Her watch on the bedside table ticked softly beside them. Christine rolled to her side, ensuring the blankets still covered her, and looked at him. He was on his back, staring at the ceiling, silent. But the silence wasn't uncomfortable, strangely enough. She would have thought those moments after intimacy might have been awkward and embarrassing, but mostly she felt relaxed and comfortable. The blankets kept her bare skin warm, and his presence beside her was soothing. It was nice not being alone afterwards. The bed didn't seem so large and threatening with him in it.

"What were you doing upstairs last night?" she asked.

He turned his head to her, his mask back on, the dim light from the lamp in the corner casting deep shadows on the angle of the false nose. "Collecting some scores from Reyer's office. A few sections need to be reworked. Since nearly everyone was occupied at the party, it was a good time to be up above."

"Always working," she teased lightly, smiling. "When was the last time you took a vacation?"

"A ghost has no need for breaks," Erik said. "And we must concentrate on your career. It would be a mistake to take any kind of holiday at this stage."

"And always so serious," she said, tucking a hand underneath her cheek and rolling her eyes.

"I am very serious about your voice," he said firmly. "It must be our highest priority."

She considered the statement for a moment. "I'm glad to hear my manager say that and annoyed to hear my husband say that."

He gave one of his small, dry smiles. "What would you have your husband say instead?"

"Hmm." Her own smile widened a little as she said, "That he'll give me whatever I want, including a long vacation. And that he doesn't care if I say no to every German-speaking role I'm ever offered."

The last bit caused him to laugh. "But how will you be the Queen of the Night? Mozart is German-speaking, you know."

She shrugged. "You're smart. You'll figure it out."

"Aha. I'm afraid you'll be very angry at your manager, then, when he overrules your husband and insists you keep practicing your German."

Were Erik a different man, she might have joked that she would just have to find a new manager. However, she stopped herself, unsure how he would react. The mood was light, but certain topics were guaranteed to quickly change that. Any mention of leaving him, even as a joke, would undoubtedly not be received well.

She then remembered the older man who had approached her at the party, and she took a little fortifying breath to steel herself. It would be stupid to keep something like that from Erik, so she said carefully, "Actually, I wanted to tell you. Some guy approached me at the party. He was talking about a tour or something. Or recordings? I can't really remember a lot."

His eyes narrowed, his mouth pulling into a frown. "Who?"

"I don't remember his name," she said honestly. "And I don't care. It's not like I'm going to sign with him. I just wanted you to know what happened."

There were several long moments of silence. She could tell the playfulness from earlier had vanished, and he was quickly sinking into sullenness. Not wanting him to get upset and start accusing her of trying to run or leave him, she shifted closer, reaching out to put a hand on his chest.

"I would never go anywhere for the music without you," she said. "I promise, Erik." Her hand slipped down, running along his chest, his sunken stomach, between his hips, and sliding underneath the waistband of his trousers. He hadn't yet climaxed that night, and he grew hard as she moved her hand over him.

"I'm right here," she murmured. "With you."

But she could tell that her words didn't have the reassurance she had hoped. There was almost a sadness in his eyes as she touched him. Uncertain, she paused and asked if he wanted her to stop. He shook his head. It felt strange, almost wrong, to touch him while he looked so unhappy, but he came soon after, groaning softly and closing his eyes as his sharp hips canted towards her hand.

She had learned from earlier experiences and now had a small collection of cleanup supplies nearby, which she used to wipe the warm, sticky, glistening mess from her hand.

He breathed heavily next to her, his neck again flushed pink. "Fuck," he then whispered. "Goddamnit. Fuck." He pressed a hand over his eyes and was silent.

Christine opened her mouth to tell him to stop swearing but stopped herself. That would do nothing to help.

"What is it?" she asked instead. "Tell me."

He lay there for a long while, not responding, and she was just about to ask him again when he pulled his hand away, looking at her again, his eyes searching her face.

"You are so beautiful," he said, his voice tinged with melancholy. "My god. I can scarcely believe it."

It didn't sound like a compliment. If anything, it sounded like regret. She frowned. "Erik, I swear that I didn't promise anything to that guy," she said. "I couldn't just ignore him. And there were dozens of other people around. It wasn't a big deal."

He sat up with a sigh, turning to sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from her.

"There will be more," he finally said quietly. "So many more. So many men will see you, hear you, and love you instantly."

She almost laughed. That's what this whole thing was about? Male fans? "No one has written anything like that in my fan mail," she said, putting a hand on his back. "I promise. You can read the letters again, if you want."

"That isn't what I am talking about," he snapped, turning his head slightly, most of him still hidden from view. "They will come in droves. In waves. A never ending line of them, and they will offer you everything you could ever want."

"But you said Mr. Reyer updated my contract—"

"Reyer?" he interrupted, his voice hard and bitter. He pulled away from her, standing, and his shoulders drew up closer to his ears, tense and strained. "You think Reyer has the power to give you anything of consequence?"

She gave up trying to read his mind. "I don't get why you're upset," she said, sitting up, ensuring the blankets were still covering her. "If you think this is the best place for me—"

"It doesn't matter what I think," he said, whipping around, his mouth twisted into a snarl. She reflexively drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, as if that would protect her.

"I cannot give you what they can," he continued, his hands now in fists by his side. "These men will lure you away, shower you with—"

"Erik—stop," she interrupted. "You've given me so much. You…you've taken care of me for so long, you found my father, you've taught me everything I know about music, you—"

But he was shaking his head, obviously not listening to her.

"Look at me, for fuck's sake," he hissed, gesturing to himself, obvious disgust in his movement. "And look at you." He pointed to her. "You think I'm delusional? That I'm not perfectly aware of what I lack? Of what I can never give you? There will be scores of men, ready to give you the world, ready to give you everything, everything an old, ugly man cannot."

She sat there, taken aback by what he was saying, and her first instinct was to reassure him and promise she would never let herself be swayed like that, that she would be loyal, but shame kept her quiet as she remembered her earlier betrayal. It didn't matter that things had changed since then. It didn't matter that his bare face had been between her legs just minutes ago. He would always be insecure, afraid of losing her.

"But I'm not with any of those men," she said. "I'm with you. Here." Naked and in your bed, she wanted to add.

"Because I have forced you to be here!" he spat. "You would never be with me of your own free will. You would have never married me had I asked. You are down here with me because I can never live above with you as a normal man."

If she weren't completely bare underneath the blankets, she would have stood as well. It was uncomfortable arguing like this. Even though the bed sheets kept her covered, she felt vulnerable without any clothing on. As it was, she sat there, looking at him, angry and sad and annoyed and tired, all at once. His shirt was mostly unbuttoned, one sleeve in danger of slipping off his bony shoulder, his hair tousled, his feet bare and long and incredibly pale. The sight might have been funny under other circumstances.

"What do you want me to say?" she finally replied. "You're unhappy because you forced me to marry you? How is that my fault? You're scared I'll leave you so you keep me trapped down here, but now you're mad at me because I'm trying to be happy with you? I don't know what you want me to do!"

"Love me!" His voice burst from his throat, strangled, and he took a step towards the bed, kneeling on the floor next to her, reaching out and grabbing her wrists. He pulled her hands to him and buried his masked face in them. "Love me," he said again pleadingly. "Love me for myself. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. I know Erik is a monster. But is he a monster to want your love regardless? What do you want me to do? What can I say?"

"Erik…" She sighed, unable to help herself. They'd had this argument before, many times, and she was too exhausted to have it yet again. She had already had a long and hard conversation with Samantha, had performed that evening, had allowed Erik to put his mouth all over her, and she didn't want to hear his roundabout reasonings and twisted logic about how she could never love him, but if she just loved him, then suddenly everything would be perfect.

"Come to bed," she then said, pulling on his arm. "I have rehearsals tomorrow, and I need to sleep. Stay with me tonight."

"No one has ever loved Erik," he continued, his lips brushing over her palms. "And he never cared. Not until you. You are the only thing I have ever wanted."

Trying to be gentle, she extricated her arms from his grasp, running a hand over his soft hair for good measure. "Come to bed," she said again. "Please."

He looked up at her, his eyes glowing in the dimness of the room, his mouth pulled tight into a pained line. "I can deny you nothing."

When he was at last lying next to her in the darkness, the lamp turned off, she was silent for a few minutes and then reached over to put a hand on his arm.

"If I loved you," she said softly, her voice still somehow too loud in the pitch-black room, "you would still be…you, Erik. You wouldn't magically change. You would still…hurt me sometimes. I know you think everything would be better, but we would still be us."

"You cannot possibly know that," he said angrily.

She was quiet for several moments and then pulled her hand away, rolling onto her back. "Okay."

She lay awake for a very long time, looking up into the dark ceiling in silence, and she could tell he was doing the exact same thing beside her.

The next morning, she emerged from the bedroom to find a large bouquet of flowers sitting in the front room, filling the room with a sweet scent, along with a small plate of what looked to be pain au chocolates. Erik was hunched over the piano, scribbling at something, his shirt fresh and clean but his jacket and gloves still missing.

When he glanced over and saw she was out, he set the papers down and stood, taking a few steps closer to her.

"Good morning," she said, unsure if it was a good morning but the greeting coming to her automatically when she found nothing else to say.

"You slept well?" he said, and she nodded, not bothering to tell him that she knew they had both slept horribly, their conversation from the night before undoubtedly replaying itself in both of their minds. Then he gestured over to the piano. "I've been working on some new exercises for you. I would like to concentrate on relaxing your jaw—you have been tensing it lately."

"Yeah, I could definitely feel a little soreness after performing," she said, looking from the piano back to him. To her surprise, his eyes were slightly red, and his mouth was pulled into an unhappy expression. Standing this close to him, with all the lights shining directly on them both, she saw, more clearly than ever before, the effects of his age. It wasn't just the small wrinkles around his eyes and mouth or the gray strands in his hair. He just seemed…tired. Worn down. She realized that she had no idea his exact age. In all their time together and strange conversations, the topic had never come up.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

"I am fine," he replied immediately, straightening a little and relaxing his mouth, apparently understanding his expression was the cause for her concern. Then he looked over to the flowers. "They are for you."

"Oh. Thanks." He had gotten her flowers before, many times. She didn't want to be ungrateful, but the novelty had worn off a bit, as they were one of the only things he gifted to her. Women enjoy flowers, do they not? Maybe he didn't know what else women liked. Not that Christine expected to be lavished with gifts. But combined with the flowers she got for performing and the ones he gifted her, she was quickly growing tired of cleaning up all the brittle, dead flower petals that somehow always managed to make their way all over the house.

Then he continued: "Christine, I…" He seemed to struggle with how to proceed. "You—last night. I didn't thank you."

"For what?" she said, frowning slightly.

"The—my…" His neck was quickly turning pink again. "For allowing me to—to…"

She understood then, and her cheeks immediately grew hot. They hardly ever spoke openly of what went on in the bedroom, and it was at once mortifying and strangely thrilling. To see him so tongue-tied, trying to put what he had done into some polite, delicate phrase…She was the one who unmanned him like this, made him inarticulate and clumsy.

"Oh," she said stupidly. "Yeah. Of course. I—it was nice. Thanks." What came out of her mouth made her want to sink into the floor in embarrassment. And she thought he was the one at a loss for words?

But perhaps she was no longer the one with the upper hand. They were already in territory that was new for both of them, and it was terrifying. Exhilarating.

"And I also…" He cleared his throat and shook his head slightly, as if doing so would make the pink flush fall off his neck. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I cannot change, even if you were to love me. But simply knowing you loved me…God, Christine, you cannot imagine what that would do to me. You don't know what it is to have never been loved by anyone, to be hated everywhere you turn." He reached out and took her hand, folding it between his own. "I am not a good man. I know that. But am I truly so evil that I'm not even allowed to hope for your love? Let me have that at least."

His voice was so sincere, so soft, so unlike him in almost every way. The vulnerability made her throat close up, and before he could pull away, she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his thin chest, sniffling into his shirt.

"No. My dear." He sounded startled. "I did not mean to make you cry."

"I know," she whispered, holding onto him tightly. "I'm not crying. I just—I'm sorry. I wish things had been different for you."

"Ah. No point in wishing. We must accept our lot in life." He put a hand on the back of her head, softly running it down her curls. "Though I suppose had things really been different, you would not be here. And I would rather have you than live some alternate fantasy."

She pulled back, blinking up at him tearily. "Really?" she said, her voice a squeak. "Instead of having a—a normal life you'd rather…?"

"I've told you already. You are the only thing I have ever truly wanted in my entire life."

Her heart fluttered against her ribcage. No one had ever said anything like that to her. The sentiment and the way he said it was horribly, devastatingly sincere and romantic, and she wondered—just for a few moments—whether or not she really did love him then.

"Will you—will you kiss me?" she whispered. Before he could reply, she added, "Without the mask."

His mouth opened slightly and then closed, his eyes a flurry of emotions as he considered the request. The prospect of seeing his bare face again was a little frightening, but this was what had to happen. She knew that. After all, hadn't his bare face been between her legs just last night? He had already touched her most intimate, private place with his strange lips. The prospect of an unmasked kiss on the lips shouldn't have made her stomach roll the way it did.

He started to speak but fell silent. "I…" His hands raised to the ties of his masks. For several long seconds, he hesitated, watching her, as if expecting her to change her mind. She said nothing, simply waited; she was afraid if she said anything else, the fear would come through her voice.

Then he pulled it off. Her heart skipped several beats. She did her very best not to let any emotion appear on her face, as she knew he was watching her closely for her reaction. But he looked horrific, the overhead lights casting deep and disturbing shadows across the sharp planes and angles of his disfigured face. She wondered if she would ever be able to look at it without her body seizing up in momentary fear. Instead, she tried to concentrate on his eyes, the way they were searching her expression intently, looking for any hint of rejection. She tilted her face up to him and closed her eyes, waiting for him to take the final step. At last he leaned over.

He was still uncertain, but he had obviously remembered some things from their first kiss, and as he moved his thin lips over hers, she felt her heart again fluttering in her chest. His hands rested carefully on her waist. When she slid her tongue along his bottom lip, he made a small noise in his throat, and his hands gripped her a bit more. So she did it again, causing him to clutch onto her even more, tight enough that it hurt just a little.

But before she could try anything else, he pulled away, turning from her, immediately tying the mask back on. She could see his fingers shaking.

"You have rehearsals soon," he said, still not facing her. "And you must eat before you go."

She nodded, not realizing until later that he couldn't see her, and went to the table to eat a pastry, her lips tingling and her heart racing.

The day was a blur, the events of the previous night and that morning overwhelming her thoughts. She hardly paid attention as Samantha whispered to her about how everyone was getting fed up with Carlotta and how someone was apparently going to "actually do something about it."

"Definitely," Christine said absentmindedly, her mind underground, thinking about shapeless lips and long fingers. "Yeah."

You are the only thing I have ever truly wanted in my entire life.

How could one man be such a contradiction? How could he be so cold and cruel and yet so desperate and passionate at the same time? It was easy to hate the Phantom, but it was impossible to hate Erik. Yet they were one and the same. Love me for myself. How could she reconcile those two sides of him and love both?

He was reserved over the next few days, almost shy. Maybe he felt he had said too much and was trying to avoid her. However, she sought him out, wanted his company, wanted to hear him laugh as she told him silly stories about rehearsals. She asked him to play his violin for her and was, as always, delighted when he agreed.

To her surprise, another letter from Mr. Khan was delivered to her, and he gave her polite and somewhat-vague updates about his life in Los Angeles: that he was enjoying all the different types of cuisine available, how he had had a distant nephew visit for a few weeks, and that he hadn't at all missed the cold, gray winter that was so common in the city. He said that he hoped she was doing "as well as can be expected" and was "being treated kindly and appropriately." Upon reading this, Erik had scowled and muttered and rolled his eyes, tossing the letter back down on the table.

"Be sure to inform your little pen pal that you are indeed being treated well!" he said irritably, storming off to lock himself in his office for an hour or two.

Christine let him have his little tantrum and instead wrote a reply, telling Mr. Khan that she was doing very well and looking forward to the summer. She gave him a few updates about her career and ended the letter with an invitation: If you ever happen to be in the city again, please, please let me know. I'd love to see you. There's so much I want to tell you in person.

The next time she took Erik's hand and pulled him into the bedroom, she told him, in a whisper, to take his mask off. When he did, she leaned up and pressed another kiss to his lips, undoing the buttons on his shirt, whimpering as his fingers reached around to grab the soft, fleshy part of her rump. A small moan reverberated from his throat when she slid her tongue over his.

She wanted him to do the same thing he did the other night—put his mouth all over her before settling between her thighs—but she didn't know how to ask, and when his hand went to touch the spot between her legs instead, she took his wrist and pulled it away. Immediately, he tensed, drawing back from her, his breath shaky.

He said, his voice tight, "I—I shouldn't have presumed—You—"

"No," she said, her face growing warm in the darkness. "I only wanted—would you…?" She wondered if she had ever felt this mortified as she whispered, "Could you—with your mouth again? Please?"

A very long moment of silence passed, and she said quickly, shrilly, "But you don't have—if you don't want to—"

He interrupted her. "I would…" Clearing his throat a little, he tried again, but his voice still hoarse: "I would taste you whenever you wanted, wherever you wanted."

When he was between her legs, she reached down to tangle her fingers in his thin hair, wondering if anyone had ever been loved as deeply and as fervently as he loved her.