What had she done?
With shuddering breaths and a heaving chest she sat in the boat, Raoul behind her occasionally sending tense and wary glances to the darkness surrounding them.
She had chosen her angel, the Phantom. Why was she in this boat with her fiancé instead?
Her hands were trembling and she stared at them, wide-eyed and breathless. Turn back.
She turned only to find Raoul's legs, and she looked up to her fiancé's determined face. The Vicomte rowed them across the dark lake, his shirt and hair disheveled, a dark mark around his neck.
There was a time where the lake had seemed so mysterious and fantastical, misty and cool as her angel rowed her across with strong pushes of the oar. His presence behind her had been comforting, possessive in the thrilling way only he could be, cloak billowing behind him and felt hat hiding his eyes safe for the golden glint within them from his torch.
"Turn back around, petite," his baritone smoothed into her ears with a grumbled chuckle. "Nothing to see here." His arms easily pushed the boat forward, suit straining with the motions.
Brown eyes stared at the barely visible creases in his overcoat, imagination running wild with what the skin and muscle beneath looked like when strained like that.
"Christine."
She had turned with heated cheeks, eyes cast out to the dark but her mind with the presence behind her.
"Christine, are you okay?"
The soprano startled at Raoul's voice, would swear she had heard her angel for a moment. She blinked and once again rested her trembling hands in her lap, unsure what she could possibly tell Raoul that would console him after this ordeal.
Her heart shattered when she saw him kneeling at the papier-mâché monkey, arms and hands following the motion of the cymbals as it played the Masquerade melody. He quietly and shakily sang along, then covered the statue's eyes with a sob.
As if sensing her presence he turned, eyes widening and breath halting.
They stared, electrified and both filled with words and actions unsaid.
Slowly she walked over to him, blinking away the next onslaught of tears as shaking hands took off the ring he had given her.
It's mine, he gave it to me!
Ignoring her screaming mind, she let out a sob and reached for her angel's hand, taking the cold in hers and pressing the ring against his palm, tears dripping down her cheeks and face distorting in a pained grimace. Without any ease she closed his hand around the ring, covering his cold skin with hers, and squeezed tightly.
I love you. God, I love you.
Her angel looked not much better than she felt, bewildered eyes staring at the ring and then Christine, back to the ring, tears threatening to fall. His eyes fluttered and he whimpered, inhaling sharply before he met her eyes again with so soft a gaze that he took her breath away. "Christine," he breathed shakily, sniffing. "I love you."
More tears fell and she whimpered, face distorting as all the emotions overwhelmed her at once. I want to stay. I love you.
Instead she tightly held onto her angel's hand and leaned down to bring her lips to his cold fingers.
He gasped, his hand trembling in her hold.
Then she was gone, forcing herself to drop his hand and walk away at last, away from her tutor and friend, her angel and love. But… as she ascended a few steps, she slowly turned back to him with a shuddering breath, waiting for the minutest sign that he had changed his mind and wanted her with him after all, that he would not send her away.
Instead, he gave her an assuring nod, trying his best to look comforting but failing and instead looking so pained as he seemingly forced himself to usher her along with the Vicomte.
Warmth covered her hand and she turned to meet Raoul's face, his wary gaze on the Phantom behind her. He quickly faced Christine and muttered, "Come on, Lotte." He took her hand in his he gently pulled her with him.
And so she took the steps away from her angel, leaving him in the darkness of his hell.
Weeks passed and life slowly moved on as if nothing had happened.
The opera was out of commission for a while as it repaired its fire, and so Christine really only had Raoul to keep her busy. The Vicomte had insisted they go to his estate for a while, that Christine would not be alone in her small flat. Begrudgingly she had agreed, though the house had never felt like home to her.
She just didn't want to be alone—to stew in her thoughts and feelings, to see her angel's face in front of her with the tears down his cheeks, the pain and turmoil darkening his usual golden eyes to muted amber. And his hands, usually so deft and full of life and motion, then so lifeless and trembling.
She buried deeper into the quilt wrapped around her, grumbling as the images flooded her mind once again despite her attempts to keep them at bay.
She was seated in the de Chagny's library, the room that felt closest to home with a crackling fireplace and walls of books. It had comfortable leather chairs, a sofa, and even a grand piano, though Christine knew it went unplayed—she hadn't heard it played once in the time she had been here. She didn't know how to play it or she would have, if only to feel her heart soar with music as it had done the night after her Hannibal debut.
Angry tears welled up and she aggressively swiped at her eyes before she slammed the book in her lap shut. Despite the darkness of the coming evening she eyed outside, at the snow fluttering down, and decided there was only one place she needed to be.
"Raoul." She knocked on the open door of his study, leaning inside and eyeing around the room before settling on the Vicomte at his desk, hunched over some letters.
At her voice he turned with an affectionate smile, eyes softening. "Christine, darling." He nodded for her to enter. "Are you feeling okay?"
Quietly she entered, ignoring his question as she stood next to him and fumbled with her hands. "I would like to visit father's grave."
"At this time?" He looked outside at the darkness, hands instinctively meeting hers and squeezing. He turned back to her. "Is something on your mind, Lotte?"
Well, that was a loaded question.
With a deep breath Christine closed her eyes, feeling the tears so close to the surface. "I just— I wish he was here," she choked out, voice shaky and uneven. "But he is not so I— I can go to him. Or at least, the closest—"
"Of course, Christine." Raoul squeezed her hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "You don't have to explain yourself, forgive me." He got up and reached for his scarf and gloves he had discarded earlier after his return from a meeting. "I will ride you, okay? But if you want to be alone inside that's fine. Just take the lantern." He turned to his fiancée and gave a comforting smile.
The snow crunched beneath her feet and sparkled in the flickering light of her lantern loose in her hand. The snow had since ceased, the sky now clear with the stars high above. The moon was out lighting her way, casting the graveyard into an oddly comfortable dull light.
A cemetery at night should frighten her. It would have a year ago, but things had changed since then. Now, walking through the bells and sculpted angels cast in darkness made her feel nothing but melancholic. It reminded her of her visit months ago, when she sought the guidance of her father much as she was doing now. Her angel had been there then.
She wrung her gloved hands, the leather protesting as her breath fogged out into the darkness. She focused on the crunching of the snow with every step, the path she left behind on the fresh blanket of white, the path she knew like the back of her own hand. How often did she visit her father when she missed him, even all those years later.
Brown doe eyes stared up at the mausoleum, the Daaé's resting place, her throat tightening and tears blurring her vision. "Father," she started on a whisper, then sniffling. "God, how I miss you." She instinctively lowered herself to sit on the snowed steps, caring little for the cold wetness seeping into her dress. She took out the rose she had taken from the de Chagny's garden and looked it over for a moment, breath steaming the air. Quietly, lovingly, she pressed a kiss to the red petals before she gently put it on the ground in front of the mausoleum, hand trembling.
"Father… Papa," she exhaled shakily, looking up to the dark and foreboding structure that housed her loving father. "I had to make a terrible choice, papa. I am lost without you, I—" She sobbed and blinked at the welling tears, sending the grief and regret down her cheeks. "I miss you so, so much. Every day is black and endless without you, your violin, your laughter. Oh, how I long to feel your arms around me once more, to bury myself deep into your embrace and be guarded by you." She wiped her cheeks and sniffled, grimacing at the overwhelming grief burning within her.
For a while she sat there in silence, tears coming and going as her mind reeled to warmer days—days of the small wooden house with warm fires and music. Her father's music, his mastery of the violin as she read. Sometimes she'd joined him with her singing, back then raw and untrained, but still talented for her age. Her father had done his best to train her, to keep her voice going and strengthen it. Sadly, he had passed long before he could see the fruits of his loving support.
"I found a man, papa. I think you would have liked him, even if— if he…" She shuddered and stared down at the cold snow as if she could feel her father's gaze on her, disapproving of the events that had unfolded. "Before that, papa." She closed her eyes, thinking back to the gentle and adoring man her angel had once been. "He was thrilling to be around, and his music… He is a proper maestro." She halted for a moment, remembering so well how her angel had once intruded on her on these very steps. Vaguely she wondered if she should be worried he may be doing the same once again, but… she had seen his face, his dark eyes in the cavern five stories beneath the opera, and… No. He was not here now, she was very certain of that.
"He makes my mind soar, papa, as your music once did. We sung together, I sang his music. I sang his opera, I— He asked me to marry him, papa, I— I wanted to say yes." More tears dripped down her cheeks. "But I was terrified of the monster he had become! This jealous, vengeful man, all because Raoul returned to me. I unmasked him right there on the stage, for all of Paris to see. It was horrible, I should have never done it, I—" She whimpered and pressed her eyes closed so tightly she hoped it would bury the shame deeper and deeper.
"Papa… He made me choose between his lifelong darkness or Raoul's very life. How can anybody make such a choice?" Brown eyes stared at the snow. She could barely feel the chill of the night, mind full of the images of that fateful night. "Except I did make a choice," she whispered on a sob. "I chose him after all, papa. Not that horrible monster, but the man I had come to know him as for those years before Raoul returned. I knew he had the compassion somewhere deep within him to let Raoul go regardless of my choice, but I— in my kiss to seal this choice, my fate, he—" She exhaled a shuddering breath and wrung her hands together. "He let me go, papa." Her voice cracked and she let out a pained sob. "He let me and Raoul go, even after I had chosen him. And I left. I tried to go back and stay after all but he just… nodded his assurance, so broken and pained, and I— I left."
She buried her face in her hands and suppressed the wail that threatened to leave her, breathing heavily and shakily as she tried to compose herself, tears streaking her rosy cheeks and sticking to her eyelashes.
"Papa..." She looked back at the mausoleum. "I wish I could change what happened, prevent this… monster from rearing its ugly head. Nobody deserves this." She swallowed thickly, simply staring at the dark architecture for a moment. "Let this be the secret between you and me, have my broken heart with you for you are the only one I trust with it." Dhe whimpered and wiped at her eyes. "I wish I could crawl back in your bed, papa."
Quietly, Christine stood, the snow crunching beneath her feet. Without really thinking about it she stepped closer to the mausoleum's entrance, sealed long ago, and then sat herself down against the door, her side pressed against the cold stone. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as if she could still smell her father, the wooden smell only he had ever truly had.
What she wouldn't give to change all of this.
When she didn't feel the wetness of the snow on her legs or the cool of the stone against her cheek she inhaled sharply, startling awake as her mind realised that wasn't right. She took a moment to register the warmth around her, the softness on which she was lying.
This wasn't the cemetery.
She groaned and sat up, head pounding. With difficulty she opened her eyes, squinting against the light filtering through the curtains. Her curtains. Had Raoul brought her back here, rather than his home? That wouldn't make sense—she had been at the de Chagny estate for weeks since the whole Phantom ordeal. If she had indeed fallen asleep he would've woken her up before getting her back to his home rather than just taking her to hers.
Just then an excited knock came at her door, and Christine startled once more before she shook off the confusion and got up. She reached for a gown and was quite surprised to find one she was sure she had brought over to the de Chagnys when it looked like her stay would be longer than previously expected. Uneasily she covered herself, grumbling as more knocks sounded through the small flat.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" She wiped the sleep out of her eyes and then finally opened the door.
"There you are! Did I wake you? Usually you're up by now." Meg grinned at her friend and easily pushed past her inside, putting her purse on the small table in the hallway.
"Meg?" Christine blinked, glancing outside for a moment too long, noting the bright sunshine and warm temperature before closing the door. "What time is it? What are you doing here?"
The dancer turned to Christine. "Did you knock your head?" She rolled her eyes with a fond smile. "It's ten in the morning, you need to get ready for the repetition today. Lefèvre must be nervous so close to opening, he's been skittish for weeks now, can't imagine it being any worse today. Anyway..." She clapped her hands together. "Get dressed, silly. We need to go."
Christine closed her mouth, heart beating rapidly in her chest. Opening night? Of what? The opera burned down and was unusable, not to mention that Christine had practically resigned after all the mess in her angel's home. What in the world was Meg doing here? What was she doing here? With clothing and items that should be at Raoul's estate, no less.
Wait a second.
"Meg, can I ask a stupid question?" Christine finally found her voice, breathless and tiny and so much unlike her. She noticed then the absence of the ring on her finger, not feeling it in her anxious wringing of her hands. "What date is it?"
Meg frowned, pursing her lips, and really looked Christine over for a moment. "Are you sure you didn't hit your head?" Christine gave her a look and Meg shrugged. "It's the 18th of May, opening night of Hannibal? Ego booster for Carlotta? Not that the diva needs that." She laughed softly and gently put a hand on Christine's shoulder. "You seem confused, Christine. What's going on?"
I think I've somehow traveled through time considering I have experienced all of this already. I could tell you in great detail what will happen tonight; how Lefèvre will leave, how my angel will sabotage the rehearsals to have Carlotta leave as well, how you will encourage the new managers to have me sing. I'll be Elissa, and Raoul will attend, the Vicomte de Chagny. Before you know it I'll be the next prima donna.
She decided not to say any of that. Instead, she took a deep breath and shook her head. She had wished for this, to be able to do everything again, knowing what she knew now. Yes, it was jarring and made her question her own faith for surely this must be magic. Never before had she heard of a story like this from anybody else. But then again, who would tell if they experienced this? They would be labelled as insane as she felt right now.
"Sorry, Meg. I was out cold from sleep, I'll get ready." She smiled at her friend and then disappeared into her bedroom, closing the door and locking it tightly.
It was proper madness to see the day play out much as she remembered. Though at the time it had been a day like all others, now, as she went through her breakfast and walk to the opera, it was strange to remember the random people they passed. The lady with her basket of bread, the man and woman with arms interlocked quietly arguing. And Meg talking excitedly about opening day.
Christine's blood ran cold. Did she even remember the blocking for Hannibal? It had been so long! Maybe the rehearsal would bring it back—it had to. She only needed to get up to Lefèvre's introduction of Firmin and André, then she would switch to Elissa's role. Only the aria, then the company would take a quick break to make adjustments for her while the rest continued rehearsing. Then the final rehearsal of the company, then her focusing on her various appearances. She remembered Elissa much better, having played her so many more times than she had rehearsed her ballet and chorus.
Entering the opera was another strange sight now, having once seen it so empty. It was bustling with activity on opening day, people running around and getting their business in order. Through that were the various actors and extras following the habitual path to backstage. Though there was a backstage door in the building, it had been built into a suspicious alley that most people ignored, and thus it wasn't uncommon for well-known performers like Carlotta to be stopped by a visitor and asked for a signing. As was the case now.
Christine glanced at the beaming diva smirking and grinning at the flustered fan holding a piece of paper and a pencil. Piangi—Piangi, alive!—was a bit behind her holding their dog, seeming content and even proud of his wife. In a strange way Christine could appreciate the undying love and support they gave each other, even if Carlotta was an insufferable diva.
She suppressed a snort at remembering what her angel had done to Carlotta's voice during Il Muto. At the time she had been terrified, but she knew much better now, which also meant she knew how wrong her angel had been in his ways to try and win her. One thing she did regret now that she actually could try again was that she wouldn't be able to chastise him for anything he had done, which he truthfully did deserve. He had been careless, dangerous, and had straight up murdered. Perhaps she should be more scared of him, knowing he had so easily killed. She could still remember the flash of Piangi's lifeless body during the Point of No Return, Meg's wail and the ensuing chaos as her angel dragged her along to his lair. She had no excuse for her love of him, the pull he had on her even when she wasn't under his spell. She loved him, and she had ruined everything when she first tore off his mask.
The dancers set down their bags at their usual small vanities, the room crowded with the other dancers chatting and getting ready for the rehearsals. Meg easily undressed, talking with another dancer Christine remembered as Eva.
The soprano took a bit longer getting ready, often glancing at herself in the mirror, noticing minute changes in her face as if the stress of the past year had haunted her physically as well as mentally. Putting on makeup was an easy habit and took her no time, and before long it was time for the whole thing to kick off.
The play went smoothly throughout until Piangi mispronounced Rome, which Reyer corrected right away as Christine remembered. Surprisingly, she also remembered the choreography and lyrics, though she could have simply been moving her mouth and it wouldn't have really mattered as nobody was paying much attention to her.
Except, it would have, for this time she knew her angel was watching. Not from the box, oh no. With how quickly he would drop the scenery on Carlotta he must be in the wings already—most likely the rafters. Involuntarily she glanced up to the darkness, knowing to not expect to see Buquet, but still hoping she would see a shift of the pitch black darkness that emanated from her angel.
God, she didn't even know his name.
"Christine Daaé, attention girl!" Madame Giry shouted over the music, flashing her a stern look to correct the dancer's absentmindedness.
Christine obliged, though she still waited with bated breath to be done, to have André and Firmin walk in behind Lefèvre and request the aria from Carlotta. She remembered how Carlotta had been all over the managers, flirting so heavily Christine couldn't fathom how Piangi hadn't been upset.
"As you can see, rehearsals for Hannibal are well under way…"
Yes!
She didn't bother listening, knowing so very vividly what would be coming as she lowered to her knees next to Meg, silent but mind bursting with activity. Soon, then she would be face to face with her angel again, able to see him, touch him. God, she longed to embrace him again, to feel him all around her, his dark presence comforting and protective. His silhouette alone within her mirror would take her breath away, the hat darkening his face and emphasising his golden eyes, the cloak extravagant and heavy around his shoulders. She could feel a familiar heat at the mere prospect, but she willed it down. This wasn't the time for any of this—they needed to have a long talk before anything would happen. If at all.
Think of me,
Think of me fondly
Begrudgingly, Christine did admit Carlotta knew what she was doing. That the company generally disliked her was mostly for her attitude more than anything, and she knew quite well why her angel disliked the signora, though he was definitely biased. Any time now that bias would fall onto the singing diva, and Christine strained her eyes to try and see the spot of darkness within the black rafters, yet seeing nothing.
With shouts and screams the backdrop fell, and as expected the people panicked. Meg spoke of the Phantom straight away, had the other ballerinas cower and gossip under hushed breaths. Some other stagehands and Piangi helped Carlotta back up and the diva took no time to chastise the new bewildered managers before she stormed off the stage. This time, Christine could see tears in her eyes.
Now the managers were discussing what to do, panicked over losing the main role. Meg would bounce at any moment now, but…
"I can sing it, messieurs," Christine said confidently, easily getting up from her seated position and stepping forwards towards the stressed managers.
Meg next to her looked up with wide eyes, though a big grin betrayed her excitement. "I was going to…" she whispered, and Christine gave her a smirk in return.
The managers turned to her, scrutinising her with a mere look. "You, mademoiselle? A ballet girl?"
Without hesitation Madame Giry stepped in. "Let her sing for you, monsieur. She has been well taught."
The doubt was plastered on their faces while Christine smiled politely, though inside she was grinning like a madman. This time she knew she could do it, that her angel was watching and waiting. She would show him the confident woman he had helped make her, but this time without threats and blackmail. He would never be the Phantom again, only ever her angel.
"Very well," Firmin murmured, nodding to Reyer and then motioning for everybody to clear the way.
Like a well-oiled machine Christine sprung into action, taking the intricate scarf and easily stepping into her blocking. She took a quick customary glance to the music shoved in her face before it was closed, and she smiled, swallowing and doing a quick vocal warmup. In a strange way, it felt like coming home.
After proving her skill once more, the rest of the day was a whirlwind of activity much like the first time. The costumers needed to adapt Carlotta's clothing quickly, so she was first ushered to that department to get all measured up, which she knew they would do a splendid job with. Then Reyer wanted her, wanting to hear her go through all her parts in the performance to ensure she would do well and to give her notes. Meanwhile Carlotta's old dressing room was changed to fit Christine, items from Carlotta removed so Christine would be able to use it right away.
The dressing room felt strange to enter, knowing what would happen later that night. Quietly she closed the door, exhaling with relief as she could finally take a moment for herself and properly process what was going on. Reflexively she went to the chaise and sat down on the red velvet, sighed contentedly to be sitting at last.
Brown eyes glanced towards the mirror and stared straight back at her.
Would she try to speak with him now? It would change what had happened before, but she had already changed things by speaking up on stage rather than letting Meg do it. There was no way to know what would happen with those changes, but ultimately she had wished to return to set things right and try again, which inherently meant needing to change things.
Her lips were dry when they parted. "Angel?"
With bated breath she waited on a response, anything. She would settle on a mere whisper somewhere in her room, on her angel teasing her with his ventriloquism, but nothing happened. Silence was the only thing around her. She sighed and laid down on the comfortable velvet of her chaise, staring up to the ceiling as exhaustion flooded her senses and her mind reeled with everything that had happened.
Hours ago she had already given up trying to deny what was happening. Everything felt and smelled too real, sounded too real. Not to mention the perfect replaying of all the events of that day, which would be impossible to do if any of this had somehow been a practical joke. No, this do-over was somehow very real and actually happening. Had her father from Heaven somehow managed to send her back? She knew there was no logic in whatever magic or force brought her here, but quietly she thanked her father regardless. She would make him proud, show him the man her angel really was.
Another question had been ringing through her mind as well… Would she tell her angel any of this?
Christine shot up to sit, heart pounding at the prospect. She could tell him what he had done, or would do, rather, but what would that achieve? Her angel was a surprisingly open-minded man, but talk of time travel would probably make even him skeptical of her sanity. This would have to be a secret she would take to her grave, if it ever came that far—which was another worry on her mind. What if this was only some sort of glimpse? A temporary do-over to ease her mind before she would be sent back to live that dreaded life in the empty de Chagny estate, without music or passion—
No, she was being unrightfully mean to Raoul—he loved her, and she loved him. But only in the past weeks had she realised she was not in love with him as a fiancée should be, her heart was elsewhere entirely, to no fault of Raoul. He had simply been the safe and predictable choice, especially during her angel's seeming descent to madness and fury. She doubted she could truly bring her angel back to the man he had been even if she had stayed after all. There would have been too much hurt between the both of them, too much darkness.
Another headache flared up and she whined, rubbing her temples to try and soothe the ache. Throughout the day, whenever she had thought too long and too much about the whole ordeal, this headache came up, as if chastising her for questioning this blessed gift. Whoever sent it, whether that was her father or God, they could hardly blame her for her thoughts, this was as strange an occurrence as anybody could experience.
She desperately needed to stop thinking about this, at least for today. She needed to start thinking about how to handle the coming Raoul situation, for surely seeing him would do something to her that may foul the whole thing, make her second-guess herself and return to his embrace after all, and that would simply not do. Raoul had this boyish charm over him and exuded the safety Christine lacked from her angel. But that was in the past—future?—now, and she knew now that though safety was nice, the thrill of her angel's music and adoration truly was what she needed and wanted. The role of Vicomtesse frightened her in a completely different way her angel sent shivers down her spine. She could never be a de Chagny, she had learned as such in the weeks at their estate. No music gnawed at her, no angel gnawed at her.
Raoul was a fine gentleman, loved her eternally, but she would never be able to reciprocate—she knew that now, and she would nip it in the bud right away tonight. Her angel would take her to his house and she will not take off his mask. They would talk, she would lead, and she chose him after all.
Perhaps she should feel guilty over how easily she swept Raoul aside after all he did to try and protect her, but there was no such thing within her. If anything, she felt guilty for leading him on like that, for promising to marry him when her heart was with someone else at that point and long before that. God, she had been such a frightened fool.
Faintly she wondered how her Raoul was doing now, so long into the future. Did he miss her? Had she gone, or was the Christine from this time in hers now? Nobody but God truly knew.
Performing Hannibal was easy, even with all the time that had passed. The extra rehearsals that day helped of course, but there was a passion and vigour in her performance that the audience undoubtedly noticed, for their applause was thunderous. Curtain call was ecstatic, indeed. Half for the adoration of the public, but mostly for the excitement buzzing within her knowing she would see her angel again soon.
As soon as the curtains closed their final time the ballet girls rushed to her side and congratulated her, and Christine couldn't stop herself from laughing with her friends. "Thank you, Eva," she beamed at the dancer, turning to another with a thankful nod, their voices overlapping in their praise.
Madame Giry stepped in, cane hard on the ground. "Yes, you did well. He will be pleased." Her eyes were soft on Christine, and she dared even a small and proud smile as Christine's heart pounded in her throat. Then, the gaze turned to stone at the ballerinas. "You were a disgrace! Such ronds de jambe! Such temps de cuisse! We rehearse. Now." She ushered the girls to an empty part of the wings and disappeared with the group.
Christine started hurrying to her dressing room, eyes wide and an excited fluttering within her belly.
Bravi, bravi, bravissima…
"Angel," she whispered reverently, wide smile curving her lips. Then, she turned, anticipating the coming of the young Giry.
"Christine!" The ballerina laughed in surprise to see Christine awaiting her. "Where in the world have you been hiding? You were perfect, Christine." She gathered the soprano's hands and squeezed, flashihg her a wide grin. "I wish I knew your secret… Who is your tutor?"
Christine remembered the story she told the young Meg, of her father and his promise, but this time she didn't want to spend time on that. She knew where her angel was and she needed urgently to speak with him, to see him. "Meg..." She pressed a kiss to her friends' hands. "I will tell you all another time, okay? That's a promise." She smiled warmly. "Return to your mother before she misses you, how about we speak tomorrow? Another performance then."
"Of course." Meg gathered Christine in a tight hug. "I knew you could do it, I'm so proud!" She beamed when she pulled away and then turned with a final wave to join her fellow ballerinas.
She didn't have long. Any moment now Madame Giry would come to deliver Raoul's note. Christine rushed inside her dressing room and locked the door, buying herself a few more seconds at least. "Angel." She turned to the large mirror with a wide and genuine smile, feeling the fond warmth spread within her chest. She walked over to the mirror and raised a hand to rest on the cool silver, feeling a shiver down her spine knowing he was right behind this mechanism. "I must speak with you, ange," she whispered softly. "Right after—"
The expected knock arrived, and Christine smiled at the mirror before turning to open the door. "Madame Giry." She nodded at the older woman, who stayed in the doorframe.
"I was asked to give you this, child," she said matter-of-factly, holding out the envelope with Raoul's note.
"Thank you, madame. See you tomorrow." She curtsied habitually and closed the door once again. She didn't even bother opening the envelope—she knew already what its contents were after all. Instead, she threw it on the vanity and inched towards the mirror again. "Mon ange, will you open the mirror?"
"Won't you open the envelope first, petite?" His voice floated through the room and promptly sent her heart in utter disarray at the velvet whisper coming from his lips. It had been so long since she had heard his voice, so long since she had heard it as smooth as it was now, hearing the dark seduction rolling over his tongue.
Her mouth was dry as she shook her head. "It's just Raoul, Ange, a family friend from my childhood. I told you about him long ago." And she had—she remembered vividly the squinting of her angel's eyes, the thinning of his lips when she had mentioned her girlish crush on the little Vicomte. Back then she had been confused why he looked so displeased, but now that she had heard his love confession, it made a lot more sense. "Ange, the mirror."
"Christine Daaé, where is your red scarf?"
Christine jumped and grabbed at her heart, gasping as she swivelled to meet Raoul a lot sooner than she had thought.
Raoul, her dear sweet Raoul.
His big, boyish grin seemed to light up the room. "You can't have lost it. After all the trouble I took. I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin…"
The year of stress had changed him so, aged him ever so slightly that she hadn't noticed until she saw the younger and stress free version of him now in front of her. Here was a young and dashing Raoul, so much like the beautiful Vicomte she had spent the last year with as his fiancée.
And here she was ready to prevent it all from happening.
"Raoul..." She felt breathless. "You had run into the sea to fetch my scarf, I would never forget." Without thinking she closed the distance and wrapped him in a hug, feeling the tears well up as soon as she smelled his pine cologne. This would be it it. This would be the moment where she changed everything, changing her future and rejecting her engagement with Raoul. She would never kiss him again, never embrace him, never smell his cologne this intimately again. A pang of guilt had her whimper and she was unable to stop the sniffs.
"What's this," Raoul muttered on a chuckle, gently pulling away to look over Christine's face. "Are you crying, Lotte? I didn't know you missed me that much." He comfortably wiped the tears from her cheeks, a fond and warm smile on his carefree face.
He would never know her true reason for crying, would never realise this was a goodbye from her as soon as he had sent the note. He would never know the life they had for a year.
Christine laughed softly and shook her head. "Forgive a girl her emotions, Raoul." She pulled away and stepped towards the vanity, looking herself over and steadying herself.
"How about supper, Lotte?" Raoul took a step forward and met her eyes in the mirror, a mischievous glint in his gaze and a fond smile curling his lips. "To celebrate a reuniting of friends, and of course your grand success tonight ."
Oh, sweet Raoul. They both knew what he really wanted with that dinner, she had already experienced the consequences of her saying yes, and he didn't even know.
Christine took a breath and turned to meet his eyes directly. "No, Raoul. Not tonight at least, okay? I have some other things planned and your intention with me, with the dinner, it— I am happy to see you again." She took his hands and fondly squeezed them. "But I'm afraid friends are all we will stay. If you can bear that, you would make me quite happy with that."
The Vicomte nodded slowly. "Well, I can not deny my disappointment," he started softly. "But I will respect that, Lotte. May our friendship return as it once was, and nothing more." He flashed her a sweet smile.
Both relief and grief overwhelmed her and she forced the tears at bay as she pulled Raoul in a tight embrace. "Take me out tomorrow, Raoul, I'll have time then," she murmured into his shoulder, allowing a few tears to fall at last as she remembered in flashes their romance of the past year. "I'm sorry."
"Hey, no need to apologise!" He laughed as he pulled away. "Have a wonderful evening, Lotte. You were a marvel today, it warms my heart to see how much you've grown with your singing. Your father would be proud."
She choked up once more and she laughed breathily. "Stop making me cry already. Go, get your hat and enjoy the celebration party. I'll see you tomorrow."
With a nod of his head and an excited smile the Vicomte at last left the dressing room, leaving just Christine and her silent angel.
"Insolent boy."
"Ah, shush," Christine responded easily, turning to the mirror where the voice had undoubtedly come from, and promptly freezing.
There he was. Her angel—standing in front of the open mirror, golden eyes glaring daggers at the closed dressing room door as if the very object had offended him. As ever he was immaculately dressed, black suit, his embellished cloak, his damned brimmed hat.
"Angel," she breathed, unable to stop the tears from welling once again.
His hard gaze softened when it settled on her, the man taking a breath. "You are acting quite odd tonight, petite. You requested to speak with me? I had already planned to take you to my home for tea, to go over notes. You can talk while we walk. Come along?" He stepped one foot in the mirror and turned to Christine, holding out his gloved hand.
Her heart stopped and her eyes fluttered. "Ange."
He sighed and stepped back into the room. "What?"
She remembered a time where touching him had felt as sinful as anything, where the mere thought of touching him had her swoon and blush like a lovesick girl. Those times had passed, however, as without thinking she closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms tightly around the slender man and buried her face into his chest.
Said man stiffened impossibly so, inhaling sharply and completely freezing.
They never quite touched, even before the whole Phantom ordeal truly began to be a problem. At most he guided her with his hand through the dark tunnels towards his home, at the absolute most he held a hand on her waist to guide her during vocal lessons, and even that he retracted as soon as it wasn't necessary anymore. She remembered vividly how he had tensed and then melted into her touch on that fateful night she unmasked him, how he had swooned at her touch and had been a mere man as she caressed at his skin. He had been so agonisingly vulnerable, and she had ruined everything.
"Christine," the man finally gasped, awkward with his hands hovering over her, the limbs shaking as much as his voice. "What—"
"I missed you, ange," she murmured into his shirt, inhaling deeply the scent of wood and roses.
"Christine, you saw me yesterday," he muttered uneasily, breath coming out fast and uneven. "Whatever is going on?"
"Tell me your name, ange," she whispered softly, reverently. "Please, at last, give me your name."
He swallowed thickly, staring at the mass of curls glued to him, unsure.
She couldn't recall him rendered speechless before, the man always seeming to know what to say and do when. It was endearing to see him so flustered for once, his thoughts no doubt all over the place.
"Christine," he said calmly, though Christine could tell it was a forced calm, for his hands were still trembling and there was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. At the look in her eyes, though, he stilled. And then he blurted out, "Erik."
Ah.
Christine softened impossibly so, closing her eyes and smiling. Finally a name for him, something tangible. After that terrible year of his wrath and her forced to leave him, finally, she had his name. "Erik."
Her angel stiffened, letting out a stifled gasp as his eyes widened beneath his mask. He shook his head, and Christine could feel the rapid beating in his chest beneath her hand. "Perhaps you should return home instead, petite," he muttered, already straightening and moving towards the mirror. "We can discuss the performance tomorrow and get tea then. You are clearly exhausted, you worked hard and—"
Without second thought she followed his retreat, cupped his cheeks, and pressed their lips together.
Kissing Erik was, even now, riveting and took her breath away. Where Raoul was soft and chaste, Erik had a passion and heat in his embrace and kisses that burned a fire straight to her soul. Except it seemed he was completely frozen currently, lips still and hands hovering over her arms. She peeked at him, bemused, and confirmed her suspicions. "Ange."
He came alive with a sharp inhale, exhaling on a shudder as he opened his eyes and looked at her with so much love and adoration that her heart skipped a beat. "Christine?" he whispered brokenly, blinking.
She swooned at her name on his lips, his velvet baritone so musical—she really must have been terribly frightened to leave him.
"Please, petite, what is— Explain, I beg you," Erik whispered brokenly, frowning and eyes pained.
Instinctively she opened her mouth, ready to explain, and then halted. How could she possibly explain to this maddening man what she had been through this past year, the impossible time travel? Currently she wanted nothing more than to go back to his warm home and sing together. Gently she caressed his skin with her thumb, sighing as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. "I will explain in your home, ange." She leaned up and chastely pressed their lips together once more before whispering on his lips, "Kiss me like I know you want to."
That stirred something within him, his eyes darkening as he moved. Hungrily he crushed their lips together, licking into her mouth as his hands finally touched her and caught her cheeks. They moved to her neck, her waist, exploring her now that he finally could. Christine just as eagerly returned the heated kiss, gasping into him and wrapping her arms around his neck.
His hands ran over her head through her curls and Erik gasped softly when she unashamedly pressed against him. He parted with a shaky breath, eyes wide as he stared down at the soprano. "Christine…"
And then the tears came.
"Oh, Erik," she cooed lovingly, her voice hoarse as she sniffled. She wiped his tears, her own cheeks just as streaked. "You have no idea, ange. No idea at all." She pressed their foreheads together and inhaled deeply, inhaling his scent of roses and wood, his usual cologne so intoxicating she felt like she was dreaming for she had never excepted to smell it again.
He steadied himself on her waist, chest heaving as he took heavy breaths through his nose to try and calm down. Tears still trickled down his cheeks but a watery smile tugged at his lips regardless. "My angel, Christine…" he murmured, voice uncharacteristically quiet and intimate.
"Let us go to your home, ange," Christine shushed him lovingly, caressing over his wet cheeks and pressing another kiss to his lips. "I will explain it there, I promise."
It was almost endearing to see how out of his element Erik was, so uncertain of everything. Amusedly and fondly she looked at him. The fabled Opera Ghost, able to make the entire company bend to his will, disarmed by a petite soprano who loved him. He still didn't move, however, so Christine gently took his shaking hands and pressed her lips against the leather. As she did, she glanced up to him and put all her love and adoration in her gaze, smiling softly and reassuringly when Erik gasped.
At her glance, he finally sobered and straightened his back, and was the imposing Opera Ghost once more. Gingerly he turned the hand Christine was holding and wrapped his fingers around hers instead, ducking his head reverently as he took a step back, imploring her to follow him.
Without question, she did, taking two steps forward and beaming when she stood right into his personal space once more.
This time he did not falter, even sending her his own smirk before he turned and pulled her with him through the mirror.
Like years before, it was all fantastical again. Like the first time he had appeared and taken her with him, revealing himself to be mere man and blood much to her delight. Shamelessly she stared over Erik's frame, gushing over his broad shoulders and slender legs, his arms hidden beneath the black fabric of his tailcoat, the cloak draped elegantly over his intimidating silhouette. Comfortable silences weren't unheard of between them, but this silence was filled with a tension long ignored by both of them but now teetering ever closer to the surface after their kisses. Both knew what it would mean to return to his home now, and it seemed that even the opera itself did, for the usual darkness within the tunnels seemed lighter and seemed to part for the couple.
It was invigorating all over again to walk this familiar path—to descend the slippery steps with his hand firm in hers, steadying her, a hand hovering at her back at treacherous steps, and his reverent golden gaze on her more than ever. She knew he could walk this path blindly, but it still took her breath away every time he turned enough to search for her, meeting her gaze as if to confirm to himself he was not, in fact, dreaming. And as he did so he kept them walking, guiding her over old trapdoors and uneven flooring, bringing them down and down into the bowels of the Opera Populaire.
The lake seemed aware of the change in their dynamics, of the power having shifted and the tension bubbled within the quiet couple.
Erik masterfully guided her into the boat as always, though this time he almost seemed hesitant to let Christine go, his mouth a thin line of displease she recognised mostly from whenever she would make a mistake during lessons.
Usually, she looked out over the lake during the short ride, but this time she sat facing him, unable to take her eyes off of him at all. Always he had been at her back, watching over her like the guardian she had needed for all those years. But now he was just a man, and he was exactly what she needed in all the other ways. Still, it felt like he may vanish if she took her eyes off of him, that this strange event that brought her back would cease and fling her back to her time. Now that she had him, she would never let him go again. She knew the loss of him and his love now, and it hurt her as much as her father's passing.
"Christine," he broke the silence on a guilty whisper, pushing forwards with the oar as he softly looked down at her. "You stare so intently, petite."
Before she knew it tears welled up and she sniffed, couldn't even be upset he had broken the trance of their descent for she had been shamelessly staring. "I will explain in time, ange, but know I have never been happier than to be here now, with you."
She saw the response her words had on him, his Adam's apple bobbing with his swallowing and golden eyes snapping back to the darkness in front of them. His hands seemed to not have ceased trembling since she had kissed him, the oar in his hands faltering for a brief moment before he gripped it tighter and pushed forward once more.
Before long the boat gently touched the dock of his home, a breath finally releasing the tension he had seemingly held within him. With practiced ease he departed first, tying the boat securely to the post and putting the oar away. Then he leaned down and held out his hand, almost shyly looking at the seated Christine and inviting her to join him.
Christine regarded him for a moment, heartbeat pulsing through her veins and a buzzing in her ears at the elation of being in her angel's home once more. Last time she had left it it had seemed cold and dank, but now it was so cozy and lively, the home of the man she loved. Easily she stood, taking his hand with a sharp intake of air and smiling when he gently pulled her with him.
As soon as she was on steady ground she tightened her grip on his hand and pulled.
He stumbled into her waiting arms with a quiet gasp and then positively melted in her grip when her lips met his. His hands reflexively shot up to cradle her face, pressing close and eagerly kissing back.
It hurt to pull back—to feel his lips leave hers and hear that small and reverent whimper. His breath on her was everything she needed, his hands and presence so near he could touch her within an instant. She pulled away enough to look over him, eyes sparkling. "Erik, prepare our tea as we like it." She squeezed his hand and let him go.
Erik regarded her for a moment, towering over her in his full glory yet eyes so gentle. "You act strangely, petite," he mused softly, taking off his hat and cloak and hanging them up. Still he held out his hand to her, seeming almost desperate to touch her whenever possible now that he could.
That loving, strange man. She didn't bother responding to his comment as she took his hand and followed him to his kitchen, heart leaping to be here again. She watched from a distance as Erik prepared their tea with practiced ease, his suit well-fitted and hiding all she wished to see. At times she had caught him busy and absent-minded, waistcoat taken off and shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. The watering of her mouth may have been shameful, but his forearms had been so ridiculously muscled and well-toned, she wouldn't have been herself had she not.
"Sit down, petite, and tell me what is going on." He put the cups on the table, but Christine gently tugged his arm before he could sit.
"The sofa, Ange, I— I wish to sit next to you." Perhaps you can find it in your heart to consider me not entirely insane if we cuddle when I tell you.
"Oh, of course." His visible cheek reddened and he ducked his head as he took the cups and went towards his living quarters, Christine in tow.
Home.
With tears in her eyes she looked at her surroundings. It was all the same as she had known it for so long, cozy and lit with candles. Rugs, paintings, wooden and luxurious furniture. She exhaled with relief and took her cup of tea from Erik before she sat down on the red-cushioned sofa. She would have to explain soon, and her heart was about ready to jump out of her ribcage, so painfully it beat inside her.
Erik looked lost, hesitating for a moment before he slipped onto the sofa next to Christine, not meeting her eyes.
It would have been endearing if she didn't feel so terribly anxious. She scooted closer and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment with a pleased sigh, feeling some of the tension escaping her at his body beneath her.
"Christine, ma petite," Erik said quietly, closing his eyes. "Help me understand."
"Help you understand my love for you?" she countered teasingly, swallowing down the lump in her throat. She straightened regardless and swivelled so that she could look him in the eyes. "I need you to listen to me and open your mind to at least the possibility of what I'm going to tell you being true."
With a scoff he turned to face her as well. "Christine, you are a poor liar to begin with."
"Erik. Humour me."
His golden gaze narrowed but he nodded, taking a sip from his tea. "Speak, then."
Her heart fluttered and tears welled, remembering so vividly his broken wail and his own heart-wrenching love confession only meters from here. How strange it was to see her angel, Erik, sit so calmly in front of her now, not even aware of what his future would have held.
"God, this is surprisingly difficult. I trust you with every secret of my life yet this…"
"Christine—"
"I have time travelled."
The silence between them was the loudest she had ever heard it, all the while Erik staring at her. She could read his dumbfounded-ness even through the mask and his carefully stoic expression. She winced and inhaled sharply. "Say something."'
He opened his mouth, closed it, and then frowned. "What does one say to that, Christine? That is simply impossible."
Tears dripped down her cheeks but she pressed on, gently putting her free hand on Erik's leg and earnestly looking up to him. "Then how do I know of Don Juan Triumphant?"
His eyes narrowed. "How do you know of that?" he hissed, mouth a thin line. "I must've mentioned it at some point, or played the music."
"No, ange. You have never mentioned it before you did then."
"… When?" He frowned, tea forgotten in his hands.
"The Masquerade on New year's eve," she said quite matter-of-factly. "You dressed as Red Death and surprised the company after six months of absence from everything. And everybody," she added quietly, looking away from his piercing gaze. "You gave the score to the managers and forced the company to play it. You had me as Aminta. You ended up killing Piangi to take his place."
"What—" Erik breathed, then promptly stood from the sofa to pace around the room, disperse his restlessness. He stood still for a moment and turned back to Christine. "I finished it?"
She blinked and straightened. "You— don't have it finished now?" Then she laughed, almost manically. "You believe me?"
"No—" he started immediately, then frowning and ducking his head as he continued his pacing. "This is madnes," he muttered, shaking his head. He stopped again. "Wait, I— I left even you? For six months?"
Christine only nodded.
"What in God's name for? I would never stay away from you."
A blush heated her cheeks and she swallowed, uneasily eyeing Erik's pacing form. "I… I think I may have to start from the beginning," she said softly, closing her eyes. "To answer any questions you may have."
"No— Christine." Erik frowned and promptly went to his knees in front of her to gaze up at her, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "My dear, you speak of impossible things. I am an open-minded man, but this…"
"I know," she breathed, throat feeling tight. "I know it is impossible, but I have no reason to lie about these things. God knows last time after my performance this night it was entirely different." She closed her eyes and sniffled. "And that night changed everything."
Erik tilted his head with a frown. "How— Say I do believe you," he started, placatingly raising a hand. "How… How much time has— passed, for you? Before you— Before you came here."
Tears once again filled her eyes and she let out a sob. "A year."
Blankly her stared at her. Then he stood again and continued his pacing as he flexed his hands. "What happened?" He sounded broken, like tears were right at the surface.
"You believe me?"
With another shuddering breath he halted once again. Slowly, he turned to her, conflict slacking his shoulders and making his face look taut. His handsome half looked closer to his marred half now, and still Christine wanted nothing more than to kiss him. "I— I do believe you would not lie about this," he whispered, so quietly Christine could barely hear him. "But how could I possibly believe something as outlandish as time travel?"
"Believe me, Erik, when I tell you I have stopped trying to make it make sense." She laughed dryly and put her tea on a small table, deciding to ignore it for now as she wiped at her eyes. "I've been trying all day but it just gives me this massive headache, like something above is preventing me from knowing the facts."
They were quiet for another moment as Erik continued pacing, processing that which he could not.
Quietly, Christine stood and went over to him, holding him by his shoulders and looking up to him. "I beg you, try not to think of how that which is impossible was somehow made possible. Just listen, please. You must know what— what has happened, why I— I came back here."
"You— had a say in it?" Erik whispered, gently taking her wrists. "You say that as if you…"
She nodded. "Sit, Erik, and let me explain."
For once, the Phantom of the Opera listened to another soul. He nodded and sat back on the sofa, stiller than Christine had ever seen him as she joined him. She understood his restlessness, though, the cold sweat of it clinging to her dress. She wrung her hands and sighed, heart pounding. "Okay."
And so she told him everything.
She told him of this day, how it had started much the same but ended entirely different, only because her curiosity had taken over and ripped off his mask. How he had brought her back so hurriedly after that they had never had the chance to discuss what had happened. How she had fled into Raoul's arms after Erik's explosive anger, which in hindsight was somewhat warranted but had still frightened her.
She told him of his displeasure at Carlotta's role in Il Muto, Raoul's seating in Box Five, the managers' complete disobedience at having Christine play the silent role. How he had threatened the crashing of the chandelier and forced the managers to obey his command. How he had then killed Buquet and hanged his corpse for all of Paris to see.
She told him, with red and heated cheeks, of her fleeing to the roof, how Raoul had followed her. She had half the mind to pass over his proposal, but it was integral to what happened, so with an averted gaze she told him of her fear and Raoul's comfort.
To give Erik some credit, his eyes were only briefly aflame with contempt and hatred before he settled with a huff.
Then the chandelier crash and his disappearance after. She made sure to mention her anxiety and grief for him, the conflicting feelings, after all they had been together suddenly changing for the worst. She told him explicitly how much she had missed him that half year, had truly thought he had gone.
The masquerade, a joyous occasion until Erik had crashed it in his elaborate Red Death costume and his announcement of his new opera. She remembered his soft eyes when he looked upon her, then the hardening gaze of them when he saw the ring and yanked it straight from her neck.
She told him how Raoul had forced her to play in the opera after all, despite her vocal objections and terror at the thought alone. How she sought solace at her father's grave but found Erik's terrible hypnosis instead and had Raoul save her from it. Her stomach lurched remembering this, and she swallowed away the bile.
She did not mention how her heart had yearned for him in the graveyard, even before his partial hypnosis.
The debut opening, everything running smoothly despite the gendarmes posted everywhere and the cold sweat never dispersing from her skin. Raoul's alert and angered gaze shooting through the house. And then his voice, Erik's voice she had recognised instantly as terror overtook her. Still she had followed her blocking until she had uncovered him. Listened to his proposal, and then unmasked him entirely for all of Paris to see.
Erik seemed as nauseous as she felt reciting this, tears swimming her vision and throat tight. She put a steadying hand on her stomach and swallowed thickly.
She told him how he had taken her to his home, suddenly so cold and dark. He had been manic, threatening her into the wedding dress he had made, and then Raoul had come. Erik had jumped at the chance and feigned goodwill and let Raoul in, until he had used his Punjab lasso and noosed the man.
Erik closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, fingers idly and reflexively feeling over the small and coiled lasso beneath his waistcoat. Christine watched him, mouth dry as she pressed on.
She told him of her anger and hurt, remembering so vividly the burning of her own tears on her cheeks at having to make an impossible choice.
She told him the choice she had made.
Him, even at the hatred of the despicable choice.
And then he had let them go, shaking and staggering and forcing them away with yelling so visceral the mere memory of it sent a shiver down her spine.
She told him how she had never seen him again after that, how she and Raoul tried to settle in the de Chagny estate and come back to their lives and plan their wedding. The wedding Christine didn't want.
Feeling unsteady she sat down, whole body trembling as she touched her forehead, feeling the cold sweat and wincing. "I spent months so unhappy," she whispered, biting her lips. "I went to my father's grave yesterday, needing some kind of comfort if only to tell him of everything that had happened." More tears drip down once again. "I wished more than anything to return and change things, to set things right. I remember sitting down at the door to the mausoleum, resting against the cool stone to— to just sit there. I was exhausted, I must have fallen asleep. When I woke, I was— I was home somehow. In my bed, in my flat. Meg woke me up for rehearsals. Rehearsals for Hannibal. I was so confused." She wrung her hands in her dress, didn't dare meet Erik's eyes she could feel on her. "Today was exactly the same as a year ago, Erik," she breathed, closing her eyes. "Every single detail, down to you crashing the scenery onto Carlotta."
She didn't know what else to say, mouth dry. She reached for her tea and chugged it down, heart pounding and wishing the tea had whiskey in it. The silence was deafening, anxiety coiling around her heart and making her stomach lurch once more.
"You speak the truth."
At his voice, she inhaled sharply and shot up. She turned to meet his gaze, feeling the trembling of her lips at her urge to cry. She simply nodded.
Erik groaned and winced, touching his head as he sat forward and stared at the floor. "Then you have seen the— the worst of me you... the worst you—" His voice broke. "You have seen the monster that is me."
"And still I want you." She could not deny his comment, rememberinh so vividly the manic look in his dull amber eyes as he thrust the wedding dress at her and barked at her to change. "But I do believe the Phantom I left in my future would never be you, here."
He shook his head, chest heaving. "No, petite."
She huffed, and despite her feeling just as unsteady as he looked, she shuffled closer to him and took his trembling hand to press a kiss to it. "I was uncertain then, Erik," she whispered against his cool skin. "I made mistakes, and you and Raoul both paid the price for it. But I know now what I want, what I need."
Unsteadily he glanced at her, eyes shimmering. His voice was hushed as he brokenly said, "You know what I can be. I— I have done terrible things to you that make my stomach turn to hear. How could you possibly want to be with— with somebody like this?"
Tears fell down his cheek and she gently wiped them away, her own tears spilling as well. "Because that is not the angel I came to know over the years before that," she whispered, leaning closer to him to try and steady them both. "I know you as a loving and gentle maestro, a man who feels too much but does not know what to do with that. Trust me when I say I know what I want. I have lived a year of terror and regret to realise that."
Erik winced and closed his eyes. "I can barely comprehend it," he murmured, frowning. "It is still so… impossible."
She laughed softly, brokenly. "I know, ange." She pressed another kiss to his hand, breathing softly onto his skin. "More than anything I wish to forget that past year that happened, but I— I am so, so, so thankful to be here with you now, again. To do it over as I wished." She squeezed his hand to ground herself against him. "I just want to be with you now, Erik. None of the rage and distrust, none of the conflict. Just you and me."
He whimpered, shoulders hunched. "What gives that it will not happen again?"
"This time I won't take off your mask," she said immediately, sharply. "It feels like me doing that changed everything. You became so… distant after that. Raoul near me didn't help either, it all just… cascaded like that."
Erik stilled, breathing shallower as he suddenly glanced at her. "You… you have seen my face…?"
If the situation wasn't so peculiar to begin with, she may have laughed at his delayed realisation. Instead, she simply nodded and pressed another kiss to his hand grasped firmly in hers. "And still I love you," she whispered lovingly, hoped he could see the adoration and love in her eyes.
Erik gasped and inhaled a shuddering breath. He opened his mouth as if wanting to say something, then shut it. His eyes fluttered when he whispered, "Say it again"
"I love you."
He closed his eyes and grimaced as tears dripped down his cheeks.
"I love you," she breathed again, moving to cradle his face and wiping his tears. Her throat tightened and she swallowed down the lump, sniffling. "I love you."
A sob escaped him and he reached for her, grounding himself onto her waist as he leaned forwards into her and cried.
With a noise she stroked through his hair and cradled him, crying softly as the weight of everything came crashing down on her at last.
They sat together like that for a while, letting their emotions out until their tears dried and all that was left was quiet resignation at the situation.
"I think you are right in trying not to make sense of it," Erik breathed softly, voice uncharacteristically hoarse and quiet, intimate. "Every time I try my heart just hurts, knowing what has happened to you. What I have done, what it caused you to do."
She sighed and shook her head. "I should have told you so much earlier, Erik. My love for you, I mean. I loved you before all of that happened, but I just did not act on it. I feared it would change everything, that I would never see you again as you'd consider me some useless girl or something like that." She ducked her head with a frown, embarrassment heating her cheeks. "It was foolish of me to not have told you then." She took a deep breath and gently pushed Erik away from her enough to see into his glistening golden eyes. "I regretted that fact every single day without you. But now I am here, with you, before all of that. There is nowhere else I would rather be."
He stared at her and swallowed thickly. "I could have told you just as well, petite," he whispered hoarsely, touching her arms and pressing as close as he could. "Over the years, I— I have loved you for so long but never fathomed that you— you would like let alone love someth— somebody like me." His lips trembled and his hands tightened around her arms, a lone tear dripping down his already stained cheek.
She chuckled fondly, breathlessly, as she gently wiped his cheek, feeling so soft and loved. "Say it again, ange."
He blinked. Then, with a wavering voice, he whispered, "I love you."
Warmth burst into her chest and spread through her body, and without second thought she reached forward and pressed their lips together once more.
Instantly he moved, reaching up to cup her cheeks as his lips moved between hers and his tongue flicked at her lips.
She gasped into his mouth and pulled away enough to stare at him, eyes wide. "Erik, I—" she gasped breathily, touching his cheek and caressing the skin. "Please take off your mask."
He inhaled sharply and froze, mouth slightly agape. He ducked his head and winced. "It is a terrible sight, Christine, I could never—"
"I have seen it already," she whispered, pressing another reasusuring and loving kiss onto his lips. "I have seen your face and I love you for it." Gently she touched the porcelain of his mask and flashed him a loving smile. "It can not be comfortable to cry and kiss with it on. I know I much prefer to feel your skin beneath my hands than that porcelain."
Despite his obvious anxiety he still let out a rumbled and breathy chuckle, chest heaving.
Gently she shuffled next to him, sitting close and nuzzling into his side. "My dearest Erik," she murmured. "I wish for that barrier to be broken. I have seen your face already, I wish you could now see that I do not care for its marred side. That you can see the love I have for you." She entwined their fingers and squeezed, giving him a comforting and loving smile. "If only so you can be more comfortable."
He pressed his eyes closed for a moment as he fought the conflict within him, stiff and still as a statue. Then, the tension faded and he exhaled softly. "Very well, petite." Resigned to his fate, he let go of Christine's hand and reached up.
With bated breath she watched him take off the mask and his wig in one fell swoop.
There it was.
Warmth tingled her fingertips as she reached up and cradled his marred half, touching the taut and dry skin barely covering his bones. "Oh, Erik," she breathed reverently, tears springing to her eyes. "There you are, my beloved."
A broken sob escaped him and he clutched onto her dress, tear-filled eyes shooting open. "What— What of the Vicomte?"
"You think of him now?" she whispered amusedly, though exasperatedly, smiling all the same.
Biting his lips, he glided his cool fingers up over her arms to her wrists, holding her where he could feel her pulse. "I just— He seemed so interested and he would be a perfect suitor for you, my angel, my— I just do not understand…"
With a sigh she closed her eyes and shook her head. "Oh, my dear Erik, how the world has hurt you. My soul hurts knowing the injustices done to you." She gently took one of his hands and pressed a kiss to the skin of his wrist, his palm, his fingertips. "I want you, Erik. Nobody else." She glanced up to him from beneath her lashes, smiling when he looked as breathless as she felt.
Invigorated, she gently ghosted her hand up his sleeve, feeling over the cool skin of his forearm as he stifled a gasp and watched her with wide eyes. "I have lived a year of terror and regret, ange. I am done with that year, completely and utterly done. You are here in front of me now, and I am here to stay forever. Nobody can bat me away from you, not even you. If I must lead you to your bed and show you like that, I would be happy to do so."
"God," Erik gasped out, doubled over slightly as his cheeks reddened. "You say that when I— When my face… God, Christine, you are truly the angel I once claimed to be," he muttered.
"Perhaps," she mused softly, pressing closer towards him and flashing him a smile. "But I much prefer both of us being just our corporeal selves. Let me forget that terrible year and make new memories with you instead. Happy memories, perhaps ones where you kiss me breathless or take me on your bed so lovingly."
She grinned when his ears now reddened as well and he almost reflexively held a hand at his groin. "Christine Daaé," he muttered breathlessly. "When did you become so forward…"
"Let us not dwell on the when." She swung a leg over his lap and straddled him, gently cupping both his cheeks. "See, much better." She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, his nose, his temple, his cheeks, his jaw. "I have waited long enough for this, Erik," she murmured against his skin, sighing contentedly and nuzzling into his neck. "Just hold me."
Immediately his arms shot up and wrapped around her, tightly. He turned and inhaled deeply at her curls, a smile ghosting over his face despite it all. "I like this Christine Daaé," he whispered reverently, leaned comfortably into the sofa.
She hmm-ed and closed her eyes, smelling Erik all around her as the exhaustion of everything overtook her all at once. Before she knew it she dozed off, her dead weight slumping against Erik's frame.
As she lay there sleeping, Erik cried a bit more—quietly, so he wouldn't wake her—and simply held her like his life depended on it. Christine Daaé was his saviour, the true angel he had never expected to grace him. He could never let her go now that he had her.
But his legs were falling asleep and her dead weight started becoming uncomfortable even for him.
Carefully though deftly he stood, moving for Christine's knees to hook around his arm. He went to her bedroom, heart warm and tight all the same as he lovingly put her on the soft mattress. He gently took off her shoes and put them aside before taking the silken sheets and pulling them up to her shoulders and tucking her in.
He looked at her a moment more, symphonies and arias bursting in his mind, and then turned.
"You come back here, Erik," she murmured sleepily, reaching out her hand to him. "And join me right now."
He stammered, eyes wide as his heart skipped a beat. Reverently he ducked his head. "Christine, I could never— Only husband and wife—"
"Yes."
He reached to steady himself onto a nearby dresser, his stomach lurching. "What?"
The sleepy soprano grumbled, eyes still closed and hand still reached out to him, as if she hadn't the slightest of what she was talking about. "I do want to marry you, ange. So now come here and join me, I'm cold."
"B-But—" Breathlessly and at a loss for words he stared at her, eyes wide and knees feeling weaker than they had ever done before. She wanted to marry him.
"Erik."
He gasped softly and then nodded, moving to the other side of the bed and sitting down. He had never actually laid in this bed before, it had always been Christine's. It felt almost wrong to—
"Stop brooding," she interjected lovingly, turned to her side and lovingly putting her hand on his back. "And get into bed."
More silent tears fell as he reached down to unlace his shoes and take them off. His hands were trembling as he unbuttoned his waistcoat and took it off, glancing to where he could put it and draping it over the nightstand next to him. Without another word he moved the sheets and then laid down, heart hammering in his chest.
As soon as he was lying Christine shuffled close and pressed against him, raising his arm and put it around her as she rested her head on his chest. "Hmm, much better," she murmured contentedly, feeling with her hand over his chest. "Crying is always tiring. Sleep."
He stared at the ceiling, mouth dry. She was right, he was exhausted—the day had turned out to be a whole lot more eventful than he could have ever imagined. Carefully he glanced down at the unruly mess of curls on his chest and arm, the soft rising and falling of Christine's chest as she fell back asleep.
Love tightened his heart and he suppressed a whimper. Gingerly he moved his free hand to card some of Christine's curls away from her face, feeling through the strands of brown and revelling at the softness of those locks.
"Are you done admiring me?" she mumbled sleepily, a soft laugh falling from her lips. "You can admire me more tomorrow, ange. I am not going anywhere."