Chapter 34 – Folie à Deux

The path was fine, of course.

It took Erik and Christine the same ten minutes to get down to the fifth cellar as always—ten minutes that could not pass quickly enough.

"You gave him the letter?" Erik had asked, as soon as they were out of earshot of the boy. "He didn't give you any trouble?"

"Yes, it's fine. It's all fine," Christine had murmured in reply, and Erik could have scooped her up and run the rest of the way to the lake right there and then—if he hadn't needed to save his energy for the rest of the evening.

Two and a half hours!

If he was being careful, Erik would have only asked for an extra hour, at the very most. However one tried, an extra hour and a half didn't add up in any reasonable way to accommodate a supposed extra forty minutes of travel time. But Erik had taken a gamble that math was not the vicomte's strong suit—assuming he had a suit of any strength outside of his looks.

The gamble had paid off, and the reward was more time with his Christine—time she wanted to spend with him, time stolen from that boy and given to him, which was more or less her choosing Erik over the vicomte, something he'd never imagined was possible, not even back when one of his fondest pastimes was imagining the impossible.

Many things he'd once believed to be impossible were now happening regularly, somehow, and thanks to Christine embracing a touch of moral ambiguity, they would have significantly more time to do not only those gloriously unchaste things, but also perhaps some new ones. And of course they'd have more time to talk, and have some wine, and, ah yes, right—to do her voice lessons, too.

But perhaps there was no hurry for that. They would have plenty of time. And since her last visit, when Erik had discovered the key to open a door he'd been too oblivious to realize had been locked, the most pressing matter was discovering just how many other secrets she might hold.

Over and over he'd replayed their last night together in his mind, until he thought he would come undone, unbearably desperate to once again feel her in ecstasy beneath his fingers, longing for the sound of her rapture to fill his ears. And if bringing Christine to the pinnacle of pleasure while holding her in his arms had almost taken Erik with her, then what would it be like to try it while they…

The thought quickened his step as he led her down the path. More than once, he found himself nearly pulling her along after him, and had to remind himself to slow down.

Inside his home, she tore off her cloak, not waiting for him to help her, like usual. Erik nearly laughed; she was every bit as eager as he was. He took her things from her, smiling to himself as he put the bundle away, already planning which wine to pour first, which part of her body to sample first, but when he turned back, it was to find her staring at the fire, arms wound tightly around her stomach, brow deeply furrowed. Cold crept under his skin, prickling up his neck.

Erik may have learned from hard won experience that the best course of action was to confront Christine directly about moments of obvious unease such as this…but that didn't mean he liked it. He swallowed and grit his teeth, and forced himself to go to her.

At his perhaps slightly hesitant approach, she snapped her head around. "How soon can you get me ready for the stage?" she demanded.

"Oh." Erik stood there a moment, blinking. It was an unexpected question, yet unquestionably preferable to the options which had been circulating in his head. "Well. We've, ah, we've neglected your practice for a while now, but certainly you'd be more than qualified to join any chorus in Paris, if—"

"No, not the chorus." She shook her head vehemently. "I don't want to be passable, I want to—I need to prove that I belong up there. That it's where I'm meant to be."

Erik laughed. "Why on earth would you need to prove that? You and I both know—"

"I just do," she snapped—and Erik's mouth snapped shut. "How long do you think I need? To be ready for a lead role?"

He considered a moment, the truth wrestling with a more self-serving answer. "Another month? Two?" he admitted honestly, surprising himself with such ethicality.

She nodded. "Let's get started then, now."

If Erik was disappointed about skipping the plans he'd had for the evening, his disappointment didn't last long. He hadn't realized how much he missed this, but it all came rushing back at that first run up the scales. He closed his eyes and let their music wash over him, her voice vibrating through his bones, pulsing through his veins, feeding his soul.

And if he was worried that she meant to give up on the physical part of the arrangement entirely, that worry didn't last long, either. The energy between them was more exhilarating now than ever. Erik sawed away at the violin, sweat trickling down his temple, straining with need, as Christine sang in a voice rich with earnest hunger, unblushing desire…pure, potent want.

Of course they were going to end up in bed. Or perhaps even on the floor, at this rate.

At last, just as it all almost became too much to bear, Christine stopped abruptly and held out her arms to him. "Take me to bed," she'd gasped, and Erik had all but dropped the violin in his haste to accommodate. He whisked her off to the bedroom, and there, using his newly acquired skill, he made her sing for him again, and again.

And then once more, for good measure.

…

They settled into an ideal routine.

First, they'd start in the music room, honing her voice to perfection while the tension between them mounted, surging and swelling until it nearly made him mad.

In the past, Erik had no choice but to find pleasure in the pain of frustrated desire, but he now understood it had only been pleasurable the way that that bread might seem sweet to one who's never tasted cake. But oh, how different it was now that his pent up lust was only a taste of what was to come! Now, he savored the pulsating thrum in his body at the sound of Christine's voice, let his eyes drink her in, the swelling breast and reaching hands and the ecstatic radiance that could only come from song, wetting his lips in anticipation rather than in agonized yearning. He relished his hunger, reveled in it, until it could be sustained no longer, and then, mercifully, they'd fall upon one another, ravenous and greedy.

It was just as things might have gone, he now realized, that very first night he took her through the mirror…if only he hadn't botched the whole thing so badly.

But thank god for second chances.

All these years later, the bridge had finally been crossed, and not only had it been burned, but thoroughly reduced to ashes. Raging fires regularly flooded souls, warm secrets were no longer unspoken but rather related in delightfully graphic detail, and approximately three and a half minutes was the answer to the question—or at least, that was the record—of how long should we two wait, etcetera.

When he'd penned those words under the unblinking gaze of the lovingly sculpted image of the object of his passion, his obsession, his everything, which he'd carefully buttoned into a bespoke wedding dress and adorned with a bride's veil and flowers, Erik had thought he'd understood the meaning of desire—but how very wrong he'd been. Every night they spent together was a revelation.

Reasonably, no fire could burn so hot for so long, and yet, each visit, each one of the extra minutes they'd grasped for themselves only increased Erik's need for more. There was no question that, if given the chance, he would live endlessly in this madness they shared.

The memory of the so-called "normal" life he'd spent the last several years constructing was now like a smudge on a window—irritating at first, but soon easily ignored. Ordinary tasks like taking a train or bickering with a business partner or obtaining groceries other than wine and the occasional bit of bread seemed so silly now that he had everything he needed down here:

Music, and Christine.

…

The first time it happened, he'd assumed it was an accident. He'd even apologized, as she hurriedly climbed from him and wiped the mess off of his belly and her thighs—felt genuine horror that she would be upset at an attempt down the drain, or angry at him for not delivering on his end of the bargain…though he wasn't even certain how it had happened in the first place, or how it could have been through any fault of his. He'd been flat on his back, pinned beneath her gripping thighs and bracing hands, after all.

The second and then the third time…well, her averted eyes and quick cleaning up made it clear that it should not be acknowledged.

He couldn't quite pin down her logic; the "accident" didn't happen every time. But she clearly had her reasons—some of which Erik could guess at—and the benefit was obvious enough, so he was not going to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. Besides, there wasn't any material difference, really, if Erik's suspicions about his own fertility were correct, so what did it matter?

It stayed unspoken; he let her do what she needed to do.

It wasn't the only thing which stayed unspoken.

Clothing still stayed on—just the chemise for her and a light layer for him, plus the mask and wig, of course. If she wanted anything different, she hadn't said so. And Erik certainly wouldn't be the one to suggest.

It went without saying that it must be easier for her that way, much easier, to have his ugliness be a memory softened by time, the rotted ridges and sickening furrows of his hidden flesh smoothed out by a will to forget. And for that he couldn't blame her.

For it was easier for him, too, to play his role, costumed as he was. That painstakingly-curated look allowed him to pretend he was that which he was not and never would be: an attractive, desirable man. He wasn't even confident he'd be able to perform in such a vulnerable state, actually. It was likely he'd find himself too preoccupied with his own shame over the abomination he'd be inflicting upon her, and subsequently become too overcome with the need to hide or run or disappear from the face of the earth entirely.

Of course the mask got in the way at times, but they made do. It didn't stop him from thoroughly enjoying himself—or, more importantly, stop Christine from enjoying herself—when finally, at long last, she allowed him to put his mouth between her legs.

It took only a little adjusting, a little shifting—never fully exposing—to ensure ample access to her, so that he could taste and tease and delve and devour, nearly smothering himself in her until he got his fill—or close enough to it. Unfortunately, his old knees always gave out long before his appetite for her.

His lips, he could scarcely believe, had now ventured everywhere…

Except upon her own.

Oh, she had kissed him near his mouth—excruciatingly near. But never directly upon it. And though experience told him that she was held back not by disgust but by the boundaries of intimacy which had been set, Erik couldn't help but run his fingers over the gnarled, twisted flesh he'd been given for lips and berate himself for even wishing for such a thing.

It was a habit he eventually forced himself to break; thinking about what he didn't have only served to sour that which he did. Erik had promised the vicomte that he wouldn't think of kissing Christine, and so that is what he tried to do: not think about it, not hope for more.

In the end, it was probably for the best. Those first kisses had broken him, left him with no choice but to let her go. But if she kissed him now…

Well, perhaps it was best not to test his ability to let her go a second time.

…

"Again," Erik demanded, even before the final note had reached its resolution. "Again—except this time, focus on keeping your mouth open, hmm? We're trying to make you a singer, not a ventriloquist."

Christine cut her eyes toward him and huffed as she flipped through the pages of the score.

Erik had not been going easy on her, it was true. But in the last three weeks she had progressed further than at any other point in their teacher-student relationship. And perhaps that was because passion had finally been given free rein to flourish between them, or because of their improved communication, or even the simple comfort they now felt in each other's presence.

But perhaps the impact of uncompromising discipline should not be underestimated. In any case, it had certainly worked before.

"No, no, no. That's not nearly open enough, Christine," Erik cut in after suffering through a dozen bars. "Your vowels are languishing in the back of your throat."

"I'm doing my best," she snapped back.

Erik lowered the violin. "If this is your best, you'd better start looking for those Il Muto breeches."

A hot red flush crept across her face. "Do you really need to be so mean?"

"I'm not being mean, I simply have exacting standards, and you are not meeting them. The Angel of Music is very strict, don't you remember?" he replied evenly, rosining up the bow.

"You're not an angel," she said, her voice suddenly growing thick with the threat of tears. "You're a–a jackass!" And then, slamming the score shut, she ran from the music room.

Erik sighed to himself as he put away the violin. He probably shouldn't have pushed her so hard. Over the last few sessions, he'd noticed she'd become more and more sensitive to his criticisms, well-placed though they were. The reason seemed clear enough: while she had been making remarkable progress, as the first month was drawing to a close, it was becoming clear that the "month, maybe two" he'd estimated it would take to get her stage-ready would more likely be two months, maybe three. Which needn't be an issue! The pressure of the timeline which she'd placed upon herself not only made no sense, but was a hindrance. Genius, after all, could not be forced into existence. As always, it would come in its own time.

Erik found Christine slumped across the sofa, her head buried in her arms. Taking a deep breath, he smoothed his hands down his waistcoat, and prepared to apologize; he was actually getting quite good at apologizing, if he might say so himself.

"I'm sorry," he said earnestly—or at least, sounding earnest enough. In this particular case, he wasn't exactly wrong, but, as he'd learned, apologies were necessary if you wanted the other person to feel better. He placed a reassuring hand on Christine's lower back. "I know I can be harsh, but I only want to make you—to help you achieve greatness. I am nitpicking, because I know the perfection you're capable of. But you must know I've always believed you have the most beautiful, enchanting voice in all the world." The last part, at least, was entirely in earnest.

And it worked. Raising her head, Christine swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "It's all right. I'm just tired, mostly. And I'm sorry I called you…ah…"

"Exactly what I was being? That's nothing to apologize for. I am quite often a jackass, I admit."

Christine laughed a tired laugh. "I think I need a break. Can we…?" The slide of her hand up his thigh finished the question for her. It was an abrupt about turn—but not one Erik was going to complain about.

He left her in the bedroom to get herself comfortable, then went to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of wine and two glasses. He hastened back, nudged the door open with a foot—and stopped cold. Rather than reclining on the bed, luxuriant and inviting, Christine sat upon its edge, knees up to her chest, staring off into nowhere. Erik could feel a weight begin to settle itself in his chest, but when she noticed him hesitating in the doorway, she pressed her lips into a smile and opened her arms to him; as usual, he was helpless to resist.

But there was a distance in her eyes as Erik kneeled before her and slipped off her shoes, rolled down her stockings, one by one, and kissed each foot, each toe. And he couldn't help but notice the way she flicked open the buttons and fastenings of his waistcoat and shirt and trousers with a disconcerting studiousness. Instead of her usual sighs and little whimpers, there was only a mouth pressed shut, trembling at the edges.

Uneasiness twisted in his stomach. Erik dropped his hand from its slither up Christine's inner thigh.

"What's wrong, Christine? I did say I was sorry about earlier."

"No, it isn't that at all," she said quickly.

"What is it then?"

"It's nothing," she insisted, though the rims of her eyes were suspiciously red. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm like this today." She laughed—or, rather, tried to; it rang disturbingly false. "Please forget it."

"Of course," Erik said, which, in his defense, Christine should have known was simply not possible. Already his mind was cycling through the numerous possibilities of what could be causing her distress, not one of them anything good for Erik. He cast around for a distraction. "Let's just, ah…let's have a drink." He wrestled the cork from the bottle of wine, then filled the glasses nearly to the brim. "It might be nice to unwind for a bit, yes?"

Christine received the glass with a grateful smile and took a long swallow.

Erik settled himself next to her. He ran a finger around the edge of his glass, his throat too tight to drink. There would be no unwinding for him, not when she still looked like she might burst into tears at any moment.

"If you'll allow me to say so," he tried, "I think you're putting too much pressure upon yourself. You can be a great star, if that's what you want, but it's just as it was back at the opera, before you had your debut—when you're ready, when the time is right, we'll know."

Christine lowered her glass and frowned at the swirl of deep red within. "I—" She bit her quivering lip, and closed her eyes. "I don't have time, though," she said softly. "That's the problem."

"But we still have a few months left, and then your, ah, the vicomte," Erik set his wine down on the side table, not trusting the steadiness of his hand, "he did say that the option was there, after this initial trial, to extend another six months. So really, we…"

Erik trailed off as Christine began shaking her head, a stricken look upon her face. Tears once again rose in her eyes.

Panic began to set in.

"Christine…?"

"I don't think he— I don't think that's…" Now she was dabbing at her eyes with her skirt—and Erik's composure was crumbling.

"Christine."

She swallowed back a sob, squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, there was a look of pained resignation in them—and just a touch of wariness. "There is something wrong, Erik. I'm going to tell you," she said, "but you need to keep calm about it, because I'm–I'm trying to handle it…"

It was unfair for her to ask that of him; Erik was already far from calm. But he nodded anyway.

Christine took another long sip of the wine, wincing as she swallowed, then took a deep breath.

"Raoul's decided that we're to leave. To move away."

The breath caught in Erik's throat. In his ringing ears, the words echoed: leave…move away…

Away?

A tense silence stretched on as he attempted to put his racing thoughts in order and find the calmest, most neutral way to phrase them. "From me?"

"He hasn't said that explicitly, but…"

"And when, exactly, is this to happen?" Erik asked, gritting his teeth to take the sharp edge off his tone.

"Whenever we're–we're done here. If I were to…fall pregnant, then it would be immediately, which is why I…" She looked down at her lap.

Right. She'd wanted to cut the odds of conception down, but not fully give up on the attempt, because that would be a clear betrayal. It was as Erik had assumed, though he had never imagined the reason behind it.

"Where is it he's taking you?" he asked, leaning forward, his hands gripping the bedding into fists.

"Somewhere more out of the way, more secluded, somewhere that would make any life outside of being a housewife…not impossible, but…difficult."

"Yes, but where?"

"I— That's not set in stone yet." She ducked her head and gulped down a large mouthful of wine, and grimaced. "Could you take this?" she asked, thrusting her wineglass at him. "It tastes a bit off, to be honest."

Frowning, Erik slowly unfisted his hands, leaving two damp, creased and wrinkled patches on the bedspread. He took the glass from Christine, noting the way her hand shook.

"So what I thought," she continued urgently as he sat the half-empty glass down next to his own, "was that if I could prove that if I belonged on stage, he'd see that we should stay. I'm not ready to go, I'm not ready to…" Her voice faltered. "To give it up forever." She glanced up into Erik's eyes, and while she didn't say "or give you up forever," it was written clearly upon her face.

Overwhelming emotion constricted his throat as tightly as a noose.

"I promised myself that I wasn't going to let myself get forced into agreeing," she said, "but when I pushed back, it brought up some conversations that threatened…this. He's been so…generous, to allow what he has, and I don't want to risk losing that. I don't know what else I can do."

Erik pressed his lips together until they hurt. That little shit. How dare he make decisions for Christine! Who was he to think he could take her wherever he wanted, as he pleased, with no thought about what she actually wanted. Erik could not stand for such a thing—he would not. He shot up from the bed. "Let me just talk to him, Christine, I'm certain I can convince him that—"

"No!" She sprang up from the bed too, capturing him by the wrists, tendons rigid and straining beneath her gentle hands. "Please, Erik, no. This is for me to deal with. I think—" she tightened her grip upon him, "I think we should just…enjoy the time we have, make good use of it. I will work something out." She looked up at him with pleading eyes. "Can you trust me on this?"

Erik forced his jaw to unclench. "I suppose."

He pulled away from her and paced the length of the room, the gears in his head beginning to grind into action now that the initial paralyzing shock of this news had subsided.

Perhaps this wasn't as bad as he'd initially believed. There wasn't anywhere the boy could take her that could keep Christine from Erik entirely. It was more symbolic than anything.

And perhaps…perhaps this could be Erik's chance. No matter how far along their relationship had progressed, he'd never let himself believe that it could ever be more than what they had, never let himself believe he could truly have Christine all for himself. And yet, now she'd come to him, in need of help, unhappy with her marriage, not wanting to leave the city, leave a potential career on stage, leave Erik…

And there was an easy and obvious answer to this problem.

"You're right," he said, decisively. "We need to get you onstage as soon as possible. To do that, we'll keep up your practice here, but you're also going to need to practice during the week off, which should be coming up…" He counted up the weeks quickly in his head. "Actually, any time now, right? Do you have a place you can go to practice?"

When she didn't answer, Erik turned around to find she'd sunken down onto the edge of the bed again, and was staring blankly at the hands buried in her skirt.

"Christine?"

She blinked up at him, glassy eyes in a pale face. Erik felt a flare of anger in his chest at the strain that idiot boy had put upon her. "Christine?" he prompted again, more gently.

"Oh. Yes," she said. "Yes, I can find somewhere."

"Good. During that break you need to get in as much practice as possible, and I will look into which theaters have upcoming productions worthy of your talents, and then I will—"

"Do not get involved!" She scrambled back to her feet; her nails dug painfully into his skin as she clutched at his arm. "I need to earn this on my own."

"Yes, of course," Erik said, waving away her concern. "I'll only be gathering information. And once we decide upon which role is best for you, we can put all our efforts toward it and I have no doubt it will be yours. He'll have no choice but to keep you here." He eased her hand from his arm and pulled her into an embrace, her burning cheek pressed against his thumping heart. "It would be a crime to take you away from the Parisian audiences, and we all know your vicomte's never had it in him to play the villain."

He wrapped Christine up in his arms, and she buried her face against his shoulder, and Erik held her, inhaling the scent of her until there was nothing left in his lungs but Christine, nothing left in him at all but Christine, and she clung to him as if loosening even a bit meant letting go forever.

Erik's heart beat slow and steady under her cheek as he reassured her with a gentle stroke of his hand down her back; no, she wouldn't have to let go.

She didn't want to leave. She didn't want to give up music, or her Angel. And so the answer was simple.

Erik would not demand she give up her husband. No, of course he wouldn't. He would not even suggest it.

But he could help her see that it was what she wanted.

…

The next evening, Erik found the letter tucked under the loose stone just inside the gate on the Rue Scribe—he'd been right, about the timing; Christine was indisposed. Which meant Erik had the next several days to get started on his—on their plan—but first, there was something he needed to attend to—something that had been troubling him since the night before.

Erik didn't fault Christine for lying to him. But the truth was that she did know where the vicomte planned to take her—her hesitation and quick pivot to another topic made it abundantly clear. And it was clear too why she was reluctant to share that information; Erik still had a long way to go to earn her trust.

However, he really did need to know.

And while he had no intention of breaking one of his own rules, it didn't mean he couldn't…bend it…just a little.

Just this once.

Hello! It's here! Another chapter! And things are going great for Erik and Christine! Really!

Thank you all so much for reading and for your incredibly motivating comments, they help keep my silly, insecure ass going with this. And as always, thank you for your patience. I had to spend some time rethinking the way I'd planned to structure this next section of the story, and I hope that pays off in a shorter wait time between the next several chapters!

Thank you to Deb for the read through and helpful suggestions, I appreciate it so much. And a general thank you into the universe and happy trails to the Broadway cast of Phantom, which I am still in denial about having closed. It's been a constant in my life since I first became a fan decades ago, and has meant more to me than...actually, I'm sure most of you know exactly how much it's meant. RIP my love. Come back soon.

Up next: Erik gets everything under control and no complications arise!