A/N: There's a ton I want to say about this chapter...

I despise the fact that there was really no dialogue between these two characters in the movie. This is a man who has instructed her and known some of the deepest parts of her for years.

So this is part 1 of the "music of the night" portion...basically meaning to recount Christine's first time in Erik's home...and their first time truly together, figuring each other out.

Also, something I've thought about... "Notes" would never have happened if "Stranger than you dreamt it" never happened. I like to think that after meeting him as a man, she is down there with him willingly, and although she's curious about the mask, she wouldn't disrespect this person who has taught her everything she knows by randomly ripping it from his face.

She would be cautious, but not reckless.

Anyways, I'm getting off my soap box – Finals are done, so look forward to more frequent updates!

Any comments left make my absolute day, and I love all of you so very much for giving this story a chance.

...

Living inside a dream

Oh, there was so much to see and feel, down in those depths.

And even though it was a perpetual night, and she had somewhat been afraid, in the past, of what came in the night; worry, nightmares, and loneliness – his mere presence began to chip away at her fear, at all the things that had been silently torturing her.

After all, he was, undoubtedly, the entity – and now the man, who knew her better than anyone. Perhaps he knew more about her than anyone ever had. Christine tried to focus on the path ahead, instead of thinking about what it meant for him to be, well, real. There was too much to take in for her to worry over it now, she decided. She would let her senses be lost in this world – his world, for a little while, and leave the questions for later, when she eventually was back above ground. For now, she would learn all she could about her angel.

His world was unlike any other. It was similar to him; made of stone, shadows, and candle-light; the sharp edges and charcoal lines of the structure softening as they made their way down a wide space of hallway. Rooms branched off of it like vines, and plush carpeting had been laid down, blurring the hardened lines of the stone with deep reds and dark greens. Gas lit sconces lined the entirety of the hallway, and as they walked further, Christine found herself shivering; the only thing that the lights could not do was warm her body that was soaked all the way down to her bones.

Erik seemed to sense this, directing her to a room that had another curtain drawn over it's doorway. "You can wash up and change in here. There's a bath, and a modest amount of clothing to choose from...I will say a lot of it are old costumes," he cleared his throat uncomfortably, scratching at the side of his neck. "A lot gets thrown away and forgotten about."

Christine smiled at him, hurrying toward the doorway. She stopped mid-way through the arch, the curtain bunched up in her hands. "Where should I meet you when I'm..."

"Ah, yes, well...meet me in the parlor. It's all the way at the end of the hall." Erik nodded curtly to her, bowing his head, almost gallantly. "I'll see you in a short while."

"Yes, a short while. I'll be quick, I promise!" She found herself giggling, elated that she could finally rip these filthy clothes from her skin. She closed the curtain behind her and gasped as she surveyed the room, her mouth falling open against the brilliance of the light fixtures that hung from long, golden chains...

The light fixtures were just like the star-shaped diamonds that the costume designers had pinned into her hair.

"Think of me," she breathed, moving across the large space. There was artwork that covered the walls, but it was not like the paintings that were hung within the Opera House – they were altogether, infinitely stranger. They had no beginning, and no end, made of swirls and spits of color, fire and shadow, yet each one was unrelated to the other. Christine felt as though she stood upon a threshold of several doorways, all leading to alternate fantasies and thousands of dreams.

"A fantasy," she whispered, pulling the ties from the back of her dress absentmindedly. "Let me live in you," she murmured, stroking a finger down one that was filled with magenta and light purple; a field or a meadow of some kind. As the ties became looser, she shimmied out of her dress, disappointed that it was now ruined, yet something within her chest blocked all feelings from the real world – the other world, out. She would live in these precious moments with everything that she possessed here and only here...especially now that she was near to him...

Erik. Just Erik.

A shimmering bronze bathtub stood in the corner, with a circular curtain pulled halfway around it. Christine forced herself to look away from the paintings and the light fixtures, peeling off the rest of her undergarments. Naked, she stood near the edge of the bath, puzzled at the presence of two knobs and a spout that were connected to the wall. She reached out and twisted one, and with a distant clunk, water began to pour from the spout; steaming, clear, and bright.

Her mouth curved curiously. She wondered if this mechanism was what rich people used, in their private townhomes that cost a fortune. But how could Erik possibly afford...

She swallowed. How did he have all of these wonderful, beautiful things in a place so distant from the real world? Christine decided she would ask him...and she hoped that he might offer her some wine. She was unsure if her nerves would be steady without it. She then scowled at herself, at her desire for alcohol as she slid into the tub, closing her eyes against the warmth of the water. "Everybody else drinks," she murmured aloud, submerging herself as best she could as the spout still continued to fill the bath. "Meg drinks, Emilie drinks...wine, though. I should be fine with wine," she stared up at the ceiling, still mesmerized by the light fixtures. "It's your first time alone with him. It's okay to be nervous," she told herself quietly, hoping the cranking noise from the faucet was loud enough to drown out anything she said aloud. "Just a little bit more to calm the nerves. A slight bit more."

Christine found a perfectly cut bar of white soap on a small little table next to the bath, along with something that looked like a hardened sponge. She lathered the soap into the sponge and began to scrub herself clean, wondering if Erik was doing the exact same thing.

She wondered, for a moment, what he would look like, in a bath. Would he lounge like a lazy king, or would he clean himself with urgency, desperate to dress and meet her in the parlor?

Christine shook her head. No reason to imagine him like that. No reason to wonder what a man even looked like, down there...

Her heart flipped inside of her chest, and she sighed, leaning her head back against the bronze ledge. "What am I even going to wear?"

Anxious about what might transpire in the parlor, she rubbed the rest of her body clean in a hurry, splashing out of the water with a slight stumble. She grabbed a soft, dark purple towel from a golden rack, and dried herself off while exploring the rest of the room. A wardrobe stood in the corner, made of swirling mahogany wood, and she opened its doors quickly to survey her options for clothing.

There were indeed old costumes that she had seen on stage hanging in the closet, but there were also clothes that she had never seen before – in styles that she'd never even witnessed anyone around her, or in Parisian society, wearing. There was a long, silken dress that was light pink, like roses with blushing heads rising in springtime. A line was cut beneath the breast line, edged with a long, smooth ribbon and bow. Christine pulled it from the rack, holding it up against herself as she walked toward a large, silver-framed mirror in the other corner.

"Oh yes, this will do," she sighed, laying the dress upon a tufted ottoman. She searched the wardrobe for a chemise; there were a few that looked older and yellowed, but smelled clean. She pulled one over her head quickly, her soft curls tumbling down her shoulders and back, finally free from the star-shaped pins that had held them. She carefully slid into the pink dress, her heart ignited at the way it shaped her small waist, and flourished near the bottom of her feet. With the plush carpet beneath her, and her legs and toes having gained their feeling back, she decided not to wear any shoes. She'd missed – for so very long – being barefoot...

It made her feel free.

Pinching some color into her pale cheeks, and flipping her hair over the back of her shoulders, she nodded at her reflection in the mirror, determined not to look as nervous as she felt. Christine sighed, taking a deep breath before turning and heading across the room to the arched doorway.

Stepping into the hall, she immediately heard the faint sound of music, and she smiled breathlessly, smoothing the silk of the dress with her hands – shaking, just a little. She padded down the carpeted hallway until she reached its end, where a giant archway and the sound of music playing signified Erik's presence in the parlor. Christine took another deep breath, wandering through the doorway, only to see Erik seated at a large ebony piano in the corner, clad from head to toe in all black.

"Erik?" She called out, nervous to approach him from behind. He lifted his hands from the keys, and turned on the bench to gaze at her, his mouth falling agape as she stepped nearer.

"I...I thought you might choose that one," he murmured, his blue eyes warm yet piercing – almost looking right through her, into the spirit that rose and danced within her. Could he see that much of her? Could he see the placement of her diaphragm, the placement that he had instructed her about ever so carefully, the elongated neck, the openness in the jawline – all described by a voice that came from everywhere and nowhere. And now...

He looked upon her as a man. A breathing, well-muscled, half-faced man.

Christine broke his eye contact and explored the rest of the room, looking for – yes! She padded across the burgundy carpet, making her way toward a large silver table with assorted bottles of liquor and wine. "Erik, do you mind if I...?"

Erik stood up immediately, striding across the large space with ease – had he sobered up, a bit, from his fall into the icy lake? His confidence seemed more palpable than before. She stepped away from the table, unsure of what to do or where to sit. He seemed to recognize her nonverbal stagnancy, and gestured toward two couches that were positioned perpendicular to a great stone fireplace.

"Please, sit down," he said quietly, and she obeyed without a word, settling herself in the middle of a sea-blue couch. Christine smoothed down her dress again while she watched him turn, and she allowed her eyes to rake over the loose black shirt that he wore, and the dark trousers that were fastened with a few golden buttons. He had also changed into a different mask; it still covered the same length of his face, but it was metallic in color and in nature, gleaming in the star-shaped sconces that mirrored the other room, hanging delicately from chains attached to the ceiling.

"Would you like wine? It seemed as though you enjoyed my liquor...oh, shit..." Erik froze, tilting his head back toward the ceiling. "Shit. You left my flask in the chapel, didn't you?"

"I...I...I think so," Christine replied, worried that she had done something wrong. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I was just...surprised, and angry, and..."

"Hush, I'm not angry with you. I'm the one who brought it there," he sighed, resuming his movements at the liquor table. "Would you like some wine? I have a red that's a bit dry, but I think you might like it..." He uncorked a bottle and began to pour bloodred liquid inside of a crystalline glass. "No, it's just that...Emilie is likely to have gone after you in the chapel, since you've been away for a good bit of time. And she'll find the flask and know it's mine."

Christine scooted to the edge of her seat, craning to look at him as he moved. "What will happen? Will she be...mad, that you went in through the painted glass? Will she know where I am?"

"Furious, most likely. She'll think I'd have kidnapped you," he sighed noisily, striding across the room to hand Christine the glass. She drank from it almost immediately, careful not to spill even a single drop on the pink rose dress.

"What happens now? I can explain everything to her, Erik. She doesn't get to make decisions for me, anymore. She's not my mother," Christine replied, irritated that Emilie would be angry with Erik for revealing himself. "And I'm glad you did it, that you came through that window. Or door. I'm happy, Erik. I'm happy that it's you."

Erik looked away, a bit of mist in his eyes. "I need to send her a note explaining myself..." he mumbled, forcing his eyes onto the bottle of bourbon that he poured for himself. "Otherwise she might..."

"No, no, no!" Christine cried, slamming her glass onto the wooden table positioned in the middle of the two couches. "I will write her a note. If you do it, she might think..." her voice drifted off when she caught sight of Erik's saddened expression; his doe-like, lonely eyes.

Blue like the ocean, yet rising and falling between powerful and soft, just like the might and strength of distant waves. She could almost smell salt in the air, again.

"She might think that I forced you to come," Erik muttered, nodding slowly. Christine hesitated, wanting to go to him, to comfort him – but she was afraid.

Afraid of how formidable this feeling inside of her was.

She snatched up the glass, downing the rest of her wine, and crossed her arms over her chest. "Bring me parchment and ink, and I will write it in my own hand. Then you can...how will you even deliver it, Erik...all the way down here?"

Erik smirked, crossing the room quickly with long strides. "I have my ways," he replied before slipping out of the room. Christine curled her fingers into fists at her sides, looking longingly over at the near-full bottle of wine.

"A little more won't hurt," she murmured, rising to approach the liquor table. She filled her glass again, and made her way back to the sea-blue couch, waiting patiently for Erik to come back.

Erik returned to the parlor rather quickly, with parchment and ink gathered up in his arms. He approached her cautiously, cocking his head at her newly filled glass of wine. "Christine..." he began, and she interrupted him shortly.

"You can't tell me not to drink when you spilled through the chapel window, near-blind drunk, Erik!" she scowled, although it didn't last long – she found it was difficult to be cross when his eyes glittered with such...intensity.

Such care for her.

"I'm nervous, all right? I'm in your home, and I thought, merely hours ago that you were an angel living in my dreams. So drinking makes this a little less...painful. And a little bit easier to feel...to feel..." her voice faltered for a moment, and she crammed the glass of wine to her lips.

"Safe?" Erik asked, the same sadness ridden in his voice again. Christine swallowed her wine, shaking her head at him. "No, I do feel safe...if anything, seeing you stumble around like that made it...I don't know, it sort of pulled me out of a dream. But now I find that...that this dream, the one where you're real, is the one I want to live inside of. To be in."

"I...I see," Erik managed, his voice thick with emotion. "Here," he said quietly, laying out a piece of parchment and an inkwell in front of her. "To write the note with."

Christine leaned forward eagerly, powered by the swirl of warmth in her stomach from the wine. She felt the heat from his body as he stood over her, and she wanted to...

Touch him?

Feel him?

Would he be rough, like his hand had been? Or would he be smooth and soft in other areas, with tender parts that thickened around muscles...

She bit the inside of her mouth to stop her mind from its continuous wandering. She would think of such things later, when she was alone, perhaps...but certainly not in his presence.

Christine dipped the pen into the inkwell, and began to write, the scratch of metal upon parchment seeming to be the loudest sound in the room. "Erik, would you mind, perhaps playing some music, as I write?" she looked up at him fondly, and he licked his lips, nodding immediately.

"But of course." He snatched up his glass, which was still half full, and downed it, making Christine giggle. He smiled crookedly, walking backwards to the piano, his eyes still on her. "Don't be too cruel," he warned, the corners of his mouth curving upwards.

"Oh, hush!" Christine waved her hand at him, and they both let out a small bit of laughter. The sound of their voices together almost startled Christine; his deep, gentle timbre mingled with her soft bright sound. It seemed to rise in the air like a spirit of smoke, a new entity that had never been formed before. He slid onto the piano seat, running his hands over his hair, thoughtful and still for a moment. He looked at her through curious, amazed eyes, and then –

He asked a question she hadn't heard since her father had fallen ill, and was no longer able to play his violin.

"Would you like something somber, or something more...lighthearted?"

She sucked her breath in, softly.

"Play something slow, something that builds, and...yes," she sighed, her heart feeling so full that she swore it might burst from the confines of her chest. "Maybe something that...that speaks of happiness. That sounds like joy."

And so he began to play, and she closed her eyes, dropping the pen for only a moment, remembering the love of her father, while realizing that although Erik was no angel, he was just the right spirit that her father had prayed for.

...

A/N: WELL? THOUGHTS?

Aren't we absolutely loving his magical home? And his softness around her, his ability to show his emotions?

Are we also loving her RESPECT of him? Her teacher, her confidant, her friend...

Let me know in the comments! More to come soon.

Love, L.