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Chapter Text

“I’ll ask you one last time, Erik. What do you want me to do with you?” Christine’s voice was soft, gentle, filled with sorrow for the man before her. For quite some time, she had believed that this man was in fact the Angel of Music— but now, she knew he was most certainly not. She knew Erik fancied himself a monster, but she knew of no monster who would sink to his knees before her and plead for love. “Love me, please, just love me! For that, I will do anything !” 

Anything was incredibly vague, but Christine knew well that if she wanted proof of something genuine, if she would ever be able to believe that he could change, she needed to ask. “If you would do anything… would you unmask yourself and live in the light?” A silence fell between the two of them, tense. She knew what she was asking of him, that he would be frightened, but she hoped that he knew she asked not out of malice, but of a genuine need to know. It was his life in the shadows that allowed him to kill, and if he lived in the light, then perhaps… 

“Where would I live, Christine? If I were to live in the light, where would that be?” 

Oh, there was such sorrow in his voice, she couldn't help but weep! But, where would he live? Admittedly, she hadn't thought of an answer to that question. She simply assumed that he'd immediately refuse and then send her away. “How can I do this for you when I have nowhere to stay? How could I ever deny you…? You must know that your Erik loves you…” Yes. Yes, she knew that. Or, at least she knew that he felt something that he thought was love. Erik had been denied a life like everyone else, whatever had happened in his past had surely given him a very different perspective on the world from her own, or from Meg, or Sorelli, or Jammes. Or Raoul . 

Raoul, her childhood sweetheart! Raoul, who was light and safe! What would he think of this? Of her proposition to Erik, who she had said was so very terrifying to her? Yes, she was afraid of him, but to leave him alone? No one deserved to be alone like that. Raoul was a sweet boy, the boy who had rescued her scarf from the sea, the boy she loved, but Erik had helped her reach her dream of performing. Of singing. She could not simply leave him alone, unless he denied her request. And deny her he did not.  

“We will find somewhere, together.” Christine stared for a moment after speaking, shocked at herself and realizing how that must've sounded. She'd not asked Erik to leave his home beneath the opera so that he would be with her, she'd asked to see if he had the capacity for change. This day, it seemed that she was learning her own capacities. Never had she asked for the ability to give compassion to men who committed horrid crimes, but the words hung in the air. He stared at her with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Together…” he whispered, a look of awe upon his face, as if she had suddenly absolved him of his sins; as if she had suddenly handed him all of his dreams. Together. It was strange to hear that out loud, from him and from her. Together . She could not back out now.

Christine knew that this was not what he’d expected, and it was certainly not what she’d thought. She’d come to confront Erik, and now the possibility that they would find a place to live together… But only because she had spoken of it. What had she condemned herself to? The two weeks in Erik’s home had been trying, filled with quite a bit of emotion, but to live in a house, a real house with windows and sunlight that shone through? That was never something she believed that she could do with Erik. They both knew that. Erik was not so blind to believe that she would decide to love him if he lived in the world with everyone else. Yet, he surprised her when he stood, that blank look still upon his face. “This has been my home… this opera house… We cannot live too far from it… I want to hear the music…” 

Oh . Christine was almost hoping that he’d say no. The anything that she had proposed seemed like something he would never do, but here he stood with his back to her, speaking of places to live. What would she tell Raoul? Her sweet Raoul who loved her so dearly, who she loved as well! How could she tell him what she had done? Would he understand? Would he wait for her? Surely, Erik would flee from the light, their time together would be brief. A small part of Christine’s heart, however, leapt for joy at the answer. It meant he was at least willing to try to change. Whether or not he would be able to do so in the long run was a concern for a later date, right? “It wouldn’t be hard to find a place for rent… you won’t have to be far away from here… but if I am to live with you…” She thought of what it was like, packing belongings to settle down somewhere else. She thought of what Erik owned and rushed out of the Louis-Philippe room to head right to Erik’s room, not thinking whether or not he’d assume she had decided against the offer. 

Erik watched Christine run from the Louis-Philippe room in a trance, barely registering the events that were unfolding before him. She had offered to stay with him in the light- the light… and she was running even after her promise- running to… his room. His room! There, he kept secrets that he was not yet ready to share with her- secrets that perhaps he would take to the grave! 

It came as no surprise to Christine when she heard Erik’s voice from behind her, although he had taken longer than she had thought. That, she concluded, had worked in her favor, as she had only gone to his room to destroy a single object. Before Erik could say more than her name, Christine turned to face him with tears in her eyes. “You will sleep in a bed, Erik. A real bed. Not with me, but I will not have you sleeping as if…” She’d been so very distressed by the coffin, by his comments about getting used to eternity, of his desire to fall asleep and never wake! “We will find somewhere close to the Opera House…” 

He stood there in stunned silence once more, his gaze shifting between Christine with her chest heaving and a candleholder in her hands, and the coffin now with a few cracks on its cover, and then back to Christine. She wanted him to sleep in a bed. Not with her, of course, and the realization that she perhaps thought that he would… “We will find somewhere with two bedrooms, then. With doors that can lock. Erik will sleep in a bed-” He would never force her to live in a house where she would be forced to stay in a room with him. Where she’d be forced to lay beside him— He’d given her a room with a door that locked here in his house. He’d hoped that she would at least understand that he would never, never become a monster like that . It seemed, however, that she hadn’t been able to come to that conclusion. Could he blame her, though? He’d taken her to his house, forced her to wear his ring, demanded that she loved no one else but him. Of course acting like that, he could see why having her own room with a door that locked was still little comfort. “You won't have to see me…” At this, Christine sighed. It did defeat the purpose of her plan if he simply avoided her, but to be near him?

Oh, Christine Daaé , she thought, what trouble you've gotten in! 

“Your friend, the Daroga… he can help find a place for us, I'm certain.” It was only a thought, the words spoken softly, but clearly loud enough for Erik to hear.

“He’s not my friend," came Erik's reply.

Christine had to try not to laugh. Was this Erik’s sense of humor? From what she had overheard, the Daroga was most certainly Erik’s friend. Or, at least the Daroga saw Erik as a friend. Erik wasn't fantastic at seeing relationships for what they were; but she knew better than to argue the point. Silence fell between the two of them before Christine turned to head back to her own room. “Erik… what I want is for you to live. To live a life where you don't have to take the lives of others…  I am going to gather my belongings… you should, too.” With that, she hurried out, not bothering to look back.

Erik continued to stare at the door from which Christine had left for another three minutes before he managed to start to put together all of the things that had just transpired. She spoke of wishing for him to live a life like everyone else— now that she had gone to her room, he allowed himself to laugh. A horrid sound, like an old instrument terribly out of tune from disuse, for what did Erik ever have to laugh about? And wasn't this the comedy of the ages! Christine inviting him to live in the world above like a real person! So that real people could know what monsters were like. She spoke of change and oh, how he wanted to believe in the innocence of her request— but how could it be something innocent when she must've known… Yes, he thought as he sorted through sheet music, through charcoals and paints and makeups and clothes, this was a form of torture that he had agreed to! Because he did say that he would do anything for love, or not love, because Christine would never, never love him. Erik was not so foolish as to believe that she would, but he could believe that she could be a wonderful actress. And because he loved her, he'd let himself be fooled. Fake love was the best he’d get, and at the very least he'd learned not to leave a good thing waiting.

Chapter Text

Finding a new home and moving was about as pleasant as Christine assumed that it would be. Certainly , she had never imagined that such a drastic change would go over smoothly, and she was right. In the week that it took for a suitable place to be located, Erik’s behavior had made her wish that he would just go back to acting as he did before— Where his horrible mood swings were suddenly harmless and she found him about as terrifying as a lost kitten, as compared to the absolute nightmare he had become. He’d broken many things, tables, chairs, the Louis-Philippe room had been torn apart! She’d spent most of that week hiding in her room, opening the door only when Erik would knock to tell her that he had brought her a meal. Of course, she waited until she was certain he had gone to take out his frustrations on some other innocent household object, listening as his footsteps faded, until a crash was heard in another room. He had a way of making his presence known like that. Truly, it was so different from the silent phantom he’d been before. 

Erik is only a man , she reminded herself as she opened the door, a volatile man, a tragic man. A genius architect and composer, he is only a man, and he most certainly shows it! If Erik was an angel, he would never cause such a ruckus!   She grabbed the plate of food and the cup of tea that he’d left for her and quickly closed and locked the door again. Even when he’s acting out like this, he takes the time to make meals and brew tea.  

Erik’s propensity for dyadic behavior was not the only strange thing about him. His face notwithstanding, Erik was a genius among men. He stood out even among other geniuses! He’d told her about building grand palaces and she’d read a part of the score of Don Juan Triumphant — a score that made Mozart look like an idiot. To think that someone so brilliant had been dealt a fate like this; her heart wept for him! It was a tragedy, but the more time she spent with Erik, the more his fate seemed as natural as any other fact of life. The sun rises in the east. After Summertime, there is Fall. Erik's lot in life was this contentment with agony. 

Never would she doubt His ways, for all things had reason, but this was one of The Lord’s choices that Christine simply couldn’t understand. Everything was as He made it, so why did Erik suffer? God was not so cruel as to allow a lamb to endlessly wander, but the Shepherd had yet to call His lamb back. Christine knew that it was this horrible suffering and lack of compassion from others that had made the man turn his back on God, made him scoff when she’d say grace before dinner. At least, Erik’s blaspheme seemed to point to that conclusion, that he did not believe in God, but he did believe that Christine was his salvation. You are an angel sent from Heaven , he’d whispered as he knelt at her feet. How her skin had crawled! The sight of Erik kneeling to worship a false idol, for she was only human! Oh, it had been this selfsame behavior that frightened her so! As if his sins would stain her! 

Now, simply reflecting upon that single night, she thought of how foolish that was. The only person who could stain her with sin was herself. She knew this all along, and yet, in that moment with Erik at her feet, she’d forgotten. He had no more control over her actions than she did over his— That was what made him a human, not an angel, not a monster. In her room, she said grace before taking a bite of the most delicious slice of roasted duck that she had ever tasted in her life. 

While Christine ate, Erik had destroyed three more chairs and had begrudgingly gone to his room to find a scarf to wear. Christine had decided to throw his mask into the fireplace. She wanted this. She wanted him to unmask himself and live in the light, and she would at least pretend to love him. Yes, that in itself was so very motivating, that beautiful fake love— because at least she would be there. But, she does make this so very difficult, he thought, grabbing a deep red scarf. Red, like the one that her lover had fetched from the sea. The boy she would give her real love to— because she would never, never love Erik! Was that all a part of her plan? He'd become so overwhelmed, he'd flee or perhaps he'd die, and her boy would be waiting for her. 

Yes, that must've been it. This was all some elaborate plot to lead him to his death, and he was willingly falling for it! Of course, Christine was too lovely to ask him to spill his blood for her, so she asked it in this way. And he said yes, the pitiful wretch that he was! But he had grown so accustomed to the mask, and he knew that change was never an easy thing. Change was to chew off his wrist at the shackle, tear the nails from his feet that had rooted him to these floorboards, change was to flee from one cage— only to end up in another. That was all change had ever done for him. From his childhood home, to the carnival, to Persia, to Paris, and now this. His new wingèd cage by the name of Christine! Anything for Christine. Satisfied that the red scarf served as an acceptable buffer from the prying eyes of the world, Erik went to meet with his old friend- loath as he was to admit that the Daroga was his friend, and certainly he would never tell Christine!- to ask a favor. 

How thankful Christine was for the nightmare that was Erik’s horrible tantrum in anticipation of the move to be over! He’d come to knock on her door, to tell her that he had the Daroga deliver payment for their new home, that they would be able to move in comfortably— “Erik,” Christine had opened the door to her room, a puzzled look upon her face, “Where is this home of ours?”

As it turned out, it was not so far away. Perhaps seven minutes on foot, much less by carriage. And what a lovely home it was! It seemed that Erik had already had furniture moved in. Always prepared, at least in that way. He showed her around, the little tour ending at her room, decorated in pastel blues, pale golds, and whites— He wanted her to be comfortable, so he’d chosen light colors.

She turned to look at him, a small smile upon her face. He was far from ideal and he was certainly not the man she imagined she'd live under the same roof with, but he certainly wasn’t thoughtless., and she supposed there were far worse options.

“Thank you, Erik- I...” Christine reached out, and Erik stepped back, nearly stumbling.  He was still afraid,  which she knew she shouldn’t have been so surprised by, and yet… It was as if she’d thought that something would’ve changed just from being in a new home. She watched him nod slowly, still in shock. “Whatever it is you wish to discuss, Christine, we shall talk about tomorrow. Goodnight.”

With that, he turned and left, leaving Christine in her room. She closed her door only when she heard a sound of another door close and lock.

Chapter Text

Christine woke to the sound of a piano. There was light through the bedroom windows, making the bedroom look absolutely heavenly — there was light. She was no longer in the catacombs. And neither was Erik. 

Heading to the wardrobe, she marveled at the selection of beautiful dresses, even the plainest ones were more beautiful than she could've imagined! Did Erik spend so much money on these? Does he spend anything on himself? No, he is far from the type to do anything kind for himself. Even this, Christine knew, was torture for Erik, who had been shunned and hunted down by other people for all of his life. He tortured himself for her. She shuddered before picking a blue dress to change into. 

When she entered the drawing room, his back was turned to her. The curtains were drawn, making it impossible for someone to look in the window and see him from the outside, but she wasn't on the outside. At least, not in that way. And after this, she was fairly certain that even if she wanted it, Erik would never let her in.

Did she want that? To understand him on such a deep level? He was volatile and soulful and so very sad, but he had a strange allure, like old, holy artwork left in the husk of a burnt out cathedral. In his own way, he was quite beautiful. Not conventionally, no, but art was art.

He did not turn to face her right away, although Christine knew he was very aware of her presence. Instead, he remained at the piano, playing some ethereal piece which she could only assume was an original of his. 

It was a tragedy, she knew as she listened, that Erik had never been able to share his gift with the world. The world had shunned him for his face and in return he had shown the world how cruel he could be— with the death of Joseph Buquet, and the fact that instead of comforting her through all of that hell, he'd simply sent an excessive amount of threatening letters! Raoul would've been there to comfort her. He was there so often… 

“Christine.” 

Erik’s gorgeous voice brought her back from her thoughts, although new ones quickly came. He was calm, which she took as a blessing— “Good morning,” she began, averting her gaze.

While she had wished for Erik to abandon the mask, she knew that no matter what she did, his face would remain the way it was when she first broke the spell. With a whole face, she was certain he would’ve been devastatingly handsome, and for a moment she allowed herself to imagine. For that moment, she looked up and saw a refined gentleman with his long, black hair and hazel eyes flecked with gold, a slight bow curve to his lips which looked full and soft- lips she thought she could kiss. A man who looked like a king with his sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, infuriatingly perfect nose— and she blinked, letting the reality set back in.

Still, Erik had long, black hair and hazel eyes flecked with gold,  but he was so very gaunt, dark circles under his eyes as if he had never known a full night’s sleep in his life, and perhaps he hadn’t. The Erik before her lacked a nose, he was far too pale to be healthy- as if he had come back from the grave. He often said that he was the living death-

She thought of what he had asked her on that awful, awful night. If you continued to think me handsome, would you love me? 

There was a wash of shame that covered her as she realized that perhaps the answer was yes. It was stupid and shallow, but she had been hoping… And it was unfair to the both of them for her to think like that. Mostly it was unfair to him, as he had been forced for so long to hide away and perhaps make others believe what she once thought. If they were to move forward, they would have to see each other as human beings, not as angels on pedestals and not as demons to condemn.

Oh, she could feel his eyes on her, that gaze that frightened her far more than his horrible face— which, when she looked at him now, was not so horrible when it was not contorted in a mask of rage and pain and madness.

Perhaps what she was truly afraid of was not his face, but everything he could do, and everything that she knew he had done. 

“You slept late, it is already noon.” Erik murmured, finally moving away from the piano. Christine looked up, tilting her head to the side. Already noon? Perhaps that made sense. The move had been stressful, and the week prior even more so— “You should eat.”

At this, she blinked. “There’s food?”

Erik sighed, turning from her. “Of course there’s food. I wouldn’t let you starve.”

She realized then that she had most certainly offended him. Of course there was food, because he said he loved her. Because he wasn’t a monster, he was a man who was poorly handling the fate he had been dealt.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—” He had turned to face her once more, a gloved finger touched gently to her lips to silence her, some unreadable emotion in his eyes. “It is forgiven. I will make breakfast for you, Christine.”

Breakfast was awkward. Truly, it was more of a lunch and less of a breakfast, and Christine couldn't help but wonder where on earth Erik learned to cook, or how he came by food in the first place. Had she not clearly offended him but moments before, she would've asked. Instead, she found herself sitting at a table while Erik prepared a meal for her— and from the looks of it, one for himself.

“Will you… are you going to stay here? For the meal?” Erik set her plate before her, pausing for a moment to consider her question before shaking his head. “I will not subject you to that. Should you wish to see me, I will be composing.” With that, Erik vanished back into the drawing room. Christine stared after him for a moment before looking down and saying grace. 

As always, Erik’s cooking was wonderful. For a man who had been living in a cellar, he had a surprisingly vast amount of practical day to day skills. Like cooking and sewing, the latter which she had seen him doing on the second day of her stay in his house by the lake. Maybe it was because he was living like that— No one else would have done such things for him, it wasn't as if he could simply walk out into the streets of Paris and go to buy new clothes or food—

Except, when she truly thought about it, he could. He could say that he was a soldier who came back from the Crimean War, no one would question his face. Or perhaps he could say he had been injured during the Paris Commune. He was old enough to have been a soldier in that war, or so she assumed— one of the greatest mysteries about Erik was his age. He had traveled to so many places, so he couldn't be too young, but he had always been running about the catwalks and the catacombs, so he couldn't be too old. Besides, she remembered the feeling of being carried by him, how she felt that under his clothes he was not so skeletal as he was simply lithe. He does quite a bit of physical activity , she thought, and found herself feeling quite foolish for believing that he could truly be a corpse.

His face was not helpful in judging his age, in fact, it made him seem quite ageless, as if he was something primordial rather than something human. There was very little about Erik's physical appearance that could lead a person to any correct conclusions about his life. After all, he'd lived in the catacombs and still dressed better than a great portion of Parisian men. Perhaps she’d ask. Would it be rude to ask such a thing?

Oh, Christine, she thought to herself, truly you must be going mad! 

Of all the things Erik had anticipated Christine to ask him, staying for breakfast was not it. She had looked at him with such a strange expression, one that made his blood run cold and his stomach twist in knots. One that made him wish that he'd said no, that he'd decided that this feeling was fake, that he only cared because she could sing— How he'd fought the urge to run when he'd seen the flush of pink across her cheeks; what on earth could she have been thinking of? And while she'd been staring so intently at him! Frustrated,

Erik decided that perhaps he would simply spend the day composing, which as far as he could tell would be how he'd spend the rest of his life— shut in the drawing room with the curtains closed, seated at the piano, and finishing Don Juan. 

Which was how he'd thought his life would end before Christine, except before he lived in the catacombs and slept in a coffin. A dark room won't be so different, he thought, a bitter laugh escaping him as his thoughts began to spiral. Christine brought me here so that she could run away. She burned my masks so I would not be able to follow her. I will die here in this room. She will leave me. With an angry cry, his hands came down on the piano’s keys just as he heard the door open.

Hearing her voice, even when it wavered with fear, made him realize that once again, he was wrong.

Chapter Text

Would it always be like this? Christine had to wonder — with how Erik always reacted, always assuming the worst, always pushing others away even when… When what? When people tried to be close? Had anyone tried to be close? There was that other man from Persia, the Daroga of Mazandaran, Erik had told her once and only once— and every time she brought him up, Erik insisted that the Daroga was not his friend. So, perhaps the answer was yes. Someone had tried to understand Erik, and he'd pushed back. What would he do about her? For a man who talked so much about wanting to be loved, he certainly avoided the notion like the plague. 

Maybe he simply knew no better. Had anyone taught Erik about how to live? Was he truly self taught as he claimed? While she was certain he was a genius from looking at his music alone, it was clear that whatever instruction Erik had received in socialising with others was far less than adequate, if any at all!

“Erik, we… If this is going to work at all, you can't keep shutting me out! You claim to love me—” 

“I do love you, Christine Daaé. I love you more than you could ever know!” 

Christine frowned, stepping from the doorway to take a seat on an incredibly expensive couch close to the piano, her blue eyes never leaving Erik’s golden ones. If this was going to work, she had to be brave. And Erik’s face was far from the most unsettling aspect of him. “Then please, let me in. I know so little about you, and it frightens me. You know so much about me, and I no longer want to be afraid! You have played the role of a ghost and the role of an angel, but I am not living in this house with a ghost or an angel— I am living here with a man .” She made certain to emphasise that last part, for Erik had such a tendency to forget that he was still a man. That his face did not make him a monster. In fact, he continued to assume that everything that went wrong in their relationship had been due to his face— which was so horrendously untrue.

“Erik, you told me once that I would be safe so long as I asked no questions, but that is not safety, that is ignorance. I don't want to be ignorant of you. so, please…” Much to her own surprise, Christine realized that she had reached out and taken his chilled, sinewy hands in her own small, soft ones.

How was this even possible? Erik stared at his hands, at Christine’s hands, as if they were suddenly foreign objects. He had taken off his gloves as not to dirty them while he ate, away from Christine, of course, and if at all possible he would keep it that way— there was no reason for her to sit and watch him try to act like a normal person when they both knew that he wasn't. Or, he'd assumed that she understood that. Now, with her warm hands holding onto his own, he was starting to think that perhaps he had been wrong.

Perhaps Christine was still lost in her fairy tales of the Angel of Music. Why else would she be touching his hands like this? 

“You want to know about your Erik, but you will not like what you learn! You will listen and you will pity your poor, unhappy Erik! I do not want your pity, Christine…”

They’re too close. He can't breathe with her so close, and so he pulls away! Surely, he's imagined the way she flinched as if something she wanted had been taken from her! For how could she want to hold his hands? Christine Daaé was a good, devout girl, she had no need to concern herself with things like him.

“Just tell me something about yourself, Erik — and I'll tell you something about me,”

Oh, how could he argue when she had that look upon her face? When she looked up at him from under her lashes, a few shades darker than the golden straw color of her hair — “Christine, your Erik knows your secrets already —” 

“No, Erik. You don't. You do know many things about me, and I don't quite wish to know how you learned them, for some of them I never told to my angel — but you don't know everything. So, please, it doesn't have to be something big. I want to feel safe.”

Once again, Erik found that he could truly deny her nothing. She simply wanted to know things about him so she could feel safe. If she felt safe, she'd stay— so he’d tell her the softer things.

“When I was a child, I would write music to be played at the cathedral in my hometown. I would leave them on the steps in the middle of the night and they would be played in the mornings.” It was something small and safe. Something devout, even though she knew he was far from that.

To his surprise and delight, Christine’s face lit up! “Oh, Erik! I’m certain they were lovely! I only wish I could hear everything you've composed—” She knew that in the end, that would never happen. Even if she were to get Erik to tell her where he had been born, even if she heard the lovely music in a cathedral, there was his opera, Don Juan Triumphant , which he refused to play for her and insisted would be taken with him to his grave. 

“Well, you've told me something about your life, so I'll share something of mine,” the words were spoken in such a sweet tone, and she noted how it seemed that there was a hint of color across his cheeks. “When I was three, my father brought me a little grey kitten as a birthday present. When I first came to Paris and moved in with Madame Valerius, she was still with me. Oh, Erik, it was such a tragedy when she passed! I would most certainly adore another cat!” 

Erik couldn't help but imagine Christine at three years old with a tiny grey kitten in her arms. She was right, he didn't know everything about her, a fact that both annoyed and relieved him. “Thank you for telling me about your kitten,” he'd keep her desire in mind, perhaps he could come across another cat to give her as a gift. “And thank you for telling me about your compositions for a cathedral.” With the sweetest smile, Christine stood and reached for Erik’s empty plate, seeming incredibly relieved that he'd eaten, before giving a small nod and leaving the room. It was a start, wasn't it? 

Erik watched her leave, frozen where he sat until he heard the sound of the front door opening and closing, startling him back to the harsh reality of his situation. What a fool he had been to think that anything he could ever tell her would truly make her stay!

Chapter Text

Christine stood outside the house and let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding in the first place. It had certainly been a peculiar afternoon, and a large part of her was still reeling. She'd reached out to him, held his hands and he hadn't reacted with the violence she so often feared. He hadn't placed her hands upon his face and he most certainly hadn't forced her to make him bleed — although she was fairly certain she'd made his soul bleed instead. Erik had simply stared at their hands and then he'd pulled away. But he'd given her some little fact about his life, which she assumed was true simply for the fact that Erik knew music as intimately as he knew despair. Music would not leave him because of his face or his actions. Not like people — 

He must've thought she was leaving him in that house, running away from him after ensuring he could never follow. Surely he thought she had been whisked away by Raoul, as if he believed her devious enough to do such a thing — Perhaps if they'd had this exchange a month ago, she would. She'd run away with Raoul, never to be seen again, and Erik would… Would what? He would die of a broken heart , her thoughts provided, but you would be free of him . To her surprise, Christine concluded quite quickly that she did not want that, and that she could never want that. With a huff, she went back into the house, calling to let Erik know that she was going to see her friends at the opera. 

As expected, Erik flew from the drawing room to the foyer where she stood, slamming the front door closed behind her with a wild look in his eyes. The look that always frightened her, and she was certain he knew that, too. “You're leaving me to die here.”

Christine frowned as she watched the rise and fall of Erik’s chest, determined to look at anything but his eyes. “No, I am going to see my friends at the opera. Meg, Sorelli, and Jammes have always been there for me, whenever I had things that I couldn't make sense of on my own, whenever I was frightened or sad— And if I return to the opera, surely I will continue to sing. You want me to continue to sing, right?” 

Erik’s rage seemed to dissipate, replaced with some odd mix of awe and guilt. Of course she wanted to see her friends. Christine wanted to talk to them, to have guidance from someone who was not the Angel of Music, who she had learned quite suddenly was never real. That was his fault, wasn't it? To have played pretend like that, to have built a relationship made of lies— not his first time doing such a thing, but most certainly his last. “When… when will you return?”

How frightened he sounded! Much as Christine had made a conscious effort to avoid eye contact, Erik now focused his attention on the door behind her as not to see the look of pity that must've been on her lovely face. 

Erik didn't want her pity, he wanted her love! As foolish and impossible as it was, it was a desire he could not rid himself of. He never asked for the capacity to adore someone, and he was certain Christine had never asked for the capacity to show any form of kindness to ugly things like him. 

“I will return tomorrow evening. I must also see Madame Valerius.” Christine mustered up the courage to look up at Erik at about the same time he looked down in genuine shock. Had he been expecting her to say she would never return? Holding up her hand with the plain gold ring, she repeated herself, hoping that he would believe her. By some miracle, it seemed like he did. Without acknowledging what she'd said, Erik pulled away from her and vanished back into the drawing room.

Christine stood in the foyer of the house to listen to the beautiful and sorrowful music that came from that room, only heading out again when she was certain Erik had lost himself in his greatest comfort. 

As Erik had told her, their home was not far from the opera. He wanted to hear music, she wanted to see her friends— and from the excited gasp so very recognizable as Jammes’ followed by the familiar footsteps of Meg and Sorelli, her friends wanted to see her, too. 

“Where have you been? You vanished for two weeks, you come back and give no answers and then you vanished again and now you're back! Christine, can you tell us your secrets now?” Jammes began questioning Christine as was tradition, barely taking breaths between sentences. For the first time in what felt like years, Christine was relieved to be bombarded with inquiries. It meant that her friends were really there. That Erik hadn't followed her and done some strange trick to leave her feeling helpless and afraid.

It meant he wasn't there listening and that she could finally say everything she wanted to say since she'd been brought back from Erik’s home by the lake after two weeks of… 

“I was… my teacher, the Angel of Music and the Phantom have always been the same person… It's been such an ordeal! I wanted to tell you, my friends… but he was always watching, always listening!”

Jammes looked ready to faint, Sorelli reached for the dagger that she always seemed to have on her person, but Meg simply gave her a look of solemn understanding. “Where is he now?” 

This would be the difficult part.

“He… is no longer at the opera house, and I… I need your advice, now more than ever!” 

The four friends made their way back to Christine’s dressing room, taking seats on the floor. Just like they had before all of the terrors had come to light. Before Christine truly thought about singing. Before Erik appeared in the guise of the Angel of Music. Now that he no longer lurked in the shadows of the opera, Christine told her friends everything that she could. About what had happened the first five days she spent with Erik— 

“He gave you food and attempted to make small talk and continued to give you lessons? Nothing else?” Sorelli couldn't help but doubt such things, especially about the Phantom! “He was truly a perfect gentleman, if not simply unskilled at idle conversation. He simply told me that he wanted to spend five days with me and that he would bring me back after the days had passed.” A thoughtful look crossed Christine’s face as she recalled those days. Erik had been cryptic, but he had respected her when she asked to be alone, he never put his hands on her unless to catch her if she fainted. And what had she done in return? 

“You were down there for two weeks! What happened to the five days?” Sorelli’s temper had flared, the look on her face was one of a woman who was going to commit a murder.

Christine shook her head, placing her hand over Sorelli’s in an attempt to calm the Prima Ballerina down. “The Phantom… his name is Erik and he… When I stayed with him, he simply told me that I was not to take his mask. But I did, right before he was going to open the passage for me to return!” 

Christine would never forget his cry of fury, of agony and despair! She would never forget the look in his eyes, she would never forget how he grabbed her hands and forced her to claw at his face so she could know that it was real, the face that looked like death.

She spoke of how he raged and how he wept at her feet, and how she had told him to show her his face without fear.

“You see, he says he loves me… I convinced him to leave the catacombs…” She'd burned his masks before they left the catacombs for good, a blank look on her face mirroring the blank look on his. They'd stood there watching his barriers from the prying eyes of the world go up in flames in a moment that was more devastating and more intimate than anything they'd shared before.

“And what are your feelings about him?” Meg’s voice brought Christine back to the present and when she opened her mouth, she realised that truly, she wasn't sure what she felt about Erik. 

“I… I do not love him in the way he wants, but I also believe that he deserves to learn what joy is. I do not pity him because he doesn't want my pity. I… I care about him despite what he's done… I am terrified of his temper but I can't help but adore his talents. Oh, whatever I feel is far too complex for even my own comprehension and they're my feelings!” For her friends, it seemed that Christine’s feelings were not nearly as impossible to comprehend as she thought.

“You care for him. You want to help him, and… that’s not a bad thing.” Meg gave a small smile and placed a hand on Christine’s shoulder. “If you asked him to do this for you, to leave the catacombs and live in the light, then he must have the capacity for change. Just… be careful. We’re here if you need us.”  Yes, she knew that. She knew her friends were there for her, as skittish as they were about the Opera Ghost, they were brave when it counted. For the rest of the time she spent at the opera house, Christine simply talked about other things, asking her friends about what had happened while she was gone, laughing and feeling as if the weight of the world was melting away. She left the Opera House with a smile, bidding her friends goodbye and promising that she would not be disappearing, simply visiting Madame Valerius, and then returning to Erik as she’d promised.

“What if he prevents you from returning?” Jammes grabbed Christine’s hand, trembling—

“He wants me to sing. He would never keep me from this place. I promise, I will come back.” 

For the first time since she’d learned the truth about Erik, she knew that she was right.

Chapter Text

Explaining the situation to Madame Valerius went over much better than Christine had anticipated. It wasn’t the sort of dinner conversation that either of them ever thought they’d have, and most certainly if it was to happen, they’d both assumed that the conversation would focus on a certain Raoul de Chagny, not a mystery man named Erik. While the old woman was incredibly concerned after hearing the whole story, she took Christine’s hands and told her that all people deserved the forgiveness of God. If Erik had pretended to be the Angel of Music, then perhaps that was also proof that he truly cared for Christine, who had so desperately wanted the Angel of Music to keep her company and to guide her. And clearly, she cared for him. “My dear, having a kind heart is a great strength. If you are the first person that this Erik has let into his life, if you believe this is the right thing to do, then it is.” The woman who had been the only mother she really knew gave her a kiss on the cheek and bid her goodnight. How grateful she was for Madame Valerius’ advice, because she knew that it was true. It wouldn’t be easy, but no one deserved to be left alone like that. For so long, Erik had suffered, he lived in the catacombs alone… 

Why? If he knew the Daroga, why was he living in the catacombs? Why hadn’t his friend helped him? He’s not my friend , came the echo of Erik’s voice as Christine changed into a nightgown and reached for the rosary on her bedside table.  No, Nadir wasn’t the same sort of friend that Christine had, but clearly, something had happened to make some sort of bond between Erik and the Daroga. Another mystery about Erik, it felt like the more she thought about him, the more mysterious he became! Even what Erik had told her about the music he’d composed as a child led to more questions than answers. 

That one little part of his life also felt as if it was the most intimate thing that he had ever shared, perhaps with anyone. He’d given her a gift. I do love you, Christine Daaé . The more she thought about it, the more she believed it. Obsession hadn’t driven him to tell her something about his past. He could’ve easily refused, he could’ve lashed out, but instead he gave her that single soft thing. She prayed that night and thought of Erik.

The next morning, Christine woke at what she thought to be an acceptable time, certainly not after noon, and found a simple dress to wear. Something that looked so plain compared to the dresses Erik had bought for her, even the comparatively plain one she’d worn the day before. She had a quiet and comfortable breakfast with Madame Valerius before deciding to return to the Opera House to tell her friends her new revelations. She’d make it home in the evening, just as she’d promised, and she’d move forward from there. Of that, she was certain— or at least incredibly determined. She would talk with him, she’d learn more about him, and maybe he’d start to feel safe, too. He certainly deserved to have that. Lost in her thoughts as she exited the carriage with a polite thank you given to the driver, she only managed to make it half-way to the Opera House before she slammed unceremoniously into another person. With a startled gasp, Christine offered her hand to the other, a middle aged woman with long dark hair and a swarthy complexion that reminded her of Meg. “I am so sorry— I wasn’t watching where I was going, are you alright?” The woman seemed to smile faintly, looking in Christine’s direction with clouded eyes. “There’s no need to apologize, but perhaps you could help me find somewhere else to wait.” Blind. The woman was blind, which did nothing to help Christine feel less guilty about bumping into her like that, but at least she spoke with a warm tone… and a foreign accent. “Somewhere to wait?” Christine, allowed the woman to take hold of her arm and guided her to the marble seats that she used to sit on when she simply needed fresh air and a place to think. “Who are you waiting for, if I may ask?” 

“Nadir Khan. He’s a dear friend of mine.” 

Christine shuddered, evidently enough so for the other woman to notice. “I know Nadir… at least somewhat. We… met through… a mutual friend, I suppose—” This seemed to pique the other woman’s interest. “A friend of Nadir is most often a friend of mine, so I am quite fortunate to have bumped into you, miss…” A pause, the woman looking expectantly, “Daaé. Christine, my name is Christine.” This time, the woman seemed to tense up, although she took a breath and managed to relax again. “Christine, it’s lovely to meet you. My name is Melek. Nadir has told me quite a bit about you.” Another pause before Melek spoke again, this time softly, “The mutual friend who you met Nadir through, was his name Erik?” 

Whatever Christine was about to say to Melek was forgotten, and she was suddenly very glad that Melek could not see the look on her face. “Ah… yes. He’s… my tutor. He taught me how to sing.” This earned a strange laugh from Melek, who Christine was quite certain was far from fond of Erik by the way she’d spoken his name before— “A vocal coach? That’s quite tame, isn’t it. I wouldn’t have thought him to be able to manage something so… mundane.” Oh, if only Melek knew how far from mundane the experience had been. How the mundane seemed to frighten Erik. Or perhaps she already knew. “Melek, did you know Erik? Can you tell me about him?” At this, Melek seemed to panic, her grip on Christine’s arm becoming harsh, her pale eyes widening— “No, not here, not where he can always listen—” 

“He’s not here anymore, Melek. I promise I’ll explain that, but I… I want to know...” The next question was exactly what Christine had anticipated; “Is he dead?” Something about the way Melek asked the question made Christine want to cry. “No. No, I… I asked him to come with me, to live in the light, but he hasn’t left the home we moved to…” Oh, and what a horrible sound Melek made in response! “Christine, Erik is an assassin and a liar! The things he did… I never understood why Nadir helped him in the first place! In Mazandaran, they called him the Angel of Death!” 

Perhaps it was this mix of fury and astonishment that made Melek tell Christine what she knew of Erik. How his origins were mysterious, but no more than fifteen years ago, he was building torture chambers for the Shah-en-Shah and the Khanum, how he was sent to carry out political assassinations, and how he was sentenced to death. Evidently, the title of Daroga meant chief of police, and Nadir was the Daroga of Mazandaran. Nadir had been told to arrest Erik so that he could be executed. Nadir chose to help Erik escape instead, and for that, he was exiled himself. At least that explained the bond the two men had, no matter how strange it was. The rest of Melek’s story simply made Christine want to cry, to weep at the things Erik had done and to weep at the things that had been done to him. “To think he simply decided to train your voice… although, Nadir has told me it is quite lovely… but you must be on guard, for Erik is the Angel of Death!” 

Before Christine could say anything, Nadir arrived as what she thought of as a saving grace. He greeted her cordially and thanked her for waiting with Melek, who evidently had arrived to stay a while with him. Christine gave a smile, assuring Nadir that she didn’t mind at all, and thanked Melek for telling her the story. Even though she knew that Melek’s side certainly had bias and that there were still many things that were missing. She’d ask Erik, she had to. If she wanted to stop being afraid, she had to know, and if he was to truly have the chance to heal, he’d have to understand the things that had happened— something Christine was certain he didn’t understand at all. 

She decided to walk the short distance to her new home, steeling her nerves before she opened the door.  

Chapter Text

Christine should’ve expected Erik to appear when she opened the door, but his sudden appearance still startled her. As he’d done before, he quickly closed the door as soon as she’d entered, breathing heavy. This time, he simply seemed frightened, which was perhaps a step up from angry, but still not ideal. She wondered if ever there would be a day where Erik would know that it was just her entering the house, or if he’d ever let other people in. More than that, she wondered if he'd react as violently as she thought he would when she told him about her encounter with Melek. Oh, it was now or never! “Erik, may we talk?” How she hated the way her voice wavered! She knew Erik hated when she was afraid, how he always blamed himself and how his hurt so often fed into more anger— 

“Talk about what, my angel?” To her surprise, Erik hadn't spiralled into a horrible tantrum, a small victory that spurred her on. “I met a woman named Melek at the Opera House today.” 

Erik froze, and Christine could tell that his thoughts were pulling him far away. She found herself once again taking his hand, stroking the back of it with her thumb as an attempt to ground him. When that led nowhere, she mustered up the courage to do something that very likely could be the death of her. Reaching up, she placed a gentle hand on Erik’s cheek, turning his head so that he was looking at her, a nervous but sincere smile upon her face. “Erik, come back to me. Don't shut me out.” 

His return to reality was harsh and terrifying as always. Feeling his hand wrap around her wrist, Christine gasped as he pulled her hand away from his face and turned from her. “Let me guess, she told you I was a monster, right? That I would be your death? That you weren't safe here, that I would do awful things to torture you?” He noticed the look on her face and let go of her wrist, jumping back as if she had burned him! “I know what she told me was only one side, and it certainly didn’t sound like the side of someone directly involved. She told me to be careful, but I didn’t need Melek in my life to know the things you could do. The things you have done.” As soon as the words left her lips, she regretted saying them at all.

This was it, he was going to kill her. Erik towered over her, one of his hands reaching out as if he was ready to break her neck. And how easy it would be for him to do! Erik was much stronger than he looked. He’d picked her up many times as if she weighed nothing, he was capable of incredible feats, and if what Melek said was true, he was capable of taking on men much larger than he— truly, it was just like Erik to present himself in some deceptive manner, hiding truths about himself be those truths his strength or his face or his humanity— Christine closed her eyes and waited. 

And waited . 

“Erik?” When she opened her eyes, he had turned away from her. He hadn’t killed her after all. Another small victory. In fact, he seemed to simply be in shock, the hand that was surely going to be around her throat instead raised to touch his cheek where her hand had been before.  Then, he let out a sorrowful sound, not daring to face her. Not like this, and perhaps never again. “Erik, please, I won't ask you to tell me everything… please, let's find somewhere to sit—” With a very defeated sigh, Erik seemed to accept that Christine was not going to leave the topic alone and that perhaps it would be best to just tell her. 

Tell her so that she could know how much of a monster he really was. If she was afraid of him now, then she would certainly be even more so after hearing his side— because she was right. Melek only knew what she heard from others, but it was Erik who carried out the heinous acts she described. Of course he knew the real story, those sins were his alone.

Erik’s way of describing Mazandaran made the place sound like a dream. Lush and lovely, it was where the Shah-en-Shah and the Khanum would travel to for leisure time. He had come to Mazandaran after casting aside another part of his past, which he refused to speak of, although Christine had a feeling that one day, she'd learn that part of his story, too. 

In Mazandaran, Erik built a great palace that appeared to be magic, for a person could walk through the entire thing and never be seen. A mark of his genius. He was also hired as an assassin, as he'd proven to be skilled in that, too. As Melek had told her, Erik also told Christine of the deaths. Of how he would kill to entertain the Khanum, a wicked woman. How he was ordered to build chambers where others would die— six mirrors that reached from the floor to the ceiling and an iron tree in the corner of the mirrored room created the illusion of an endless forest of iron trees from which the victim could never escape. Most chose to commit sucide by hanging themselves from the tree. “Joseph Buquet chose that fate, too, when he found himself trapped there.” 

Christine stared at Erik, who spoke so calmly of the stagehand’s death. Yes, she knew it was Erik who had killed Buquet, even if not with his own hand. Yes, she knew that the resonating sound of the pipe organ that day was also Erik’s doing. But, seeing the distant look in his eyes made her understand that perhaps he wasn't so cruel as Melek made him out to be, as she once believed him to be. While it wasn't guilt, it was far from satisfaction or pride, perhaps a melancholy acceptance. One more horrible thing that he believed to be a fact of his life. Like his belief that she had brought him to this home in the light to let him die and to allow herself freedom. Because he believed that she would never, never love him, but her acting skills had certainly improved, and if he tried hard enough, maybe he'd believe the lie. 

“Erik, let's go for a walk tomorrow.” 

Now, it was Erik’s turn to stare at Christine in shock. A walk was something so simple to most, and how foolish he felt for once again wanting to run away. Every time she offered to try to improve their relationship, he felt like running away— because how could that be real? “Why?” The question was laced with sorrow and suspicion, and he felt a sharp pain seeing the look on Christine’s face. “Why do people go on walks usually, Erik? Tomorrow is Sunday, we can… Didn't you want to go on Sunday walks with me?” 

Truly, Christine always seemed to have some new thing to add to his life, and Erik wasn't sure if he was so excited about her newfound ability to catch him completely off guard. He did tell her that he wanted to be like other people, that he wanted to have a wife and to go on walks on Sundays, but not in whatever state he was in. Not without some form of protection, and Christine had conveniently burned his masks before they left the catacombs. She asked him to walk with her, knowing very well how terrified he was. She asked knowing that perhaps he would simply drop dead from shock. 

What a beautiful death that would be, although the prospect of dying before finishing his opera felt so foreign— and against his better judgement, he nodded. “If that is what you want, you know that your Erik can deny you nothing.” 

Christine’s face lit up with a lovely smile, one that made Erik think that maybe everything would be fine. When he retired to the drawing room with his dinner, he still almost believed it.

Chapter Text

Christine’s sleep was deep and dreamless, empty, but peaceful. After she ate dinner, she had retired to her room, said her prayers, and fallen asleep to the sound of Erik playing the piano. In the morning, she woke to the sound of running water in a room much closer than the drawing room. Of course Erik would’ve found a home with plumbing— for a man who had lived in the catacombs, Christine had learned that he was bordering mysophobia. She thought of the many candles in the catacombs that were lit to chase away the stench of death, and of the fact that while she’d made the assumption, Erik did not smell of decay. Instead, he smelled of spices and sandalwood, pleasant and comforting. What a contrast to the rest of him, cold and cadaverous. There was the hauntingly beautiful sound of his voice from the washroom, and if not for her own desire to bathe, she would’ve simply continued to lay in bed and listen. 

Ever so considerate, Erik had made sure that Christine had a separate washroom, attached to her bedroom. Likely, Erik’s own room wasn’t too far away from hers, which was slightly unexpected. But, he’d also provided her with a room with a door that locked, so that she could keep him out, because he thought she would always want to keep him out. Slipping out of her bed and heading to her own washroom, Christine pondered this. Did she want to keep him out forever? Was it wise to ever leave the door unlocked? Would he come to her room in the cover of night? If he did, what would he do? From the few times she initiated contact, he always pulled away, and it seemed quite unlikely that he would initiate it— which to her surprise was an incredibly disappointing thought. Since when was Erik’s touch something that was at all appealing? Perhaps she was going mad! 

Perhaps, you’re simply learning about yourself , came a quiet thought. He was not the angel of music, but he was a friend, a guide and guardian. He listened when no one else would . Slipping out of her nightgown and into the tub now filled with warm water, Christine let out a sigh. Oh, feelings and realisations were such messy things! If she'd had her way, Erik would have been honest with her from the start. Because she couldn't fathom not having him in her life in some way— as if a part of her needed him there. Perhaps a part of her did . 

Oh, God in Heaven, I never asked for the capacity to love ugly things.

Erik had decided to forego sleep in favor of composing, a burst of inspiration lingering in him from the memory of Christine’s touch. He’d scrapped an entire aria, deciding that perhaps, perhaps his opera was not meant always to burn. Don Juan Triumphant was his soul in music, the way he saw the world, his hopes and dreams and ideals! Before Christine, the brief glimpses of light had been far from enough to pull him from the darkness, he would stare at blank parchment for hours on end, uncertain of what was meant to be. But now, now the music which had often been so elusive bloomed within him! The story that was meant to be told flowed forth in a way that felt as easy as breathing. Yes, for so long it seemed that he’d only been able to grasp bits and pieces of his Don Juan — Now, it wouldn’t be long before he had a finished product, even if he started from scratch. 

It would not be long until he died and set Christine free. Death had once been something he had almost yearned for, but now? There was a part of him that wanted to live. What a fool he had been, never knowing how to value life until it was almost at its end— oh, and wouldn’t that make a lovely song, too? One more piece of his opera flowed from his soul to paper before Erik decided that he most certainly needed to find some way to relax. A bath had seemed a fine idea, so long as he just stopped thinking and simply absentmindedly sang. As if he could stop thinking about everything that he wanted and knew he would never have. At least, he could sing.

It was for that reason that Erik had covered the mirrors, needing no unnecessary reminders of the harsh and cruel reality of himself. Of his face and his scars that were most certainly the mark of some sin that he could not name— He needed no other reminders of the fact that perhaps in another lifetime, he would not be so terrible to look at. In another lifetime, Christine would love him, but not in this one. In that lifetime, they would sing together, she’d smile at him out of real love and not out of pity. Perhaps they’d have a family, but that would be up to her— for Erik, just having Christine was enough. Even now, just knowing that she was not so far away and that she was smiling was enough. She never smiled at him before, not down in the catacombs. She never reached out to him or dared to ask him about his past. She was never vibrant, always pale and on the verge of fainting, because she was suffocating. He was suffocating her. Living in the light, he realized that perhaps he was suffocating himself, too.

The bath-water was starting to cool, and Christine realized that she could no longer hear the sound of Erik’s singing. Likely, he had finished his own morning routine, so it was only sensible that she should finish up hers. It was strange, living like two everyday people, when she knew quite well that neither of them were everyday people at all. It would be different with Raoul , she thought. Raoul is not prone to such horrid mood swings . But, Raoul also had thought her stories of the Angel of Music to be nonsense until he, too, heard Erik’s voice. Even after that, it took Erik’s arrival at the masquerade for Raoul to really understand. And now… Oh, she would have to tell Raoul what had happened, but to do that, she’d have to lie to Erik. Erik would never let her see Raoul, for he would believe that she would abandon him in the house. Yes, Erik saw this home as a cage, for he had no desire to venture outside where society’s prying eyes would condemn him— 

And he’d agreed to go on a stroll! What torture for him— poor, unhappy Erik! He loved her so dearly that he was willing to condemn himself for her, was that it? Have I condemned him to death? Christine stared at her wardrobe as if it would somehow have an answer for her. It didn’t, of course, for it was only a wardrobe. A wardrobe filled with the lovely dresses that Erik had bought for her! At least it seemed that whatever time he spent watching her did not include watching her undress, as the dresses weren’t tailored exactly for her, the dress she picked feeling somewhat loose. Perhaps she’d ask Erik for a needle and thread. Perhaps over breakfast, if he’d stay. 

Leaving her room, Christine made her way to the kitchen to prepare a meal for herself, only to jump back in surprise. While the man before her was most certainly Erik, she only knew so because of the fact that no other man lived in the house. Otherwise, he had managed to create an incredible illusion of normalcy; he wore spectacles and had fashioned a false nose with a very aristocratic mustache. He’d tied his hair back and had picked a lovely dark suit that made him seem no different from any other Parisian nobleman. 

Christine opened her mouth to say something , the something amounting to a “Good morning” that sounded more like a squeak than anything else. Erik, much to her dismay, seemed amused by how flustered she was, placing her plate at the table, a sound like a purr escaping him. Christine frowned. “Erik, are you laughing at me?” Despite the way he shook his head, she knew he was lying. “Well, it isn't my fault that I reacted like that! Imagine if one day you came for breakfast and I had cut my hair and dyed it to look like Meg! How would you react?” 

Erik sat at the table with her, a thoughtful look on his face— a face that looked foreign to Christine, although she knew why he’d chosen to do something like that. “You would look incredibly pale with dark hair like Meg. I must say that blond suits you perfectly. My Christine, do not ever feel as if you need to change a thing about yourself.” The words were gentle, but not without a bit of melancholy. A part of her wished that she could say the same— instead, she opts for something else. “We all have things that we need to work on, right? To improve… you taught me that. You say I have no need to change a thing, but if I had never changed, would I have been on the stage? Or would I be in the ballet corps still? Or would I be doing something else entirely? Change isn’t so awful, Erik. I think…” A pause, “There are plenty of things I should work to change about myself, even if they aren’t the color of my hair.” 

Had he taught her that? It was true, when Christine had first tried to sing, it was… well, horrid. Something that had potential, or Erik would never have made the attempt to teach her, but she was right. If she’d never worked to change, to improve her work ethic so that she could make those great strides, where would she be now? “What could you possibly need to change, now, my angel?” She was not like him, where everything about him seemed wrong, unholy, unworthy! She was not always running, she did not live by deceiving others— at least… not like he did. He’d forced her to remain silent, suffocating her as if he thought that the only way she’d ever stay at his side was if she was dead. 

“Erik,” 

That sweet voice broke through his thoughts, drawing him back to the present moment. “I want to learn to be brave. I am so very tired of being a rabbit-hearted girl, unable to muster the courage to truly take a chance in the name of the things I want. And… I know no better teacher than you. Let’s go on our Sunday stroll. Teach me how to be brave.”

Chapter Text

The air was brisk, but incredibly refreshing nonetheless. Christine had insisted on simply heading to a bakery, having noticed one on her walk home the previous day. While she would've loved to walk all the way to the Opera House, she was well aware that Erik was only taking the walk with her because… well, he was trying to make her happy. For him, this was surely torture, a meltdown waiting to happen—

Taking his arm, Christine sighed. This wasn't so horrid, was it? Taking a walk with a man who was her vocal coach and a very unorthodox suitor… it was far from the most scandalous thing in Paris! As she expected, Erik was incredibly tense, clearly finding very little comfort in a hat and cloak and the false nose despite her insistence that he looked quite presentable. Giving his arm a gentle pat, she asked if he knew about the bakery in the first place. 

“It’s certainly close by,” came his mellifluous voice, “It won't be much of a Sunday stroll, but I do know why you've picked that bakery as our destination.” At this, Christine smiled and Erik allowed himself to relax just a bit. “Well, why do you think I picked the bakery?” Undoubtedly, his answer would be exactly why, although she couldn't help but think that he would miss a few other subtle things. 

“You wanted to take a walk, but you are also well aware that this,” Erik paused to glance around, “is far out of my element. oh, Christine, surely you would prefer to do this with someone else—” 

Why Erik always managed to make it seem like he both wanted to spend time with her and stay as far away as possible at the same time was beyond Christine’s comprehension. Yes, she had decided on the bakery as it would be a small step, instead of simply forcing Erik to do what other Parisians did, but he seemed to have this idea that she had taken Sunday strolls with other people before. “Erik, this is new for me, too. I have never had anyone take a walk with me like this. I know you must think otherwise, but what time did I have between my time at the Opera and our lessons and aiding Madame Valerius? Who would've walked with me?” That certainly seemed to make him think. 

“What of that boy of yours, Raoul?” Even in casual conversation, Erik managed to make his distaste for the young de Chagny incredibly clear, to which Christine huffed. “Raoul and I hadn't seen each other in years before that night where I sang— when we were children, we were not interested in talking walks like adults.” Besides, even if I wanted to let Raoul take me on a Sunday stroll, you would never allow it . Those words were left unspoken, but she knew Erik heard them anyway. 

“Oh,” came his awkward reply, a rather flustered look crossing his face. “Then this is new for the both of us.” The rest of their short walk was spent in silence, although it wasn't necessarily uncomfortable— with the brief interruption of their entry to the bakery, where it seemed Christine was already a familiar face. 

“Mademoiselle Daaé!” 

The baker, a large man who reminded Erik of Mssr Richard, came out to greet Christine enthusiastically. “I was wondering when you would come by again! Is it the same as always? I certainly know Madame Valerius’ tastes well from how often she sends you here!” 

Christine laughed, a sound as clear as a bell, one that made Erik’s heart skip a beat. “No, actually, today I am not here on behalf of Madame Valerius, I’m here simply to find something for myself.” Already, Christine was looking at some delicious looking pastries, eventually picking a few, which Erik managed to pay for in the fashion of a proper gentleman. The baker arched a large, bushy eyebrow. “Oh!” Christine felt heat rising to her face, feeling at a loss of exactly how to explain Erik in a way that wouldn't make the baker ask too many questions and wouldn't result in Erik panicking in the bakery. “Ah… Monsieur Jacque, this is my vocal coach!” A silence fell for a moment before the baker, Jacque, gave a nod and extended a hand to Erik. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Monsieur—” 

“Séverin,” came Erik’s tense reply; the tenseness seemed to go unnoticed as he at least managed to shake Jacque’s hand instead of running out the door. Christine stared for a moment before taking the bag with the pastries. Whatever else she said to Jacque was completely lost to Erik, who had found himself at a loss of how to process the incredibly amiable interaction. When he seemed to return his focus to the present, he and Christine were out of the bakery and almost to their home. 

Their home. Yes, it was their home. A fact that seemed both wonderful and terrifying. 

“Erik Séverin… it sounds noble.” Once again, Christine had taken his arm as if he was any ordinary man, which he most certainly was not. “Whose surname is that, though, or is it one you simply thought of?” Erik stayed silent until they had both entered the house and he had closed and locked the door. Gently, this time. He took off his hat and cloak and then went to the washroom, leaving Christine to wait in the Louis-Phillipe room. One that only vaguely reminded Christine of the one in the house by the lake. When he returned, he had taken off the spectacles and the false nose and mustache, which Christine found to be incredibly relieving. 

Since when did she find Erik’s face relieving?

Oh, but she'd ponder that at a later time, as she was much more focused on getting the answer to the question she'd asked! Before she could scold Erik for simply walking away from the conversation, he sat down in a chair and stared at the unlit fireplace. Somehow, she knew that he’d once again let his mind wander somewhere very far away. Deciding on an attempt to bring him back again, she found herself stopped in her tracks when he looked back at her with that hollow and sorrowful expression.

“I did not make that up in the spur of the moment, Christine, although truly I wish I had. Séverin was my mother’s surname.”

Chapter Text

There had been a portrait of a woman in the house by the lake. Christine had seen it a few times and had always wondered why Erik would have a woman’s portrait when he clearly lived alone. At first, she thought perhaps the painting was of another woman Erik had fancied, as Melek had mentioned something about Erik being with women during his time as the Angel of Death. But, for as tactless as he could be, he would never leave a painting of a former love where his new ingenue could see. Now, as Christine watched Erik lose himself in some deep abyss in his mind, she was more than certain that the woman in the portrait was Erik’s mother, and not a former lost love— A relief. Not like the relief she'd felt knowing her dear Raoul still thought of her fondly, but still one that made it feel easier to breathe.

“What was she like? Your mother— that was her portrait I saw, right?” Erik frowned before he stood up again, certainly to leave Christine alone! It truly was foolish of her to ask him about someone who clearly had left lasting scars upon him— even if she couldn't see. After all, Erik’s face was simply physical, and if it was simply that, then… she could learn to look past the lack of a nose, but he was so very volatile! Even now, they’d come back from what she thought of as a very successful stroll only for him to — 

To light the fire so that they could be warm. To gently usher her to the couch and drape a warm blanket over her lap. He wasn't leaving, he was… He was thinking of her and of ways to make her comfortable, and surely he was forcing himself to stay and talk, because he… He was willing to try. That realisation sent a strange warmth through Christine’s body and she couldn't help but let out a breath she hadn't even known she'd been holding once Erik sat back down. Not on the couch, of course, for he still wanted his space, but the chair was not so far away. 

“Madaleine Séverin was always a stranger to me. She had no desire to know her monster of a child— and I learned it was best that I gave up on trying to know her.” Erik sighed and Christine realized perhaps for the first time that for all of the horrible things he had done, for all of the places he'd been, Erik wasn't nearly as old as she'd thought. Sitting there by the fireplace, there was a timidity in his demeanor that she only had ever associated with youth. Erik spoke about his mother in the way Raoul talked about his father— from the perspective of someone who had lost some fundamental innocence before they even knew the world. Funny, how she could compare Erik to Raoul at all, but it was simply another reminder that Erik was only human. 

“She played piano and knew how to sing. I didn't have to talk to her to understand that she was most certainly educated.” Erik’s voice dragged Christine from her thoughts once more, her lips parting as she simply let out a soft oh . “Ah, she did not sing like you, Christine. There is no voice in the world as lovely as yours— no, Madaleine was an alto. If only her soul had been as rich and warm as her voice—” He fell silent again, gaze shifting to his feet. Christine took the opportunity to shift slightly on the couch in a way that surely would show Erik that she wanted him to sit with her. Or so she thought. How was it that he could be so brilliant and yet so very unobservant at the same time? For Erik remained where he was, completely unaware. “You said she didn't want to know you…” Christine could only imagine how lonely that must've felt. For Erik to have a mother who chose to ignore him or worse — “What of your father?” 

“My father died before I was born, but Madaleine always talked about him. On the rare occasions she would acknowledge her son, she would always lament about how Erik looked nothing like his father!” Christine flinched, feeling sickened by the thought of a young Erik being subjected to harsh reminders of his reality in such a way! And by his own mother! 

As she learned, Erik's father was from Persia. A man named Kourosh, he was an architect and a visionary — and evidently he had been incredibly handsome. And that awful woman had dared to hate her son for something he couldn't control! There was, of course, the distinct possibility that Madaleine had lied to Erik. Maybe what was so distressing was that he did still have a resemblance to his father. If not in looks, then perhaps in his talents. But, even if that was the case, shouldn't Madaleine have cherished her son instead?  

“What are you thinking, Christine?” Erik’s voice brought her back to reality, a slightly amused look on his face. “O-Oh, well… I was thinking that your mother shouldn't have treated you so cruelly… and I think she's wrong… About you. I don't know what your father looked like, but I don't think that matters. Even from the little you told me… I believe he was likely a very good man, and I think… Erik, I think he would've loved you.” The amusement on Erik’s face had vanished, replaced by something hollow, but for once, not threatening. Simply hollow. “He was a good man, his work was well known in Persia. But, Erik has stopped wondering about his father and everything that could have been—” Trailing off, Erik finally stood again, a soft sigh escaping him. “I will be in the drawing room if you should need me, Christine.” 

She watched him as he simply stood and left, letting out a breath that she hadn't realised she was holding as soon as she heard the sound of Erik’s violin from behind a closed door

Chapter Text

The rest of the day passed quite peacefully, Erik had once again shut himself away to compose and Christine had decided to take on the daunting task of preparing dinner. Not that she told Erik, but seeing as he was occupied with something that he considered far more important than cooking, it was up to her. Cooking had never been Christine’s strong suit, and she couldn't help but worry that she wouldn't be able to make something nearly as delicious as the meals Erik had made her— although to try to compare herself to someone like Erik was foolish. Truly, what he lacked in his looks he made up for in his talents, as if God had decided to overcompensate for how He had created Erik.

Erik, who had said he was the Angel of Music. Erik, who said he was sent by her father who was in Heaven. Erik, who lied to her and made her feel as if perhaps she was being punished by God for daring to be so fond of a false idol. For being unable to see the truth. But, it was clear now that God was not trying to punish her at all. 

In the end, God had not sent her the Angel of Music, no, but He had led her to Erik — and God never did anything without a reason. Erik was mysterious and tragic, someone who had been shunned by the world. God loved all of His children, so perhaps… Erik did say that he once wrote music for the cathedral in his hometown, and to Christine, that meant the world. To Christine, it meant that not all hope for his soul was lost.

Erik had closed the door to the drawing room as soon as he'd entered, leaning against it and breathing heavily. Christine had wanted to know of his life. She wanted him to stay and to let her in, and it terrified him. Even more than that, he was terrified by how much he wanted her in return. He loved her, or he was fairly certain what he felt for her was love, but the last time such a feeling had bloomed in him, all that came of it was death. No matter how many years passed, he still remembered that day so vividly, as if it had only just happened.

What if the same thing happened to her? Hadn't he a nasty habit of having every good thing he ever had turn to dust before him? If he dared open himself to her, surely she would meet the same tragic end. Luciana never saw your face before that day, came a soft voice in the back of his mind. She thought you to be handsome. She believed you to be her muse. She thought she was in love with you, too. Yes, all of that was true, Erik knew that, but if that was what his mind would provide him, he was doing a very poor job of ridding himself of worry. 

Christine has seen your face. She is alive,  she smiled at you. “But, she does not love me. She will not give me what Luciana did. She knows better than that.” But she has seen your face. That will not cause her to die. “That is why she will never love me back.” 

If not for a startled cry from the kitchen, Erik would've continued to argue with himself. Instead, he bolted from the drawing room to find Christine fretting over the state of what appeared to be some sort of stew. Seeing Erik, she began to cry, all of her frustration spilling forth. “I'm sorry—” What a mess , she thought. What if he thinks that I am crying because of him! After all, she knew Erik was so very prone to assuming the worst — “I just wanted to make something for you… Since you always prepare meals… But, I know this is definitely wrong!” 

Erik looked at the stew and then back at Christine before deciding to turn off the stove entirely. “If you wish it… your Erik will teach you to cook.” At this, Christine stopped crying, a look of delight spreading across her fair features. Erik felt warmth spread from his chest throughout his entire body, a foreign but pleasant feeling; for he had made her smile for the second time — she smiled for him because of something he said! He would've continued, if not for a loud knocking at the front door. One that made him tense and Christine jump. 

“Erik? I know you must be in there!” 

Christine seemed to visibly relax as she recognized the voice as one belonging to a certain Nadir Khan, which was almost the exact opposite of Erik. Christine didn't have to think hard about what must've been going through his mind, not when the annoyance was quite clear upon his face. Annoyance, but not fury, and for that she was grateful. But, he made no move to open the door, despite knowing who was on the other side. Of course he didn't, Christine scolded herself for not anticipating this, he won't go to the door in fear of someone else seeing his face! So, she went to open the door instead. As expected, Nadir Khan stood before her, only entering when she stepped aside and let him in. Christine closed the door behind him and made certain to lock it. For Erik’s comfort— which she had decided that she did care about. 

In fact, she cared about Erik far more than she thought she ever could. How horridly complex it all was! Her feelings and her new life and all of the experiences that had come with it! When had she started to care so much about Erik? Was it when he agreed to leave the Opera House with her? Was it when he told her of his compositions as a child? Was it when he agreed to walk with her? When he told her his last name, that he was in fact a real man with a real name — he could make her Madame Séverin — not that he has said as much, nor had he even implied it, but he could. Did she want him to? “Christine?” 

Shaken from her thoughts, she looked at Nadir and Erik, both who seemed slightly concerned. She wondered what her expression had been. “I have much to ask Erik,” spoke the Daroga, looking back at Erik who surprisingly gave a small nod. “My Angel, if you so wish it, you are free to return to the Opera. I ask only that you return by sundown—” 

Erik was offering her the opportunity to leave. She was not asking for it on her own; he was all but telling her to give him privacy with Nadir! How peculiar! Still, it was not an opportunity she would pass up, as she knew it was unlikely to happen again. “Then, I will return by sundown, Erik.” 

Chapter Text

Christine left Erik and Nadir to their conversation, one that she was certain she was not yet meant to understand, since she had not even made it out the door before the two had begun to converse in Farsi rather than French. Erik’s secrets would continue to be his — or at least, they would remain a mystery to her until he decided to tell her. As much as she would've loved to know what Erik was telling Nadir, or perhaps what Nadir was telling Erik, she had also managed to find an opportunity to finally see Raoul. 

Oh, Raoul! What would she tell him? Her blue eyed boy who loved her so dearly! The boy who dove into the sea to fetch her red scarf! How he'd stood before her, shivering, but with such a bright smile— obviously very proud of his success. What would he do? He knew Erik was dangerous, and… And what? What are you so afraid of, Christine? You will not know what he will say until you see him!  

Raoul had been visiting the Opera House every day while Christine had been missing, and every day since she'd returned, only for her to vanish again. After a brief conversation with Jammes and Sorelli, Raoul had determined that at the very least, Christine was alive, but that her situation was still rather dire. “Christine!” 

“Raoul!” 

Christine found herself wrapped in Raoul’s embrace before she'd truly been able to process that he'd even moved from where he'd been standing. Raoul had always been affectionate, and truly seemed to be the exact opposite of Erik. Raoul was warm and open and familiar, Erik was cold and reclusive and absolutely mystifying. Christine was certain that she could always anticipate how Raoul would react to a situation, whereas Erik never did what she assumed. Raoul was patient and trusting and handsome — 

Raoul had the sort of face she'd hoped Erik had behind that mask. You would love him if he was handsome. You would be able to tell Raoul that Erik needed you more. You wouldn't second guess this . Christine sighed, pushing those thoughts aside. She'd made a promise, and she wasn't going to break it just to run away with someone handsome. Not even a childhood sweetheart. And she had to tell him. 

“I was so worried! Christine, where have you been? I thought perhaps he had taken you away…” Raoul trembled with emotion, with relief, and Christine hated how she would have to… to what? Break his heart? She loved Raoul, she could run away with him just as she said she wanted. Erik wouldn't be able to stop her— Erik, who she had dragged into the light, who she had gone on a Sunday stroll with. Who lived in a house with her and who had promised to teach her to cook. Erik who taught her to sing. Without Erik, would Raoul have noticed her again? “Raoul, I was not taken away, but there is so much I must tell you!” 

At this, Raoul’s smile faltered, as if somewhere in his heart he already knew. Yet, ever the gentleman, he gave a small nod and looked around for a comfortable, yet private spot for Christine to say what she needed to say. And of course it tore at her to part ways with Raoul, as she surely would have to when she told her story! She had always adored him, her brave young suitor, the boy who dove into the sea to fetch her red scarf! She was going to have to leave him, not because she wanted to, but because she refused to be one more person to break a promise to Erik. Hadn't he faced enough of that? “Christine,” Raoul’s voice cut through her thoughts; he'd managed to find a small spot for them to sit and talk for as long as she could— 

“Raoul, I asked him… I asked Erik what he wanted from me, and oh, he wept at my feet and said that if I would love him, he would do anything! I asked him if he would unmask himself and live in the light!” Somehow, the emotion she'd not felt that day came now as some great flood, strong enough to tear through her! And Raoul was, as he always would be, gentle and kind, holding her while she wept for her unhappy Erik. “Raoul, he agreed to it! He found a little home for us and I fear I’ve killed him! Erik is surely mad, but he hasn't hurt me.” Of course, Christine knew that Raoul thought of her disappearance in the first place as Erik hurting her. She'd told Raoul on the rooftop about what she had seen. Of Erik’s face and his rage and sorrow! Now, she was telling him of the little home and the dresses and one Sunday stroll. 

“Christine, do you love him?” 

Did she? Erik was still such a mystery, and while he'd undoubtedly forced himself out of any sense of comfort or safety in hopes of earning her affection, Christine had learned as a little girl that she couldn't love earnestly if she knew so little. “I barely know him, even now. He is my teacher and he is no angel, but God brought him into my life for a reason— I don't love him in the way he wishes, but I can't abandon him. I won't leave him to die, I know he believes I will! Raoul, I must prove him wrong!” 

Raoul’s warm smile returned, much to Christine’s surprise. Here, she'd thought Raoul would be upset, or that he'd insist they run away together still, but of all the things he could do, he smiled! “I won't pretend to understand Erik, but I do think I understand you. Christine Daaé, you are the most lion-hearted girl! You are honest and kind and you've never left anyone to suffer. This is no different.” For what seemed like an eternity, they simply stared in silence at each other before Raoul took Christine’s hand. “You know that I will always be here for you. Whatever comes next, I will be here for you. I don't understand beyond your kindness, but I will try to.”

For Christine, those words meant the entire world. 

Erik had been pacing and muttering to himself for five minutes— of course, Nadir had expected a reaction like this, but it remained as unsettling as ever. Still, it was impossible to avoid speaking of all the things that had transpired, for there was much that Nadir wished to know, and much that he felt Erik needed to know. Things he deserved to know.  But, watching Erik pace back and forth, Nadir realized that in hindsight, beginning with Melek was far from ideal. Their encounter had been brief yet traumatizing; a series of horrific events. After all, Persia had brought out something raw and real from Erik. Erik, who had hidden behind a mask so that the world would never see him; and yet it was in Persia that he was, perhaps, most genuine. Or as close to genuine as he could be— undoubtedly before he had arrived before the Khanum and the Shah-en-Shah, Erik had suffered a devastating loss. For years, he had wondered what had happened to make the man before him into what he was; what pain and tragedy had befallen him? When Rookheeya died, he understood what it was that Erik had lost. 

“We do not have to speak of Melek, but we must speak of the rest of it,” began the Daroga, words dying upon his tongue at the blank look on Erik’s face. He chose to stare at the samovar on the table instead.

“Must we? Must we speak of the rest of it?” asked the samovar in a soft voice. Nadir jolted. He’d quite forgotten about Erik’s ability to speak from beyond his body, and as always, he was reminded by experience. “Can you not simply enjoy tea with Erik?” Of all the things for Erik to make an object say, it was always something soft and pitiful; something that allowed the claws of guilt to settle in the soul. Nadir had known Erik long enough to understand that control was something essential. This was Erik’s way of regaining control. Glancing up, he noted that Erik was staring at the curtains that surely covered a window. Thankful for it, Nadir allowed himself to scowl and collect his thoughts. “Nothing will improve if mysteries remain.” As if there could be any real answer for all that Erik and Christine had been through, and all Erik had orchestrated. The details had been muddied with superstitious rumors, and despite knowing the truth of the Opera Ghost, none of the events made any sense. Of all the things Erik did, and of course he had many pattern behaviors, putting himself in a position where he would feel such deep pain was not one of them. “My friend, I have never known you to allow yourself to be vulnerable more than once. To love is to be vulnerable; to trust another with your heart is to be vulnerable. Do you love her?” 

At this, Erik turned to face Nadir once more, a blazing passion in those golden eyes. Passion and fury and hurt. “Why does it matter if Erik loves Christine? Christine is a good girl, she promised to stay! She is a good girl and she will not break her promise!” Ah, passion, fury, hurt, and denial. Erik was not one to leave himself vulnerable, but there was no person on earth who could prevent love where it could bloom. Love, as Nadir had learned, was poorly hidden where it existed and impossible to fake where it was not. Erik was most certainly in love with Christine, and he had no control over it. “You must talk to her. Allow her to know all that has happened so that you may both heal.”

Chapter Text

As she promised, Christine returned by sundown. Nadir greeted her at the door as he bid Erik a good evening. Erik simply gave a small nod. To his credit, he did not slam the door when Nadir left, but he locked it quickly, only allowing himself to relax when he was certain that the Daroga was not simply standing outside the door. Silently, he guided Christine back to the Louis-Philippe room to sit on the couch, tending to the hearth before joining her. Joining her! What could have happened in but a day to make him join her? He had not chosen the chair, but to sit with her; brave, brave man! Or, unhappy, always unhappy and yearning. Still, her heart fluttered in a mix of excitement and terror— for all the times he chose to sit by her, it was the day she had met with Raoul! But, she could not hide that from him, and perhaps he would spare Raoul’s life knowing the truth. Or he could deem you a viper, a lying Delilah! She would never know if she remained silent. “Did Christine enjoy her day?” 

Ah, the moment of truth had come upon her! Here, she would risk destroying every bit of trust she’d managed to build with Erik, but she could not lie. He did not deserve lies. With a silent prayer to God, Christine steeled her nerves before speaking: “I met Raoul at the Opera Populaire.” 

Erik took the news about as well as she’d thought, and reacted with almost as much rage as she had braced herself for. But, he did not harm her. Instead, he leapt from the couch and threw the chair that he often seemed to favor against the wall. Christine, perhaps out of her own bravery and perhaps of fear that someone nearby the home would hear the commotion, leapt to her feet as well only to grab Erik’s arm. Erik jolted and threw her back, but he did not do so in a way to harm her. He did not harm her!  

Rather, he wriggled away and put distance between them, backing into a corner as if he was an injured animal— Yet, Christine only thought of one thing. She did not think of Erik as some poor wounded animal or as anything to pity. No, Christine thought of all the things Erik could have done to her but did not. Where he could have thrown her, too. Where he could have strangled her or struck her, or grabbed her hands like he had the very first time she unmasked him. But, he did not. 

He did not hurt her, and that was a victory. 

“Forgive me, my angel,” spoke the broken chair in a small voice — Christine had almost forgotten Erik’s peculiar ability to throw his voice wherever he so chose, but she was certain he had gained the desired effect of doing so. After all, she had looked to see where the voice had spoken from and when she looked back, she saw that he had curled up with his knees to his chest, head leaned forward so that she could not see him cry. Yes, he was crying. “It was foolish of Erik to think you would be happy here.” But, it wasn't.

The realization hit her like a lightning bolt — it wasn't foolish at all! For the brief amount of time they had lived together, Erik had provided Christine with freedom, with food; he'd agreed to go on a Sunday stroll despite how terrified he was of the prying eyes of the world —

“No, Erik, it was foolish of me to start this story where I did. You must know that Raoul will not come to take me away.” She approached him slowly, watching as he looked back at her with those gold eyes. She sat at his side and tentatively placed one hand over his. To her delight, he did not pull away; his body tensed, but he did not pull away.

Another victory; she most certainly counted herself lucky this day. “Raoul is my friend. The boy who rescued my red scarf from the sea, but we were so young, then. We have both changed. I am not leaving with Raoul.” 

Erik remained silent for longer than Christine had expected, although when she thought of it, he must not have thought of this scenario. The one where she stayed. 

Because she wanted to stay. 

“He told me I had a kind heart, and that he did not understand the decision, but he understands kindness, and Raoul would never, never want to deny any person kindness.” 

Erik continued to simply watch Christine, continued to listen. He listened to her as she recounted the meeting, and as confused as he was, he could not say that he wasn't grateful for Raoul's honorable nature. “He is a good man, Christine. A man with honor and pride in such. It is great fortune to have someone so loyal as a friend, and even more so to have that person's love. Should you wish to leave with him, you may. You no longer need to remain with Erik—”

Christine sighed. As he did so often, Erik had completely missed the point. “I am not leaving with Raoul,” she said again, with more confidence and certainty. “I am staying with you of my own accord. I am not so childish that I cannot make my own decisions!” She thought of how often others had made decisions for her. The managers, Madame Valerius, Raoul, Erik! Meg had called this a tragic reality. Young women were so rarely allowed to decide for themselves, but Christine was, if nothing else, determined to command her own life. Erik would not force her to leave with Raoul. She would not let him. Just as she did not let Raoul sway her decision to stay with Erik. Christine prided herself on keeping promises — and she was learning to pride herself on independence. 

"I want to stay, and so stay I will!” 

Not for the first time, Erik understood that he had fallen in love not with a rabbit, but a lioness.

Chapter Text

Christine spent the next hour busying herself, cleaning up the pieces of the broken chair, while Erik had retired to his room with an awkward apology. After all, he wasn’t used to this- this sort of… of what? Compassion from another person? Yes, she’d seen how tense he’d been when Nadir had come to visit, but the two had a long history, and for all that Erik had told her that he had done, Nadir had not turned him over to the Khanum. Instead, Nadir had helped him to flee Persia, even at risk to his own life. That was friendship and compassion, wasn’t it? If Nadir held no compassion for Erik, then surely he would never have made that decision. 

Erik had also been able to figure out enough social tact to appeal to women- or perhaps only to her. He understood enough about feminine desires to pick out pleasant decorum for her room and to find dresses that fit both her figure and her personality. That was a skill that came with practice, not simply by observing someone through a mirror. That meant that there were others before her- and to her surprise, she felt a wave of jealousy for those past objects of Erik’s affection. Had he done the same things that he had done with her? Had he been an angel? Had he shown himself to them, or showered them with gifts? And why did it matter so much to her? 

Perhaps she did love him in her own way. Perhaps she loved him. She loved him, of course she did, and she’d simply tried to deny it. Such a love was not at all what respectable society would call proper, but with all that she knew of Erik and what had been done to him, society seemed less and less respectable in the first place! She loved him! The notion made her face flush, her heart race- she felt butterflies in her stomach! She loved him and she was jealous and- what if she was wrong? What if Erik was simply proving his brilliance? A man who could compose such enchanting music, who could perform magic tricks and build grand palaces could surely figure out how to charm a woman even if he’d never seen one before- 

That was even more of a ridiculous notion. Of course Erik had seen women, for there were plenty about the Opera House. Her dressing room had not always been her own. It was the dressing room of the prima donna. Before her, that room belonged to La Carlotta- the very thought of Erik watching the seasoned soprano through the mirror made Christine shudder! But, she had to know. Even if the answer was yes, knowing would put her mind at ease. Knowing would make her feel as if she was not going mad, even if she was. For it was mad to love him, and she did! She loved him! She loved him and it terrified her as much as it thrilled her.

The knock at his door came as no real surprise, as Erik was certain that Christine had much more to say to him. However, the look on her face when he did open the door was one he never expected. Yes, he had seen her sorrow and pain and confusion, but this was not the same. This was not even the look on her face when she had made her attempts at destroying his coffin- the wild, blue-eyed angel who had demanded of him a semblance of normalcy. No one had ever looked at him like she was, and he found himself frustrated that he could not put a name to what he was seeing. Until she reached out and took his hand and spoke: “Have you loved before this?” 

And that, of all questions, was not the one he’d anticipated, but it gave him the name of what he saw. Jealousy. A look that he realized he must’ve worn often whenever Christine spoke of Raoul- but it looked so very out of place upon her soft features. 

“Christine, my angel, what has brought this on?” 

Christine stared at Erik, flabbergasted at how he couldn’t guess! For someone so brilliant, he certainly had his moments of absolute stupidity. Perhaps she was wrong, and she’d grown envious of imaginary paramours- because it was natural of a woman to wonder about a man who knew what dresses to buy her and what colors to paint her room. A man who, for all his cruelty, had so much charm that perhaps when his pain was less and the years had not driven knife after knife into his soul, charmed and loved another! All she wanted was to know the name of whoever had felt this devotion before- who had been loved before, who had loved him before as she had come to realize she did now! She watched his expressions, how they went from worry to confusion to outright bewilderment- and realized she had said everything out loud. 

“There was only one before you, my angel, and a lifetime ago. Luciana is long dead-” But, unspoken were the words: I have not stopped loving her . Of course he hadn’t, for finding new love was not a way to replace old love. “It does not mean that your Erik loves you any less!” 

Was this what she felt when he would fly into a rage about Raoul? How odd, to be on the receiving end! But, Christine did not do as he had. She did not continue to rage, and she did not demand. Instead, she looked at her feet and whispered an apology. “I’m sorry- I… that was foolish. You say you love me now, and I believe you. And now, I’ve opened old wounds, haven’t I?” 

“No. It is true that Luciana was my first love, and for so long, I felt as if I would never know how to love again… but with all that I am, I love you, Christine Daaé! Even though what your Erik can offer most certainly pales in comparison to that which another could-” Christine looked back up at Erik, and he stopped talking. She had just told him but an hour ago that she would not leave him for the Vicomte, and now she had confessed her love- so whatever he had to offer, perhaps that was enough. And she looked at him fondly, not with pity but with compassion. She looked at him as if she was urging him to finally release all of the sorrow that he had carried with him, and so he did.

Christine learned that Luciana was an artist, the daughter of a master mason that Erik had studied under in his youth. She had been playful and incredibly forward, and had, much like Christine, believed Erik to be an angel. A devout and prideful young woman, she saw Erik’s presence as another blessing to add to the many she felt she possessed. Beauty that drew suitors to her doorstep day after day, the ability to make anything she touched into art, and the company of an angel to mark her as someone truly loved by God. Erik had never had the heart to tell her that she was very, very wrong. “If I had, perhaps she would still live. Even if she no longer loved me, she would be alive-” 

Luciana had taught Erik what passion was, had used him as her muse for three years of the five he stayed as her father’s apprentice. For those three years, she had asked again and again to see beneath his mask, and for those three years, he had denied her that single thing. But, he denied her nothing else. To her credit, Luciana had not done what Christine had; she asked time and time again, but she did not tear the mask from Erik’s face. The tragedy had come when Erik’s nerves were frayed from her constant questioning, and on the roof of her father’s home, he finally tore the mask from his face and allowed her to look at the face of the man she believed to be an angel from heaven. The face of her lover. And Luciana spoke of the faces of angels that mortals could not look upon, and wept with joy that she retained her sight- and cried out in fear when the old slates gave way beneath her feet and she fell. 

Erik had fled that day, unable to bear looking upon Luciana laying in the courtyard with her crimson halo spreading beneath her dark hair; her green eyes staring up at the sunlight, her soft lips parted as if she still could whisper words of love. And she did continue to do so, day after day, year after year, when the hour was late and the candlelight had long since extinguished, he would hear her whispers and feel her touch and know that he had killed her. 

“Christine, you have seen Erik’s face, and surely you will die from it! As Luciana did! And your Erik will die, too, in the world absent of your light! Oh, Christine, I must be dying, dying of love!” Then, he trembled, and he saw that she trembled too- trembled as she brushed her fingertips against his cheek- willingly, willingly she touched his face! And willingly, she placed a soft, shy kiss upon his lips! Willingly she kissed him; willingly she gave her love! Willingly, she curled up in his bed by his side and allowed him to shudder and sob at such a small act, such a profound act! An act of love!

She had kissed him and he did not die!