Chapters 18 & 19 were uploaded together as a double-update! Make sure you've read Ch 18 before starting this one. :)

Chapter 19 — Fire and Ice

Anticipation wasn't something Erik had felt much of over the last several years, but it was back in full force now, twitching in his fingers, which clicked the lid of his pocket watch open and shut half a dozen times before the minute hand had managed to advance one interval.

The last wait had been torture. This one was somehow even worse. Ever a pessimist, he had prepared to be disappointed — but he hadn't been, for one of very few times in his life. Perhaps it had set a dangerous precedent.

He thumbed the clasp of his watch, trying to ignore the prickle of worry which was beginning to creep along his tensed shoulders.

But just like last time, right on cue — there she was. Erik slipped the watch into his waistcoat pocket with a hand which only slightly shook.

Unlike last time, Christine came through the gate alone. Erik caught only a brief glimpse of the vicomte's gloved hand as it helped her step down into the passage and then closed the gate behind her, of fingers threading through the metal grating, clutching at the iron as the unseen boy lingered, watching and waiting.

With ostentatious flourish, Erik took Christine's hand, and he didn't feel even a bit sheepish about the fact that they weren't actually headed off to do the thing which was undoubtedly tearing up the boy's heart to think about. In fact, he felt quite pleased that the vicomte was going through all this pain without any chance of a result — it was what he deserved for thinking he knew Christine best.

Even without the odd, uncomfortable expectation which had sat so heavily between them the first time, this second trip down below was no less awkward...although Erik had only himself to blame. Once he'd taken his position in the back of the boat, his eyes had fallen on Christine's silhouette, gently lit by the reflection of silvery light rippling across the water, and as his eyes followed the hourglass line of her torso, all at once he recalled the last time he'd seen her — not in reality, but in his mind's eye, open and inviting and desiring, a brazen, imagined hand sliding under her skirts while a real, pathetic hand wrung out his shameful lust — and he had a wild impulse to keep punting around the lake for the full hour to avoid having to face her.

But the ride had to end. Too soon they were standing in his parlor, where Christine stood looking up at him with eager, grateful eyes, as if he truly was the respectful, solicitous tutor he'd presented himself as, and not a desperately lonely, depraved man who had defiled her in his mind the minute he'd returned home alone.

He'd had a detailed plan for how this hour would go, but now, pinned by her innocent gaze, he could not remember it in the slightest. All he could think was how sweet and trusting she looked, just as she had when she would stand before the mirror and wait patiently for the Angel to arrive.

The memory sickened his stomach. What a horrible mistake that had been. Of all the wrongs he had committed against her, nothing felt as shameful as having taken advantage of a young woman grieving and in pain. To have taken her naivete and gentle, trusting spirit and used it as an inroad to intimacy with her because he was too damaged and full of self-loathing — and too cowardly — to see any other way.

Back in London, there had been so many nights he'd lain awake, lost in the blurry melancholy particular to cheap red wine, running over his list of regrets again and again, letting himself sink further and further in the despair of knowing he could never right his wrongs. But now, he had another chance. He was no longer a manipulative, duplicitous angel, just a regretful man who only wanted to do what he could to help Christine succeed, and had no illusions about anything more growing between them. He would use this opportunity, limited though it was, to do things right.

The slight rustling of skirts brought Erik back to the present. Christine was watching him closely, he realized with a start. Had he let his feelings show on his face? Oh god, he hoped not. Around her, he worked so hard to contain them, to keep his face inscrutable. To show emotion was a confession, and the very last thing he wanted was to confess feelings he hardly wanted to acknowledge himself. But she looked at him so kindly, so patiently that he could feel that tight coil of emotions unspooling, and, uncontrollably, words of remorse and gratefulness began to flow to his lips.

He needed to thank her. And he needed to apologize.

Erik cleared his throat. "Before we start—" He paused, uncertain he would be able to keep his voice steady.

"Oh!" Christine blinked as if struck with sudden recollection. "Yes, that's right, before we start..." She reached a hand into her cloak; it came out holding a thick yellow envelope tied in string. "This is— this is for you." She held it out to him and looked away.

Erik stared at the envelope, an odd sort of numbness falling over him. The tender feelings which had been flowing freely began winding back up, contracting again into a tight, impenetrable coil.

"No." His voice was hard and cold as stone.

"Please," she said quietly, still not looking at him.

The muscles in Erik's jaw began to tighten, his teeth throbbing under the pressure. He should not have let himself forget what this was. It was not his redemption. It wasn't a chance at reconnection. This had nothing to do with whatever it was they had shared, whatever it was they might have meant to one another at one point. This was a business transaction, pure and simple. He should have remembered that.

Well, he certainly would from now on.

Without a word, Erik plucked the envelope from Christine's hand and stuffed it into a pocket. He lifted his chin, shoulders pulled back and rigid, and gestured to the music room — he would keep this authoritative and crisp and impersonal. It would be better for everyone. He could play the role of her detached, demanding maestro, and later, he could feel sorry for himself when the whole thing was through. Yes, that really would be much better.

Christine hesitated, teeth pressing into her lower lip, then finally glanced up to meet his eyes. Was that...hurt he saw in her eyes? Disappointment? He couldn't tell, because she quickly looked away, unfastened her cloak and placed it into his waiting arms, then walked without a word to the music room.

Erik laid the cloak on the sofa, as gently as if it were its owner herself, and after a moment's consideration, allowed himself the guilty indulgence of passing his hands over its soft folds, his perpetually chilled palms soaking up the warmth it still retained. Then he straightened, set his jaw, and withdrew the contemptible envelope of francs from his pocket.

His wrist had already been cocked, ready to fling the damned thing into the fire, when he thought better of it. Surely a man of his talents could devise a more creative way of rejecting this absolutely insulting gesture — why let all that money burn alone in a basement when it could be used to teach the vicomte a lesson? Erik's lip curled into a smile as he stashed the envelope in the recesses of his desk.

He'd never claimed that he'd given up all of his vices, had he?

…

Erik swept into the room and past Christine, who stood waiting by the music stand.

Keeping his back to her, he flipped open the violin case. "It's important that we use our time well," he explained as he withdrew his instrument and applied rosin to the bow. "For today, we will spend the first ten minutes warming you up, and then we shall see just how much work we'll need to do on your voice."

With the violin tucked under his arm, he deposited a few sheets of music onto the stand. Christine stood silently, twisting her ring.

"Are you nervous?" Erik asked, pulling his eyes away from the band of gold grasped between her trembling fingertips.

"I am," she said quietly. "It's been so long, and I worry—"

Erik cut her off with a wave. "You needn't. If there are deficiencies in your voice, I shall correct them."

Christine closed her eyes and sighed — it must have been a relief for her to know she was in expert hands once again.

"Let's begin with some scales," Erik said, settling the violin upon his shoulder.

Her posture was decent, he had to admit, but he knew he shouldn't expect too much from her technique after so long without his guidance. With a nod, Erik gestured for her to begin.

Christine drew in a deep breath.

Opened her mouth.

And sang.

The first notes were hesitant, halting, yet absolute heaven to his ears. And they would have absolutely destroyed him, would have left him a weeping, grovelling mess, had Erik not already hardened his heart so effectively. He'd known as soon as he'd suggested the idea of working on her voice that an impenetrable defense would be an absolute necessity, and sure enough, even the simple slide of her sweet, pure voice up and down the practice scales had proven him right.

And so he played and he listened, detached, dispassionate. And by the time she was ready to move on to performing the small selection of songs he'd chosen for her, he was so firmly ensconced in his armor that when the soaring notes of the first aria began arcing through the air straight toward his heart with lethal accuracy, he didn't so much as flinch as they were deflected, one by one.

It really was for the best. Not only for his own self-preservation, but also for his ability to give an unbiased critique.

But the truth was...there really wasn't much to criticize. Her technique was precise, her tone pleasing. She was more than passable, and he had no doubt that, were she to wish it, she could become a much sought-after performer at recitals or private parties or whatever frivolous thing it was she hoped to squander her extraordinary gift on.

If he were honest with himself, she really wasn't in need of his further instruction. Brow furrowed, Erik continued to play along, voice and music intertwining, combining...pleasantly. Beautiful to the ear, yes, but…

But…

She was right, her voice was not what it once was.

He lifted his gaze over the gliding and weaving of the bow. Her hands were over her heart, her face slightly upturned, but her eyes were on him, watching him closely once again. Erik swiftly looked away. But not swiftly enough — in the brief moment when their eyes met, there had been a startling, blinding flash of recognition that made him blink as though he'd looked directly into the sun.

The problem with her voice had been obvious, and if he hadn't been so preoccupied with keeping his distance, he would have noticed it right away — the song flowed prettily enough from her lips, but the music did not come from her soul. No fire burned within her.

Erik knew the feeling well. Together, they had propelled each other to reach new heights, had ignited unearthly passion — and then, suddenly, it was gone. Snuffed out, leaving a void, leaving bleak, quiet emptiness — dusty stacks of musical scores and unplayed instruments shut away, not just forbidden, but useless — a life built around tedious work, not creating, only building upon the work others — long, dull days where often the only thing to anticipate was its end, followed by nights of solitude which were never peaceful. Each day slipping into the next like an endless stream of sand through an hourglass, one which looked to be running close to its end but kept its steady trickle long past when it should have by all rights run dry.

Until she'd come back into it, he had been living a lifeless life, just as he deserved. It was his penance. Without her, there had been no music in his soul, no fire burning within him.

But it hadn't been that way for her. It couldn't have.

And yet...he could hear the proof of it with his own ears.

Suddenly, an impossible question surfaced, causing his heart to hammer hard enough that he could feel a judder in the notes rising from the violin:

Did she understand that was what was missing?

No. No, of course not. That would mean she had accepted his offer not because she knew she needed his expertise, but because she knew she needed—

With hands which were beginning to shake uncontrollably, Erik pulled the bow away from the strings without warning. Christine's bright voice hung in the air a moment longer, like the echoing ring of a bell, and then slipped into silence. She turned to him with a frown.

"That's enough," he said before she could ask the question he could see forming on her lips. His voice was rough and raspy.

Christine released the rest of her air as a long, shuddering sigh and looked up at him, hands clasped, quivering bottom lip pinned between her teeth.

Erik took his time putting away the violin, each step drawn out as long as possible, though her questioning eyes never left him. His mouth was dry when he finally spoke. "Your— your voice is technically adequate. But it's…"

"Flat?" Christine supplied quickly. "Empty?"

Erik could only nod.

"Yes," she said quietly. "I know." Despite the anxious crease of her brow, an undeniable spark glowed within her eyes.

And then Erik knew for certain, though he couldn't possibly believe it:

She needed him, just as he needed her. His heart throbbed wildly.

Tentatively, Christine stepped toward him, the fingertips of one hand trembling against her lips, the other reaching out toward him, almost close enough to touch.

Without thought, his hand raised to meet hers, the tips of their fingers almost, almost touching.

She needed him...

No. Erik's hand went stiff. Not quite.

She only thought she did. She was wrong. The best thing he'd ever given her wasn't the passion of music — it was her freedom from him. And he would do it again. It's what was best for her, even if he didn't survive it a second time.

So as she looked up at him with eyes which were growing increasingly wet with gathering tears, Erik ignored the excruciating throbbing in his chest and snatched her wrist with a rigid, decisive grasp.

"Our time is up for today," he bit out in a voice as hard and brittle as the ice which was filling his chest. And then, never looking back to see which unbearably heart-breaking expression was on her face, he led her swiftly and wordlessly from the room and back up to the world above.

To where he knew that she belonged.

:(

I dunno guys, Erik doesn't seem to be as desperate for an E/C ending as you all are. Way to blow it, dude! I'm sure he'll come to his senses and quit his self-sabotage and practice good communication skills next time, though.

Thank you SO MUCH to Aldebaran, without whom this might not ever have gotten finished! She did an incredible job of helping me figure out what I was trying to say, and how best to say it. Thank youuuu Deb!

And thanks to you all for hanging in there! I know this was a long stretch between updates, but life got in the way and I just didn't have it in me. But I am vaxxed and kids are back in school, and things are looking up!

Up next: More Erik, more Christine, more...whatever the hell it is that they are doing here.