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That music…
Despite his threats to their son, not that he knew that fact, that music spoke so much more of his desperation, his longing and need. More than threats ever could, and Christine was both seething with indignant rage, and aching with heartfelt longing.
Perhaps ten years ago she would have been paralysed from these conflicting feelings, but right now she was done with uncertainty. She jumped to her feet and scrambled over to the balcony door. “Erik!”
She caught him already clambered over the railing, strong hands holding firmly onto the trellis. If he was surprised to see her chasing him, he did not look it. He cleared his throat. “Yes?”
Despite her bubbling anger and hurt, a soft and breathy laugh left her at the hilarity of the sight. “Get— Come back here.”
It was not a question, and so without complaint he clambered back over the balustrade, flexible and swift as if he wasn’t pushing fifty. He stood tall and imposing before her, and the uncertainty of the moment was clear as day in his eyes, but he was there, waiting.
She took a deep breath to steady herself. Anger would not do now, she had many questions, of which first… She showed him the folio. “This music, Erik, tell me why you wrote it.”
Golden eyes glanced at the folio before they snapped back to her and then looked out over the park in the distance, as if unable to bear her gaze. He dared to shrug, but there was no nonchalance in the act, rather a mere practised motion. Christine could see the tension in his jaw, his squared shoulders. He seemed ready to flee, but he stayed because she had asked it of him.
Reaching out, she firmly took him by the wrist, just to make sure, and took great satisfaction in hearing his hitched breath at the contact. “Erik. Tell me. You owe me.” It was perhaps a cruel thing to say, but it was a mere fact that he did owe her. He was the one who had left her after their shared vulnerabilities, and she would not just allow him to forget that.
Nostrils flared and hands flexed, but he minutely ducked his head in agreement. Then, with more of that feigned nonchalance, he said, “I love you. I wrote it because I love you and you would not leave my mind. You have been haunting me ever since I left.”
Ah, now wasn’t that ironic.
It took her a second to properly register those words, frowning ever so slightly and glancing down at the folio. Wasn’t that the whole reason she had chased after him just now? The music was clearly a love letter to her, and it had called to her as his music always did. She sighed, her heart hammering uncertainly in her throat. Dreadful distractions.
Steeling her resolve, she took a deep breath and tilted her chin up, daring him to challenge her. “Well, if you love me as you said, you should know you just threatened the life of your own son.”
A silent beat.
She could practically hear the gears turning in his head, undoubtedly the calculations being done to determine the truth, as if she would ever lie to him.
“How—”
“Ten years. His birthday is May eleventh. He has a sizeable port-wine mark on his entire right side.”
He stared at her, and it was a special type of satisfaction to have reduced the once great Opera Ghost to mere man once again with such simple information. His hands trembled and his voice wavered, “A… port-wine mark?”
She nodded, feeling much like the mother she was with her patience to explain. Ten years ago, she would not have had it. “It is a bit like the one you have under your armpit, just larger. It reaches to his hip and takes up his right shoulder blade. The moment I saw it, I knew it was you. He is beautiful.”
Finally, as she expected, he crumbled.
The Phantom, Mr. Y, Erik, fell to the floor of the balcony and unsteadily grasped his chest, wheezing out breaths and shaking his head, tears glistening in his eyes. “I— What… A son? But I… Oh, Christ, my face, I—”
Gingerly, and despite the burning indignation still hotly inside her, she crouched down with him and nodded. She had already accepted this fact long ago, it hardly fazed her nowadays, but Erik… Well. He thought himself a monster. With practised calm—how often had she had to patiently explain to Gustave why he should not play with certain things?—she said, “You saw him yourself, Erik. He is perfect. He is ours.”
Thick tears dripped down his cheeks and he whimpered, reflexively reaching out and taking Christine’s wrist. The folio in her hands fluttered to the floor. “Christine,” he gasped. “Forgive me.”
The audacity of him. She was being patient to him, showing him compassion as always, but him daring to ask her that…
The sudden slap on his unmasked cheek stilled him, save for the reflexive holding of his cheek and staring wide-eyed at her.
She lowered her hand. “For what, Erik?” she hissed bitterly. “You abandoning me after I declared my love to you time and time again, or you threatening a child’s—our child’s—life?” It felt good to have Erik recoil at those words, to have his cheek sting from her slap—he should feel guilty. What horrible things had he done in the name of love? “How dare you ask me for forgiveness for such horrible things, Erik.”
A horrifying and ugly sob left the crumbled man. “Oh, dear God, how I—” He grimaced and shook his head, tears ever-flowing. At this point it was hard to tell whether it was self-pity, loathing, or guilt. Perhaps a toxic combination of all three. “What is wrong with me to do— Christine…” He looked back up to her, eyes wide and red. Gone was the powerful Mr. Y forcing her to sing for him lest her son would vanish. Here was just Erik with a burning cheek. “Forgive me. I—I have done wretched things, and then this… Christ.” He grimaced and slowly straightened on his knees, eyes closed and shaking his head. “These past years, I… I thought I was doing better, and then I heard the news of you coming here with your family and I— I just fucking regressed. I threatened that which I should never. Never before have I ever involved children, or dared to, even! Those innocent beings, those beautiful and pure souls, and I—”
“Stop that,” she interrupted, the bitterness in her voice fading and making way for exasperation. She was so tired. “That self loathing has to stop, Erik. What’s done is done, and you nor I can take that back. It is time for you to move on, just as I have. Get up.” She got to her feet, picking up the folio as she went but not helping him. She had seen his nimbleness, he did not need it. “I will sing, but not because you threatened Gustave.”
Erik scrambled to his feet, eyes wide and feverishly nodding, confusion clear in his eyes. “Yes, you are— You are right, of course you are.“ Though what he was telling her she was right about, she did not know.
Emotions warred within her, and she wasn’t so sure which one she should listen to. One half told her to smack him silly for his audacity, his threatening of her, of Gustave, yet the other wanted nothing more than to grasp him by the lapels and kiss him senseless.
Doing none of those things, she instead calmly carded a loose hair behind her ear and watched him pat off the floor’s grime from his suit and coat. She sighed, gaze and voice softening. “I will sing, Erik, because I love you, too.”
He stilled once more, breath hitching. Unsteadily he glanced up to meet her eyes. “Christine?” And oh, how small his voice was, then. Hardly befitting for a Phantom, but perfect for a man.
Despite the indignation still inside her, his grovelling and her slapping him having only somewhat placated it, she softened and smiled, allowing herself at last to feel that pure love she had buried deep away so long ago. “I love you, Erik, that never stopped. You decided to leave me, but I told you over and over that night that I love you. For ten years none of that has changed. It seems neither has it for you, which begs the question… Why did you leave?”
For a moment it looked like he was going to crumble again, but he managed to steady himself onto the balustrade and took a breath. “I… thought myself a monster, unworthy of your love, your devotion. I could not comprehend it being a good choice for you whatsoever to be with me. I could not offer the steady income and comfortable life that the— the Vicomte could. I thought it fleeting, a mere passion between us. Could not, would not, think it anything more. I dared not.” His fingers tapped on the wood, and Christine sighed to find it being the song she was holding.
“Erik, my dearest Fantôme… Before this, back at the opera house, were we not together for three years? Three years of music between us, of us against the world, and a long time of us yearning for each other?” She sighed again and ran a hand down her face before meeting his golden eyes still so bright and commanding. Ten years had been kind on him, while she felt haggard as could be. “It was not your choice to make, Erik. If you were so terribly uncertain, you could have at least stayed and talked about it with me. Had you done so, if only for another month, I could have told you about the pregnancy and none of this— Well, it would not have happened.”
He ducked his head and had the decency to look properly chastised, grimacing and looking away from her. “I… Words can not adequately explain the regret I feel, Christine. Nothing I can say would do it justice, would properly make it up to you.”
“So why are you here now, Erik?”
It was a simple enough question, one she was fairly confident she knew the answer to, but still... She wanted to hear it straight from him, no more cryptic messages, uncertainty.
Erik clenched his jaw, and the hand on the railing balled into a fist. He took a second, staring at somewhere behind her before he focused on her. “Because I was hoping against all hope that you and I could try again. Ten years without you, it— I feel like I had a lot of soul searching to do, and I would daresay that I did.”
A soft laugh escaped her despite it all, her heart skipping a beat at the prospect. “I will be the judge of that.”
His eyes widened ever so slightly. “W-What?”
Tilting her chin up, she said, “I accept. Let us try again.”
His knees wobbled. “You— Christine, you are married! Not to mention the boy—”
“Gustave.”
A half-delirious laugh fell from those ruined lips. “Do you actually…? Christine, I— I deserve no such thing…”
“Poppycock,” she said, and then she reached up to pull him down for a kiss.
The slide of their lips was familiar, even after all these years. Erik’s uneven lips, bloated on one side and thin on the other, yet so warm, a stark contrast from his ever-cool skin.
Then there was a noise, and Christine could not discern if it was a choked sob or a moan, but she laughed nonetheless. She slowly pulled away, fondly looking up to her Erik so frozen before her, her hand slipping from his neck.
Erik caught it, gentle, fingers sliding around her slender wrist and a soft sigh falling from his lips. His eyes were still closed, as if still relishing the feel of her lips on his. Knowing him, he may very well do so.
He looked so much older, then, the ten years having wrinkled his handsome face ever more. She could see the frown lines, now, the ever downward curl of his lips. Without thinking she reached over and cupped his cheek, smiling softly.
“Christine,” he said at last, but it was more of a reverent whisper. “I do not deserve…”
“No, you do not,” she readily agreed. “But I made my choice ten years ago, and you forced me in this current situation by leaving. Raoul is most undoubtedly getting drunk downstairs in the bar, which I assume you have something to do with, and it is not like my Vicomtesse status allows for much singing or passion of any kind. Be the dutiful wife and mother, not that I much mind those roles, but… Well. The title of Vicomtesse… it is stifling, as I knew it would be, but I have held out all these years. To have you here now… It is an easy decision.”
Erik stared at her, dumbfounded yet proud all the same. “You have not changed a bit.”
A soft smile. “I have changed enough, I can only hope you have, too.”
His face fell, and he let her wrist go. “I… After what I just…”
“You will atone,” she said firmly, making it clear he had no choice. “Because that was outright horrifying, but… I have missed you.” Her voice softened once more.
He took a step towards her, eyes wide and wanting, yet clearly not wanting to initiate for fear of crossing boundaries, doing the wrong thing.
Instead, she fondly rolled her eyes and took him by the cravat—since when did he wear those?—and yanked him down for another kiss, so familiar and heated and passionate it very well took her breath away. Raoul did not kiss her like this.
They parted with a soft gasp, and Christine took a moment longer to hold onto his cravat, feeling the expensive fabric, his hot breath ghosting over her lips. She sighed. “You should go, Erik. Raoul is bound to return, for I assume there is no Hammerstein downstairs, and we have much to discuss.” Fiery eyes glared up to the spectre. “This will go how I want it, Erik. No games, manipulations, ghostly presences, only healthy discussions between man and wife about their relationship. You stay out of it.”
He looked like he wanted to protest, but then he took another second to think it over and instead simply huffed and nodded. He motioned to the amusement park in the distance. “I own Phantasma”—and that had Christine laugh, because of course he did—“you can find me there when you are ready to. I— Well, I would say it would also be an enjoyable day for Gustave. We have many exciting attractions for children. Even if you are not yet ready, it can be a fun day for all of you.”
A laugh. “You need not advertise it, Erik. We already were planning to go there, even before you made your presence known. Now shoo, down that trellis you go.” Finally she let his cravat go, and both looked quite displeased to have to part again. It wouldn’t be long, they would see each other soon.
That knowledge must have drifted through Erik’s mind, too, for with a steadying nod he finally stepped out of Christine’s personal space and went back to the edge of the balcony. He glanced back at her once more, and he flashed her such a boyishly sweet smile that for a moment it felt like she was back in the opera under his adoring gaze.
Then he turned and swiftly swung his legs over the railing and deftly made his way down.
With a soft smile she watched him climb down and hop on the ground with practised ease, and they shared another look before he grinned and started walking away.
“He is nowhere to be found!” Raoul burst inside and Christine cringed at the noise, but did not move from her watching Erik, intent on keeping him in sight as long as she could.
Only once did he turn to look back at her, though she could not discern his expression from that distance now. Still, he gave a feeble and almost boyish wave to her, visible even in the darkness. She did not bother fighting the smile curling her lips.
“Christine?” Raoul stepped up towards her, hand reflexively moving to slip around the low of her back.
Immediately she pushed it away and finally snapped up to look at her husband. The fire in her eyes must have been fierce, indeed, for he made a noise and took a step back.
Quite simply, with her chin tilted up, she said, “Things have changed, Raoul.”