Thank you so much for all the follows, favorites, and reviews for this story! It was originally intended to be no more than twenty chapters, but the pacing definitely got away from me. As always :)
I would be very interested to hear if you prefer this ending or the original. Thanks again for all the insightful and encouraging comments. We now say goodbye forever to these sad, strange, melodramatic characters.
The sun on her face was a little too bright, but Christine didn't want to admit defeat. She had insisted that she would be fine sitting on that side of the table, right in the sun, claiming she would enjoy the warmth. Instead, she squinted her eyes into slits behind her sunglasses, ignoring the way her skin was tingling in discomfort. She was going to get sunburned.
As if she could read her mind—or could, more likely, see the expression on Christine's face—Meg piped up with another offer.
"We could move to a different table. There's that one in the corner that just opened up. It's in the shade."
"I like it here," Christine said stubbornly. Meg rolled her eyes and grabbed her iced coffee, shrugging as if to say on your own head be it. She looked very summery and pretty in her light pink sundress, her long dancer's legs toned and tan. Christine was also in a sundress, though her legs were definitely not as tan or toned.
It was hard to get a tan when she lived underground. The winter had been another long and hard season, and there had been several instances in which she had gotten somewhat depressed about never being outside or seeing the sun.
It wasn't as if Erik forbade her. But he would only go out with her at night, and it had been difficult to build up the motivation to go out all by herself. Once, after she had spent an entire day moping and complaining and lying on the couch, he had snapped.
"I have managed to survive perfectly fine down here," he snarled. "Either sort this out or stop whining. You are driving me mad."
They had argued for a while about it, had spent the night ignoring each other, and had come to a compromise the next day. He started taking her on drives just before sunset, and she made more of an effort to spend time up above outside of work, whether it be a short walk or meeting up with a friend.
Still, the winter hadn't been easy, but they had gotten through it.
She turned her attention back to Meg, who was chatting about an upcoming movie she wanted to see and wondering aloud whether or not the famous actor starring in it really had "the range" needed to pull it off. Christine nodded along obediently, sipping on her iced tea.
It had been good to reconnect with Meg, and Christine genuinely enjoyed the time they spent together. Strangely, however, she found she wasn't as reliant on the friendship as she had thought she would be. She no longer needed some kind of crutch from the outside world. Her fear and desperation during that long year spent captive underground had been replaced by love and compassion. Erik fulfilled so many of her needs now.
Well, not all of them. It wasn't as if he would go to some cutesy café with her and sip on overpriced cold drinks in the sunshine.
Her few friendships were a never ending delicate balance of being a good friend yet maintaining enough of a distance. Samantha had once invited her and "her husband" out on a couple's date, and Christine, not knowing how to politely refuse, had unthinkingly stammered out an agreement. Later, she sent Samantha a text.
Hi Samantha, after thinking it over, it's not a good idea, unfortunately. My husband still isn't comfortable around new people. The accident has been really hard for him. I hope you can understand. Thank you for the invite, though.
Samantha had replied a few minutes later. Oh, bummer! I understand. Whenever he's up for it, let me know.
If Samantha had been offended, Christine never knew, and she didn't really want to know. It was the way it had to be.
When Meg had gotten curious, Christine told her the same lie, but Meg had been a little harder to appease.
"How bad is the injury?" Meg had asked. "Like, really bad? Or just—"
"It's bad," Christine said. "And he's private about it, so—so I don't really want to elaborate."
Meg still brought it up now and then, even suggesting a few times that Christine look into specific surgeons in the city. She tried to take it all with patience and grace, not wanting to make it seem like she was hiding something. Even though she was.
She said nothing to Erik about any of it. Her friendships were her burden, and she didn't want to make him feel guilty about something he couldn't change. He had mentioned it only once, after she had come home from going out to lunch with Samantha.
"Do you tell your charming little friends all about living with the ugliest murderer in existence?" he asked nastily. Something had set him off, and she had no idea what.
"No," she said, refusing to rise to his bait. "I told them you were in an accident. That's it. Don't be mean to me."
She had gotten through the winter without incident, and she was hoping the summer would be the same. Judging by the way Meg somehow moved seamlessly from talking about the upcoming movie to complaining about her house plant dying despite getting enough sunlight, it would only take a few gentle course corrections here and there. Most people seemed too caught up in their own lives and problems to care about her reclusive partner. For once, she was grateful for that.
"Christine, your face is already turning red." Meg was frowning at her. "You really should get out of the sun. Your skin is too fair. I bet you're not even wearing sunscreen, are you?"
Christine shook her head and at last admitted defeat, drinking the last of her iced tea and following Meg out of the café. They briefly talked about going to a new exhibit at the city's art museum, but before anything could be decided, Christine was forced to dash off in order to catch her bus. She shouted over her shoulder that she would see Meg the next day at rehearsals and sprinted up the street, the hot summer air thick in her mouth and lungs.
The temperature was even worse on the bus, and she fanned herself with her hand. Erik's war against her utilization of the city buses was never-ending, and at times like these—crowded up next to a smelly teenage boy who was blaring death metal music on his phone—she was inclined to agree with him. Not that she would ever say anything. The buses were part of her independence. Still, unable to handle the stench and the heat, she got off two stops early, resigned to walking the rest of the way.
Just before reaching the Opera House, she passed by a small fruit stand, glanced at it, and then paused. There was a pile of beautiful-looking mangoes, and she perused for a few minutes before purchasing three. A week ago, she had bought one on a whim and sliced it up before bed, intent on eating it the next morning with her breakfast. It disappeared from the fridge overnight. When she asked Erik if he knew what had happened, his too-quick, snappish why would I? told her everything. She said nothing else about it.
The fruit secure in her bag, she made her way to the alleyway, slipped through the door, and began the descent. The cool air was heavenly on her sweaty skin, and she confidently navigated the twists and turns of the tunnels, humming a little as she went. The Opera House would be opening Don Giovanni in a few days. Christine had desperately wanted to play Zerlina and had been devastated when a different soprano had been cast. Erik hadn't provided much consolation, telling her she was still too young to fully master such a role.
Patience, she tried to tell herself. She had her whole career ahead of her. Maybe there would come a day when the thought of performing in yet another leading role did nothing but exhaust her. But she doubted that. Singing and performing were still all she ever dreamed of. Of course there were days she was tired or not feeling well, but it always disappeared the moment she stepped onstage. Not once had she considered doing anything else. She knew it was what she was meant to do. What she had been born to do.
Those egotistical, self-important thoughts were made worse by Erik, who somehow continued to find new, melodramatic ways to tell her how immaculate her voice was. She had received three other offer letters over the past several months, one from a well-respected company in England, another from the San Francisco Opera. Both letters were merely brushed over by Erik without much consideration, and she had followed his lead, trusting his judgment.
The third offer, however, had been delivered just last week, and it had certainly caught his attention. Christine had been getting ready to go up for rehearsals, the morning quiet till then, and it was a scary and unwelcome surprise when the shower curtain was suddenly ripped back, nearly torn from the hooks. She shrieked, reflexively wrapping her arms around herself, her sodden hair stuck to her face.
"Look," Erik had said, his voice strained. He was shaking a piece of paper at her. "Christine. Look. Look."
Her heart hammering in her chest, she spluttered on the hot water, shampoo running into her eyes and mouth. "G-god, Erik!" she coughed. "You scared me!"
"Do you see?" he said. "Christine. It is happening!"
She felt vulnerable and awkward standing there under the stream of the shower, naked and sudsy. After turning off the water, she reached for a towel and tucked it around her torso, drying her hands on it. Finally, she took the letter from him, holding it far enough away to ensure her hair didn't drip water onto it.
"Oh," she said as she read it. Her hands began to tremble. "Oh. Erik. I don't…What do I do?"
He snatched the letter back from her and held it up to read again, as if he couldn't quite believe what was written.
"You must accept," he said, not looking at her, still staring at the letter. "It is what you deserve. You would shine."
"But—but I don't…Erik, it's Paris. How could we do that? Where would we even live?" The unspoken statement hung between them, making her feel awful. It wasn't like she wanted to point out to him that he was the one who made the prospect difficult, perhaps even impossible. But she couldn't imagine him renting out some fifth arrondissement flat for them, pleasantly greeting the neighbors as he stepped out for a quick trip to the boulangerie down the street.
"You make it sound as if I have lived down here in exile all my life," he snapped. "You should know better than anyone that Erik has lived all over the world. I am not some mole, condemned to live underground forever! I can go wherever I please!"
"I never meant—" she started, but he had stormed out of the bathroom, leaving her shivering and confused, soap bubbles fizzing gently in her ear.
The topic of Paris had only been brought up once since then, when she had made an offhand comment one evening about how her father had once bought her the most delicious merguez frites after a long, cold afternoon of busking near Montmartre. It was a cherished memory of hers, something she wanted to share with Erik.
"We were pretty poor in Paris, too, so Dad buying that for me was really special," she said, smiling.
He was quiet for a time, his arms folded across his chest. "I spent many hours pickpocketing in Montmartre. It is full of tourists."
She hesitated, unsure if she was supposed to laugh at that. "Yeah. That's why Dad liked to play there."
A long index finger tapped against his arm a few times, as if he was deep in thought. "Having means would make Paris a different city entirely. You would be its queen."
That had made her laugh, but the look in his eye told her that he hadn't made the comment in jest.
It was a vast, terrifying prospect, one she had a feeling they were both trying to avoid, unwilling and incapable of making a decision either way. She didn't want to think about it, too nervous to fully examine what her heart really wanted. If they stayed, would her career stagnate? Would she grow too comfortable here and never progress? Would she come to resent Erik for keeping her on one stage forever? But the idea of leaving was somehow more terrifying. She finally had freedom. She finally had friends. Starting over entirely in Paris was a daunting thought. What if the change would be too much for both of them?
She entered the underground house, happy to be home. It had gone through subtle changes over the past several months as well. At her request, he had finally switched out the bizarre paintings that she had always hated, replacing them with some pretty—if a little uninteresting—landscape paintings. The clutter had also started to become somewhat manageable, all his books and music and compositions slowly but surely finding new homes: some in the second sideboard he had finally acquired and some leaving the house forever.
There were now bits of her in the house. She had put a framed picture of her and her father on an end table. Her books had shelves of their own. She had brought down some nice-smelling candles, a few knicknacks, and a mug her father had always used. Maybe it would always first and foremost feel like Erik's home—after all, it was hard to ignore the location—but Christine was content with the progress that had been made so far.
He was in his office, looking at some paperwork, rubbing his temple in a gesture of frustration. Seeing this, she paused, unsure if he wanted company. His gaze flickered up to her, and he frowned before setting down the papers.
"Your nose and cheeks are red," he said, obvious disapproval in his voice. "You spent too much time in the sun."
She held up the little bag. "I got a good deal on some mangoes," she said. "I'm going to cut them up and put them in the fridge. Okay?"
He waved a hand, as if she had just said the most boring thing in the world. "You must be more careful. Your skin is delicate."
"What, you mean you wouldn't love me if I came back as a tomato?"
She had meant to make him laugh, but he only rolled his eyes. "Why such an uninteresting, common vegetable? You would come back as a beautiful rose. A ripe strawberry. A fresh apple." The comments made her laugh instead, and he picked up the papers again, saying, "And I would love you all the more. Now go apply whatever womanly cream you have to help with the burn."
Smiling, she turned to leave the office and then hesitated, looking back at him.
"A lobster?" she tried.
He ignored her, but his thin lips twitched.
After cutting up the mangoes and putting them in the refrigerator as promised, she washed her sticky hands, making sure to slide her ring up just a bit to clean the skin underneath as well. The ring hadn't left her finger at all these past months.
She had at last asked him about it a few months ago, when he had taken her to the roof on a cool spring evening, the sun low on the horizon.
"Erik?" she said. "Are we—are we married? Still?" He looked at her sharply, his mouth in a thin line, and she continued, trying to explain: "It's just—I just wanted to know. You don't call me your wife anymore. But we live together. We…um, sleep together. So—so, are we?"
"Were we ever truly married to begin with?" he said.
She frowned, not sure what he meant. "We were. Or…are? I'm still wearing your ring. But we went to a church. There was a priest."
"Yes. And you wore a white dress. You looked painfully beautiful. That constitutes a marriage, does it?"
Now a little annoyed at his refusal to just answer her question, she huffed and folded her arms. "I guess? I don't know what you want me to say. Are we married still or—?"
"It is as you wish," he interrupted. "You've kept my ring. Perhaps you don't find the idea so repulsive now. But I could never force that upon you. Not again."
"Repulsive?" She stepped closer, a cool breeze blowing a few strands of hair across her face. After pulling them away, she reached for him, guiding his arms around her waist. "I don't think anything about you is repulsive. At all. I love you."
He looked at her closely, his mouth no longer pulled tight. "You are always so lovely when you say that."
She wondered if he sometimes didn't believe her, a fact that was somehow both very sad and very sweet. Perhaps, as it was with most everything that came to Erik, it would take time. Another cold gust swept over the roof, and she huddled closer to him. He wasn't very warm, but he blocked the wind at least.
It is as you wish. What did she want? If Erik wasn't her husband, what was he? No other label felt right. Yet their wedding had been so horrible, and it wasn't a memory she wanted associated with their happiness.
"Maybe we could have another ceremony," she said, resting her chin on his chest to look up at him. "Something more…"
"Willing?" he had supplied, an eyebrow raised.
To her own surprise, she had managed to smile. "Exactly."
The ceremony hadn't happened yet, however. Erik had not mentioned it once since the rooftop, proving that he had meant what he said. It is as you wish. He wouldn't coerce her, and he wouldn't take control. It was up to her, and Christine still wanted it. She had a feeling it would be healing for both of them. However, it was proving hard to plan a wedding when her schedule had become very demanding. She had been hopeful for the summer holiday, thinking that the two week break would be a perfect time to make all the arrangements and hold a small, intimate ceremony. The offer from Paris had thrown those tentative plans into disarray.
Paris. She'd only ever seen the Palais Garnier from the outside. Her father had been set to audition for the orchestra once, but the day of the first round, he had taken Christine to the Bois de Vincennes instead and had busked there for a few hours. When she had asked him about the audition, he had laughed a little.
"All stuffed shirts, nepotism, and elitists! Isn't this better, ängel? We can play whenever we want, and we have an audience of squirrels."
Christine had been twelve. She had no idea what any of the words he had used to describe the musicians at the Garnier meant. Instead she had giggled at the squirrels and thought he was the best father in the world.
It wouldn't have to be forever. The contract was limited to two seasons, with an option to extend if both parties wanted to. If it turned out to be a mistake, they could always come back. The issue with that was the fact that she couldn't imagine someone like Mr. Reyer being very eager to send her off and then welcome her back whenever she felt like it. The cast and crew would not be receptive to that, either. No, if she decided to leave, it could very well be for good.
The thought was thrilling and terrifying.
What to do? She had always thought Erik would make all these types of decisions. He had basically said as much in the past. With so much now changed, there was more responsibility on her shoulders. She loved her autonomy, but…it was overwhelming at the same time. Though she would never, ever admit it out loud, it had sometimes been easier to let Erik make all the decisions for her.
She felt anxious, agitated knowing that a decision would have to be made soon. The offer wasn't open-ended. She had to answer within the next few days, or it would be rescinded. To her annoyance, time hadn't brought any clarity. It only seemed to make her think of new possibilities, both good and bad.
Later that evening, he was at the piano, scribbling away at something. A small stack of papers sat near his feet, half-completed compositions he would probably throw away without a second thought. A few months ago, Christine had tried to salvage some, hating the idea that any of his genius could be forgotten. He had quickly put a stop to that, growling at her that the compositions were his to do with what he wished. So she let it be for now, even if she still didn't like it.
She stood next to the piano with her chin in her hands, watching him work.
"The Garnier is offering me more money than I make here," she said. "Maybe you could finally retire. Start gardening. Watch television all day. Learn how to knit."
He rolled his eyes. "I could have 'retired' years ago had I felt like it. You know that."
She scowled, knowing he was deliberately misunderstanding her. Not wanting to give up so easily on making him laugh, she said, "I guess I'll start buying you expensive presents instead. Fancy liquors and gold pens."
"So you've decided, then?" he said. "You will accept the offer?"
Immediately, she shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know what to do."
He continued to watch her, but when she didn't elaborate, he went back to his composition. She sighed and moped off to get ready for bed.
Sometime later, after she was tucked underneath the sheets, tossing and turning, he entered the bedroom. She smiled up at him as he approached. Initiating was still somewhat of an unfamiliar dance for both of them, but she now understood that when he came to bed before she fell asleep, it usually meant he wanted to be intimate.
She had underestimated the impact lovemaking would have on their relationship. Although it brought plenty of other issues that they were slowly but surely addressing, their times together had drawn them closer in so many ways. There were new experiences for them both, things they learned together, unspoken secrets exchanged. He had grown more confident, and Christine had become less shy.
He had finally begun to confess things he wanted to do to her during particularly passionate moments. I want to do things to you that would make your stomach turn. And they did make her stomach turn, but not with disgust. Once, he'd surprised her by pulling her into a small passageway during the intermission of a performance. He had dragged up the skirt of her costume and roughly taken her against the wall, panting in her ear that what he really wanted was to fuck her on the stage for everyone to see, so that they would all know that she was his—his, Erik's—and she had had to clap her hand over her mouth to stop herself from climaxing too loudly, afraid someone would hear them.
During those thrilling, frightening, strange moments, she felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.
That night, though, he was tender with her, murmuring sweet words in her ear as he moved inside her. The sheets were soft and clean, the lamp was dim, and she wrapped her arms around him, her heart swelling with love. There was inherent music in him, in the way he whispered and rocked against her, and he made her sing not long after. He gasped, his bony hips surging against her, and she held him tightly as he spilled himself in her.
She curled up next to him afterwards, warm and sated, and tucked a hand under her cheek, watching him closely.
"Do you think the Garnier has a ghost?" she said.
He looked at her, apparently bemused, but answered nonetheless. "I am certain of it. Every proper opera house should have one."
"Hmm." She chewed on her thumbnail in thought. "Maybe there's room for two?"
"You want me to make the decision for you," he said after a moment. "I won't."
Christine huffed, sticking out her lower lip. "But that's your job. You're my manager."
"Do not play that trick on me," he said, a bit of warning creeping into his voice. "You made it abundantly clear that I was not to control you any longer. So I will not."
"Erik, I'm not asking you to control me," she said, frowning. "I'm just asking for your help. Your advice. You're my husband. My decision affects you too." She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, anxiety slithering back into her.
In a whisper, she finally voiced the thoughts that had been nagging at her since the moment the letter arrived: "What if—what if I make the wrong choice? Or…what if I make a choice you don't want? I want you to be happy. Would you be happy back in Paris?"
"I only want to be with you. I don't care where that might be."
She pressed her hands over her eyes with a grunt, frustrated by his refusal to give her a clear answer. Obviously sensing this, he wrapped a hand around her wrists and gently pulled her arms down, making sure she was looking at him before he said, "You really care what I want? You are the only thing I have ever wanted in my entire life. I've told you this before. I would follow you anywhere. To Paris. To your silly, fairytale Sweden. To hell. Let me be with you, let me hear you sing, and I will have everything I could ever want."
His eyes glowed as he spoke, his face ugly and awful in the low light. He stroked her cheek before leaning down to press a kiss to her lips. She let out a little sniffle as he pulled away, touched and overwhelmed by his words.
"You promise you would be okay with either choice?" she whispered. "I just want us to be happy. I don't want to ruin this."
"Your voice could not 'ruin' anything," he said, his long fingers trailing over her throat. "If your voice tells you that it must go to Paris, we will go."
"What if it says that we should stay?"
His shapeless lips pulled into their customary half-smile. "That would be just as wonderful. We already have a bed here, and I would rather like to hear you sing again tonight."
He pulled her back into his arms as she laughed. The decision would have to wait. Christine was confident, however, that whatever was decided, they would go forward as husband and wife.
Together.
Happy.
