I'm heading out again."
"That's a short stay in Paris," he mused, and she nodded again, a little slower.
"I only had a few people I wanted to see. Papa, Meg, and… you."
There was something in the way she said it that made it feel like even though he was last on the list, he was actually the main reason for coming to Paris. He cleared his throat, slightly uncomfortable. If she was going to offer any physical pleasures he was determined to turn them down, no matter how pretty she looked even when she was crying. That door was shut between them forever, despite how badly he wanted otherwise.
"It was good to see you again," he told her. "I'm glad you're doing so well. Let me know when you stop by Paris next, okay?"
She bit her lip and fidgeted, glancing about nervously.
"I'm sorry to ask," she said in a small voice. "But Erik—are you mad at me? For everything? Anything? Please, I want to know, even if the answer is yes, I just want to know—"
He reached a hand out and placed it on her arm, squeezing gently.
"No," he said honestly. "No. I'm not mad at you, Christine."
She breathed a sigh of relief.
"Okay," she said. "Thank you. I think—well, if someone did to me what I did to you—that night on the couch—I don't think I could find it in my heart to overlook that very easily. I can scarcely forgive myself for it. You're a better person than I am, I think."
He only smiled kindly, pulling her into a quick hug before patting her back.
"It's the past now," he said again. "You don't have to hold onto it."
She sniffed hard and nodded.
"I'll—I'll see you soon," she told him.
She hesitated after she said it, realizing that she actually wouldn't see him again for sometime.
His smile held a hint of sadness.
"Go live it up in Vienna. Live your dream. Gustave would love knowing his little girl had become a star."
She smiled a wobbly smile and hugged him one last time. He walked her to the sidewalk where they flagged down a cab for her, and she was taken out of his life once more.
She slumped down in the cab as it pulled her away from Erik, alone. She had expected to leave alone. There had been no words of love from Erik, and she hadn't expected any. But he deserved an apology, meager and scant though it was. He deserved, also, to know that someone out there did hold love for him, even if they couldn't—shouldn't, perhaps—be together. That someone out there smiled when they thought of him. He deserved to know he was loved. She glanced back at the building where he lived as it grew smaller and smaller in the distance. He deserved the world.
He went back inside and settled himself at his work desk, trying to focus on the blueprint in front of him. The phone blessedly rang, saving him from having to concentrate.
It turned out to be just what he needed—Andre, one of opera house managers, wanted him to come look at the progress on the construction site he had commissioned Erik to build. His schedule free now that Christine had gone, Erik set out to go visit it without hesitation—anything to occupy his mind.
He was almost regretting his decision to simply send her away. He tried not to think about it as he arrived at the construction site, tried to focus on what he needed to do.
There were workers bustling about, hard at work to create the kind of facade he'd designed. He was quickly spotted by the foreman of the project waving at him from the second story of the nearly completed building, Andre by his side. Erik made his way up to see what he wanted.
They exchanged greetings as Erik met them on the balcony and the foreman began filling Erik and Andre in on what direction they had been going. Erik nodded along, listening with his arms crossed, his eyes roving around the work site.
A large bag of cement mix was being pulled up to the second floor by a pulley system, and Erik eyed it as the worker behind the foreman tugged on the rope. Erik noticed the fray in the rope before anyone else did. He had just enough time to glance down and see that someone was walking underneath where the bag was dangling. If the bag fell, the person would be killed.
The rope frayed a little more, then suddenly separated all at once. Erik shot forward and grabbed the rope just below the fray, and a moment later everything went black.
