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Nicht die Schönheit entscheidet, wen wir lieben, sondern die Liebe entscheidet, wen wir schön finden.
(It is not beauty that decides whom we love, but love decides who we find beautiful.)
Winter. Morning. A strange house. A bed that is not theirs but is comfortable enough to wish she could spend more time in it.
Her cheeks are cold, and she burrows under the duvet to the level of her eyes. They were too busy last night when they came back home. She blushes at the memory. They made quick excuses with friends and acquaintances in the foyer and fled from the Opera. Erik was running on a high. The house was still warm, and they forgot to feed wood to the stove and the fireplace in their room.
A feeble, solitary shaft of light filters through the heavy curtains. The hustle and bustle that possesses the streets by day is non-existent and heightens the beauty of the early dawn atmosphere. She closes her eyes for a moment and listens. The clock in the hallway is ticking but the annoying cuckoo is the first thing that Erik disabled when they got here. The wood around the house is alive, soft groaning sounds coming from the door frames; a droplet from the faucet in the bathroom spills a rhythmic tap-tap. Nearer – much nearer – the slight rustle of fabric against skin, synchronised in harmony with the breathing of the man still sleeping next to her. Slowly she turns her head, hidden by the duvet and her eyes crinkle in mischief. Should she wake him up? Should she let him sleep?
She tries to master her breath the same way he taught her during lessons. She knows he is so sensitive that he could determine her wakeful state just by the number of times she pulls air in and out. It is rare to catch him in deep sleep, a precious gift, for she knows he seldom allows himself the rest that he needs. It had been difficult at the beginning in the new temporary lodgings where they now live, far away from their home in Florence, but Erik has found a measure of peace that has allowed him to relax enough.
Her hand breaks free from the duvet and slides in slow increments from his neck to his exposed cheek; inquisitive fingers reach the corner of his mouth and she is rewarded with a sleepy smile. Her thumb caresses the smooth surface of his jaw, and he sighs contentedly.
The hand retraces the same path in reverse but this time it wanders on, taking its time, all along the ridge of his spine, until it detours, once the small of his back is reached, towards his abdomen to find a resting place there, apparently exhausted.
Erik’s hand covers hers as he mumbles a good morning that lacks the conviction of someone who is about to get out of bed. She snuggles closer seeking the fullest contact and places a kiss between his shoulder blades. She is not in a hurry to wake up either. This comfortable cocoon they have created for themselves in the middle of the bed, their breathing in unison, lulls her back to sleep.
She does not know how much time has passed when she feels her arm being stroked languidly. She stretches along his body, filling in every pocket of air between them and whispers another good morning, brushing her lips against his earlobe. Erik shivers and turns around to face her.
The sun must be higher in the sky, but the curtains are still keeping it at bay. She can see him now as if sketched on a street artist’s pad – all highlights and shadows, sharp lines and edges on one side, smooth planes on the other. Eyes aflame, regarding her intently – his intention clear – she is eager to be consumed by them.
A few months ago, at the end of the summer, Meg visited them in Florence and during a stroll along the river, just the two of them, she asked if Christine was not scared of his face. She was not. What scared her most that first time was his manic reaction. He scared her with words and shouts and violence but never, never with his face. She came from a country where the father of the old gods was a man without an eye, where horses had six legs and gods had wolves as sons. Erik could have been easily one of those characters in the stories that Pappa told her every night.
She cups his marred cheek now and gives it undivided attention as she is wont to do, then follows the line of neck and shoulder, down to his arm. There was this strange idea that had formed in the minds of the ballerinas at the opera, probably aided by a deranged Buquet, that the Phantom was a scrawny-looking old man with strange eyes whose touch was as cold as death. They had no idea – no idea at all. Lean, hard muscles on a tall, lanky man – he was certainly older than her but not as decrepit as some would paint him – whose body heat could keep her warm for hours.
“What funny little thoughts are running through your head?” Of all the different tones his vocal cords can produce, the low and raspy voice that he has when he wakes up is the one she loves the most. It sends shivers down her spine; it is honey in a warm cup of milk; a shawl around the shoulders on a chilly day. It was his voice that made her fall in love with him and to this day she is unable to put into words how much it affects her listening to him talk and sing and whisper sweet nothings in her ears.
“I was thinking about how the little rats at the Garnier thought that your hands were cold.”
His eyebrows arch in surprise at the unexpected revelation, but they quickly relax as his mouth shapes into an unbalanced grin. “Really?”
She nods and startles as soon as she feels one of the mentioned hands touch her behind the knee and start a slow, tortuous path upwards. Her whole body shivers from an electric shock and she leans back to give him freedom of movement, but he stops too far from where she needs him and she swears silently. It is not ladylike, but he knows ways of teasing her that should be restricted by law.
“Do you think they’re cold?” He purrs in her ear; her body is melting already, and she needs him to pick up the game where he left off and bring it to conclusion. Or, by God, she will take matters into her own hands.
Not that he wouldn’t like that.
It has happened before, but by now she knows that he likes a hands-on approach. “I think I need to examine them thoroughly. Would you touch me some more?”
They are definitely warmer this time and they roam freely like wolves in the forest, hunting their prey relentlessly. At some point, ardent kisses on her neck force her into action. She will submit eventually, but not before she has played her hand as well. She grabs at the wide expanse of his back, smooths her hands all over it, measures its length and width as a diligent architect would do with a project they are about to develop.
When he slides on top of her – in her – she opens her eyes and imagines a blue sky above. She remembers a memorable afternoon in Florence. She flies in the air unrestrained, free, her chest expanding, her spirit soaring.
She comes back to earth later, back to their bed, back to his arms and his warm hands. He is spent and gasping and kissing her neck and shoulder and his solid presence above her fills her with love to the brim.
She combs back the sparse hair on his head – she does not know how it can spike in any direction at all times – and turns his head towards hers. She wants a kiss to bring this to closure, but also as a promise for the next time. Erik smiles and obliges her.
The sun is still fighting a mean battle against the curtains, and the curtains this time are losing: it is impossible to keep the day at bay. The furniture is taking a more defined shape, the clothes they shed the previous night are strewn all over the floor and the shadows are retreating behind the wardrobe and the door and the fireplace. The noise from the street below rises and the small clock on the night table chimes the hour. They linger a while longer, then Erik gets up to start the fire – literally this time. Christine rises from the bed with a smile on her face.
There is music to be made today and a life of notes to be built.