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“Is my diva ready to have all of Paris at her feet?”
The dark, rich voice purred the words from behind her mirror and Christine frowned, placing a hand over her throat, trying to stifle the cough she felt building up there.
The mirror slid back to reveal her angel as he stepped through into her dressing room, grinning. It was opening night, and Christine was scheduled to go on for her first performance as Prima Donna of the Opera Populaire, except—
“Erik, my throat is sore,” she said the fateful words out loud after having rehearsed them in her mind all afternoon.
The smile vanished from his face as he stared at her.
“But it should be fine,” she started to babble, afraid of the sudden silence that had fallen over him. “I can use some throat spray. I’m sure I can power through it, I’ll just have some extra tea and—“
The weight of so many words at one time overcame her and she nearly doubled over coughing.
She could see the muscles of Erik’s jaw clench tightly, could practically hear his teeth grinding.
“Sit down” he said, a strange cold tone to his voice. “You will not be performing tonight.”
“I can just push myself a little—“
“If you push yourself now, you jeopardize the future of your voice. I will write and inform the managers of this development, and you will take the night to rest and nothing else. Stay here.”
And with that he disappeared again behind the mirror, the swish of his cape the last sight she had of him. She sat miserably in her chair, waiting for his return. She had wanted nothing more than to perform tonight, but she feared what might happen if she went on feeling the way she did. In the morning, she had tried to deny that she was even ill, brushing off the strange tickle in her throat, ignoring the ache in her joints. By afternoon she knew something was off for certain, but had been desperately hoping that by evening she would feel better. But her symptoms had only steadily gotten worse, and now here she was, unable to go on stage, unable to sing, and hardly able to even talk normally.
He returned soon, his posture stiff and his face blank.
“They have been informed,” he said. “I would request that you come to my house where your recovery will be overseen. I am worried for your voice. For you,” he hastily added.
He was rarely so formal with her, not anymore. She winced inwardly, nodding her consent to his invitation. He was mad at her, she was almost certain of it. And why shouldn’t he be? She’d ruined everything. The night of her triumphant debut was not to be, and the blame rested squarely on her shoulders. Everything she had worked so hard for—everything they had worked so hard for—had all come to naught due to an errant germ. She knew, logically, that no one could blame her for getting sick, but that did nothing to stop her from blaming herself.
Why hadn’t she taken better care of herself? Why hadn’t she been more careful?
All of these thoughts raced in her head, one after the other, and she was certain that they were playing in a loop in Erik’s mind too. She glanced miserably at him as they walked together down to the underground lake, where he would then ferry her across to his secret home. She was not his diva anymore, she thought ruefully to herself. She was just his student once again, his pupil who needed guidance lest she ruin her own life with her carelessness. How she aspired to be someone he thought highly of, not just in potential but as someone who was always already at the pinnacle of her worth. As opening night had drawn closer, he’d taken to calling her his diva, and it was a pet name she’d already grown incredibly fond of.
A diva commanded the stage; men threw themselves at the diva’s feet; girls stared wistfully at the diva; when the diva spoke, her command was obeyed—divas held their maestro’s heart in their hand—
But that wasn’t her. She was no diva, not now. She was a mere footnote on a paper program, now something to be discarded. Carlotta was the true diva and likely always would be. And she was just plain old Christine, the girl who almost—but never actually—was.
She hoped Erik wasn’t too disappointed in her. The managers, the other cast members, even the audiences—she didn’t care what any of them thought, but to lose any amount of esteem in the eyes of her maestro would be crushing to her. His masked face gave away no indication of his emotions and he was silent the entire trip through the cellars. She received no hint from him as he held his out to help her into the boat on the hidden lake, nor did he give any sign of what he was feeling as he steered them down the waterways under the opera house. She was swiftly becoming more miserable as time went on, both because of her sore throat and headache and also because of the silent weight of the assumption of his judgment. She blinked hard against the tears threatening to form in her eyes.
Erik glanced down at the small shape of Christine at the bow of the boat, vaguely illuminated by the sparse candle light and the unnatural glow of the water around them. His heart squeezed to think of how fragile she looked. She had mentioned, once, that she had never been particularly healthy growing up, but he had found comfort in the fact that in the years he’d known her at the opera, she had seemed healthy enough.
But no more, apparently.
What if she never fully recovered from this? What if she merely went on for years with a cough or some other malady that kept her from reaching her potential on the stage? What if her voice was damaged in some irreparably way?
He cursed himself for not recognizing that she was unwell sooner. Perhaps if he’d let her rest a little more, or hadn’t been so demanding in rehearsal, perhaps he could have done something to keep her in better condition. But he hadn’t, and now—
He helped her up out of the boat and onto the shore, afraid to meet her eye lest he see accusation there. He placed a hand on her back as he ushered her into this home, leading her towards the chair in front of the fire that was already burning, filling the room with warmth.
Her heart beat a little faster at the feeling of his hand on her. She desperately wanted to think this was a gentle touch of someone who cared and wanted to be certain she made it to the chair safely, not just a guiding hand from a distant teacher who thought her too dull to find the only chair in the room.
“I’m sorry to impose,” she squeaked out, her throat burning with the words, her face burning with shame.
“You’re never an imposition,” he replied smoothly as she sat down. “I would not have asked you to come here if you were.”
He didn’t want to tell her that her visit was the highlight of his month, or that had she not been ill and her voice in peril, he would have been downright giddy to have her in his home. She had been only once before, and even then he thought he might faint away in delight.
“Stay right here,” he told her, attempting to stay focused on the task at hand. “I shall return in a moment.”
She nodded as he left, turning her eyes to the warm flames that seemed to do little to stop her from shivering.
In the kitchen, Erik poured some hot tea into a cup with honey and ginger and lemon. He hoped that she didn’t mind being in his home too much, that she could actually feel restful there and wasn’t merely humoring him. The dormitories were hardly a place where one could get uninterrupted rest while sick. She needed someplace dark and quiet and warm where her body only needed to focus on healing. His room fit that bill. If he happened to find the idea of her sleeping in his bed terribly appealing, well—he couldn’t help that.
He returned with the tea, carefully handing it to her. She took a long slow sip as he studied her anxiously.
“Do you want something to eat?” He offered. “I could make some soup, or I have some nice bread. I could cook some eggs, if you prefer.”
She shook her head.
“Thank you. But I’m not hungry.”
He gave a small nod, racking his mind for something else he could do for her. He thought about all the times he had been sick, and how there had been no one to help him or cook for him or soothe him in any way. He didn’t want that for her. He vowed to himself that first thing in the morning he would go upstairs and find some way to procure some fresh fruit for her breakfast. He would pilfer some scented soap from the dormitories, too. He wanted her to have every nice thing that he was never able to have when he was sick. In the morning she could take a hot bath in his bathroom and afterwards she could decide if she wanted to rest some more or go back upstairs. He desperately wanted her to get better as quickly as possible, but if she wanted to stay a little longer—well, he certainly wouldn’t mind.
He turned to the fireplace and grabbed the poker to turn the logs, keeping the flames bright and cheery. It wouldn’t do to let her become even more chilled than she already was.
“Is there anything else you would like? Just name it and I’ll get it for you, Christine.”
“No,” she said in a small voice. “You’ve already done so very much for me. I don’t need anything else.”
“Okay,” he said, uncertain as he glanced back at her. “If you are sure of that. Are you ready to go to bed, then?”
“I believe so,” she said, and rose up from the chair, still holding the teacup.
But she rose up just a little too quickly, it seemed, because all of a sudden the world began to spin around her and she lurched to the side, trying to regain her balance. The teacup dropped from her hands and broke on the rug beneath them just as strong arms were suddenly holding onto her to prop her up and keep her from following after the teacup onto the ground.
“Oh, dear,” she said weakly, her brow furrowing. “I broke your fine teacup, Erik, I’m so sorry, I—“
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmured into her hair, holding her close and secure. “It doesn’t matter.”
And with that he scooped her up into his arms and carried her like a bride to his bedroom. She reached her arms around his neck, closing her eyes as she relished the feeling of being so close to him, of how tender and safe his embrace felt. She opened her eyes as he set her carefully back on her feet in his bedroom, and she blinked up at the cautious look on his masked face.
“Do you—need help? Undres—er, preparing for bed?” He asked, his voice stilted and awkward.
It took a moment for the words to make sense to her swimming head. In her mind she knew it was terribly scandalous and wrong, but in her heart it felt innocent and right.
She turned around slightly, showing her back to him as she gave a little nod, and he set to work on unbuttoning the row of tiny buttons that went down the back of her dress. Once it was loose, she slid it off of her and, to his horrific delight, glanced back and said—
“Can you loosen the ties?”
His eyes fell to the corset ties at the small of her back, where she apparently wanted him to help.
He reached out with trembling hands to untie them, tugging on the laces until it was loose enough for her to easily remove. He suddenly felt as though he were the one who was going to pass out and smack onto the floor.
He turned away from her and pulled the covers back on his bed with one fast swoop, trying to not to stare at her as she discarded the corset, dressed only in her chemise and pantalettes and stockings. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and from the corner of his eyes he could see the stockings go flying as she tossed them away after stripping them off.
Her bare feet were going to be in his bed. How he retained any rational thought in the moment, he did not know.
Christine settled herself against the stack of plush pillows, sinking into the soft feather mattress as Erik pulled the warm, heavy covers over her, making certain they were pulled up to her chin lest she catch a chill.
“I’m going to get some medicine, I’ll be right back,” he said, and promptly left.
All alone, Christine felt very small in the room. She was surprised at how large the bed was, covered in soft satin and crushed velvet in deep red and black. The frame of the bed was a dark gold and intricately carved in the shape of a swan, and it was all very lovely, but somehow it felt wrong to be alone in it. Erik was a very tall man, but even with this considered, the bed was still big enough for two. The longer Erik was gone, the more she wished he would return. She didn’t want to be alone, not right now when she felt so unwell.
Just when she was about to burst into tears from the feeling of being abandoned there in the room, he walked swiftly to her side with a small bottle of something bitter smelling.
“Drink this,” he instructed kindly as he knelt down by her bedside. “It’s not pleasant, but it will help you immensely.”
She nodded as she took it from him and drank it down in one go, making a face as the strange flavor of herbs stuck to her tongue. She handed the now empty bottle back to him.
“Do you need anything else before I go?” He asked.
She shook her head, leaning back on the pillows once more.
“Okay. Get some sleep, then.”
He placed the little bottle on the nightstand next to the bed.
“If you need to wake me, just call,” he told her as he stood up, preparing to leave.
Her eyes widened as a thought occurred to her mind for the first time.
“Oh, but this is your bed.”
“It is,” he agreed. “And for tonight, it is yours.”
“I suppose I thought I would be sleeping in—not your bed.”
“Would you prefer the dormitory?” He asked, a hint of regret in his voice. “I can take you back, if you truly would rather not—“
Did she not want to share the bed of the monster, even if he was not in the room? Perhaps this had been a bad idea after all…
“No! It’s not that, it’s just—I was picturing a guest room,” she said sheepishly, her face turning pink.
He chuckled, and her heart did a flip at the sound.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a guest room, my dear silly girl,” he said mirthfully. “I don’t have very many guests, after all. Now. Get some sleep, Christine.”
He turned to leave but she caught his hand in her before he could go, squeezing it, imploring him to stay.
“Erik,” she whispered. “If I’m sleeping here, where will you sleep?”
He smiled wryly.
“Don’t worry yourself over it. I can stand to spend the night by the fire.”
“But I don’t want you to sleep near the fire,” she said, her voice bordering on a pout. “I want you to sleep in your own bed.”
His mouth twitched into a funny grin, something both amused and awkward.
“My dear,” she said slowly and carefully, as though she didn’t understand. “I cannot sleep in the bed if you are occupying it. And you sleeping is precisely the reason I brought you here.”
He made to pull away and leave her to her rest, but she gripped his wrist as tight as she could in her weakened state.
“Erik,” she pleaded, voice as weak as a kitten. “Stay with me. Please?”
Erik was at a loss for words. She wanted him to stay? Did she truly, or had the fever made her delirious?
“I want you to stay here with me,” she repeated, not letting go of him.
“I’ll—I’ll be right outside the door,” he stammered, not certain if he should accept her invitation.
“That’s not enough,” she said, her voice breaking. “I want you here with me. I want you to hold me, I need you to, please, Erik—“
Her eyes were welling with tears at her maestro’s rejection of her. It was more than she could bear.
He relented, placing a hand on her cheek. She leaned into his touch.
“I’ll stay,” he promised in a whisper. “It’s alright, Christine. Don’t cry.”
She rubbed at her eyes until she saw stars as Erik walked to the other side of the bed and slipped under the covers next to her. She rolled over to face him, contentment written across her features.
He held his breath and froze as she unexpectedly cuddled closer to him, putting her arms around him. He tentatively returned her embrace, scarcely able to believe it.
She could hear his fast heartbeat under her ear as she pressed her face to his chest, smiling at last. She knew her maestro would not let any harm come to her, and she felt safe enough in his arms to fall under the current of slumber.
Erik stayed still as a statue as Christine snuggled close to him, unknowingly having played out his deepest and most secret fantasies of her own volition. As he felt all the tenseness ease from her muscles as she drifted off to sleep, he too lost some of the tensions in his frame. Christine had initiated it, surely he was no monster for remaining in the position she had put them in.
He carefully twined a lock of her curly brown tresses around one long finger, savoring the silky feel of it. He did not know when such a chance would come again, to be able to hold her like this. He had never felt so fiercely protective of her as he did now. There was nothing he would not do for his sweet little songbird.
Christine shifted in his embrace, her mind still feverish and working even as her body tried to rest. Strange dreams came and went but the one constant she found her mind returning to was that Erik was there with her and that meant nothing could harm her. He was threading his fingers through her hair and holding her close to his heart and she didn’t think it was her imagination that perhaps, just perhaps, he returned every hidden feeling and endless longing that she felt for him. She sighed happily, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck.
“I love you,” she murmured without even realizing that she’d said the words out loud.
Erik felt the breath stick in his throat. These words could surely not be for him. They must have been meant for another. He knew that she had been visited several times now by some old childhood friend turned young vicomte—Raoul de Chagny. That must be who she thought she was with now—she was dreaming of Raoul here in his arms. It was a crushing blow, but he tried to swallow down the hurt. Let her think she was with her sweetheart, if that would help her heal faster. He would play along. It was terribly wicked of him, he knew, and yet—he was a very wicked man, when one got right down to it.
“I love you too, Christine,” he whispered, and placed a chaste kiss to the crown of her head.
The words sounded foreign and wrong coming from his own lips. Was one such as him allowed to love her? She was perfection and beauty and all that was good in the world, and he—he was not. He would never get to say those words again—not to her, not to anyone else. There wasn’t going to be anyone else for him, and once she returned up above, it was only a matter of time before her dear vicomte swept her off her feet and he would never see her again.
His life had been filled with so much pain from so very many sources. Was he not forgiven for this small indiscretion, this one source of satisfaction? But he knew better than to think he would ever be forgiven for anything in his life. And yet—he could not truly bring himself to regret it. She would not even remember come morning, and if she did, well, she could hate him all she wished. He was going to lose her either way.
When he was certain she was asleep from the soft feel of the steady rise and fall of her back as she breathed, he reached up and removed his mask from his face, placing it above the pillows by the headboard. She had seen him without the mask before, and she had never reacted poorly to it, but she was a convincing actress, and he did not wish to subject her to the sight of his face if he could help it. But the mask was uncomfortable to wear while his face was pressed to a pillow, and he knew from experience that wearing it all night long was not an option.
At some point during the night, despite his best efforts, he fell asleep. He had wanted to stay awake for as long as he could, to etch every moment of that night into his memory to treasure forever, but he was only a man after all, and he had been very tired. It was late the next morning when he was awoken by Christine squirming in his arms. His first instinct was to squeeze her tighter in his grasp, but he was jolted awake when he both felt and heard her giggle softly. His face burning with shame, he let go of her and sat up, trying to put some distance between them.
“Good morning,” she said with a smile, still laying down, her hair sprawling across his many pillows. Her eyes were shining with an emotion he dare not attempt to name. To think that she could look at him like that when he was not wearing his mask—
He reached up above the pillows for the mask that had apparently slipped somewhere else during the night, his hand searching for the familiar feel of hard leather as he shielded the side of his face with other hand, his search growing more frantic until Christine’s little hand reached out to his questing one and squeezed his wrist.
“Leave it,” she said softly, knowing what he was looking for.
For a moment he was afraid his tongue had ceased to know how to function as he slowly let his hand drop away from shielding the deformity that somehow she could bear to look at.
“Good morning. How do you feel?”
“Wonderful,” she said, yawning and stretching.
“That’s good,” he said, his eyes tracing every dip and curve of her while they could. “You can go back up today, then.”
A look of alarm passed across her face.
“Oh! But I’d still like to rest a while longer,” she said hastily, propping herself up on an elbow. “With you.”
He cleared his throat, looking away from her and how one sleeve off her chemise—which looked oddly more sheer than it had the night before—was slipping softly off of one shoulder.
“If you wish,” he said, throat dry. “I can make you some breakfast.”
And with that he slid out of bed and tried to make a retreat to the kitchen before he embarrassed himself any further.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me good morning?” She asked in a pout.
He froze in the doorway, too slow in his escape. His shoulders hunched over in indescribable shame and horror.
“What?” He choked out.
“You kissed me last night,” she reminded him. “Aren’t you going to do it again?”
“Christine—“ he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. It was preferable to the conversation he was sure was about to take place. “I didn’t think you would remember—“ he winced at how awful this sounded.
“Did you not mean it, then?” She asked quietly, her heart sinking. “You said you loved me. Was that just—was that just something to say?”
He gripped the doorway tightly, struggling to find words to explain why he’d done such an awful thing.
“I said it because you said it first,” he explained tensely.
She waited in silence, and he realized she was waiting for him to add something, add anything.
“It’s okay, Chrisitne. I know you love your vicomte. That’s who your confession last night was for, wasn’t it?”
“Who?” She sounded genuinely confused, and he turned to glance at her and how her brow furrowed.
“Your Raoul,” he said the word like it was something bitter.
“My Raoul?” She sounded scandalized. “Erik, Raoul is merely a friend. Nothing else. And he’s certainly not mine!”
It was Erik’s turn to furrow his brow in confusion.
“Erik, I didn’t realize I was saying those words out loud last night. But they were for you,” she told him, tears forming in her eyes. “They’ve always been for you, and only you. But I see now that maybe you don’t feel the same—“
In an instant Erik was by her side, hands cradling her face and thumbs wiping away the tears sliding down her cheeks.
“My poor Christine,” he cooed. “How could you ever think that this old heart beats for anything else in the world but you?”
She surged forward to kiss the corner of his mouth, impulsive and eager.
“I love you,” she whispered when she pulled back, unable to stem the tears.
He rested his forehead on hers.
“I love you, too,” he assured her, about to start weeping himself.
“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded.
“I won’t. Never. But I have to go make breakfast for you.”
“I don’t want breakfast,” she said, tugging him back down to the bed with her. “All I want right now is you.”
“Well,” he chuckled as he joined her once more under the covers and leaned in for another kiss. “As my diva commands.”