For my brother. You inspire me.
Thank you again to my beautiful reviewers! You never fail to make me smile. I hope I do the same for you!
Disclaimer: I don't even know what I'd do with the rights to the Phantom of the Opera.
Christine Daaé threw her ballet shoes under her dormroom bed and clawed for a pair of spat boots, raising one foot up in the air to tug them on and tripping in the process.
Erik WhoseLastNameHasNeverBeenRevealed shuffled his scores and headed for one of the many doors in his lair, sweeping his cloak over his shoulder.
Christine Daaé seethed in irritation as she tried for the fourth time to tie her shoe in a proper bow, settling instead for a tangled knot before picking herself up off the floor and rushing towards the door breathless.
Erik WhoseLastNameIsProbablyNotDestler kept close to the shadows of his favorite long corridor, the stone hall that emptied into an alcove hidden from the view of an old abandoned chapel conveniently adjacent to the Opéra Populaire. Lighting the dozen or so candles spaced about the room, he took his usual seat at the baby grand piano and lovingly arranged the pieces he hoped to hear Christine sing that afternoon.
Meg Giry traipsed up to the dormroom she shared with Christine just as said soprano burst through the door, running headlong into Meg and toppling the two of them to the floor. Meg yelped in shock, but Christine scrambled up with hardly an apology on her lips, determination driving her forward.
"Christine!" Meg called, hefting herself up with the grace of a dancer. "I have a note!"
A wide U-turn sent Christine hurtling back towards Meg, anxious eyes searching for the parchment in her hand.
Meg handed her a cream envelope. Christine's heart sank; it wasn't edged in black. Swallowing her disappointment, she slipped her finger beneath the flap and tore it open.
Your presence is requested
immediately in the study of
Madame Giry, head instructor
of dance.
Christine moaned.
Erik pursed his lips. Christine was late for her lesson.
Christine charged across the hall leading toward Madame Giry's office, feet and hair flying, leaving Meg behind her empty-handed.
Erik tapped his fingernails on the piano's music holder.
Madame Giry glanced up with even control as a wild-looking Christine Daaé burst into her study. Sliding her glasses from her nose, the dance instructor motioned toward a high-backed chair that faced her mahogany desk. Christine flinched. This was going to take a while.
Erik huffed a sigh, accidentally blowing out one of the candles on the piano. Grumbling in irritation, he took another burning candle and lit the one he'd blown out. "Tedious," he muttered.
With nothing to do, Meg Giry goose-stepped lazily toward one of the many lair entrances, humming "Frère Jacques" under her breath.
Christine tentatively perched in Madame's chair, her body angled toward the door. Oh, God, she was late. She was so, so late.
"Mademoiselle," her director began, seeming oblivious to Christine's apprehensive jitters, "I've called you here specifically to warn you of a questioning that will be taking place tomorrow. I've already told Meg, and feel obligated to tell you as well, as I think of you as a daughter also."
Christine bowed her head. "Thank you."
Madame Giry cleared her throat. "A great deal of alcohol has been found in several of the locked dressing room cupboards. Tomorrow, they are planning a questioning for everyone who had access to that dressing room. Do you know of anyone who may have been keeping the alcohol?"
"No, ma'am."
"Good. That's the answer I want when they ask. Now you mustn't tell anyone about the examination. Do you understand, Christine?"
"Yes, ma'am." Christine mentally prepared to leave.
"Alright. Now about your dance techniques..."
Christine sighed.
Erik stared emptily at his piano keys. Where was she? She'd never been this late before. Surely she had a reason...
Erik froze.
What if she wasn't coming at all?
A chill ran up his spine. She'd never missed a lesson. Not once in eleven years. His breathing sped.
Calm down, he ordered himself, but nerves were already beginning to wrack his body. No! She was coming! She-she had to! Oh, Christine! Where was she?
She was nailed to the chair in her director's study, eyes riveted on Madame Giry, mind racing down the hall and bursting into the chapel to meet the Angel and apologize profusely. How would he react? Oh, God, he'd probably be angry. She didn't want to upset him. She wanted so badly to please him. This wouldn't please him at all. She cursed herself for her foolishness, thinking she could have ignored Madame's note in favor of the Angel. Christine trembled. What would he do?
I would forgive her for being late, Erik vowed. Just please... Let her come.
Silence rang throughout the chapel.
"And you understand what I want from you now?"
Christine nodded mechanically.
"Good. You're free to go."
Christine bolted.
Meg Giry pushed open a lair door. "Erik, I'm ho-ome!" she sang. Her only answer was the echo of her voice on the water. He wasn't here.
Oh, shit, Meg thought, they're probably at a voice lesson. What had she been thinking, giving Christine that note from her mother? She was probably late. Oh, well.
What could have made her not come? Erik held his face in his hands, elbows perched at the edge of the piano board so they wouldn't hit any keys. Had she tired of him? Decided she no longer needed his guidance? Had he frightened her somehow?
Frightened her. Erik sucked in a sharp breath, remembering their last lesson, when he had told her that he was the Phantom of the Opera. She had fainted in fear. Of course.
He had finally driven her away from him. A knife of despair drove itself just below his heart. No. No no no. She wasn't coming. She'd never come back. He had lost her forever.
A bottomless pit of agony yawned before him, and he fell.
Christine was halfway to the chapel when she realized something.
She'd left her book of soprano arias in her dormroom.
She screamed and tore back after the book.
Meg meandered towards the pipe organ Erik kept pressed against the far wall, tracing her fingers lightly over the ivory. She paused at a particularly high note on the right side of two black keys, and, curiosity getting the best of her, she pressed down.
A shrill whine-more like a banshee cry, actually-rang throughout the room at top volume. Meg shrieked and leapt back from the offensive instrument, the note still screaming in her ears. She covered her ears with her hands, trying to block out the hellish sound, but it was no use; the echo came from inside her mind.
Mind reeling, Erik gathered his scores, blew out the candles, and left.
Christine charged across the hall once more, aria book in hand.
Each step Erik took down his once-favorite corridor was a trial. Melodies began to tease at his mind, music that sang of misery and the torture of loss. He memorized the sequences, working out a harmony and imagining how he could translate it to the page and find a perfect spot in Don Juan Triumphant. He immersed himself in the promise of music, allowing it to consume him.
The chilling silence of an empty chapel was shattered when a very late Christine Daaé tore into the room, not even hesitating to strike a match and light her usual candle with a trembling hand as she folded herself into a sitting position before the wall.
"Angel of Music, Please Forgive Me; Grant to Me Your Blessing!"
Silence ensued.
"Angel, I Need You! Do Not Leave Me! Answer Me, Strange Angel!"
Deafening silence.
Tears shook Christine's voice as she changed key. "Angel, I'm Sorry! Please-" Her voice broke. "I'm so sorry!" She began to sob.
Erik did not notice Meg scribbling at his desk when he entered the lair from the corridor.
Erik did not see her wave, and did not hear her ask how the lesson went.
Erik did not think.
Erik did not feel.
Erik sat down at his organ, and Erik brooded.
Meg set her drawing aside and stood up from her spot at Erik's desk to approach the Opera Ghost, who stared at his organ keys with a dejected expression.
Jesus, she thought, it's like Christine didn't even show.
"Erik?"
No response.
Part of Meg whispered, "Just leave him alone, he's in one of his moods," but the other part had Meg reaching out a tentative forefinger towards Erik's head, slowly slowly slowly slowly daring to poke just above his ear.
Erik slumped forward, his forehead hitting a shit ton of organ keys, making a horrid clashing sound.
Meg sighed.
"I'll sing for you," Christine promised rashly. "I'll sing anything you want me to! I'll never be late again! Just please, Angel, please answer me!" She squeezed her eyes shut as sobs wracked her body, curling her shoulders forward and knotting her hands in the folds of her water-stained dress. "Y-You want me to sing!" she cried. "I'll sing!" She sniffled. "I'll sing for you!" She reached for the soprano book of arias, flipping through the pages looking for one to sing, accidentally leaving water marks on the paper from fingers wet from wiping tears.
"Erik honey." Meg eased him off the keyboard. "Tell me what's wrong." Blessedly, pulling his face off the organ ceased the horrendous note-clash.
No response.
"You haven't even blinked since coming in here."
Silence.
"By the way, Christine left a note while you were gone."
"WHAT?!" Instantly his eyes reanimated and he grabbed Meg by the arms. "WHERE? WHEN?!"
"I knew you were listening." Meg grinned. "I lied, by the way. Sorry. So what's wrong?"
All the life seemed to dissipate from Erik's being, leaving a vacant sort of deathliness in its place.
"Erik," Meg said quietly, "I care about you. Please tell me so we can..." Meg's voice trailed off. What on earth was that sound? Erik seemed to be oblivious, his eyes blankly set on whatever lay before him, but Meg could definitely hear... Something. Upon focusing, it took form, high, broken, and unmistakeable.
Meg tugged at Erik's sleeve.
He didn't move.
She tugged harder.
He still didn't move.
Meg firmly placed both of her hands beneath Erik's arms and forced him up from the piano bench.
"You don't hear that?"
"Let me die."
"Quit whining and listen."
"I hear nothing but the weeping of my heart!"
"YOU'RE SUCH A DRAMA QUEEN. COME ON." Meg took him by the hand and led him like a child into the dark corridor that Erik had entered from.
It had been easy to select her song. Lascia Ch'io Pianga from Rinaldo rang throughout the room on broken notes.
"Rapimmi al caro Ciel di miei contenti!"
You have abducted me from the blessed Heaven, from my happiness...
"E qui con duolo eterno viva mi tieni, in tormentoso Inferno."
And here, in eternal pain, you hold me alive, tormented in Hell.
"Signor! Ah! Per pietà lasciami piangere."
Oh Lord! Have pity! Let me weep.
Thirteen years. Thirteen years he'd loved her, and thirteen years he'd thought he'd had a chance. Thirteen years spent yearning, planning, loving... Now all had been for naught. He'd never hear her sing again. Not for him. His eyes clouded over.
I must shut out emotion. I must not think. Do not let the pain break through.
I feel nothing anymore.
Erik's feet were dragging. Meg gave a good yank on his arm, earning little response. After contemplating whether it would be easier to push him into the gondola and drag that around, Meg settled on grabbing his bow-tie and pulling him around like that, which proved to be much more effective.
In his drifting mind, she sang to him again. She had chosen an aria about suffering, there in his dream.
Why does my angel sing of pain? he wondered. She should sing of joy, of beauty. She should sing of all the things she deserves. Yet he could not think of a song joyous or beautiful enough to contain all that she deserved. Still, his imaginary angel sang. He clung to the sound of her voice, letting it fill his soul and lift him up. He wasn't allowed to feel, but this was different. Not feeling, but... Flying, almost.
Christine.
Christine, Christine, Christine.
Her name bounced in his mind from a thousand different directions, barely contained, repeating, overlapping: Christine! Christine! Christine!
Erik broke through.
Finding resistance against her guiding hand, Meg turned to find him straighten up, blink, and whisper, "Christine."
He'd finally heard her.
Meg gripped Erik's hand tight and ran with him. The song was ending. "This way!" she cried, leading toward the abandoned chapel. Erik stumbled for just an instant, dazed, before regaining his strength through the sound of her voice and sprinting behind Meg, clutching her hand like a lifeline.
"Il duo infranga queste ritorte..."
Let sorrow break these chains...
"De' miei martiri, sol per pietà."
... Of my sufferings, for pity's sake.
"Very beautiful, my child."
"Angel!" Christine gasped and wiped madly at the tears still streaming down her cheeks. "You came!"
Erik removed his mask to brush a few tears away himself. "I am always here, my dear... My love."
Meg, standing behind him, smiled.
Christine clambered up and stood before the place his voice came from, just behind the wall, and brought her hands up to rest her palms against the cool bricks.
Replacing his mask with wide eyes, Erik's own hands trembled as they met hers on the opposite side, where he could see and she could not.
Christine broke into a grin as though she could see him, and all at once, began to laugh as new tears filled her eyes.
Erik found himself laughing with her.
Quietly, Meg stole from the hall, still smiling.
"I know the alcohol is yours."
Duront, red-faced and shaky, sat before his father with his hands balled into fists on the desk and his chin to his chest.
"We have two options," Monsieur Reyer continued. "One, you admit to having brought it into the opera house and performing under the influence, which would result in immediate expulsion from the Populaire and my household." Duront's head shot up to look his father in the eye. "Or two: you give up your drinking and we forget this ever happened." Duront slumped back into his former position. "I advise you to consider your options, and choose wisely. Will it be your pride, or your addiction?"
A terse silence passed between the two.
"Find something to do with yourself," Monsieur Reyer said coldly. "Don't get into trouble."
Duront shoved himself away from the table and left the room.
It was dark inside the opera house; the sun had disappeared quickly in fear of the autumn moon, which cast a faint glow through the windows as he headed towards the ballet dormitories.
Find something to do with yourself, he repeated in his mind. Like what?
He pulled open the heavy oaken door leading down the staircase that would take him to his room, just as a little blonde girl burst through.
They both cried out in surprise as she knocked headlong into Duront, bouncing back with the grace of a dancer as Duront stood dumbfounded.
"Sorry," the girl gasped, blinking rapidly as she looked up at his face. "Oh! I know you."
Duront brought the petite dancer into focus. "I-I think I know you too."
She smiled and bobbed a curtsy. "Meg."
He bent at the waist with an answering simper. "Duront."
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