Chapter Text
Erik stepped lightly through the dark corridor between the opera walls; a single lantern was his only light source in the cold, familiar blackness. He walked with a purpose tucked firmly in his pocket: a note for the manager detailing how abysmal the new harp player has been the past week and how the stagehands, specifically Buquet, need to pay more attention to their ques.
On his trek, he walked by the dressing room of the ballet girls, their endless chittering seeping through the walls and into Erik’s ears. He rolled his eyes as he tried (and failed) to ignore their conversation.
“Just a few verses, please.” “Please, we want to hear you sing.” “Come on, just for us.” Their little voices pleaded.
Despite the temptation to stay and see potential talent, Erik had opera ghost
business to attend to. He had a reputation to uphold, so his time could not be interrupted by some ballet girl.
“Alright, fine. If you all insist.”
Erik stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of her melodic voice. It was unfamiliar to him, so she must be new because Erik knew of every soul employed at the opera. His notes were forgotten as he strained his ears to hear what was beyond the thin walls.
Erik was amazed by the sound that spilled from the mystery girl’s lips, his golden eyes widening and his jaw hanging slightly open. Even raw and untrained, the girl’s vocals were beautiful. Just imagine what she would sound like if she cultivated her talent.
Swiftly and quietly as he could, he sat down the lantern and hat and pressed his ear against the cold wall. As the words poured out, visions of summertime swirled in his head, of trickling streams, chirping birds, and sunlight peeking through the leaves of trees. Her voice was gorgeous, and he could drown in it. No, he wanted to drown it.
“That was beautiful, Christine.” One of the Ballet girls complimented.
Christine: the girl with the voice of summertime.
Erik would have stayed longer to see if Christine would sing again, but, alas, with a bang of her stick, Mme. Giry collected the ballet girls for last-minute practices before the night’s Opera.
Erik turned and resumed his walk to the manager’s office, but Christine still weighed heavy on his mind.
_______
On the stage of the opera house, practice was in full motion. The ballet girls danced, occasionally interrupted by Mme. Giry’s instructions and scolding. The stagehands made sure all the set pieces were in place, and Piangi and M. Reyer stood at the piano practicing bits and pieces of music that the former had been struggling with.
All of this was observed by the accursed Phantom of the Opera, who sat with his legs dangling off the rafters. His eyes flitted through the army of ballerinas, trying to find that voice of summer. While he should be getting ready for that night’s performance, he needed to find the face of the girl whose melodies clouded his mind.
“Meg Giry! Christine Daaé! Pay attention!” Mme. Giry shouted at the two girls off to the side, chatting and giggling between songs.
Can it be, Erik thought, leaning so far forward he was in danger of falling.
She is beautiful, he thought, his infatuation with her flared as his eyes took in her every feature. Her silky, auburn hair was wound into tight curls that framed the delicate features of her face. Her eyes sparkled with a life Erik never knew, and her smile conveyed a warmness he had never received. He could never imagine anyone who could look more exquisite than she.
His golden gaze stayed on the woman until the hour grew late, and everyone ran to their places. With a sigh, Erik rose and went to his private box.
______
Erik sat in a stiff armchair with a high back, watching the embers in his grand fireplace slowly die. Like most hours of Erik’s day, his mind went back to the angel that had descended from heaven and into his life: Christine Daaé.
For the past few weeks, Erik’s infatuation with the chorus girl grew into something practically unknown to him: love. He was madly in love with Christine. Her voice inspired him, and he made more progress in composing than in the months before he heard her. She was his love, his angel, his muse!
He had always slightly struggled with the romantic aspects of his magnum opus: Don Juan Triumphant. Since he had never experienced the feeling, it was difficult to nail down what words to use or what string of notes made up the melodies; however, when he met Christine, inspiration sprang forth like a rushing waterfall. He could not believe such feelings, such passion, could flow through him and onto the paper.
However, her voice was not the only thing he loved about her.
While it drew him in, her kindness made him stay. She was always encouraging to her fellow dancers, would help the younger girls who struggled and gave even the nastiest people all the patience in the world. Perhaps she could extend those courtesies to him.
The rational part of his mind chastised him for that notion. How could she, an angel of heaven, love him, the living corpse, he thought, his hand lightly tracing his porcelain mask that sat firmly on his face. Where she was kind, he was cruel; where she was beautiful, he was disgusting. The moment she sees him, truly sees him, she will run away, and who could blame her? So, Erik is resigned to a life of watching her, pining from a distance.
Still, she deserved more than a chorus girl. She should be the one in the spotlight, not Carlotta. If only she had the training to rival the prima donna. He considered writing another note to the manager, demanding Christine get proper vocal lessons, but he felt he was pushing too many demands at once. Besides, he doubts whoever they can find would ever be able to get her to her full potential.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, trying to identify a practical solution.
The obvious choice was to teach her himself, but he needed to figure out how it could work. Maybe he did not have to be physically infront of her, of course! He had appeared in a disembodied voice as the Phantom before; he could do it again. Still, it could frighten her, and he never wanted that. He would have to be gentle, something he was not used to.
He will make this work. He is sure of it. He will help his beloved and purify her voice of summer.