No matter how good she was, how passionate and dedicated she was, how much she threw herself into the music to show him how sorry she was, it didn't move him. Nothing did. Her tears, her begging, her anger, her pathetic sobbing—he was unyielding. Christine felt like she was trying to make a brick wall forgive her, and she wondered if she would go insane with the effort.

The punishment was cruel, and it was effective. Erik was the only person in her life now. Her father was dead, Mr. Khan was gone, Meg would not speak to her, and Raoul had not tried to reach out to her again, obviously intent on standing by his decision to not to contact her until she gave up her commitment to the stage, something she could never do. Fan mail was no longer delivered to her, making her believe that Erik had somehow interfered and put an end to it, having probably figured out that that was how she and Raoul had exchanged letters.

Erik was all that was left. And now he was basically gone as well.

She saw him a few times a day, when he led her up and down from rehearsals or if he was in the main room for a task, but he never lingered. He still barely spoke to her, hardly glanced her way, all of which made her sick with misery. He never touched her of his own volition. All the small niceties were gone. There were no gifts, no kind words, no thoughtful gestures. There was no music. He no longer played in front of her except to accompany her lessons.

Her greatest fear was realized. She really was alone.

Of course there were people aboveground in the Opera House. Mr. Gabriel was rehearsing her in her upcoming roles. Sometimes some of the women in the ensemble chatted with her in the dressing room. But nobody knew her, Christine. They had no idea where she came from, anything about her life or her struggles or the loss of her father. They didn't know that she never left the Opera House and that she was starting to feel stir crazy, like something in a cage, climbing up the walls but never actually able to leave.

She told herself that she should be grateful for Erik's indifference, his distance. He was not a good man, and he had done so many terrible things to her. Perhaps she should count herself lucky that he was ignoring her alone instead of belittling her, manhandling her, or coming to her in the bedroom. But those thoughts didn't seem to make her feel any better.

She no longer cooked, she no longer read, and soon she was no longer begging for his attention. It was all pointless. She lay on the couch, staring at the wall, hour after hour, counting down the minutes until she was able to go up to perform or rehearse.

They did have some small conversations, as ignoring each other entirely was impossible, but they were strained, odd, and hurtful.

One afternoon, she lay on the couch, still in her pajamas, stomach growling with hunger. She had eaten an unwashed carrot for breakfast and was starving, but she couldn't find the motivation to eat anything else. She stared at the ceiling, absentmindedly tugging on a curl. The door by the piano opened. She didn't look over.

Erik walked in front of her to return a book to the bookshelf.

"What did you read?" she asked, not expecting him to answer.

"You should change," he said. "You're becoming a grimy little oaf."

She rolled away from him, and he went back to his room. She stayed in her pajamas until it was time to go above ground.

The holiday season was in full swing, and the Opera House was bedecked with garlands and poinsettias. There was going to be a holiday party. Everyone was excited about it, and Christine was given a very formal, very fancy invitation, admitting her and a plus one. She looked at it, the gold letters beautiful against the dark green background. She had always loved Christmastime, but for the second year in a row, she felt nothing except grief at the thought.

Down in the underground house, she held the invitation out to Erik. "Do you want to go to a holiday party with me?"

He ignored her, trying to balance more scores and books on his already overladen sideboard. She wondered why he didn't just get a second one.

"Why don't you just get a second one?" she said. "Then you'd have more room."

No response. She let the invitation fall to the floor, and then she lay down on the couch, looking at his imposing chair, the one he never sat in anymore.

"Erik," she said conversationally. "If you hate me so much, why am I still here? Why don't you just kick me out? You said you wanted to." He was silent, but she didn't expect any response and continued: "I've done bad things. I'm just like you said. I'm anathema to you. Maybe you should kill me. Maybe I deserve to die. That might make you feel better."

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped.

She lay there, absentmindedly running a finger over her lips. "You swear a lot," she said. "You didn't swear very much when we first met, but I guess you don't care what I think anymore."

He muttered something she couldn't hear but was probably just as rude. Then he went back to his room, loudly shutting the door behind him.

The time they interacted most was during her lessons, but they, too, were stiff and joyless. She was struggling with the Czech, just as he said she would. He made no comment except to tell her she was doing something incorrectly.

The music was becoming just as cold and meaningless to her as everything else. It was like he was some black hole, sucking all the light out of everything that surrounded him, including her. If there was no music, then there was no point.

One chilly morning, he was forcing her to repeat a tricky phrase over and over. He would listen to her sing, stop the accompaniment, and shake his head. "Wrong. Again." And she would have to try again and then fail, over and over. She felt lifeless, subhuman, meaningless, and she could tell her singing was getting worse as she kept trying. She hadn't had the energy to eat anything for breakfast, and after what felt like an eternity of standing by the piano, her legs began to tremble, and she felt her vision swimming.

When he stopped the accompaniment to tell her to try yet again, a wave of sudden, blinding heat washed over her, and she felt her hands sliding over the top of the piano as she fell to the floor in a faint.

When she came to and opened her eyes, she saw Erik crouched next to her, looking at her face intently, frowning.

"Are you nauseous?" he said. "Feverish?"

Her brain was foggy, and her body felt heavy. "I'm tired," she murmured.

He stood and walked away, and she closed her eyes again, resigned to being left alone and ignored on the floor. However, he returned a few moments later, kneeling down next to her and holding out a croissant.

"You must eat," he said.

It felt impossible to lift up her hand, and the pastry itself looked unappetizing. Christine gave a little moan and turned her head away, closing her eyes again. To her surprise, she felt his cold fingers on her face, and he pulled her back towards him, holding the croissant to her mouth. When she made no move to eat it, he forced the pastry past her lips, stuffing it into her mouth, too much too soon.

"Eat, goddamn you!" he growled.

She scrabbled at his fingers, coughing, choking, trying to turn away from him, tears springing to her eyes. Gagging, whimpering in protest, she weakly pushed against his thin chest, desperately wanting him to stop. Eventually, he did, throwing the soggy, ruined croissant on the ground next to her and standing.

"Very well, lie there and starve," he hissed. "I have better things to do than waste my time with you."

And she watched from the floor as he walked through the main room, opened the front door, and disappeared through it, the door slamming shut behind him. The usual snick of the deadbolt did not follow, meaning the door was left unlocked, but Christine couldn't find the energy to care. There was no reason to care. What would she do? Where would she go? There was nothing out there, but there was now nothing in here. There was nothing in her. There was no music anymore. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't seem to summon the energy. She couldn't even manage to think of a silent prayer.

She fell asleep for a while, knowing she was missing rehearsals but not caring in the slightest. Between that and the fact that she had never gone to Mr. Poligny's office as he had requested, maybe they would fire her. Then Erik would get so angry that he would throw her out. Christine sighed sleepily, the cold floor pressing into her. She'd been destitute before and survived. Barely.

Time ticked away, and the thought of the large bed was so tempting, but she felt unable to move. Her right hip was throbbing in pain due to the hard floor, but she ignored it. It was cold in the room, and the chill of the floor seemed to seep into her skin. Her stomach was growling at her angrily, demanding food. She closed her eyes again.

Sometime later, she heard the door open, clattering loudly against the wall as Erik marched in.

"You are not at rehearsals!" he said, his voice loud, booming. "What in the hell are you thinking, you stupid girl?"

When she didn't reply, she could hear him slam the door shut in frustration. She didn't bother opening her eyes.

"Go to the bedroom, then," he commanded. "If you insist on acting like a child."

She didn't respond. Let him scream, let him rage. At that point, it was preferable to him ignoring her entirely.

His footsteps were heavy as he approached, and her eyes flew open in surprise as she felt his long hands reach around her and lift her up. It wasn't a romantic or gentle hold, though; he held her like some heavy parcel that had to be hauled or a dumb animal that refused to move. She realized that he was carrying her to the bedroom. He was going to throw her in there and close the door on her.

As he approached the bed, she wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. When he stopped to deposit her on the bed, she clutched him even more tightly.

"Please don't go," she whispered.

"Let go of me," he said shortly.

She held onto him desperately, begging him over and over not to leave, but he pried her arms from around him, and when she felt her back touch the mattress, she squeezed her eyes shut, her heartbeat beginning to quicken. He was going to leave her all alone, and he wasn't going to return. She would stay there in the darkness and starve, and he wouldn't care. She had ruined everything, had killed her father, had driven Raoul away, and had now, at last, driven Erik away, too. Erik—who had loved her so deeply, so terribly—who had done horrible things to her, for her—who had made her most secret dreams come true and had shattered her entire world—he was going to let her die in that room.

A sharp pain tugged at her chest, and she could feel herself shaking, her breath coming short and fast. A wave of nausea washed over her, and she tried to gasp in air, to fill her lungs with oxygen, but she had no control over her breathing, her racing heart, her trembling body. She was suffocating, drowning, starving, left alone to waste away in this cold, dark dungeon.

A voice broke through above her. "Shit. Christine—Christine." Something cold touched her face, and she gave a choked, frightened whimper, unable to comprehend who it was, what it was. Her face was turned upwards and held there, and the voice returned, now beautiful, soft, melodious.

"Calm down. Calm down. I am here. I am not leaving."

She wasn't sure if she could trust the voice. Would it really stay? With shaking hands, she reached up and grasped onto whatever she could find, twisting it around her fingers, wanting to ground herself, to stop spinning, to make the voice stay.

"You are having another panic attack," the voice said. "Calm down. I am here."

Tears were streaming from her eyes, and she gasped, desperate for air. What he was saying was impossible. Another panic attack? That was not what was happening. She was dying—didn't he realize that? Didn't he care?

Her hand was pressed up against a bony chest, a solid, rhythmic heartbeat underneath her palm. The ribcage went out and in, slowly, steadily. The heartbeat seemed to match the time of the expansion of the ribcage. In for four counts—out for four counts. In for four counts—out for four counts. She remembered, through a hazy fog, doing this before, and she knew if she had done it once, she could do it again.

It took several painful minutes, but at last she was able to somewhat match the inherent music of his breathing. Her own heart was still thumping, loud and painful, but she no longer felt a panicked sense of imminent death. With a shaky sigh, she opened her eyes, seeing Erik sitting above her, peering down, his eyes glowing. She had his sleeve twisted in her fingers, her other hand on his chest.

"Erik," she said, her voice weak and raw.

"Hush," he said. "You need to rest."

"Erik, I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I know it was wrong. I know I'm a bad person. But I was so scared, I didn't know what to do—"

"Stop," he interrupted her, pulling her hand away from him. "No. I do not want to hear this."

When he tried to stand, she cried out, grabbing onto his other sleeve. "Don't leave me!" she said, her voice strangled, panicked. "Don't leave me! Erik! Don't—"

"Fine. Fine." He sat back down on the edge of the bed. "But no more of this. You must eat, sleep."

She ignored him. "I was so scared by what you did to me. I was so lonely. I just wanted someone to be nice to me! I just wanted someone to hold me."

"Enough," he said shortly. "I—Christine, stop this, I cannot listen to this—"

She pressed on, needing him to know. He had to listen and understand her. "Raoul and I—we kissed, we did things I know we shouldn't have. But I swear to God, we never—never—had sex. I swear it, Erik. I promise I never—"

"Stop! Stop!" he gasped, his voice strained and slightly-panicked. "No more, Christine, be quiet—"

She was becoming hysterical again, beginning to sob, clinging to him, afraid that if he left, it would be forever, and he would never come back to her as Erik. He would always be the Phantom.

"Please don't be mad at me!" she cried pathetically. "I can't stand this. I hurt you, I know it was wrong of me. And you were starting to be so kind to me, and I was afraid of—of—" She choked. "I miss you. Please forgive me! Please—please—!"

"Enough!" His loud, sudden command startled her into silence. "Enough. This is enough. Calm down. You will give yourself another attack." His voice, while not gentle, was not cruel, and she blinked up at him tearily, his masked face above hers, his eyes narrowed, his mouth turned downwards. She lay there, starving, exhausted, and frantic, still afraid that he was going to leave and lock her up in the room alone. To her surprise, he reached up and roughly wiped her wet cheek with his long thumb. It nearly made her start crying again.

"Please forgive me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Erik, I'm begging you."

"You are not well," he said. "You need to eat, to sleep. Tomorrow you will return to rehearsals."

She shook her head quickly. "I don't want to," she said. "I don't care about that. It doesn't matter to me."

"You will attend rehearsals tomorrow," he said again, as if he hadn't heard her. "And you will be performing in Norma again in two days."

"I don't want to," she said again, tightly twisting the fabric of his sleeve. "I don't care about performing anymore if—if this is what it's like forever. There's nothing there. There is no music. There's no you."

He paused. Then he said, "You are exhausted and hysterical. You need to rest and—"

"Why won't you listen to me?" she said, pressure starting to build in her throat again. "I only want to sing for you! But if you won't hear me, then it doesn't mean anything. If there is no you, then there's no music for me."

Maybe she sounded insane. But she knew he understood her. However, when he still didn't answer, she used his arm to pull herself to a sitting position, and she reached over and wrapped her arms around him again, burying her face in the side of his pale neck, desperate to get through to him.

"I need you," she whispered, her lips brushing his skin. She felt him shiver. "I need you. Erik. Please."

A few moments of silence passed. She kept her lips against his neck, her arms wrapped around him tightly, pleading with him wordlessly to reciprocate.

"My god," he then murmured. "I am the biggest fool alive." And she felt his hands at her waist, sliding up her back, pressing close. He put his masked face in her hair.


Although Christine knew it was naive of her to expect one hysterical conversation to make everything go back to the way it had been, she couldn't help but be disappointed that it wasn't so. While things became better in many ways, she could tell Erik was still guarded.

While her lessons had become much better, he never reached for her. He didn't shy away when she approached, but he wouldn't seek her out for the pleasure of her company. He agreed to play backgammon when she asked, and he sometimes played the piano for her when she requested it. However, he said no when she gathered enough courage to ask him to sing.

Although she wanted things to go back to the way they were, she would gladly take this reserved, slightly stoic Erik over the cruel, indifferent, unyielding Phantom.

Christine tried her best to break down some of the walls he had built up. She was easy with her smiles, her laughter, trying to show that she enjoyed his company and appreciated his little quips and odd sense of humor.

Her performances improved drastically, and after one small rehearsal for The Cunning Little Vixen, Mr. Gabriel actually applauded for a few moments, smiling at her. And though she still didn't like it, she had to admit to herself that Erik was right—singing as Emmie was an almost easy success.

One evening, he approached her and held out an envelope. A jolt of fear shot through her, even though she had no idea what else he could have found. Now what?

"It is a letter," he said. "For you."

Hesitantly, she reached out and took it, seeing that the envelope had been opened already. She looked back up to him, and he noticed her expression.

"You cannot blame me," he said coolly.

She didn't have the energy for that conversation, and so she looked back to the envelope, noting that it had the name of someone very familiar scratched into the upper corner. Nadir Khan.

Quickly, she slid the letter out and read.

Dear Christine,

I sincerely hope this letter is delivered to you. I called the Opera House, and they promised me that any letters addressed to you would find their way into your hands. I hope so, because I really want you to have these photos. I found them a month or so ago as I was going through my belongings after the move, and I think you are the best person to have them.

I'm not sure if I should ask how you are doing. If it's any consolation, I'm healing well and am enjoying all the sunshine. My cousin has been very gracious. I understand if you're angry at me. I'm angry at myself. I just pray that you've found some kind of peace in your situation.

These pictures were taken in Iran, around twenty years ago. Maybe you want to keep them. Maybe you want to burn them along with this letter. It's up to you. I'd understand if you choose either one. There were times over the years I wanted to burn these myself. Now they're yours.

Nadir

The letter brought a few tears to her eyes, and she hurriedly wiped them away, wishing Erik wasn't looking at her. She read the letter again before looking into the envelope and seeing it empty.

"He sent photos?" she said. "Where are they?"

"They are nothing," he said, waving his long hand. "Uninteresting. I simply wanted you to know that Nadir is doing well."

"Can I see them?" she said. "I really want to. Please."

"They are not worth your time," he said. "You may keep the letter, if you wish."

"But Nadir sent the photos to me," she said, tugging on a curl. "They're mine. At least let me see them."

He glared at her for several long moments, but she was unyielding. She wanted to see the pictures. With a sigh, he threw his hands in the air and then disappeared for a moment before returning with three photos, which he gave to her.

She felt her eyes grow wide as she looked. They were all old pictures of Erik, the landscape behind him unfamiliar.

The first picture was a candid photo of him, standing in front of a mosque, his gaze off to the side of the person taking the photo. She was shocked to see that he was wearing another mask, one very different from the black one that had become like his face to her. The mask in the photo was white, a little clumsier looking, and there were thin, delicate designs painted around the edge. He was also wearing different clothing than she was accustomed to seeing him wear, light and breathable, a long white tunic tunic and blue linen pants that looked appropriate for hotter climates. His hair was long, dark, grown well past his shoulders, tangled. Christine felt a little blush come to her cheeks at the sight.

The second picture was of Erik in some kind of research facility, examining a piece of metal, and the third was of him sitting on a hill, the background the most beautiful green and blue, his masked profile looking at something that remained uncaptured by the camera. She couldn't help but touch the white mask, his different face. A different time with a different Erik.

"There, you see?" he said, holding out his hand. "They are nothing."

She looked back to the first photo, Erik standing in front of the mosque. He wasn't as thin as he was now, and his exposed skin wasn't so pale. Her blush lingered as she looked, warm on her cheeks, and to her embarrassment, she felt faint warmth elsewhere. Immediately, she swallowed and looked up at him, taking a deep breath.

"I want to keep them," she said. "I don't want you to get rid of them."

He shook his head, continuing to hold out a bony hand. "There is no reason to keep such horrors in the world. Give them back to me."

"But…" She glanced back down at them. "They're my photos. They're a gift from Nadir. Let me keep at least one. Please?"

"Why on earth would you want to do that? Aha—to burn it, as Nadir suggested. I suppose I can't blame you for that."

"No," she said quickly. "I would never. I just…it's just interesting." She wished her blush would go away. "To see you looking so different. Please, Erik? Just one."

They were silent for a moment, and then he sighed. "Very well. One. Because I can deny you nothing. But give me the other two."

Embarrassed and relieved, she gave him the picture of the hillside and the research lab. Erik didn't bother looking at them, instead tucking them into his jacket pocket. He tilted his head when he looked back at her and, to her complete surprise, ran two fingers over her curls. It had been the first time in weeks that he had gently touched her of his own volition.

"When you do decide to burn it, I only ask that you let me know. I will have a fire extinguisher on hand so you don't accidentally burn down the house."

She rolled her eyes and laughed, trying to cover the fact that she was suddenly feeling very warm. "I'm not going to burn it. Thank you for letting me keep it."

To her delight, he agreed to play the violin for her after dinner, and it felt like another small, tentative step towards peace between them.

Later that night, curled up in bed with his beautiful violin music swirling around in her mind, she looked at the photo again. To her, Erik had always been rigid, aloof, cold. But this showed a very different man. He appeared unburdened, unworried, relaxed. Something in his shoulders and the way he stood betrayed a vulnerability that she did not see in him now. He looked… She shook her head, trying to think of a different word. But the only word that came to her was beautiful. Maybe it was just the nostalgia and romance of the old photos, giving him a mysterious, otherworldly aura. But with his long hair, white mask, and relaxed stance, she couldn't help but feel sad to realize that he would one day become so shut off from the world.

The photo showed him looking off into the distance. What was he staring at? Christine almost wanted to turn around and look behind her, as if she would be able to see what he was seeing. But instead she looked at him, at his exposed neck and large hands, his long dark hair, whipped by the invisible wind. He looked strong in the photo.

Warmth returned to her cheeks, as well as to other parts of herself. She squirmed in discomfort and embarrassment. She told herself to put the picture away. Instead she held it tightly in one hand as she rolled to her side, away from the door. The other hand crept downward, and she ignored it, as if she was not aware of what she was doing. The hand was acting of its own volition. It slid down, across her stomach, over her hips, and to the warmth between her legs. She was mortified, and she was captivated.

Christine now had a general idea of what to do and how it should feel, and she pressed her fingers to herself, heat flooding her belly. It did not take long, and she took one final glance at the picture before feeling those familiar waves coming over her, washing her with pleasure, making her squeeze her eyes shut and bite her tongue to keep silent, but she could not stop a few tiny whimpers from escaping.

When it was over and she lay there, her body throbbing softly and warmly, she looked at the picture again. She was embarrassed and confused, and after slipping the picture underneath the pillow, she stared up silently into the dark ceiling.