Author's Note: Quick Note! It is going to to be a bit before I can post the next Chapter after this, going off to Trieste for a few days to see an Amazing Actor play the best role ever, who largely inspires this Version of Erik (if you know, you know!). So Chapter 4 is written but will be hard to post until I return.

Enjoy!

Night Music

"It was not difficult," Erik said from the piano bench of the small ballet practice room that he opted for their lessons instead of playing the violin from behind a wall. "Continuing to let La Carlotta go without an understudy is a grievous error of management. Refunding a full a house would be detrimental when it something so easily prevented. Then, there is a matter of upsetting patrons."

"Like the Vicomte in Box 5?"

Erik's shoulders squared and he lifted his chin with defiance in his mismatched eyes, "I gave fair warning to not sell my Box."

"The Vicomte is my friend," she said sharper than she intended.

"Your friend?" he asked idly, demeanor now stiff with a brow quirked. "Your friend, did not seem to recognize you yesterday when he toured the opera. How was I to know he was something… more to you than just another foppish patron?"

She looked down at her hands neatly folded on the wood of the piano. "It's been years… and he isn't a fop."

"My dear, most all who share his social class are entitled and pretentious. They come here not for the love of opera or music, but as a show to parade their own status at though it is still worth something. Men get the added excitement of pursuing a quick dalliance and not give it a second thought come morning," Erik growled, half rising from the bench.

Christine's eyes snapped to him and shook her head vigorously. "Raoul is not like that at all. When we were children, he ran into the sea to fetch my favorite red scarf when the wind took it," she defended. "We spent the some playing and telling stories while we all took a holiday in Brest for the summer."

"You make my point when you remember him so fondly and he does not appear to reciprocate," Erik had fully risen and left the bench now, moving around the opposite side of the piano until it was completely between them. "It seems to me that if you were such good friends that he would remember you still and not pass you by without so much as a second glance. Hardly seems fair to you when you deserve better."

"Better? How is it that I deserve better when I cannot even turn a head now? All I am is penniless, naïve waif."

Erik's hands curled into fists that grew paler than they already were from stymied blood flow. "Do not think so low of yourself, Christine," his voice low and tight with a small shake of his head. "You are more than that. You have confidence and talent buried within you that only needs unlocked from the doors of your insecurity. If others fail to see your true value, they are not worth your time or effort."

She looked away from him, and instead focused on the bit of wax that dripped off from the candelabra's base to the polished brown wood. Gently she began to pick at it with her thumbnail. "How is it you can see all that you claim within me? How is it the Opera Ghost deems me worthy of even just having lessons and a push to the stage?" Christine gently edged the topic away from Raoul, though it remained relevant to her insecurities. "Not to mention that if I do get to become understudy, Carlotta will make my life hell."

Unbeknownst to the young soprano, Erik relaxed his hands while he watched hers picking at cooled wax with perhaps too much interest. Her effort to switch subjects were not lost on him. "In regards to the stage, Christine, La Carlotta is and will become vile when she is threatened due to her own failings. She no longer puts forth the effort the correct her flaws or use vocal teachers to keep her voice tuned to its fullest potential. It is only a matter of time before her voice fails her and it becomes as hollow her own lack of feeling."

Christine continued to distract herself with the wax and Erik forced his gaze lift to her face and sullen features as her mind plainly spiraled to negative thoughts of her own value. It was not just a matter of music or becoming a star, but rather deeper intricacies of self. By the world's standards, she should already be on the arm of a suitor if not already married and bearing children to continue the husband's legacy.

Though she might not cognizant of that invisible pressure, Erik was certain she felt the burden of its weight pulling at her self-worth. She even hinted at it by disparaging over her lack of ability to turn heads to even give her sense of desirability. Little did she know she more than turned his head.

But what did his attraction to her matter? The opinion and attractions of freakish abnormalities such as him were not coveted by anyone. Nor were such wanted or welcomed by those who were normal by the world's definition.

"Christine, look at me," he coaxed, and she nervously obliged that soft tone. "You have every right and potential to be on that stage singing before all of Paris. Bear in mind that you have the backing of a very moody and exacting Opera Ghost, my dear. Which is perhaps the greatest feat of all."

A timid smile crept out from her lips. "I still cannot see what the Opera Ghost sees in me. What he sees that no one else can, including myself. You speak to me and of me like I am some noble with infinite potential."

Those mismatched eyes watched her with sudden shyness, "I am in habit of seeing what no one else does."

She seemed to perk up a little, "Such as…?"

"You."

"A better example please, Monsieur."

Erik paused as he looked away with a working mind before his gaze snapped back to hers, "I will show you."

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

Minutes later, they were stepping out onto the roof of the Palais Garnier to one of the few flat sections available. The view from there, high above the rest of neighboring Paris was beautiful in all the glittering lights of night. Soft flickers winking in and out in quiet symphony like stars in the sky, were they present.

Erik led her to the edge and a stone balustrade that barred them from a rather horrid fall as they moved towards a better view of the night that enveloped the city. "When you look at the sky," he whispered into her ear as he shifted to stand behind her and not obscure her view, "what do you see?"

Christine turned her gaze to the foreboding sky looming treacherously above. "Black clouds that look as though they want to pour rain upon us." A shiver ran through her at both the thought of a downpour than the cool breeze that swept by them.

"Do you see where the moon is?"

"No," Christine said, though she continued to look for any trace of that celestial body that was sun to the night. Those same clouds that hinted at rain continued to hide it from her. In her search however, the weight of Erik's ornately beaded cloak rested upon her shoulders and blocked the chilled air as it wrapped around her. "No… I don't," Christine tugged his cloak tighter. "I'm sorry," she craned her neck to look back up at him.

"Beyond the veil, we know the presence of stars and moon lingers," Erik extended an arm to easily guide her vision ahead where his finger pointed to the faint glow behind the dense cloud cover. It was dim and glow faintly on the horizon, but it was nevertheless present. "Clouds of night are so easily dismissed for the sense of gloom they inspire. Even when they hold as many interesting shapes as their daylit counterparts. You only need to look a bit harder to find them."

Christine found herself leaning back towards him as Erik shifted his finger to a group of clouds to the left.

"Do you see the boat sailing upon a turbulent sea?"

There, Christine could almost make out the small boat riding a wave. "Yes…"

Erik's hand lowered a bit and the whisper of a song reaching her ear made Christine's skin tingle, along with the hint of warmth in his breath. "Night-time sharpen, heightens each sensation," his voice grew with every lyric sung. "Darkness stirs," his hand fluidly caressed the sky, "wakes imagination. Silently the senses, abandon their defenses…"

As he sang ever so softly, Christine closed her eyes and let her spirit sink into the warmth of his sonorous voice that floated around her. That remarkable voice which perfectly balanced between soft and tender to dark and warm. Everything he did, everything he sang coupled with feathery touches across her face and jaw made her weak to his whim. It was maddening how he came so close making contact across her body in ways she found desirable, only to have his hands floating just above those places like his voice in her head.

Erik could have asked of her and done anything he wished in those minutes of his serenade. Christine would never have protested. As Erik wrapped one arm around the front of her shoulders and the other around her waist, Christine melted into him. Being held so closed dismantled her anxieties and inhibitions as a fog descended on her mind.

When his intoxicating song drew to a soul freeing close, Christine found herself turning to him as that impossibly light note hung into the air. Only one of them needed close the slight distance between them to claim a kiss. Her breath was small and hitched, filled with want and yearning while Erik's remained deep and steady.

When Erik turned his head down, Christine's heart fluttered.

Instead of kissing her when blessing was readily given, Erik pressed his forehead to hers while a shaky exhale escaped him.

Why! Christine's mind screamed at him, wanting nothing more than to burrow into his arms while she gripped the lapels of his jacket.

Erik pulled away before she could, shifting to only hold her hand. "It is late, my dear. It would not bode well for you to miss another night in your bed."

Madame Giry would have my head… Christine sighed but did not speak the thought they both inevitably were thinking. "I suppose you're right…"

Ever the gentleman that Christine was discovering him to be, Erik escorted back to her home she shared with the Girys. He walked to her left side so she had the normal half of his face as he positioned himself between her and the street. The fedora he favored was not like a proper top hat as many formally dressed men of status seemed to favor, it was not even fashionable. But, on him? It suited well, even if its sole function seemed to be casting shadow over the mask in its intentional tilt.

They spoke nothing of what transpired after their lesson or on the roof of the opera. Instead, their topic of conversation centered on the upcoming audition and how he wanted her to play out her moment. Rather than sing to the fullest of her training, he wanted her to sing it a bit weaker. Then as time went on and her position as an understudy secured, then she would give into the music of her song. It was a strategy to ease the pressure on her by others, especially Carlotta, until her moment arrived.

When they reached the stoop to the tiny residence, Christine reluctantly returned his cloak that Erik draped over his arm. "Thank you," she intoned softly, wanting to say more but words eluded her.

Erik eyes closed as he bowed his head and he answered, "You are most welcome, Christine."

Christine dipped her chin with another damnable blush announcing itself in her cheeks. Thank goodness it was dark and the flames burning in street lamps were not bright. Ascending the steps with the heat of his eyes on her, Christine slid her key into the door and glanced back down to him when it cracked open.

"Sleep well, Christine," bid Erik.

"You too…Monsieur," she wanted to say his name, or even call him Angel, but they lacked the comfort of privacy when outside of his lessons or his home.

Erik bowed his head, this time with a mild bend to his waist in his acknowledgement.

Only when Christine went inside and locked the door behind her did she see his form leave through a glimpse of a nearby window, headed in the direction of the opera.

"At least he brings you home this time."

Christine startled at the sound of Madame Giry's voice, hand flying to her breast. Turning to the parlor, she found the older woman in the parlor knitting a new blanket in her favorite chair. Her long light brown hair spilled over her shoulder and down to her waist, free of its braids and pins that kept it up and tight to her head all day.

"I'm sorry Madame, I did not mean to be out so late. Or even last night."

"Yes, I imagine he had much to discuss about the audition. I suppose I rather you sleep at that opera from your headache than come home so late on your own," Giry quirked a brow as she hooked another section of yarn with her needles. Nothing got past that woman.

"Where's Meg?" she asked, not wanting to venture too far into the Madame's opinion.

"Upstairs. She knows that your lessons today would likely run late, and there is a plate for you on the stove."

After Christine ate and settled in for the night, she lay awake in bed. The song from the roof still lingered at the forefront of her thoughts, hearing it as clear now in memory as she did. However, her need for him to touch her and kiss her, dissipated with the hypnotic fog that had filled her mind. With it, Christine was grateful that nothing more occurred when it so easily could have.

What was wrong with her? Why did this man in a mask, the Phantom of the Opera, her Angel of Music, Erik— consume her thoughts so easily? What was it about his voice that made her crave to hear more of it?

A Phantom who deceived her.

A man who confessed that deceit to her.

The Angel who sang to her.

The man who walked her home…

Christine turned over in bed, closing her eyes and focusing on the music he sang, and ponder the shapes of clouds in overcast skies.