God give me courage to show you you are not alone

by apileofpans

As Christine sings her debut role, Erik thinks back on how they met and how their lives have changed through each other's company. Afterwards, he has to watch as the de Chagny boy visits her, but she rejects his advances straight away. She comes to him instead. (E/C, canon divergence, fix-it)

Ah, Christine…

The rafters hung idly above the performance of a lifetime, the soprano beneath on the stage basking in the light, her angelic voice filling the house. Erik glanced down at her, golden eyes gleeful and proud and gloved hand holding only lightly on to the rope next to him—in truth he did not really need to hold on at all.

So long ago he remembered how she had sat in the chapel, hands entwined and eyes hidden beneath her lids. Her lips parted with the song she whispered for her dear departed father.

Golden eyes glimmered through the grate from which he saw glimpses of the crying child, her angelic voice—rough, but trainable—ringing through his ears. He neared the grate, entranced, steps quiet as a fox. He looked the child over once more, her brown curls unruly, the black-accented dress with its frills and ruffles. Faintly he could see tear marks on her cheeks, her eyes looking puffy.

Poor child.

"Christine!"

Erik startled at the voice coming towards the intimate scene and stumbled backwards, his gaze snapping up to the curved steps.

Antoinette's little girl bound down them, all blonde hair and tulle. "Christine, here you are." She gracefully kneeled next to the girl and wrapped her arms around her in a comforting and loving hug. "Are you okay?"

"Meg." The girl—Christine—smiled fondly in response and returned the warm embrace.

And then Erik had turned and swiftly walked away, pulling his hat down over his eyes. Never before had he felt like he had intruded on a scene within his opera house, yet here he had very clearly felt his intrusion upon the two friends.

After that he had been unable to stop himself from following the melancholic girl, Christine, fascinated and pitiful all at once. She was part of the chorus and the ballet, speak of a talented child. Often she was next to Meg, Antoinette's happy and go-lucky girl. How had he never noticed this brown-haired, fair child? Perhaps her voice had been drowned out in the chorus, it is not like he paid much attention to the dance.

One time, weeks later, when he was crossing through the many hidden passages and tunnels, her voice echoed towards him through the darkness, had him crane his neck with a stifled gasp. The chapel.

Before he could stop himself his body already turned, feet stumbling as he made his way to the chapel.

She was singing louder than before, as if tentatively trying out her voice in the decent acoustics of the stone chamber. Or maybe he was just now paying attention to her budding soprano, eagerly awaiting the next time he could hear her talent. After all, since he had first heard her he had gotten this downright stupid, idiotic idea—an idea that could very well ruin all he had built here at his opera. But an idea nonetheless, one he absolutely needed to throw out into the world and have heard by Christine Daaé. One he at least wanted considered.

Had he been a lesser man he would have thought himself chasing a carnal desire he had buried decades ago. But, he knew that was not it—she was just a young woman grieving her father's loss, he didn't want any of that. No, he wanted her voice, her music. There was much he could do with that and he longed to perfect her voice, to make her the next prima donna of the Opera Populaire.

But why?

He halted, if only for a moment, as he pondered his reasoning. By all intents and purposes he was a recluse, a loner deep in the dark of the opera's bowels, and he much preferred to keep it that way. But something about the child, this Christine Daaé, had him drawn to her. Her singing was angelic, though raw and tentative, but he could make her a star. And he longed to do just that, to give Lefèvre a new talent to use in the operas, to show him the hidden treasure within his chorus.

With a stronger step he resumed to the chapel.

He had heard Christine and Meg discuss the girl's father before, a fair and warm man according to their stories. In those stories Christine had mentioned something her father had said on his death bed, something that had piqued Erik's interest, indeed.

Monsieur Daaé had told his child stories of an Angel of Music, somebody who would help the girl after her father had passed, somebody who would guide and guard her. This had been a perfect opportunity for Erik, a way into the girl's life to tutor her voice and make her rise into stardom without too many questions. Paris would adore her!

So, he set his plan in motion.

He caught Christine alone in the chapel once more, praying to her dear departed father and quietly singing a folk song in a language Erik did not recognise. She looked like an angel herself in the candlelight, and briefly guilt over what he was about to do overwhelmed him. But then he repeated to himself all the reasons to do it, and so he did.

Wandering child, so lost, so helpless,

yearning for my guidance

And Christine had frozen, eyes shooting open with her fingertips at her lips. She blinked and exhaled a shuddering breath. "Father?"

Erik had completely ignored the wild beating of his heart, the guilt at abusing this woman's—girl, really—naiveté. He trudged on through this dredged distraction. "No, child," he hummed on a velvet baritone, had it ring out all around the girl. "Your Angel, at last."

And so, Christine had gasped and promptly wept, sent a thank you to God, or her father, and then they had talked.

And talked.

Between talking they sung, he taught her, guided her as promised, and heard her improve over the weeks. She was sure to rise to stardom indeed, he just needed a right moment to show her skill, show the Opera Populaire what this gifted child was capable of. Lefèvre would eat his hat, surely.

Through the months of tutelage and spending time together—in their own odd way, of course—Erik came to quite enjoy the presence of this surprisingly bright lady. Through that enjoyment he often had tea waiting for her at the chapel, or ensured another dancer may trip and skim her knee so they would cease their picking on Christine. Sometimes she cried and asked him for guidance, which he was always quite lost on but somehow still seemed to satisfy the brunette with his answers. Sometimes she simply talked and talked, sharing her day's events, or discussing her family. Sometimes they prayed together, even if he believed in nothing, but Christine had asked him and how could he deny her?

He had come to know this woman almost as well as he did himself, and his heart leapt every time he thought of her, for she brightened his days enormously so.

It was at some point that Christine had asked, quietly and ashamedly, for his name.

"I do not know if angels have a name," she had breathed with red embarrassed cheeks. "But I would much like to call you something other than Angel."

And Erik had stiffened within the tunnels and faltered, for he did have a name, but it had not been spoken in many, many years. Even Antoinette had taken to calling him Ghost and Fantôme, mocking his very livelihood without venom in her voice, just teasing his occupation of this establishment.

He remembered Antoinette coming to him weeks before, her usual stoic face drawn with seething contempt. She had practically jumped off the boat before it had properly docked and sought him out, stepping right into his personal space and asking him what the hell he was thinking mingling with the sweet child that was Christine. Apparently the soprano was under Antoinette's protective wing, which he really should have guessed with how much time she spent with little Meg, but it had knocked the air out of him regardless to have Antoinette's wrath upon him.

He remembered straightening his waistcoat and ensuring the woman, close his age and yet so much like a mother to him, he meant no harm and was merely tutoring her.

It had hardly comforted the woman, her mouth a thin straight line of displease. Yet, she had taken a step back and regarded him for a moment before she had said those crucial words, "You are to cease these dramatics of being her ridiculous 'angel of music' or so help me, Fantôme, I will tell her myself. It is especially cruel to prey on a grieving child like this, I care not for your reason."

And those cursed words had descended pure hot shame upon him, joined the guilt ever present within his heart when he came for the daily lessons. Those damned words he could not blame Antoinette for in the slightest had him think for a long time on how to broach this sensitive topic, unable to find the right time. Until Christine had asked his name, and suddenly it was the perfect opportunity because indeed, angels may not have names, but he surely did and he definitely was not an angel.

"Angel?" Christine had whispered on a trembling voice, older now since they had met but still so young to him.

With a deep and broken sigh bearing the weight of the world, Erik had pressed his forehead against the cool stone and steadied himself. "I am no angel, child," he murmured, so uncharacteristically that Christine had simply gaped. "I am a mere human made of flesh and blood like you."

She had laughed softly, angelically, and then waved her hand. "Nonsense, Ange. I have heard you sing, your voice alone must be from God."

His cheeks had heated yet he had laughed dryly all the same. "It is very well you do not believe me, but I implore you to go to the dressing room of the upcoming Giudicelli and simply wait for me there."

"But, Ange, it is late, nobody is allowed…"

"Ma petite," Erik had called out softly, his voice all around the anxious woman, trying to soothe her with his presence. "Nobody is awake currently but you and me. Nobody will be in your path, I promise."

And Christine had listened, trusted him, and left for the dressing room.

And in that dressing room, now a familiar and comfortable room for the both of them but back then somebody else's, Erik had unlatched the mechanism of the mirror with lead in his shoes and shown himself to this naive and young woman.

At the sight of him she had simply gaped, eyes shooting out all over his slender and too-thin body, settling on that damned mask. She had been inquisitive in her look but said nothing, instead narrowing her eyes at him and pursing her lips.

"So you are as real as you say." She crossed her arms and her eyes were cooler than he had ever seen them. "You lied to me, Ange."

More than anything he had wanted to deflect, to explain and defend—but really, there was no excuse good enough to explain his treacherous deceit. He bowed his head at her in acknowledgement and raised his hands placatingly. "Whatever you wish to do, whether that is shout or throw items at me, I will allow. I understand your anger. Though, I beg you believe me when I say Antoinette has more than adequately expressed her contempt at my deceit."

Her eyes had narrowed, her head tilted as she regarded his shape still within the mirror. "You know Madame Giry?"

"Oh, yes, she is a dear friend of mine." Despite the strangeness of sharing his thoughts and emotions with another person, he paid the discomfort little mind. He had already decided that any and all questions Christine may have he would answer—to make up for his lies.

Christine had nodded slowly and moved towards him, then ceased and motioned with her hand for him to step into the room instead. "You look like you want to escape at any moment. Close that doorway would you?"

Naturally he obliged, sliding into the lavish room and swiftly closing the mirror. "I see a brush that could be used to throw if you wish, mademoiselle," he hummed dryly, head held high.

The brunette laughed softly and waved her hand. "I have no such wish." She fondly looked him over, eyes sparkling now and that strange coolness melted. "Don't get me wrong, Ange, I am mad at your ruse, but truth be told I…" she halted, considered. "I had prayed you had at least a corporeal form," she continued slowly. "That you are a human as real as me, that is even better." She nodded firmly, the matter to her settled now. "So, Ange, your name?"

It had seemed Christine Daaé was dead-set on perplexing his cold heart time and time again, the way she so easily accepted him for as he was.

He chuckled grimly and relented with a closing of his eyes and a bow of his head. "Erik, petite."

After that, he had apologised numerous times, just to ensure she knew of his guilt and regret, and every time she had simply smiled warmly at him and nodded.

Weeks later, with Erik now present in the chapel with her when they practiced, Christine had turned to him, dress billowed around her on her knees and brown eyes doe-like and imploring. "Erik, you live in the opera, I presume?"

He had blinked down at her—at her rightful presumption that felt too bright for a woman who so easily believed him to be an angel. Yet she wasn't stupid, and not wrong either. He had been the cause for her naive belief and he shouldn't consider her silly for it when he had played her the way he had. He simply nodded. "Yes."

"I know of no proper living quarters in the opera, Ange..." She pursed her lips and narrowed her hazel eyes at him, accusing. "I doubt you live merely in the passages behind the walls, could hardly be comfortable for a man of your stature."

That comment had him blink, his heart skipping a beat. She meant just his height, surely, but it had still felt strange to hear her comment on his appearance.

She tapped at her chin in thought and glanced at the vent grate she had first heard Erik from a year ago. "So what, then?" She turned back to look at him. "Private chambers changed to fit your wish? Secret, perhaps, only accessible through those tunnels?"

He had been unable to stop the laugh rumbling deep in his throat, the genuine joy sparkling in the fond gaze reserved only for her. "Well, my dear, you are close—" And he had halted briefly, wondering if he should tell this woman who could so easily turn around and snitch on him to the gendarmes. Truthfully, it had been a miracle Lefèvre allowed his Phantom antics to begin with, but Christine could very well—

"I live in the basement of the Opera," he stated flatly, refusing to humour his destructive train of thought any more. He glanced down at the cool stone Christine was seated on and then lowered himself to his knees as well, joining her with the idle thought of perhaps providing pillows next time. "Five stories beneath, in fact."

"How?" The candlelight danced in her eyes and made the hazel look like honey for a moment. In that moment, Erik understood more than ever why her father had been so caught up in telling her all the stories he could think of.

A smirk tugged at his cursed lips. "I helped design this very building." And at her widening eyes he had laughed.

"But— but…!" Christine sputtered and mindlessly reached to touch his arm. She lowered her voice to a hushed whisper that only his keen ears could hear as her intense eyes met his and she leaned in. "Erik, how old are you?"

"Much too old, indeed, petite," Erik had responded smoothly on a pretend tired sigh, smirking when Christine had rolled her eyes but allowed his deflecting and sat back.

"You designed the Opera Populaire. Wow." She shook her head and sighed wistfully. "No wonder you know everything so well. These hidden passages, your design as well?"

"Yes and no." Erik shrugged. "There was a lake beneath the ground where the foundation had to be built and it needed to be stabilised somehow. I designed the foundation and added a living space, meant to be temporary as far as Garnier was concerned, and added many passageways under the guise of maintenance tunnels. To be fair, I do do some maintenance now and again as I find problems needing repair."

"So you intended to live here from the beginning?" Christine's eyes sparkled, and Erik's heart leapt at the notion of her eager to learn more about him. Who was he to deny her that? In this light she looked ethereal, like she was the real angel and not he.

"Yes. I adore music, it is in my very soul. If I can immerse myself into the arts to this degree, why would I not take that opportunity?" He remembered fondly the settling into his now home, the acquisition of the furniture and decorations. He gave a fond shake of his head, so at ease with Christine in this small chapel barely ever visited he didn't bother too much keeping up the imposing Phantom persona.

"I would like to see it."

Her voice roused him from his thoughts and he looked at her, giving a thoughtful hum. "It is a long walk, petite, and there are treacherous steps."

Defiantly she took his gloved hand and squeezed, giving him a wicked and mischievous smile. "You'll be there to protect me, Ange. Besides, with how you are dressed I imagine it will be much more comfortable for singing lessons than the chapel. And there are bound to be instruments to accompany us there, hmm?"

Oh, that little demon knew what she was doing, all right, mentioning all the right things. Erik regarded her once more with a narrowing of his eyes, heart beating loudly in his chest. "You are hardly dressed for the cold, little one."

"Your cloak looks warm to me." She touched the fabric of said cloak and smiled as she smoothed out some wrinkles. She looked back up to him, eyes sparkling with defiance and challenge. "I could wear that."

The image of Christine wearing his cloak stirred something within him he decided to ignore for now as he raised from the floor. He bowed down to reach a hand out to her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Come along then, mademoiselle."

She had stared up at him for a moment before a grin had graced her soft face and she had eagerly taken his hand and gotten up from the floor.

From there he had taken her to Giudicelli's dressing room. There were many other passages, of course, but he anticipated this diva's room to be Christine's in time, so he opened the mirror and laughed at her soft and wondrous gasp. Her hand was still in his as he guided her down the dark tunnels, lantern in hand more for her than him. The flames licked at the stone walls and must have illuminated him eerily, for Christine held tightly onto him that entire walk.

It turned out the cold hadn't bothered the young woman as much as he had expected. In fact, it would never bother her during future visits either. Even the boat ride on the lake had Christine gaze out into the darkness with astonished wonder rather than fear or unease.

His home had made the woman exclaim and touch his arm as she took the space in, the candles and rugs everywhere, the furniture and books scattered around. She shot back to meet his eyes and almost breathlessly had said, "We must hold the lessons here, Ange."

And he had happily obliged.

With Christine being a regular visitor to his home from that point on he had made changes to incorporate the woman's presence. Within a room he had spare for a long time and filled with clutter and books he had a bed installed and amenities that allowed her to get ready in her own privacy. With her agreement he also procured dresses for her to wear if she stayed for multiple days.

He even ate food regularly when she was around.

It was one such evening, months later, where they were having dinner after lessons, that Christine had tilted her head at him and narrowed her eyes and said, "Erik." And when she started with his name it was either a very personal question or a berating for something he had done. Still, he lowered his fork and took a napkin to the corners of his mouth and glanced at her. "Christine."

"Carlotta complained today about her costume being itchy."

"That diva does nothing but complain, petite." He smirked lightly and took an innocent sip of his wine. "What makes this so different?

"Well." Christine had regarded him, too much intellect behind those deceivingly innocent brown eyes. "For a while now she has been speaking of a voice haunting her dressing room as well." Pointedly she raised her eyebrows at him.

He pursed his lips, allowing the vague implications of the brunette to hang in the air for a moment. "Well, I hardly think others would complain if she retires."

"Erik." Christine frowned at him, voice stern. "Cease your hauntings at once."

"Christine, her voice is no match to yours. If I can just get her indisposed for even one evening I can show Lefèvre your skill," Erik pressed, frown creasing his forehead. "You could grace Paris' stage and rise into—"

"No." Christine interrupted coolly, keeping his gaze locked in hers. "I want none of your meddling, Ange. If I am to become a diva like Carlotta I want it to be with my skill, not my acquaintance of you. Stop it right now, or I may very well stop visiting until you do."

How cruel she was, to threaten him with the crippling loneliness he had known before she had entered his life. His mouth was a thin line of displease as he sat back in his chair, hands resting on the hard wooden table and his golden eyes dangerous on the petite woman before him. Yet he had sighed deeply and bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Very well."

It was weeks later, after Erik had indeed ceased his haunting of the diva, that Christine had randomly laughed during their lessons and Erik had blinked and turned. "Christine? Something amusing to you?"

She had touched his arm, joy sparkling in her hazel eyes, as she said, "I am glad you ceased your hauntings, Ange. I don't believe I would have had the willpower to stay away from you."

And he had gaped at her, his arm burning under her touch and her words echoing through his for once quiet mind.

Two whole years passed then.

Two years of Erik keeping his promise and Christine visiting him almost daily for lessons or chats and teatime. They never ran out of things to talk about, they sang together at his piano, they simply sat in comfortable silence in his small library reading their own books.

It was pure bliss.

And now here, beneath him, on the stage for all of Paris to see, Christine was Elissa from Hannibal. One of the main leads that had been Carlotta's role days ago but forcibly changed when the diva's illness didn't relent in time.

He remembered Christine's wide eyes and pale face meeting him as he had opened the mirror. He had looked at her and then his eyes darkened as he stepped into the room and growled, "What is it?"

She had stumbled into his arms, mindless of his threatening glare, and looked up to him. "Carlotta is ill."

At those words he had blinked and exhaled a relieved breath, wrapping his arms around her and then chuckling and shaking his head as he calmed. "Then God is with us, indeed, for relieving us of her voice."

"No, Erik." She lightly slapped his bicep despite her own chuckle. Still, she trembled ever so slightly in his arms. "Since Carlotta never wanted understudies, claiming her perfect health, there was nobody to replace her for if she did fall ill."

"Yes, petite, I know this." Erik frowned, trying to figure out why Christine was telling him any of this. Faintly he noted the past tense.

"Well, she is still ill, and the first show is coming up." When he still didn't connect the dots, she continued, breathlessly, "The new managers were asking around who could possibly sing it, fearing the cancellation of the show until she was recovered." She took a breath and a grin slowly curved her lips. "Meg told them I could sing the part."

Erik had stiffened, and then he had promptly let out a gleeful laugh and eyed mischievously down at the soprano in his arms. "And you sang, I presume? Oh, Christine, you had better sang and shown them!"

"Of course I did!" Christine laughed breathlessly, eyes sparkling. "They picked me, Erik!" she whispered excitedly, grin splitting her face. "They picked me! I am to be Elissa for however long Carlotta is ill!"

Promptly, Erik had picked her up and spun them through the room, laughter bursting from him as Christine grasped his arms and laughed with him. When he put her back down, pulse buzzing in his ears, he noted how close they were, gazing at each other and both breathless and elated. The air between them was charged with something he dared not place and he swallowed thickly. Shakily he detached from her, taking a step back despite himself.

Christine blinked, and he dared not think the flash of emotion in her eyes were disappointment, before she took a breath and the energy dissipated. "I was thinking we could celebrate with chartreuse." She smiled widely at him, eyes sparkling.

Recovering, Erik bowed down as always to reach out his hand to her. "My diva commands." He smirked mischievously and met her gaze.

She had laughed softly, taken his hand, and followed him down to his home.

With a final triumphant burst of her voice, Christine threw the scarf up in front of her, arms raised, and then fell to the floor in awaiting of Hannibal's arrival.

The audience burst out into cheers and whoops, clapped like their lives depended on it as they got to their feet and gave Christine the standing ovation Erik knew she deserved. He clapped just as feverishly with them, gleeful and proud high above her in the rafters.

The curtains slid closed and like clockwork Christine's ballerina friends crowded her, complimenting the soprano excitedly even as the crowd outside still clapped and cheered for her, even calling for an encore.

Erik felt the pride burst through his chest, a wide and almost delirious grin tugging at his lips as he gazed down at Christine so elated and breathless, thanking her friends and accepting the bouquets of flowers already coming in.

Madame Giry came in and shut the ballerinas up with a stomp of her cane, eyes strict.

Erik watched her chew out the poor girls, almost feeling sympathetic for their plight as the Madame forced them to rehearse. He watched the group leave Christine, the soprano now alone save for her bouquets of flowers and the stagehands walking past.

Brava, brava, bravissimo…

Christine inhaled sharply and a grin widened her lips as she glanced around in a feeble attempt to find him.

She knew where to find him if she truly wanted him, though, and thus Erik swiftly disappeared from the rafters and made his way to her dressing room.

He was idly doing and undoing his Punjab lasso beneath his cloak, more a way of keeping busy than anything else, when the door opened and an elated Christine stepped inside, Meg close in tow.

"Who is your tutor?" Meg pressed, excited glee in her blue eyes. "You sang so well, Christine!"

"Oh, Meg..." Christine laughed softly, fondly, as she pulled the young Giry into her arms. "I mustn't say, but believe me when I say I could have never been here without him."

Just like that very first time he had seen the two women speak, he felt much like he was intruding upon them. Still, he longed to speak with Christine after, so as a compromise he turned away from the mirror and started humming to himself, deft fingers tying and untying different knots within his lasso. Christine's words, though factually true, heated his cheeks.

Soon, the dressing room was once again silent and Erik exhaled softly as he tucked the rope away and started to turn.

"Christine, where is my red scarf?"

A man's voice.

Erik turned on his heels and practically pressed his face against the mirror glaring into the room. He knew of the patrons' wicked actions with the women of the opera, yet he hadn't anticipated one to prey upon Christine so quickly.

"Raoul, so it is you!" Christine laughed and sprung into his arms to warmly embrace him.

Erik barely listened to their words, eyes narrow and mouth a thin line. He remembered Christine speaking of her childhood, of the boy Vicomte she had been crushing on. The boy Vicomte who had jumped into the sea to fetch her red scarf so important to her. The boy Vicomte who seemingly came back to her.

He grit his teeth, hand instinctively reaching for the Punjab lasso and touching upon the familiar rope. He would love nothing more than to strangle the life out of that foolish boy who so obviously wanted to take Christine for himself. What a joke! As if a Vicomte could possibly court an opera diva. Erik may not know much of society, he had learned enough of nobility to know the Vicomte's family would scandalise him for being with a 'mere singer'.

A cruel grin curved his lips and he straightened to his full height as he put his lasso away, glaring down at the interaction before him.

"We simply must go for supper, Christine." The Vicomte smiled at her, on his knees in front of her holding her hands.

That smug bastard using her first name when he hadn't known her for years. Erik pursed his lips but remained silent.

Christine stiffened at the boy's comment and then shook her head, though still flashed him a warm smile. "My dearest Raoul, I have no time tonight I am afraid."

Puzzled, the Vicomte blinked at her. "Did the performance tire you so, Lotte? I can imagine such godly talent would pull at your vocal chords like nothing else, hmm?"

Talent. As if Christine had not spent years honing her craft! Erik seethed, nostrils flaring. Such an insolent boy! But there was one interesting thing that had his heart skip a beat despite his building rage. Christine had rejected the Vicomte's notion for dinner.

Usually after a performance, whether that was with her being a ballerina or a chorus singer, Erik took her down to his home where they shared tea. They then simply talked for a while before performing one or two songs together. It was a comfortable routine for two years now, and it seemed she was set on honouring it.

Something within Erik softened at that realisation, the contempt slowly making way for the warm content he had become more and more familiar with over the years of knowing his angel. His posture eased and he took a relaxed breath, golden eyes coolly watching as the Vicomte stood.

"Very well, Lotte, another time then. We simply must catch up, it has been too long, and I am too curious to know how you came to be Paris' prima donna." He laughed fondly at the brunette and took her hand to his face, pressing his lips against the skin for a moment before releasing her. "Have a lovely evening."

"And you, Raoul." Christine smiled warmly at him, getting to her feet as well and clasping her hands before her. "I will be performing again tomorrow, perhaps we can meet then?"

The Vicomte beamed at her and nodded, giving a final wave before he turned and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Christine exhaled and went to the door to lock it, making sure to place the key back on the vanity. She turned to the mirror and smiled. "I know you're watching, Erik."

Erik smiled softly to himself and released the latch, the mirror sliding open. He bowed down as soon as she could properly see him, extending his hand with the rose. "You were a marvel, mademoiselle."

She beamed at him and took his outstretched arm and pulled him inside. Then she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his chest and squealed. "I can hardly believe it!"

For a moment he stood, still so unused to her seeking out his touch even after all this time. Then, he felt a warmth flood over him and he wrapped his arms around her, returning the hug as eagerly as she gave it. He had half a mind to press a kiss to the crown of her head, to run his gloved fingers through the mess of unruly hair cascading down her shoulders. She was a beautiful and skilful marvel that had him consciously remember to breathe at times.

Christine parted, unaware of her Angel's musings, and gently took the rose from him, all the while beaming up at him. "Thank you, Erik. Your roses are always what I look forward the most." She turned and placed the carefully cut flower into the vase, had it join the others.

Blinking at her words, he slowly gazed back at the locked door. And then, unable to help himself for surely he was always seeking ways to destroy himself, he asked, "Who was the boy?" He hoped it had sounded nonchalant, but it seemed Christine knew him well enough.

"Nobody to worry about, Ange," she hummed, moving to sit at her vanity to remove her makeup.

Erik scoffed. "Why would I—"

At her pointed look through the mirror he promptly shut his mouth and clenched his jaw.

"But to answer your question, since it seems you were not paying attention when we were talking..." She dried her face with a cloth and took a sip from her water. "That boy is Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, my childhood friend."

"And crush." He cursed himself for saying it as soon as the words had left his cursed lips.

"You remember that?" Christine snorted, laugh creasing at her eyes as she looked at him through the mirror. "I would almost say you sound begrudged, Ange." She gave him a wink and raised from the vanity and moved to the changing screen to change her clothes. "But truly, Ange," she called, her clothes rustling with her movement. "You have nothing to worry about with him."

"Well, to me he looked quite interested," Erik said coolly, repressing the urge to mumble it like some petulant child. He idly looked over the makeup and clutter upon the vanity, feigning the nonchalance he was failing to feel.

The soprano laughed behind her screen. "That's because he is. He wasn't when we were children, but he is obviously interested now. That's what I get for my skill, a Vicomte whose family would despise me as soon as he showed an ounce of interest."

Erik leered at that. "What, as if you are not worthy of such a high title?"

She was silent for a moment before she stepped out from the screen dressed in her comfortable clothes in preparation for her evening in Erik's home. "You think I am? That's sweet, Erik." She touched his arm with a warm smile and then went back to the vanity to straighten some of her items.

Erik watched her, throat uncharacteristically tight. The coming of this Vicomte had stirred something deep within him he had repressed long ago—something that had slowly started unfurling and making itself known as he had spent more and more time with Christine. Something that had made his heart skip a beat and his skin feel hot under Christine's touch. He knew she was of age. Young—as anybody was in this building compared to him—but not actually a child. But surely he was too old. Nobody would want him for his age alone, but then his face, too?

Ashamed, Erik ducked his head and exhaled softly, briefly closing his eyes against these cursed thoughts that had been overtaking his mind more and more often. No, Christine was the angel he had once claimed to be but never truly been, and she would never be with a monster as deplorable as him. He should count his blessings every time she gazed upon him, let alone touched him.

"Erik?"

He roused from his shameful thoughts with a sharp inhale of air, golden eyes focusing back on the soprano in front of him.

The soprano that was too close and seemed almost nervous.

"Christine?" he inquired softly, frowning. "Is something amiss?"

"Why did you ask about Raoul?"

Her eyes were sparkling with mischief and something he couldn't quite place, and he fought the instinctive urge to take a step back. Quietly he eyed down at her, thoughts going everywhere and nowhere as he considered the answers he could give her. "It was a mere curiosity. You seemed… smitten."

At his words she let out a laugh and waved her hand, though still did not take a step back from Erik's space. "Perhaps when I was a little girl, Ange. I haven't thought of him in a long time, and he just fancies me now because I was on stage in the limelight. Had I been one of the ballerinas today he would not have noticed me." She radiated a warm smile up to him.

Erik stammered and swallowed thickly, so uneasy he was at her look. He couldn't decipher that sparkle in her eye and his throat constricted as anxiety gripped at his heart.

"Have I flustered you, Ange?"

Her voice was low in her throat, an oddly seductive sound he hadn't before heard from her. It gripped at his heart and pooled a heat in his stomach he willed away. "No, petite," he lied with a forced and quick smile, straightening and looking out over the room. "You have your items for your stay tonight?"

A gentle hand touched his and felt the white of his gloves. He glanced down, his breath hitching, at Christine so close to him so wickedly touching his hand in ways she hadn't done before. She hummed softly as she raised his hand so she could take a closer look, to caress her thumb over the back of his bony appendage.

Then, without warning, her fingers curled at the edge of the expensive silk and pulled it off his ever cold hand. Warmth settled on his skin and he stifled a gasp, eyes wide and unable to stop the trembling of his hands. She raised his hand and then her soft lips were pressed against his skin and it took every bit of willpower he had to not sigh out a moan.

He felt Christine's smirk onto his skin and he remembered to breathe as the soprano gently put the smooth fabric back on his hand. "C-Christine?" he whispered breathily, blinking at the petite soprano right in his space.

Wicked hazel eyes looked up to him. "I had been wanting to do that for a while now," she said easily, relaxed smile curving her lips. "As a thank you, and to—" She swallowed. She cast her eyes downwards for a moment, seeming to gather her courage, and then defiantly met his eyes. "And to be a bit more forthcoming with what I want."

If his knees felt like giving out before, surely they would collapse now. He exhaled a shuddering breath. "What?"

Her laugh was like an angel's song, laugh lines creasing at the skin next to her eyes. "I did fluster you!" she mused, though sounding quite breathless herself. Sweetly she looked back up to him, eyes sparkling as Erik finally realised what he had been unable to see before.

Love.

He sputtered and blinked, promptly shaking his head in pure disbelief. "Christine, I— speak clearly, child." He hated how hoarse he sounded, but it seemed his control of his body was failing him at this revelation.

"You asked about Raoul, Ange," Christine said softly, faint smile on her lips. "And it all made sense to me. I finally realised what I've been hoping for a long time now." She closed her eyes and mindlessly touched his chest, settling her warms hands onto it. "Two years ago I mentioned how I had wished for you to have a corporeal form."

"I- I remember." Erik gasped softly at her touch, could feel the warmth of her skin seep right through his shirtsleeves.

"You never once questioned me why I wished for that." She looked back up to him, eyes bright and clever. "You just accepted it as fact and kept on. For two years you never once questioned my comment—or my touches for that matter. Your arms, your shoulders, sometimes your hands. You never said a peep!" She laughed softly and exhaled a deep and settling breath, fond smile tugging at her lips as her confidence grew stronger and bolder. "It seems I must spell it out to you now, since apparently my hints and flirtations are not enough."

What.

Erik gaped at her, eyes wide.

Christine stared back, amused. "What," she started on a hush, grinning. "The almighty Phantom didn't know?"

When he did find his voice, all he could murmur was a weak, "Are you mocking me?"

"Far from it, Ange." She defiantly raised her chin and smirked at him. "I am making clear what you have refused to see for so long yet has you jealous all at once tonight."

Reflexively, he scoffed. "Jealous," he echoed, scowling. "I am hardly—"

"'Who was the boy?'" she mimicked him, lowering her voice closer to Erik's baritone and then laughing, loudly. "As if you didn't know! I told you of him, and I know you are a very good listener when it comes to me. Truly, Erik, you think you are so sly."

She wasn't wrong, and that perhaps heated his cheeks more than her words. He did listen well to her, and he had known who the boy was. He ducked his head, heart hammering wildly in his chest. It seemed his angel knew him a lot better than he had ever thought, and here she was telling him of his own affections for her.

And her affections for him.

For two years he had written her touches and words away as just a Christine thing, as the kind and compassionate woman she was, and now she told him she very much desired him the way he did her? God, he had been such a fool!

There was a minute shift within Christine at his continued silence, a glimmer of anxiety dulling those beautiful hazel eyes. "If it is not reciprocated, I— forgive me, Erik—"

"No, petite." He took her hand with only a moment's hesitation and pulled her into his arms and enveloped her within his cloak, pressing his lips close to the shell of her ear. "You are absolutely correct, child."

She stiffened in his arms, breath hitching at his proximity and his breath on her ear. "Are you saying…" she gasped softly, hands settling on his sides. "Are you really…?"

All playfulness and banter had ceased between them, the air now charged and tense as they approached the truth at last spoken.

"Yes, Christine," Erik choked out, cursing the tears that welled up. "For years now, I— You—" he stammered, breath shuddering.

She pulled away from him enough to look into his eyes, her own wide and misty. "Truly? I thought I had it wrong somehow, that perhaps I misread your— words, and your… Oh, Ange!" A relieved sob shook through her and she reached up to cup his cheeks, laugh tugging at her lips as pure bliss radiated out from her. "Oh, Erik!"

Without thinking he leaned down and caught her lips between his, crowding her personal space as she gasped into his mouth and her hands tightened their hold on his cheeks. He was unable to repress the eager groan from escaping him at the sweet taste of her on his lips, unable to cease the shiver in his body when her tongue flicked against his lips and she licked into his mouth.

Dizzy, he parted, but only enough to grasp for air, their noses brushing together.

Christine sounded as breathless as he felt, now holding so fiercely onto his shoulders it almost hurt.

Without second thought he reached for her hand and rested it on his chest, bitubg his lips as Christine gasped at his rapid heartbeat. "For years now, petite," he whispered hoarsely, desperately needing her to see. "I have wanted nothing more than to kiss you, to hold you. I never thought you could ever feel something for— for this— but this…" His voice cracked and he struggled to swallow down the lump in his throat.

"Oh, Erik," Christine whispered brokenly, tears dripping down her cheeks. "I never thought you'd actually— I was just…" Unable to find the words she simply reached back up and pressed their lips together once more.

Surely he must have died, how else could a foul creature like him be kissing this perfect angel? Her lips were so soft, she tasted of the apple juice she had before the performance, and her hands! Those warm, beautiful hands holding him close to her, wanting him.

He parted with a broken gasp, feeling more tears escape him as he gazed at his beautiful angel. "Your performance tonight was a gift of itself, but this—"

"I sang for you, Erik," Christine breathed, pressing herself against him. "You have inspired me for all these years, guarded me and protected me when I needed somebody. You have been so sweet and caring, how could I not fall in love with you?"

The world was spinning, so he closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to even his breathing. In love with him.

"You do not even know my face, petite." The words left him before he could stop himself and he stiffened. This dreaded face! How could he ever have thought he could be with her, be worthy of her when he looked like a corpse itself? No angel should have to bear a monster like him.

He started pulling away, heart aching.

Christine yanked him back into her space, defiantly cupped his cheeks, and stared pure fire into his pained golden eyes. "Erik, stop that self loathing at once!" she whispered urgently, face more stern than he had ever seen it. "I care not for however ugly your face may be that has you wear that mask. I never asked in these years, did I? I'm not starting now! I love you for you. And … maybe a little for your ridiculously nimble hands and stature. But— But not just your body or face!"

Her cheeks were burning red and Erik rumbled breathlessly at the sight, though his own face felt like hell itself for how warm it was. She loved him! Mindlessly he covered her hands on his cheeks with his own, exhaling a steadying breath. His mind screamed at him in all the languages he knew to run and leave her be, to not risk any of this and just leave.

But she deserved to know his face, to know truly and completely the corpse she loved—his heart could never settle if he didn't.

"I—" He started, blinking more tears away. "I wish to show you."

Her brown and beautiful eyes widened and her breath hitched. Impossibly so she gripped his cheeks even harder. "Are you certain, Ange? I would curse myself for forcing you to—"

"You are not forcing me, petite." He gently pulled her hands away from his face, heart pounding. "I— I am choosing to do this. I trust you."

More tears welled in her eyes and she sniffled, settled on holding him by his waist rather than his face. She gazed up at him. "You know it does not matter to me, right?" she whispered, brows creasing. "You don't have to do this for me."

"I'm not," he said immediately, meeting her loving gaze with his own. "I need to do this. For myself, to know that I— That you know everything you could of me. You know almost everything else, but you do not know my face. I couldn't bear to have you with me and to have that between us, I—" He ducked his head and exhaled a shuddering breath. "I wish to feel your skin on me, everywhere."

Her cheeks reddened and she pursed her lips but did not look away from him, hazel eyes curious and loving all at once. "Then you shall have me, Ange."

He gave her a tight-lipped smile, hands trembling as he raised them in a motion of decades long practice. His fingers touched the edge of his mask and he swallowed down the lump in his throat as he then raised the ivory porcelain away from his heated face.

Despite everything, he had expected at least a shout of surprise, or perhaps a thud of her hitting the floor as she fainted at his skeletal sight.

Instead, there was a small, curious gasp. He dared not open his eyes to see the look in hers, but her gentle and warm fingers were suddenly there, on his bloated lips, moving to the misshapen nose so broken and ugly. Fingertips ghosted over his taut cheek, the too-angular cheekbone, and then above his temple where skin had gone altogether and exposed bone. Her other hand touched his practically unmarred half of his face, exploring the skin as intricately as she did the other half.

Tears escaped him, and before he could stop himself he let out a wail.

"Oh, Erik," Christine gasped brokenly.

Erik whimpered and ducked his head, shoulders shaking with ugly sobs.

Her warmth embraced him, the soprano wrapping her arms around him and pressing them together so tightly it almost hurt. "I love you, Erik," she breathed, pressing kisses to whatever she could find of him. His shoulder, his neck, his jaw, his cheek, his hair. "That mask can not be comfortable. You do not have to wear it around me, please. I love you so much."

"God…!" Erik exhaled, wrapping his arms fiercely around the petite woman holding him. "My love for you transcends everything I could ever fathom," he whispered, tears streaming down his face. "I could have never hoped for this…"

Christine gladly allowed him his emotions, running a hand through his hair and murmuring sweet nothings to him. "Neither could I believe so, Ange," she whispered, closing her eyes as she nuzzled into his hair and pressed a kiss to his scalp. "I was so young when we met, so… naive and stupid." Her cheeks heated and she frowned. "I couldn't fathom you ever liking a girl as clumsy as me."

He shot back from her so quick she yelped and stared at him. "Don't you dare say that, petite," he seethed, frowning. He hesitated a moment before he gently reached up and cradled her face in his hands, gasping reverently at her leaning into him. He wished he could tell her he had loved her from the moment he had laid eyes on her, but that wasn't entirely true. He had been fascinated, perhaps even pitiful for the young woman grieving her father's loss. To have loved somebody so deeply to grieve them so…

A small and watery smile tugged at Christine's lips as she looked up to him, hands warm onto Erik's. "You're lost in thoughts again, Ange," she chuckled softly, sniffling some lost tears away.

He stirred with a quiet gasp, and focused back on the brunette soprano with her unruly curls and bright hazel eyes that stared straight into his soul. "Your love for your father touched me," he breathed then. "I had— heard you long before I first spoke to you. I heard you speak to the young Giry and I— You fascinated me. And then you sang, and I— I needed to…" He aimlessly motioned with his hands and then chuckled softly, taking a steadying breath. "I could have never anticipated the evening would end like this."

"Oh, Ange, absolutely not!" Christine flashed him a mischievous smirk. "This evening is far from over. We have much to talk about, and I wish for once to share the sofa while we sit and do so with some tea. If our legs do not touch, I consider it a foul evening, indeed."

His cheeks heated and he laughed breathlessly, closing his eyes as pure bliss threatened to overwhelm him once again. After all these years of loneliness…

Christine gently squeezed his bicep, eyes sparkling when he looked at her. "Do you believe me now when I say you do not have to worry about Raoul, Ange? My thoughts are on one man only, and that man is standing right in front of me."

"If you would indulge me," Erik whispered shyly, ducking his head. "How long have you…?"

Fondly, she rolled her eyes, but humoured him nonetheless. "When I asked your name. I wanted to know what my love's name sounded like to speak, how it would sound rolling over my tongue and past my lips. And," she continued when he opened his mouth. "I quite enjoy the feel of your name." She pressed close and craned her neck up to him, smirking entirely too wickedly. "So, kiss me and tell me you love me, Erik, and then please take me down to your home."

His heart skipped a beat and he grinned as he ducked down to her and pressed their lips together.

"I love you," he whispered onto her lips, her breath hot on his. "Christine Daaé, I love you, and I will never let you go."

Her teeth tugged at his bottom lip and she grinned into another sweet kiss. "Perhaps in another life that would sound a lot more threatening coming from the Opera Ghost." She gave him a wink. "But now it just sounds like the perfect celebration for tonight."

Words were failing him by the minute, pulse thrumming through his veins and Christine's taste on his lips. He felt like he was floating, flying even—he could take on the entire world with Christine Daaé by his side.

"Hmm, we must part at some point to make the trek down," Christine mused on his lips, stealing another lovely kiss from him. "Much better to kiss without a mask."

Only then did Erik remember the mask lying on the vanity, and his heart burst with love at the realisation.

Feeling lighter than he had ever done before he took a step back from Christine's warm and comfortable embrace and took her hands in his. For the first time in a long, long time, a pure elated grin tugged at his lips and he pressed them against Christine's hands, beaming.

"Come on, Ange," Christine laughed softly, taking the mask only to ensure it wouldn't be left behind as Erik opened the mirror. She tucked it safely between her breasts and gave an innocent look at Erik's raising of his eyebrow. "Well, it is not like we have any pockets, dear."

And at his boisterous laugh, she grinned right back.