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Chapter Text

Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!

Tu pure, o Principessa,

nella tua fredda stanza,

guardi le stelle...

         Erik sang quietly to himself, wandering behind the walls of vacant, dusty rooms. This wing of the Opera house was largely empty—of people, at least. Some of the rooms were crammed floor-to-ceiling with old props, costumes, posters, and more, but Erik couldn't care less about any of that. It was all junk anyway, or it wouldn't be stored in these dusty rooms. No, it was the lack of people that drew him here. This was the only place above ground that Erik felt free enough to sing, to hum, to make any noise at all. It was a nice break from the glorified basement below. 

…che tremano d'amore

e di speranza.

         The song was from Turandot, one of his favorite operas and one currently being prepared for rehearsal. Erik idly wondered if they would perform the opera in French or in its native Italian. It sounded much better in Italian, but performing it as such would only help the intolerable diva La Carlotta, who would surely be given the role of Turandot. Anything that made her life easier was to be avoided at all cost, in Erik’s book.

Ma il mio mistero chiuso in me;

il nome mio nessun sapra!

No, No! Sulla tua bocca lo diro quando—

                “Who’s there?”

                The frightened voice stopped Erik mid-phrase. The echo of his song was still resonating in the air when the girl spoke again.

                “Hello? Who’s there?”

                Erik froze on the spot. Was she talking to him? Had he been discovered?

                Usually, the only way the residents of the opera house sensed his presence was through shadows or notes--nothing this blatant. He wasn’t sure what to do. The voice was coming from around the corner: the direction he needed to go to get out of this wing. And leaving had suddenly become an urgent necessity. But if he pressed forward, he risked being seen. Cautiously, he peeked around the corner and saw an unexpected influx of light. He jerked back into the shadows, surprised. Was his passage open to that room? Surely not. He couldn’t imagine having designed something so stupid. He risked another look, and saw that the light was coming from a rectangular hole in the wall, set into a shallow alcove. That’s when he remembered.

                The two-way mirror had been installed mainly for Erik’s protection; to ensure he didn’t walk in on an occupied room. This wing wasn’t intended to be as empty as it was, and it was vital--crucial--that he never be seen. But as the years went on and the rooms stayed vacant, the mirror was covered with a dust-cloth and Erik had forgotten it was there. But now, the room was far from empty. Lamplight bathed the walls in an orange glow, illuminating costumes and shoes strewn on chairs and across the floor. It was clear that the occupant of the room had been in the middle of moving in when Erik interrupted her.

                And then she stepped into the square light herself. She was young, twenty, maybe. Short for a dancer, but she had the right physique. Erik didn’t recognize her, but he could hardly tell any of the dancers apart except for the Giry girl, and that was only because of her mother. But this girl had long brown curls, where Meg’s were blonde.

                The girl stood in the center of the room, blocking some of the light from passing through the mirror. She had a strange look on her face, something between fear and curiosity. She scanned the room, listening, but when no voice came she appeared to lose interest, and went back to her costumes with a shrug. Erik watched her for a moment, wondering who this girl was and why she had been given a dressing room in the most remote part of the building. Given her ever-expanding wardrobe, she was going to have a hell of a time running on and off stage from all the way back here. Perhaps he could send a note to the managers and make this poor girl’s life easier.

                Erik observed her struggling with her costumes for a moment more, then continued quietly past the girl’s room. He tried to shake off his uneasiness. He'd been startled to see that foreign light, to remember the long-forgotten mirror. If he'd recalled its presence sooner, it might have proven quite useful in his observations of the opera house. But with this girl occupying the room, it would be difficult to get any use out of it. And how mortifying it would be, if he passed the alcove as she was dressing! Yes, he had to get her out of there at once. 

                But that letter would be written later. It was almost time for the night's performance-- The Marriage of Figaro. The last show of the season, before summer rehearsals began for the next. He didn't particularly like the show--it was no Turandot, but he felt obligated to see it one last time. His days would become far more boring when the performances ended, filled with nothing but eavesdropping on rehearsals and bitter letters to the managers regarding flaws in the casting and choreography. So he descended the many steps to his cavernous home below the opera house, dressing in his finest evening suit before taking his place in box five.

                “It was him! I know it was!” Christine whispered fervently to Meg as they unlaced their pointe shoes. The incident had occurred just before the performance began, and it was the first chance Christine had gotten to relay her story. Meg tried to keep up, but honestly had difficulty believing her friend's story.

                Meg rolled her eyes. “You probably just heard Piangi warming up in his dressing room, or... something like that.” She sounded less confident than she felt.

                “You know where my dressing room is!" Christine countered. "How would I hear anyone from back there?”

                Meg frowned. It was a good point. “Pipes? I don’t know. It’s a better explanation than yours, though. The voice of your dead father? Really, Christine.” She scoffed.

                “No, not him,” Christine sighed. “An Angel. The Angel of Music! He’s come to teach me, just like Papa told me.”

                Meg felt a twinge of sympathy run through her. Gustave's death had hit her friend hard--it still hurt her, even after three years. Perhaps it was harmless to let her believe this fairytale. 

                “Look,” Meg said as gently as she could, “my feet hurt and I have a headache. Let’s just… figure it out tomorrow, alright?”

                She could see Christine’s disappointment, could see that she wanted to go on about her father and this so-called angel. But she couldn't hide her relief when Christine said "Goodnight, then," and retreated to her bed. After hanging up her point shoes, Meg followed, and sleep took her in moments. 

                Erik nearly laughed aloud when he overheard the girl's proposal. An angel? That was hardly fitting. He was as close to being an Angel as a cat was to being a loaf of bread. It was a ridiculous notion. No, he had too many stains on his soul to be anything near angelic. In fact, given his past and his appearance, most would say his affinities lied with hell. Many had, in fact, to his face and behind his back. He had been called "demon", "gargoyle", "devil", and even worse more times than he could count. He had even been known as the Angel of Death during his time as an assassin. But when the girl, Christine, called him "Angel", it was with no hint of malice. In fact, there was a sense of reverence in her voice. And he had to admit it was refreshing to hear someone speak highly of him. The girl didn’t know anything about him of course, not really, but it still made Erik smile. He almost wished he was an angel, if only to please her.

               He was much more careful in his corridors now, searching for other forgotten openings. But the only one seemed to be into Christine's dressing room, and he stayed well away when he could. But one day, returning from the roof, he hadn't been thinking, and his feet walked their familiar path instead of the long way he'd not yet become accustomed to taking. He reached the end of her hallway before realizing where he'd gone. He sighed. Backtracking would take at least twenty minutes, especially when circumventing the traps he'd set at random intervals. It wouldn't hurt to sneak by just this once. He'd not make a habit of it, but just this once, it would be alright. 

               He'd taken a few steps when he heard it, echoing softly around the corner. A clear soprano voice, singing a tune he didn't recognize, in a language that sounded harsh to his ears. German? No--Swedish. It was not one of the many languages he could speak with fluency, but he recognized enough words to know she sang about fishing. Intrigued, he followed the sound. Had they moved another girl to this wing? A vocalist? If so, she was merely a chorus girl, judging by the poorly-developed technique. But, though Erik didn't know the words she sang, he could still feel the emotion the girl concentrated into her voice. It was impressive really, the conviction with which she sang--even though her breath support was weak and her higher notes shallow. This was a song about loss, there was no question. A drowning, then? He couldn't be sure. 

               As Erik travelled the passageway, he tried to determine which room the voice was coming from. It would be hard to know for sure; the passages had such confusing acoustics. He'd have to go to the next level and look down to be sure. He passed another room and another, and was coming up on the room with the mirror, the dancer's room. He slowed his steps, moving as quietly as possible so as not to rouse her suspicion once more. He glanced into the alcove as he passed, out of simple curiosity, and stopped dead. There was no vocalist, he realized. The voice came from her, from the dancer. 

               It would have been an unimpressive voice, had it belonged to a true singer. Clear and expressive, but lacking any technical skill. But this dancer could not have been classically trained, not in vocal technique. Was it possible that she sounded so good untaught?

               She turned towards the mirror, and any remaining doubt vanished. He could see her lips moving, her chin bobbing a little too much as she sang higher. The voice was hers, alright. And it was being wasted. She'd never get to develop it, he realized, not while she was so focused on her dancing. Not ever, most likely. What a shame. If she sang this well now, Erik struggled to imagine her potential if fully trained. Did she even know what a gift she had? Erik thought back to her conversation with the Giry girl. "He's come to teach me," she'd said. At the time, Erik had paid no notice to these words. But now he wondered what she meant by them. Teach her to sing? Is that why she sang now, to lure back whatever presence she thought she'd heard days earlier? To lure him back?

               The song ended, and with a deep breath she began again, sounding fatigued, but far better than he would have expected from someone with her lack of training. Whatever her purpose, she had certainly gotten his attention. Erik did want to teach her. He wanted to coax her talent from whatever place it hid inside her, to hone it, to transform her into an instrument of beauty. 

               And she wanted a teacher. An Angel.

               A dangerous thought crossed his mind. What if... what if he played along? He would pretend to be this Angel, give her what she wanted, in return for the chance to shape her voice. He was such a lonely man, after all. This girl could prove to be a distraction to him at least, if not a friend. And it would be nice to have a legacy to leave behind. A protégé of sorts. And best of all, she never need know of Erik’s evil deeds, or his disfigurement. He would teach her from the shadows, never revealing himself, posing as her Angel of Music. 

               It was practically perfect. Why not?

               Erik shook himself. There were a thousand reasons "why not". What a stupid idea. He dismissed it and forced himself to turn away, to continue down the corridor and ignore her ringing voice.

               But even after days had passed, the notion stayed stuck in his mind. It gained traction with every passing hour, clawing its way to the front of his thoughts, until he finally found himself standing before the rectangle of light, peering through the murky glass. One last protest of this is insane! invaded his mind, but there was no going back now. With more certainty than he’d had about anything in a long time, Erik parted his lips and sang:

                “I am your angel of music.”

Chapter Text

                Christine stood in the center of her dressing room. It was late, nearly midnight, but it was the only time she could speak to her Angel. She had hurried back from rehearsal as fast as she could to make the most of her lesson. She was exhausted-- no doubt due to the lack of sleep these lessons caused--but she wouldn’t miss this for the world. She'd come a long way in just two months, and she didn't want to lose a fraction of her progress.

               "Good evening, Angel," she greeted, shutting the door softly behind her. 

               "Good evening." His soft tenor voice responded. She shivered, despite herself.

                The focus for tonight’s lesson was to be stamina. Christine’s breath support was embarrassingly lacking, which meant she wasn't singing as long or as high as she could. It had gotten better, her Angel assured, but there was always room for improvement. 

               He instructed her through a series of long tones, and Christine struggled to hold each note as long as she could. As usual, when she got higher, her voice began to falter. Her notes got shorter and softer as she ran out of air.

                “Hold it out, Christine.” Her Angel encouraged. “Next one, higher!”

                Christine held the note for a few fragile seconds and then broke it off, gasping. Her lungs weren’t used to this kind of strain, and maybe it was the lack of sleep, but she began to feel lightheaded. Her Angel must have noticed this, because he gave her a moment to catch her breath.

                “Christine,” he began, “you must think of the note as something concrete, as if it exists before you give it life. All you are doing is providing the instrument for it to fill, allowing it to gain volume and project. When you breathe, shape your diaphragm around the note, don’t strain to fill it. That will only ever lead to a thin, painful sound.”

                “Yes, Angel.” She breathed.

                “From the abdomen, do you understand?"

                She nodded, already preparing her breath for the next round.

                Christine began the exercise once more, starting low and concentrating on her breath support. This time, a power filled her voice which hadn’t been there before. Each note held a little longer and louder as Christine focused on her sound. The lightheadedness returned, but Christine pushed through it, resting her hand on the vanity to keep herself from swaying.

                The exercise ended and Christine smiled to herself, cool beads of sweat collecting on her neck from the exertion. It was the first time she’d made it all the way through. Even though she had to breathe deeply to fend off the dizziness, she knew she was making progress.

               "Better." Her Angel remarked. "Let's move on."

               They went through two more exercises, each focusing on another aspect of Christine's breathing. The lightheadedness was becoming hard to ignore, and was even accompanied by a bit of nausea. Christine reminded herself to get more sleep this week, and perhaps to eat a bit more. Shoving her discomfort aside, she continued to sing.

                After an hour, the lesson was coming to a close. This was Christine's favorite part. At the end of every meeting, her Angel allowed her to sing something of her own choosing. It forced her to apply what she'd been learning, but it was also great fun for them both. 

               "Whenever you're ready." Her Angel said kindly.

               Tonight, she had prepared Ritorna Vincitor from the modern opera Aida. She took a deep breath, banishing her lightheadedness, and began to sing.

Ritorna vincitor!
E dal mio labbro uscì l'empia parola!

               Christine's usual performance butterflies were more insistent tonight, accompanied by a wave of nausea. She swallowed it down, determined to make it through the song and prove her stamina, like her Angel had taught her.  

Vincitor del padre mio di lui
Che impugna l'armi per me
Per ridonarmi una patria,
Una reggia e il nome illustre
Che qui celar m'è forza!

                Christine sang fervently, doing her best to support each note with a strength she had rarely attempted. She was sweating from the effort--a cold sweat that clung to the fabric of her dressing gown. The fluttering in her stomach rose, and as she sang higher, a violent chill shuddered down her spine.  

Vincitor de'miei fratelli ond'io lo vegga,
Tinto del sangue amato,
Trionfar nel plauso dell'Egizie coorti!

                She reached the final note, but it was too much for her, and she broke off with a gasp. The room began to swim before her eyes, and she grasped the vanity to try and steady herself. Freezing beads of sweat rolled down her back, making her shiver, and her hands grew sticky. Something wasn’t right.

                Fearing her legs wouldn't hold her much longer, Christine reached for the chair near the vanity, but couldn’t quite find it. When had she started seeing double? 

                Her Angel must have seen that something was wrong. "Christine, are you all right?" He asked. His voice turned distorted in her ears.

                “I—I don’t… feel…” Christine reached for the chair again and lost her balance. She collapsed ungracefully to the floor as the world went black.

                Erik stood dumbstruck, staring at the motionless heap in the middle of the dressing room floor. What was he supposed to do? He had heard of ladies fainting because of tight corsets, but it didn't appear that Christine was wearing one under her dressing gown. He ran through other possibilities. Heat? No, it was mild in the corridor, and there was no fire burning in her fireplace. Perhaps it was just the strain of his breathing exercises. He rubbed the back of his neck, afraid to do anything as he waited for her to wake up.

                Seconds turned into minutes and Christine showed no sign of movement. Erik began to pace in the small alcove behind the mirror. What if something was really wrong? He couldn’t exactly go fetch a doctor. No, that would mean far too many questions. But he couldn't just leave her there...

                Too much time had passed. It was clear that Christine wasn’t going to get up on her own. Erik reached out towards the lock on the mirror frame before pulling his hand back sharply in a moment of doubt. It would be just his luck for Christine to wake up as soon as he stepped in to check on her. Or worse, for someone else to walk in on his unfamiliar form leaning over the young dancer. He let out a frustrated groan. But he threw another glance over at her pale, clammy face, and made his decision.

                With a click that sent specks of rust flying, the lock sprang open, and Erik stepped into the room.

                He crossed to Christine in two long strides and knelt next to her. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, but Erik had to admit that she didn’t look well. She was pale as death, and her hair was visibly soaked with sweat. The heat that radiated off of her was not comforting, either. He attempted to revive her with a gentle shake, but to no avail. Her only answer was a quiet moan. Erik was seized with indecision. What did he do with her now? If Madame Giry was still around, perhaps he could leave her a note and... But no, it was the middle of the night. It would be hours until she got it. But he couldn't take Christine to his home...could he? Did he have a choice?

                There was a knock at the door, and a young feminine voice called out. "Christine?" 

               The unexpected voice startled Erik into action. With a panicked urgency, he gathered up the girl in his arms. She was light, lean like any dancer, but her short stature made her even easier to carry. Erik stepped through the mirror and into the darkness beyond, locking the unwelcome visitor out behind him. Cradling a semi-conscious Christine, he made his way into the bowels of the opera house.

Chapter Text

            Christine fluttered in and out of consciousness. Wild with fever, her dreams merged with reality and everything took on the quality of a strange hallucination. Everything she saw became a surreal incarnation of itself, fighting its way through her nightmares with a haunting ferocity. Chaos tore through her mind.

            She saw a strange mist that settled over an impossibly vast cavern. The swaying motion of a ship at sea. A thousand candles burning like the fires of hell coming to swallow her up. The face of a man made out of solid white marble…

            Erik couldn’t believe his stupidity in bringing her here. Sooner or later she was going to wake up and start asking far too many questions that he couldn’t answer. It had been a lapse in judgement that could cost him everything. A moment of panic.

            But he couldn’t turn back now. Besides, she had trusted him up to this point. As long as she believed he was an angel, he could lie himself out of this. He had to.

            Erik deposited Christine on the chaise in the great room of the basement. She was closer to consciousness now, squirming fitfully against whatever fever dreams ravaged her mind. He covered her in a blanket to dispel her shivers and turned away in search of an artifact of his past. He was not an organized person, but he knew exactly where the item in question was housed.

            Disguised as a book, the chest of poisons sat alone on an ornate end table in his bedroom. It was one of his only possessions left over from his days as an assassin in Persia. Not his weapon of choice, but the poisons had been useful when subtlety had been necessary.  He pressed the hidden clasps and the false pages sprung apart, revealing the hollowed-out section inside. He searched the rows of neatly laid-out deaths for a moment before retrieving a black jar the size of his thumb. The contents inside, in larger doses, served as a potent but slow-acting poison. He had used it only once in this way; to send one of the khanum's more despised enemies to a miserable, drawn-out death. In minuscule amounts however, the substance had therapeutic properties. That was why he'd searched for it.

            Moving to his improbable underground fireplace, Erik put on a pot of water and added a single drop of the murky black liquid. He then rummaged through his tea chest and dropped in a serving of his favorite leaves. When the concoction grew fragrant, he took it off the fire and poured it into a cup. For the next several hours, he fed it in small sips to Christine whenever she seemed somewhat responsive.

            Christine still did not wake up, but her sleep grew less fitful. Deciding he had done all he could do, Erik left her alone to rest and sat at his writing desk, where a half-finished aria from Don Juan Triumphant sat waiting for him. He examined his work for a moment and frowned. With a sigh, he crumpled up the paper and tossed it behind him. He took out a blank sheet, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and started again.

            Christine sat up drowsily. A cloud of confusion still obscured her thoughts, but she no longer felt lightheaded or queasy as she had in her dressing room.

            Dressing room? This was not her dressing room. She looked around, her blurred vision revealing opulent furniture of gold and red and ivory. The velvet chaise she lay upon faced the mouth of a wide cavern, through which the sound of lapping water echoed. An ornate Persian tapestry hung high on the rocky wall.

            Where was she?

            Bits and pieces of strange memories danced just out of reach, and Christine’s addled mind somehow came to the near-correct conclusion that this was the heavenly domain of her Angel of Music. The idea was confirmed when the familiar tenor voice floated quietly from a doorway behind her. Christine rose, fighting the heaviness in her limbs, and wandered vacantly toward it.

            She pushed back the curtain that served as a door and her gaze fell on the back and shoulders of a man that could only be her Angel. He was deeply engaged in some sort of work at the writing desk, humming absently to himself as he wrote. She approached him, in a trance-like state, until she was merely an arm’s length away. Her vision had begun to clear, and she noticed for the first time that he wore a mask over the right side of his face. The image of the marble-faced man from her dream surfaced in her mind, and she wondered drowsily at the smooth white perfection of the leather that so resembled sculpted stone. The mask must have limited his vision, because Christine was able to get impossibly close without being noticed. Still captivated, she reached out a trembling hand to lay her fingers on his face…

            Erik slammed his hand down on his right cheek, forcing his mask back into place and trapping Christine’s palm. His heart beat wildly as panic coursed through him. What had almost happened flashed through his mind in precise detail. It wasn't hard  to imagine--he had been unmasked before. He knew all too well the shame and hatred that came with it. But having kept his mask from leaving his face, shame was not what he felt at the moment. He alternated between being furious at Christine and relieved that he had stopped her. His hand on hers began to shake, signaling an imminent breakdown. He had to redirect his thoughts. 

            Erik inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself. It didn't happen. Nothing happened. With a shaky sigh, he curled his fingers around hers, which still rested against his mask.

            “What you would find there, Christine,” he whispered with great effort as he lifted her hand away from his face, “would change the way you’d look at your Angel forever.”

            He released her trembling fingers and adjusted the mask, ensuring it hadn't moved out of place, then turned in his chair to face his guest. Christine gaped at him with wide eyes, and for a moment Erik panicked, wondering if his mask was still ajar. But then he came to the startling realization that this was the first time she had lain eyes on him. For all she knew, she was gazing upon the divine. Erik flushed under his mask.

            Christine didn’t speak to him, only wobbled a little on her feet. She was still pale but no longer radiated heat. It seemed that his tonic had brought down her fever during the night, with the unfortunate side-effect of altering her consciousness. Her eyes were glassy and dilated as she took in the room, largely ignoring Erik now that he was still and quiet. With a final calming breath, Erik rose from his desk, towering over her. He was glad he had not scared her. It had clearly not been her intention to hurt him--she wasn't nearly cognizant enough to make such an effort. He took her hand and gently led her back into the living room.

            By the time she was safely back on the chaise, it was clear to Erik that though Christine’s body was wide awake, her mind was not. Her gaze roved around the room and the only sounds she made were soft hmms here and there. Perhaps he'd over-estimated the dose. She was so tiny, after all. But it would take far more to kill her, Erik knew that much. She would end up alright, even if it took a bit longer than expected. She just needed time and some more rest.

            Erik fetched her a blanket and settled into the armchair across from her to ensure she didn’t wander off again. She wriggled limply for a while, clutching at invisible assailants, but eventually fell peacefully asleep.

            Finally she was still, and Erik really looked at her for the first time without murky glass between them. He had never before noticed quite how long her hair was. It had tumbled out of her pins at some point, some strands reaching all the way to her waist even as she lay down. The curls were wild and dense, and fluffy shorter segments collected around her face like a cloud. Erik found himself wanting to push them away, to run his fingers through—

            Erik’s head snapped back as if he had been struck. He blinked in astonishment at the direction of his thoughts. He glanced back at Christine, asleep on his chaise in his home, and felt a strange tug at the base of his stomach. He frowned. What was he doing? What was he thinking?

            He stood up, sending the afghan he had wrapped around his legs to the floor. Turning abruptly, he went back into his study and pulled the curtain closed. He needed a distraction. He dipped his pen into the inkwell and scrawled out a melody for Don Juan. He wrote blindly, not even sure if what he was putting down made musical sense. But then again, did his work ever make musical sense? When he came to the end of the melody, he sat back and examined the pages. A sick feeling settled in Erik's stomach when he saw the ominous title he had given the piece in his frenzy.

            The Point of No Return.

            What had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Text

                A strange mist that settled over a vast cavern. The swaying motion of a ship at sea. A thousand candles burning like the fires of hell coming to swallow her up. The face of a man made of solid white marble…

                Christine pulled herself out of the dream and opened her eyes. When she raised her gaze, she was startled to find the white silhouette of her Angel’s mask facing her, unmoving and fearsome in its strange, synthetic beauty. She waited expectantly for him to notice her alertness, but he remained still.

                As the sands of sleep cleared from her eyes, Christine realized that he was still because he had fallen asleep. His head rested against the high arm of the chair, and he sat unmoving and silent, like the marble statue he so resembled. Christine allowed herself this opportunity to fully take him in for the first time.

                The first thing she noticed was his height. He looked as if someone had grabbed him by the wrists and ankles as a child and stretched him out. He was tall, at least six feet, with long arms and legs and fingers, and a lean shape. He wore some sort of dressing gown, foreign-looking in its shape and design with golden dragons adorning the cuff, mouths wide and snarling. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and stuck up in little endearing tufts where his head rested against the chair. Her eyes moved across his face next. His jaw was defined but not square, and his nose, covered almost entirely by the mask, was long and elegantly pointed. Beneath the shadow of the mask, his lips were full like a woman’s, and when she examined them, she glimpsed a stretch of ruined flesh that extended beyond the mask to his mouth. She looked away, the Angel’s warning from the night before emerging from her hazy memory to scold her.

                Her head was much clearer now, and with a vague sense of familiarity she inspected the cavernous room she found herself in. She was underground, that much was clear, and a brief memory of travelling down a dimly-lit tunnel flitted across her mind. She saw the curtain that led to the study she’d wandered into the night before, as well as several others that presumably served different rooms. The place was impossibly massive.

                Christine turned her attention back to the slumbering giant before her, and felt a sudden and overwhelming urge to touch him, to see if he could somehow be real. She leaned across the space between them and brushed a finger across his knee. She was almost surprised to feel solid flesh and bone.

                At that moment, Christine came to an unsettling realization. Her “Angel of Music” was not an angel at all, but simply a mortal man.

                Drawing her hand back, she tried to put aside the discomfort she felt at this fact. But thinking about a real, living man peering into her dressing room to speak with her almost every day for two months sent a shiver down her spine. It felt inexplicably wrong. All of Meg’s warnings came back to her and she felt suddenly queasy.

                Forcing down her nausea, she tried to remind herself that he had presented himself only as a teacher, and had not taken advantage of her in any way. And, though she hadn't realized it before this moment, she supposed she hadn't ever truly believed him to be a divine ghost. Perhaps it made no difference who or what he was; only that he’d given her a great gift by teaching her.

                But why? What motive could he have for donating his time and wisdom to an inexperienced young dancer only beginning to cultivate her voice? Perhaps that was it, she thought with a shudder: her youth. Maybe he thought that with this ruse came an easy way into her bed. Her mouth went dry.

                Shaking the thought away, Christine spotted a pitcher on the table next to the counterfeit angel, and crossed over to it, hoping to swallow away the rising lump in her throat. She lifted it to pour, but underestimated how much her strength had been sapped by the short-lived illness. Instead of picking the pitcher up, to her horror she merely tipped it, and dumped the water directly into her teacher’s lap.

                There was a moment of absolute stillness. Christine froze, forgetting to right the pitcher and continuing to spill on the man beside her, who had not yet awakened. The only sound was the rapid drip drip drip of the water running onto the floor. Time seemed to stop.

                And then the spell was broken. The statuesque figure erupted into movement, cursing as he ripped off his sodden robe and flung it away. His gaze shot to the ceiling, searching for some sort of explanation for the deluge of water. He had not yet seen Christine, who was stationed slightly behind him, and once he had determined that he was not being drowned, his eyes scanned the room, and he seemed to abruptly realize she wasn’t where he’d left her. She saw a look of confused panic cross the naked side of his face when he saw the empty chaise. At that same moment, Christine came back to life. Her fingers loosened on the pitcher and it crashed to the floor.

                Her “Angel” whirled around to face her, his expression wild and fearsome. She scrambled backwards to escape the fury in his features, only to slip in the water, falling inelegantly to the floor and letting out a cry.

                Her tutor stopped charging when he finally got a good look at her. As his gaze moved from the broken pieces to the spilled water to Christine's undignified position, he seemed to figure out what happened. The fire left his eyes and he knelt in front of her.

                “Are you alright?” He asked in his familiar voice. He extended a wiry arm and helped her to her feet. Christine’s tongue finally untied itself, and a flood of apologies escaped her.

                “Your pitcher! I’m so sorry, I only wanted a drink! And your clothes…”

                They both seemed to realize for the first time that, with his dressing gown discarded, he was clothed only in a black linen nightshirt, which was now soaking wet. Christine blushed. Her teacher snatched an afghan off the back of his chair and wrapped himself in it like a child. Christine was still wary of this man--this stranger--but she cracked a smile in spite of herself. The imposing figure before her, all swaddled in a blanket, made for an unusual sight. But then, she supposed everything about this was unusual.

                The chaos seemed to lull, and the man before her broke the silence. “Let’s both sit down, before one of us caves the ceiling in, hm?” Her teacher asked in a hoarse voice. The corners of his mouth turned up—inadvertently exposing more grotesque flesh on the right side of his face. This time, she made an effort not to look away.

                When they had settled in, she on the chaise and he on the sofa next to the waterlogged armchair, Christine asked the question that had been itching her tongue ever since she’d touched his knee and dismissed his claim as “Angel”.

                “Who are you?”

                Her teacher seemed to consider this for a moment, before answering quietly, “My name is Erik.”

                Christine didn't know what to say. A man. A real man with a name, not and Angel. Her stomach churned and she didn't dare speak, for fear she'd scream or vomit or who knew what else. And so the silence stretched on, until her teacher--until Erik cleared his throat.

                “As I’m sure you’ve gathered by now, I’m not an Angel." Was that an attempt at humor in his voice? "Just a man, I'm afraid."

               That wasn't enough for Christine. "But, who are you?" She asked again, too overwhelmed to think of a more eloquent phrasing.

               Erik frowned, revealing more of that twisted flesh by his mouth."I don't wish to speak of my past." He clipped. "Suffice to say it is tarnished with blood and sin, and I hope that is all you wish to hear about it."

               Christine swallowed hard, averting her gaze from his hard yellow eyes. Blood and sin? No, she didn't want to hear any more. Her Angel was far from angelic, it seemed. She would have doubted this man was him at all, if it wasn't for the smooth familiarity of his voice. It was the only constant as her fantasy crumbled around her.

              "I'm sorry if I scared you." Erik finally said, puling Christine from her tangled thoughts. "Are you feeling better?"

               Well, there was a piece of the Angel she knew; kind and concerned. She nodded. 

               "That...That's good." Erik stammered. "You gave me quite a fright when you collapsed." He laughed nervously. 

               Christine's thought raced around her head so quickly she thought she could hear them. He was real. Not an Angel or a dream but a real, living man. Who wore a mask. And... lived underground. Real. Real.

               "Did you ever mean to tell me?" She finally asked once her thoughts organized. "Did you ever plan on revealing who you were?"

               Erik stammered, struggling to form a response. That was answer enough for Christine. 

               "So you planned to lie to me forever, then?" Outrage built in the pit of her stomach. How wrong she had been about this man! Every word a lie until this moment, until fate had intervened and forced his hand. 

               "I merely became what you wanted me to be." He argued, raising an accusatory finger. " And, I doubt you'd have wanted my tutelage if you saw me as I am, as a masked stranger!"

               "Well perhaps I would, if you'd been honest from the start!"

               Erik opened his mouth to respond, but Christine wasn't finished, and before long they were shouting over each other. In the end, the argument came down to a draw when Erik—who had begun pacing at some point—stepped on a piece of the broken pitcher and howled in pain, cutting Christine off mid-rebuttal. Sitting indignantly--and on the wet armchair, no less--he raised his foot and yanked out the shard, releasing a splash of blood onto the stony floor. In the sudden silence, the two of them exchanged concerned looks. With a muffled string of curses, Erik excused himself and stalked off to find a bandage. Christine stayed where she was, slightly shell-shocked. She couldn’t help thinking to herself with a chuckle that if this was the type of blood his past was tarnished with, his life was far more amusing than she’d thought.

Chapter Text

                Christine listened at the entrance to the dormitories, trying to determine if anyone was inside. It was late in the evening, about the time all the dancers came back from their various rehearsals, and she hoped to sneak in unnoticed among the others to avoid the slew of questions that awaited her. But it was not to be. The moment she entered the corridor, the low murmur in the room fell quiet, and it was strikingly obvious that the dancers had been gossiping about her. Camille, a younger dancer who had a spiteful rivalry with Christine, stood center in the cluster of girls, her blanched face betraying her as the instigator. She slunk away to her room like a dog with her tail between her legs.

                Their ringleader gone, the other dancers now focused their curiosity on Christine, not knowing that the answers she would give were no truer than Camille’s. A crowd formed around her as it had Camille, and the chattering girls whispered their suspicions.

                “Did you get engaged? That’s what Marie said!”

                “I said you were ill!” Marie protested.

                “She went to visit her grandmother!” Another voice chimed in.

                “No, I heard she had an audition in Spain!”

                The girls went on and on. Christine had no idea where they were getting these explanations, but it made her job easier. She picked a lie out of the ones handed to her and fed it back to them.

                “It's Jammes who has it right." She explained. "I went to visit my father’s grave two days ago, and ran into an old friend who invited me to stay with her." The lie was not well crafted, but it served its purpose. She added a sentence or two about bad weather delaying her return, and that was that. 

                Somewhat disappointed that their expectations of drama and scandal hadn’t been met, the girls dissipated, easily swallowing her lie. Christine couldn’t believe their gullibility, but was grateful for it. She had escaped suspicion, for now at least.

                Tired, overwhelmed, and still suffering from the dregs of her illness, Christine stumbled appreciatively onto her bed. It was good to once again be surrounded by her own scent and her own belongings, in the familiarity of her own room.

                She expected to fall asleep right away, given her exhaustion, but the events from the days before kept circling through her head, perhaps in an attempt to help her understand them. The face of her Angel—Erik, she reminded herself—swam across the back of her eyelids, specifically the look on his face when she’d asked to return home. He’d agreed with her that she must go back before her absence caused concern, but something in the pull of his features suggested a sense of desperate loneliness that she almost wanted to stay and dispel. Almost.

                Even now, she wasn’t sure what to think of the secretive man that had stood behind her dressing room mirror on so many nights. She supposed if he meant to harm her, he would have done so when she was in his grasp, instead of letting her leave. But then there was the matter of his dishonesty, a matter Christine took great offense to. She had trusted him—somewhat recklessly in retrospect—and he hadn’t even felt the need to give her his name.

                Another vision traveled across her mind: that of the pockmarked flesh that occasionally escaped from the edge of the mask. She shuddered. Perhaps, she realized, he had a reason to be so secretive.

                “Christine!”

                The whispered voice was unexpectedly close to her ear, and Christine muttered a frantic “What?” as she flung her eyes open.

                Meg leaned over the edge of her bed with an inquisitive expression, and Christine had to stifle a groan upon seeing her. She did not want to get into this. It had always been hard to sneak an untruth past Meg, even without so much at stake. Her friend was smart. It would not be easy to weave her way out.

                Meg set her candle down on the floor, casting spectral shadows up onto the two of them, and Christine noticed for the first time how dark and still the room was. It must have been night already. An eerie discomfort overcame her as she recalled what she had learned recently of the things that dwell in shadows.

                Meg hadn’t been there to hear her story the first time around; she’d probably been with her mother. But the girls had been friends since early childhood, and Christine could tell just from the skeptical expression on Meg’s face that she had already heard the lie—and didn’t believe a word of it. Christine tried to bury herself under the blankets.

                “Hey!” Meg exclaimed, grabbing at her. “Come out of there!” Christine reluctantly pulled the covers off of her head.

                “Where have you been?” Meg demanded.

                Christine tried regurgitating the story she’d invented earlier, but Meg wouldn’t have it.

                “You visit your father every other Sunday, Christine. You have ever since I’ve known you.” There was distrust in her voice. “You disappeared on Friday. It’s Sunday now. I want the truth, Daae.”

                “Meg, I told you—”

                She was saved from having to explain further by a disgruntled voice in the next bed over.

                “Meg… Christine… Please. I’m trying to sleep...” Their third roommate drowsily swung an arm at Christine’s bed, accidentally knocking over Meg’s candle. Meg scrambled off Christine’s bed to pick it up, yelping when the hot wax burned her hand.

                “Damn!” Meg cried out and glared at the girl, who now looked apologetic. “I ought to pour some of this on you, Marie!” Meg wagged the candle at her and tried to sound intimidating, but the yawn that interrupted her words proved her threat was empty. Marie laughed.

                Meg stood up in a huff, guarding the flame with her wax-coated fingers. Before she went back to her own bed, she shot a final suspicious glance at Christine.

                “This isn’t over. I want the real story and I’m going to get it.”

                The conversation was concluded with finality by a pillow that launched itself from the adjacent bed, missing Meg’s head by a fraction of an inch.

                “I’m going, Marie! Jesus!”

                "That's not very catholic of you, Meg." Marie teased. Meg shot her a hostile look and finally returned to bed.

                Christine ventured a smile at Marie’s antics, but couldn’t hide her concern about Meg. Sooner or later, her friend would corner her, and she’d have to come up with a better lie. Pushing the thought away, Christine cocooned herself in her blankets in an attempt to ignore the imminent confrontation. It must have worked, because minutes later, she was fast asleep again.

Chapter Text

          Erik paced, glancing occasionally through the mirrored glass into Christine’s dressing room. She hadn’t even stepped foot inside for two whole days. He had settled in that morning just outside of her dressing room for third time, expecting…what? What did he expect to happen? Perhaps it was just irrational hope that kept him waiting for her.

           After everything that had been revealed during Christine’s impromptu venture into his world, was it all going to continue as it had been? Erik was doubtful, but there he was, waiting outside her dressing room nevertheless. He felt like such a fool, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. The hours ticked by, and at midnight Erik finally realized it was hopeless. The girl wasn’t coming.

          He couldn’t deny the pang of shame that raced through him as he turned away. How stupid had he been, believing that she could accept the reality of him, that she would return to him? Even after he showed himself? A freak behind a mirror—that’s all she saw. That’s all anyone ever saw. He grabbed his candle holder from its spot on the floor, careful not to spill the wax out of the dish, and strode down the passageway. He hadn’t even taken five steps when he heard the door to the dressing room slam closed.

          Erik stopped in his tracks. There were very few reasons Christine would be here this late at night. The more obvious one: that her rehearsals had run late and she was just now given the chance to get out of costume. But the one he was hoping for was the other: that she had come seeking him.

          Trying to quash the hope blooming in his chest, Erik walked back to the mirror, cupping his candle flame to keep it from going out. When he looked through the glass, he was startled to see Christine’s face only inches from his. Her breath fogged up the mirror with every exhale. It appeared that she was trying to look through to the other side. To see me? that hopeful part of Erik wondered. But he rolled his eyes at the thought.

          He thought with great sadness of the first time he had spoken to her. It had been quite like this; he with his candle, folded into the small alcove behind the mirror, she with her warm brown eyes searching for his presence. Now, Erik’s company was unwelcome rather than anticipated. He was an intruder on her privacy. He sighed and turned to go.

          “I know you're there.”

          Erik looked back. Christine’s face was still inches from the mirror, and there was no one else in her dressing room. Her voice seemed to fall on no ears but his own. Erik was gripped with optimism. Is she talking to me?

          “Angel? I mean, Erik?”

          At the mention of his name, Erik’s heart skipped. So she did want to see him. He closed the remaining distance to the mirror.

          “Christine.” He answered.

          Christine’s lips turned up in a smile. “I thought you hadn’t come.”

          “I almost didn't.”              

          Christine cringed at the sharpness behind his words. "I’m sorry. I didn't mean to avoid you, I just... I was scared of you, for a while.”

          Erik swallowed hard. “I know.”

          “But, I don’t think I am anymore.”

          Erik was honestly curious. “Why?” He asked.

          Christine stepped back from the mirror, the slightest frown on her brow. “If I’m being honest, I’m not sure.” She stated. “But I do know that if I go for another day without singing for someone, I will most definitely lose my mind.”

          Erik had to laugh at that. “Yes, I don’t doubt that, Christine. You were made to sing the way a bird was made to fly.”

          Christine smirked, but her flippant expression didn't hide the blush creeping across her cheeks.

          “So, may I?” She asked after a moment. “May I sing for you?”

          Her fingers floated up and rested upon the mirror, and despite himself Erik ached to twine his own with them. He contented himself with pressing his hand against hers through the glass, creating the illusion of touch.

          It was almost funny, how much this strange meeting resembled the lessons, but also how much it did not. They were physically in their usual places, but in truth they had come so far in just the past week. Everything was different. The glass between them was not a barrier that either wanted, but neither were ready to remove it. Erik did not dare unlock the frame. The moment was too fragile, one step forward and it would shatter. Best to go on as before.

           “What would you like to sing, Angel?”

          He hadn’t realized what he’d called her until it had already slipped out. Christine looked up in surprise at his use of his own title on her. Erik squeezed his eyes shut, mortified that he had made such a significant flub. So much for continuing as usual, idiot! But through his shame, he had to admit the moniker was much more fitting for her than it had ever been for him.

          Christine answered his question after a moment of contemplation, breaking him from his condemnatory reverie.

          “Do you know O Soave Fanciulla from La Boheme?”

          “Of course I know it.” Erik couldn’t mask his confusion. “But that is a duet, Christine.”

          “I know.” Christine said shyly, her expression turning conspiratory. “And there are two of us here, aren’t there?”

          The moment he realized what she was getting at, Erik’s mouth went dry. He had never sung in front of her before, not knowingly at least. The day they met was the only exception. Other than that day he had merely hummed starting notes or demonstrated techniques for her. But now she not only asked to hear him sing, but to sing with him. Erik shivered. It was a uniquely intimate request.

          Erik cleared his throat and loosened his cravat, trying not to read into the fact that she had just asked him to sing with her in one of the most famous love songs in all of opera.

          “As you wish.” He croaked, grimacing when his voice cracked with nerves. He breathed deeply a few times to clear his lungs, then began to sing for Rodolfo.

“O loveliest of maidens, O sweetest vision,

Bathed in the soft glow of a moonbeam;

In you, I see a dream come to life--

A dream I pray always to dream!”

          Christine joined in as Mimi, her sweet soprano voice overlaying his:

“Ah! You alone command us, O Love!”

          Erik continued, his voice sweeping across the the notes tenderly. The song began to build.

“In the depth of my soul

I tremble with the height of passion.

Your kisses thrill Love itself!”

          And so they went on, overlapping each other and creating sweet harmonies that tugged at Erik’s soul in an unfamiliar way. The duet accelerated and slowed, rose and fell, but neither of them faltered. Their voices flowed as one.

          As they began climbing to the peak of the song, Erik realized that his soul was not the only part of him affected by the music. He was suddenly aware of a mounting pressure in his groin, and he looked down in dread to see a bulge straining at the fabric of his trousers.  

          Erik's voice abruptly dropped out, but Christine kept singing, unfazed.

“I shall stay close to you!

I shall oblige, kind sir!”

 

         Knowing that her next phrase was “I love you”, Erik spoke up to stop her before he lost any more control.

         “That’s enough, Christine!” He shouted. His words were harsh, but he found it hard to care. His focus at the moment was keeping himself together.

         Christine’s voice suddenly cut off, and she seemed to realize for the first time that he had stopped singing. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and her worried eyes were glassy as they focused on the mirror. Despite logic telling him that these were signs of exertion, the desire in Erik saw them as proof that the duet had affected her in the same way. His bulge throbbed.

          “I have to go.” He growled. Without giving Christine a chance to respond, Erik scooped up his candle and half-ran, half-stumbled down the passage. He heard her call after him, and was glad he had left the mirror locked. He couldn’t stand to see her, not now.

          When Erik finally made it home, he was choking back sobs of self-loathing. The pressure in his trousers was easing, but he couldn’t forget that it had happened. Not only was he a monster, but a lustful demon now as well! This little game with Christine had to end. He pressed his hands to his face, as if to squeeze out his shame. When he felt the stiffness of the mask beneath his right palm, he knew what he must do.

          Erik ripped off the white sculpted leather, throwing it aside. He strode into his bedroom and pulled out the mirror he kept behind his wardrobe. Erik was not fond of looking upon his face, but tonight it was a necessity. He leaned the mirror against the wall and turned to face it. He had to force himself not to cringe at the sight of his own reflection.

          He was not as familiar with his own face as any other would be. In fact, he tried to avoid that familiarity at every turn. But if there was anything that could shake him out of his delusions, his hideous face would do it. Erik stared long and hard at the knots of scar tissue that covered his right cheek, fighting back more hateful tears. He then tore open the front of his shirt, exposing innumerable scars from his years of abuse at the hands of the gypsies. Lash marks and keloids and even an old stab wound in his side, all because of hatred for his face.

          At last he had to look away. Not even he could handle his ugliness. How could expect Christine to? Wiping away tears, he returned his mask to its position on his face. The exposure had served its purpose. His optimism was crushed. Desperate for a distraction, Erik ventured into his food cellar, hoping a glass (or perhaps a bottle) of wine would do him some good. He perused the shelves, looking for a suitable vintage, when a glint of green caught his eye.

          Nested behind the wine, covered in dust, was a bottle of Absinthe that Daroga had given him as a parting gift when he left Persia. Erik retrieved the bottle and pondered it. It would certainly be an effective distraction. He glanced between the wine and the murky green liquid.

          Erik sat down in his armchair with the bottle in hand. He opened it and took a swig of the licorice-flavored spirit, without diluting it as any sane person would. Absinthe was a strong liquor, but Erik was not unfamiliar with alcohol. It usually took quite a lot to affect him, and right now, his goal was certainly to be affected. He eyed the green bottle as he took another large swallow. What was the worst that could happen?

          If Erik had been conscious two hours later, he might have known the answer to that question.

          Christine stood at the entrance to his cavernous home after a meandering journey through the hidden corridors. She had finally pried open the mirror door by wiggling a hairpin along the frame and catching the lock. But in the process she had lost nearly an hour.

          The dark passages behind the walls were vaguely familiar, but not enough so to keep her from getting turned around a few times.  It had taken her an additional hour to navigate her way down. She eventually came across the lake and got her bearings, and was relieved when she finally saw the entrance to Erik’s home.

          But her relief quickly turned to concern when she realized one thing.

          She didn’t see Erik. In fact, there was no sign of him. No fire burning, no melody leaking from the music room, nothing. Perhaps he wasn’t home? But where could he go? He wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. And she was sure she would have run into him if he was wandering down a passage somewhere, considering how many wrong turns she had taken.

          Tentatively, she called out for him.

          “Erik?” Her voice echoed through the space. “Are you here?”

          A weak groan responded, and Christine rushed forward to find its source. She saw a discarded shoe behind the armchair, then a foot, and a leg, and then there was Erik lying face down on the floor. He let out another low moan. Alarmed, Christine took him by the shoulders and flipped him over. She regretted it immediately. The front of his shirt was slicked with vomit, and the stench of it—along with a strong smell of alcohol—wafted up to choke her. It didn’t take long for her to decipher the situation: Erik was drunk. She let out a mutter of disgust and stepped away to escape the smell. Her heel came down on something that moved, and Christine almost found herself next to him onto the floor. She bent to examine the object.

          “Absinthe?” She gasped. “A whole bottle? Erik, are you insane?”

          Christine couldn’t decide if she felt angry at or protective of this man. He could have killed himself! What had happened upstairs to push him to such lengths? She looked back down at the mess he sat in and wondered pityingly if something like this had ever happened before. The poor man never had anyone who cared enough to help him. Until now. Christine was determined to get him cleaned up and give him a good scolding for his irresponsibility when he came to. She cared for him, in some strange way, and it hurt to see him like this. 

          Christine knelt down, avoiding the vomit and spilled liquor as much as she could, and gently shook Erik. She had to get him out of the mess before she could clean him up. At her touch, Erik’s eyes fluttered open and rolled around the room for a moment. He finally found her face and a look of gleeful surprise lit his features.

          “Christine!” He slurred.

          “Erik.”

          He blinked with what appeared to be tremendous effort. “What are you doing here?”

          She shook her head in resignation and helped him sit up. “Rescuing you, apparently. Come on.”

          Together, they inched towards his bedroom. Erik was taller than Christine by more than a foot, but luckily for her, he was also rather scrawny. For this reason, she was able to half-drag half-coax him to his bed, where she promptly dropped him. He collapsed, boneless, his head hanging off the foot of the bed. He was knocked out once again.

          Christine had to start somewhere, so she decided it was a good idea to remove his soiled shirt before the mess got onto the bedsheets. There was some vomit on his trousers as well, but she dared not undress him further. She just wiped it away as best as she could and moved on. She was lucky that the great room floor was stone, and that most of the mess had avoided Erik’s lavish rugs. Even then, the cleanup took her nearly half an hour. Every time she thought she’d finished, she would discover another puddle of awful.

          By the time all this was done with, Christine’s dressing gown was as filthy as Erik’s clothes had been. She remembered seeing his elaborate blue dragon robe hanging in the wardrobe in his bedroom, and decided that she was entitled to borrow it, given what she’d just put herself through for his sake. She quickly changed and headed out to the kitchen, hoping to find some tea. As she walked out, Erik let out a tremendous moan and rolled over, nearly falling off the bed. Fortunately for him, she had not left the room yet and was there to catch him and push him back on to the mattress. Or at least, mostly back on to the mattress. He was a big man, after all. His long limbs remained dangling off the sides.

          Trying to prevent him from rolling off the edge again, she lifted his head to put a pillow underneath. As she did so, his mask pulled away from his face a little, and Christine glimpsed a trace of God-knows-what caked underneath.

          Mindlessly, she went to remove the mask to clean him up, and only pulled her hand away at the last second when she realized what she was doing. Erik’s warning floated into her head, but it was not so much what she would see that she was afraid of. After all, she had lived near a military town as a child, and seen many a disfigured face returning from war. No, her concern was for Erik’s trust. He seemed so intent not to let her see beneath his mask, and after his behavior hours earlier she certainly didn’t want to upset him further. She should respect his privacy. But...she couldn't just leave him there with vomit on his face. She considered the dilemma for a moment, a thoughtful frown etched into her brow.

          What Erik didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

          With a deep breath, Christine pulled off the mask. When she looked, she couldn’t stop a shudder of disgust from escaping her. Erik stirred at the sound, and Christine held her breath, praying he wouldn’t wake. A few tense seconds passed, but his eyes stayed closed.

           Christine couldn’t tear her gaze away. Some morbid curiosity kept her eyes glued to the shredded skin. She had expected a deformity after seeing the hints of scar tissue around the edges of his mask. But this…

          She swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on cleaning him up, but her eyes kept returning to the pockmarked flesh that covered his right side. She fought with herself for a moment more, but curiosity won out, and Christine put down the rag for a moment to just look.

          His lips, so perfectly shaped on the left side, spread into a wrinkled mass of pink flesh that stretched out towards his cheek. On his forehead, puckered skin thinned to expose what she could only assume was his skull beneath. His nose was skeletal and slanted to one side, little more than two deep holes between his eyes. The flesh of his cheek was deeply ridged and drawn up to his ear, red and angry, as if being stretched by an invisible hand. His brow was a protruding crest of bone and skin, hairless, which made his eye seem deep and small, like a skull’s. In summary, Erik was terribly, terrifyingly ugly.

          Christine had anticipated something repulsive, given Erik’s effort to hide himself from her.  She imagined that after the mess she cleaned up, she could handle anything. But this was a different kind of disgusting. He looked like a living corpse.

          And yet, she was not afraid. A bit queasy perhaps, but not scared in the least. It was certainly not a pleasant face to look upon--but neither are the faces of most men, she thought. He was no less human than they were, though he might look such. He was a man. A talented man, a kind man. Her friend.

          Her curiosity satiated, she quickly cleaned up what traces of vomit remained on his face and the backside of the mask, returning it to its position. She felt vaguely guilty for her betrayal of sorts, but reminded herself that if all went well, he would never know she had seen. Then it occurred to her that it might be a relief for him to know that she had looked, that she had accepted it. Perhaps she should confess when he woke.

          But it would be a while before that happened, she could tell, so she had some time to decide.  Erik was still very unconscious, so Christine returned to her quest for a cup of tea and journeyed into the kitchen. When the tea was made and the fire in the great room was built back up, Christine retired to the armchair, sipping at her brew. As she sat, the chair let out a wet squelch. The smell of alcohol and vomit wafted up around her. Stoically, Christine set down her teacup, gave a resigned sigh, and stood to fetch a rag.

Chapter Text

            When the first thing Erik saw when he woke was a face leaning over him, he panicked. He was immediately alert, launching himself into a seated position and throwing a hand up to hide his face. For an instant, he was a child again, back in his cage under the cruel gazes of those eager to see “The Devil’s Child.” He could almost hear their awful jeers.

            Then Erik felt the stiff leather of his mask under his fingers, and his heart rate slowed. He had not been exposed. He rubbed his eyes of sleep and watched as his bedroom took shape around him and the nightmare of the carnival scene disappeared.

            Relief surged through him, but it was dampened when he realized the figure before him had not dissolved with the rest of the nightmare. Someone was in his room. Cautiously, he raised his gaze to the intruder who had woken him.

            “Christine?”                              

            She was the last person he had expected to see. He was glad it was a friendly face peering down at him, but couldn't shake his surprise at her presence. After what had happened the night before, he had promised himself not to seek her out, to remove her utterly from his life before he got any more terrifyingly optimistic ideas. But there she was, in his own home, leaning over him. Inches away, with no glass to restrain him this time.

            Seeing him stir, Christine sprang into action and handed him a glass of water from the nightstand. “How do you feel?”

            He cleared his throat and tried to match the lightness in her voice. “Christine. What are you doing here?” Despite his efforts, a wariness pervaded his question.

             “Checking on you.” She answered brightly. “There was a bit of an incident last night, if you've any recollection. I had to make sure you weren’t drowning in your own vomit again.”

            “Drowning in…?” Erik frowned, combing through his memory in search of what she might be referring to. He remembered their lesson, his hasty exit, but once he returned home…

            And then all at once, he remembered his tryst with the absinthe bottle. Every gruesome detail flooded back to him through a murky green haze.

            “Oh, God...” He groaned, embarrassed beyond expression. Had she seen him like that?

            “And so he remembers.” Christine said with a hint of laughter in her voice. “I think I got most of it cleaned up, but I’d advise you to double check your chairs before you sit down. I had a rather nasty accident with one.”

            Erik grimaced as she spoke, picturing Christine on her hands and knees scrubbing his mess from the stone floor. “God, Christine, you didn’t have to do that.”

            Christine rested her hands on her hips. “Well if there’s anything I know about you, Erik, it’s that you don’t have many friends. I didn’t imagine anyone else was going to do it.” She glanced at the clock. “I have to return before I’m missed. Madame’s been watching me like a hawk recently. I think she’s worried I might disappear for good one of these days.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Eat something, alright? God knows you need it after how much you… evacuated… last night.”

            Erik was still trying to recover from his embarrassment and surprise at seeing her here. “Christine, I—”

            She waved her hands apologetically, silencing him. “I have to go! I’ll come back when I can.” She met his eyes just before she slipped into the corridor, wearing a concerned expression. “Try not to do anything else stupid.”

            And just like that, she was gone, the hard soles of her point shoes making sharp ticks on the stone floor. Blinking and overwhelmed, Erik listened to her go until her footsteps faded into nothing. He rubbed his forehead, suddenly struck with a headache.

            A yawn forced its way up his throat, and Erik felt his mask drag against his lips as he opened them. He was suddenly aware of just how long the thing had been on his face. It was impressively crafted, but as time went on and his face aged and changed, it had become more and more painful to wear for long periods, and he did not have the means to adjust it himself. He could feel all the places where it bit into his uneven skin. Erik listened, and then—confident he was alone—carefully removed the mask. The cool air of his bedroom was a welcome sensation against the tender flesh. He massaged his misshapen face a bit with the tips of his fingers as he considered the implications of Christine’s visit.

            Seeing her in his own home again only made it harder to put the necessary distance between them. Christine had returned of her own accord, not once but twice now. He was beginning to realize that she cared for him in some fashion. But Erik knew that if he dwelled even the slightest bit upon this thought, the hopeful part of him would latch on and never let go. And his grip would suffocate her. Her innocence, her beauty, her voice, it would all be corrupted by even the slightest step towards this longing. He would destroy her with his brokenness, just as he destroyed everything. He could not drag her down to hell with him.

            So he resolved to lift her up instead. To raise her so high that he was little more than a speck of dust to her. He had to make her untouchable. Maybe then this strange infatuation would end.

            He rose from his bed, head swimming a bit, and padded barefoot down the hall to his study, noticing with a twinge of sadness that every candle in every sconce along the hallway was lit. Christine was obviously not as accustomed to darkness as he was. It was just another reminder of the barriers between their worlds. She was a creature of light, but darkness was an inescapable part of his life underground. 

            When he reached the study, he sat before his writing desk, retrieving a pen and a fresh piece of paper. He had written notes to the opera house staff a hundred times before, but none like this. He made no threat or demand, but scrawled out a rather out of character and politely phrased request. He even refrained from his usual derisive tone, minimizing his risk of rejection. When he finished, he blew the ink dry and folded the note into a neat square.

            He looked at the paper with a melancholy smile. This silly little game between them had been fun while it lasted, but it was time for it to come to an end. Gripping his candle holder, Erik began the climb up the passage to deliver his note.

            When Madame Giry returned to her office late that evening, her weary eyes were immediately drawn to the small square of paper that rested on her desk. Like always, there was no envelope. She crossed the dim room, stepping over Meg’s shoes and skirts and other miscellaneous items that she was always nagging her daughter to take care of.

            Picking up the note, she delicately unfolded the page and read its contents, scrawled in a familiar spidery script. Only three lines in, her suspicions were confirmed. Christine’s “Angel of Music” and her own “Opera Ghost” were one and the same. He was doubtless the reason behind her recent disappearances, and Madame Giry wasn’t sure whether that eased her concern or heightened it. On the one hand, the ghost of the opera house had never harmed anyone—at least not beyond giving them a minor fright—and had apparently given Christine valuable tutelage. But Madame Giry couldn’t forget what she knew of his past. He had been an assassin, a killer on the run when he had settled here. She knew that had been years ago, but couldn’t help wondering why he was still in hiding if not to escape conviction for more recent crimes.

            In the end, she decided that the devil she knew was a safer gamble than the devil she didn’t. She had a wary trust of this “ghost”. Now she could only pray that her strange friend would not harm the girl who had become like a daughter to her. And she knew from the letter in her hands that, for now at least, his intentions were good. Refolding the note, Madame Giry left her office in search of its intended recipients, hoping that the new managers would be as receptive to the phantom’s instructions as their predecessor.

Chapter Text

            Christine sighed with relief as she removed her point shoes and flexed her aching toes, glad to be finished with rehearsal for the night. She unwrapped the layers of padding that encircled her feet to discover two new blisters and a cracked toenail. It seemed cruel to her, that the girls had to endure such pain and ugliness to appear so light and beautiful on stage. But Christine was beginning to learn that nothing in life was free of consequence. Not a single one of the girls had feet clear of bunions or corns or blisters. Such was the life of a dancer.

            But Christine no longer felt like a dancer. She yearned to sing. It was all she wanted anymore. And not just to sing by herself. No, now that she had heard Erik’s voice, something within her longed to hear it again. When he sang, the name “Angel of Music” finally rang true. His voice was otherworldly… heavenly.

            Christine stood to get ready for bed and felt her left foot cramp sharply, jolting her out of the fantasy. Her abrupt return to the present was quite a jarring feeling, but one that she was quickly becoming accustomed to. It had only been two days since her duet with Erik, and yet she kept having moments like this, where reality was overtaken by the memory of their song. But how could she not think about it? It had been incredible. She had known Erik was a musician, and had assumed from his knowledge and tutelage that he could sing well. But she hadn’t expected that. When he had sung to her for the first time, Christine forgot to breathe. She’d barely remembered to sing her own part—she was too absorbed in the velvet tones of his voice. Even with the glass between them, his song had entered her room like a palpable thing and wrapped itself around her.

            And then all too soon, he had stopped. Why? She had meant to ask him; that was why she chased him down into the bowels of the opera house. But when she’d found him passed out drunk, well, her question no longer seemed to be the most pressing issue.

            The longer Christine thought about his abrupt exit, the more she resented it. Their duet seemed to have awakened something within her, some feeling that would not be made dormant once more. She desperately wanted to taste that feeling again. The way their voices had twined together was so perfect, so agonizingly beautiful—

            “Christine?”

            A hand on her arm made her jump, and her alarm was not eased when she saw who it belonged to.

            Meg Giry released her grip on Christine’s wrist, satisfied that she had gotten her attention. The girls’ eyes met, but with none of the fondness they once might have held. Christine's chest felt tight at the realization that she was the reason for this—she and her lies.

            “My mother wants to see you.” Meg reported. She met Christine’s eyes once more, a sad sort of longing in them. When Christine cast her gaze away, Meg eyes glistened with hurt, and she turned to go.

            The girl had taken two steps when Christine finally found her voice. “Meg—”

            Meg whirled around, her features full of a guarded hope.

            That nearly broke Christine. She was tempted to tell Meg everything. To explain her dishonesty, or at the very least, to apologize for it. Meg deserved that, didn't she?

            But Meg wouldn't let her stop there. If she started an explanation, she'd have to spill everything, and Christine knew that would mean the end of Erik's guidance; the end, perhaps, of his reign beneath the opera house. Fearing the consequences, she couldn't bring herself to speak.

            “Sleep well, then.” Christine said meagerly.

            Meg’s face fell. “You too, Christine.” With sullen steps, she turned away and headed to her bed.

            Christine was ready to do the same when the Meg’s message suddenly registered. My mother wants to see you. Madame Giry only spoke privately with students to scold them, but never at this hour. What could she possibly want? Christine stepped into her slippers and went to find out.

            The lamps in Madame Giry’s office sent a dim glow under the door, assuring Christine that the woman waited within. With a somewhat wary hand, Christine knocked on the heavy door.

            “Enter.” Madame Giry clipped.

            Christine slipped through the door and closed it softly behind her, ensuring that she did nothing to set the woman off. She didn’t want to risk making the presumptive upcoming lecture any worse. In the quietest, politest voice she could muster, Christine asked:

            “You wanted to see me, Madame?”

            An affirmative “hmm” was Madame’s only answer. The woman put on her glasses and dug around in a drawer of her desk. Christine’s mouth went dry as she imagined all the things she could be looking for.

            Have I been expelled? Is this about Meg? Has Papa’s money run out? And, perhaps the worse one, because it did not only concern her: Is this about Erik? Does she know?

            Christine waited tensely as these thoughts and more circulated in her head. She spotted a few of Meg’s possessions scattered around, and once more felt a twinge of sadness at their decaying friendship. Finally, Madame raised her gaze from the drawer.

            “Come here, girl.” She waved Christine forward impatiently, and Christine obeyed with unexpected speed. Madame Giry held a letter between them. “I was asked to give you this.”

            The envelope was thick and white, and even slightly perfumed. It reeked of wealth, or perhaps the façade of it. The sickly sweet smell only compounded Christine’s queasiness. Swallowing her nausea, Christine thanked her teacher with a curtsy and turned to go.

            “Christine,” Madame Giry called. Christine met her eyes, one hand on the doorknob. The austere woman cracked an uncharacteristic smile. “Congratulations, child.”

             The trials Erik suffered during his life often found their way into his music. Everything from years of abuse to the slightest disagreements could be found in the strains of Don Juan. He turned to his opera whenever he was upset or conflicted. It was the outlet for all his negative emotions. After his decision to rid himself of Christine, it was no surprise he ended up there once more.

            Erik sat before his organ, trying out a melody he’d just composed. It was a good start for the climax of the opera, but he realized as he played that it was much too light as it was. He made a mental note to add a busier bass line.

            He came to the end of what he had composed so far, and paused for a moment to scrawl down some alterations to the score. As he closed the cover over the double keyboard, something shrill pierced the stagnant air. With a frown, he opened and closed the cover again to see if the hinges were squeaking, but they made no sound. Curious now, he pulled back the curtain that obscured the organ from the rest of his bedroom. A look around the room still didn’t offer a source to the sound. The clock hadn’t chimed, nothing seemed to have fallen, and he had already eliminated the only hinges nearby. Stumped, Erik decided to dismiss whatever he had heard as an echo from the world that existed above his secret home.

            But then it came again.

            Now Erik was truly perplexed. He took a few steps into the hallway to see if anything there might explain the sound. Nothing. The candelabras were all upright, the tapestry on the wall was still hanging, and everything seemed exactly as it should be. Given the high-pitched nature of the noise, Erik half expected to find a lost kitten or some other less tasteful animal that had wandered into his home. He was certainly no stranger to rats in his underground lair. But when the sound came again, Erik knew it wasn’t an animal. It was a voice. And it was calling for him.

            “Erik! Erik!”

            It was Christine. Innumerable disastrous situations raced through Erik’s head as he considered the reasons why she might sound so frantic. He sprinted down the remaining few yards of corridor and burst into the great room.

            Christine was running the last few steps into the room when Erik arrived, and she looked just as panicked as she’d sounded.

            “Erik!” She cried as he ran up to her. “You have to help me!”

            As soon as Erik reached her, he looked Christine up and down, pushing her hair out of her face to search for injury.

            “Are you alright? Christine?”

            He scanned her once again for any sign of damage, guiding her face into the light to get a better look. But she was unharmed. Erik was relieved, but he still didn’t know why she was so frenzied. He met her gaze, searching for answers.

            Christine’s eyes were bright—with excitement or fear, he wasn’t sure. But they also expressed a hint of amusement. Erik was confused, until he suddenly realized that his palms still held her face. He released his hold on her cheeks and stepped away, a warm flush blooming under his mask.

            “What’s going on?” He asked, clearing his throat.

            Christine produced a letter from her dress pocket and handed it to him without a word. She seemed to have been rendered mute by what he decided must have been excitement. He took the envelope from her and lifted the flap. The message inside was scrawled in an unfamiliar script.

Mademoiselle Daae,

We would like to formally invite you to audition as a vocalist for the upcoming season. You will have three weeks to prepare a selection of your choice in the operatic style. Your audition will be on the first of the month at noon.

Best Wishes,

Monsiers Firmin and Andre

            So, the managers had obeyed his request. With the note in hand, Erik finally understood. “You want me to help you with your audition?”

            Christine nodded excitedly, still wordless.

            Erik blinked. It was astonishing that he had not seen this coming. Of course it wouldn’t be so easy to send her away. His plan had been contingent upon her success, but he now realized that the success in question could not begin to bloom without his help. He set up a vocal audition for her, and he was her vocal teacher. Of course she’d ask for his help.

            He considered turning her away, telling her to find help elsewhere. That would be the better thing to do. He couldn’t keep letting himself get involved in her life. It would only make it harder to untangle himself later. But something in him stopped the words from coming. Perhaps some vain part of him wanted to be responsible for a star’s success. Perhaps he felt responsible as her mentor, called upon in her hour of need. Perhaps… it was something else.

            “Erik?” His thoughts melted away at the sound of her voice, and it suddenly didn’t matter which part of him wanted to help her, because now the rest of him did too.

            “I—yes, I can help.”

            He expected that familiar cynical part of him to be kicking and screaming at this declaration, but he felt nothing. Not a shred of doubt. That scared him.

            “What are you going to sing?” He asked.

            Christine looked up sharply, caught by surprise. “I, um… don’t know. I haven’t actually gotten that far yet.” She chewed her lip, thinking. “What should I sing?”

            Erik couldn’t hold back a slight chuckle. These were going to be a long three weeks.

Chapter Text

            When the sun rose that Sunday morning, Christine Daae was not in her dormitory. She was not even in the opera house. She was below it, rather, in Erik’s sitting room, speaking passionately about breakfast foods. The two of them had spent the greater part of the previous night trying to decide on a song for Christine’s audition, and by morning had narrowed the contenders to the final four. As the hours went on, the debate gradually wandered away from its original theme, the two of them losing focus as fatigue overtook them. Christine found herself discussing subjects ranging from Baroque period composers to nursery rhymes with a man she still wasn’t sure she knew. And yet it was surprisingly easy to talk to him.

            “What I want to know,” Christine mumbled between sips of coffee, “is what makes breakfast food… breakfast food.”

            Erik raised an eyebrow. “As opposed to…?”

            “I don’t know, regular food?” She stabbed a chunk of egg with her fork and gestured to it. “I just have to wonder… who decided that eggs were suitable for the morning meal, but nothing thereafter? Why?”

            Erik chuckled. “I don’t know, I’m rather fond of an evening omelet.”

            “I’m serious! Aren’t these the questions that plague your every moment?”

            “Sadly, no.” Erik lamented. “My thoughts are filled with much more important concerns… such as making the breakfast my guest seems so intent to criticize.”

            Christine lifted the eggs to her mouth. “I’m not criticizing your breakfast.” She said once she’d swallowed. “More like the principle of breakfast in general.” She swirled her toast in the last bit of yolk. “Your breakfast is quite delicious, actually.”

            “Wonderful.” Erik said. “I shall add ‘cooking breakfast’ to my list of accomplishments, right next to ‘witty banter’ and ‘putting up with chatty young dancers’.”

            Christine shot him a testy look over the rim of her mug as she drained the last of her coffee.

            When every morsel was devoured, Christine set her fork down on her plate and sighed contentedly. Erik rose and dutifully began clearing their dishes away.

            “Where did you learn to cook, Erik?” She asked as she handed him her plate. “Most men I know can’t even boil an egg, let alone poach one perfectly.”

            Erik’s back was to her now as he headed to the kitchen, but she could tell by the subtle change in his posture that he didn’t appreciate her question.

            “Oh, here and there.” He said dismissively.

             Christine raised an eyebrow. “You should add ‘being unbearably vague’ to that list of yours.” She said with a smirk. “But really,” she pressed, “who taught you?”

             She waited expectantly for an answer, but none came. An uneasy feeling stirred in her stomach as the seconds passed, the tension mounting as Erik remained motionless.

            And then, without warning, he fled to the kitchen. Christine stared at the curtain that fluttered in his wake, puzzled and a little bit offended. Confusion and frustration and lack of sleep churned inside her, becoming something volatile and dangerous. Sparked by her innate impulsiveness, the mixture ignited, and sent Christine charging into the next room.

            “Erik, what the hell—oh.”

            The fire in her chest extinguished when she saw him. Erik stood utterly still, braced against the counter, their breakfast dishes discarded to the side. His posture was terrifyingly tense; his knuckles were white where he gripped the counter and his bony shoulder blades stood out like wings against the fabric of his shirt. He looked like a renaissance statue, carved in a semblance of exquisite pain. It was a frightening sight. Christine had seen Erik panicked, surprised, drunk, even unconscious. But this was different. It was like he was empty.

            Was this Erik angry? Christine started to ask, to demand an explanation for this behavior, but found that all speech had dissolved on her tongue. She was paralyzed by the tension that saturated the air between them, weighing on her like an oppressive mist. She found herself wishing that she could see Erik’s face, so that she might have some hope of deciphering what he was feeling.

            Erik’s muscles only tautened during the silence, to the point that he was almost vibrating with…what, rage? Christine barely let herself breathe for fear she would break the tension. She still did not know this man well enough to predict his reaction if she did. When he snapped, would Erik collapse in on himself, like a drawn bow? Or like a balloon, violently burst?

            After what seemed like an eternity, Erik heaved a sigh, and Christine braced herself for whatever catastrophe was coming. But there was no explosion, no collapse. When Erik spoke, his words were chillingly calm, deceptive in their detachment.

            “Christine. What do you think is under my mask?”

            Christine’s heart skipped a beat as all other thoughts came to a screeching halt. He knew. He knew she had seen him. When her heart kicked back up, it was at twice its normal tempo, and her mind raced with fears and questions. How did he find out? Does he hate me? What is he going to do? She tried to speak, to apologize or defend herself, but before the words would come, Erik continued.

            “Whatever you’re picturing, I can assure you it’s a thousand times worse.”

            Picturing… Christine’s heart stuttered once more. Did he not know, then? She searched him for answers, but Erik still stood with his back to her, and she found none. Still, at the idea that he might not know after all, her heartbeat slowed a fraction.

            In the same stoic tone, Erik plowed on. “Under this mask, Christine, is a face so horrifyingly, hideously deformed that I have spent my life on the fringe of society—an outcast, loathed by all.” Erik shuddered, and the composure in his voice gave way to snarling menace. “Because of my face, my accursed ugliness,” he spat, “I have been denied a life of dignity—forced to subsist on evil deeds and unspeakable acts. And when you ask me about my history, I am faced with the terrible decision between lying to you and presenting the truth of what I am!”

            His voice escalated, but still, he did not face her. Heaving breaths shook his body as Christine watched, paralyzed by her own ‘terrible decision’. She was caught between her longing to tell him she had seen his face, and her fear of the consequences that might come of such a confession. Sympathy and terror, rage and surrender, all collided within her. She wasn’t entirely sure which had won until she spoke.

            “Erik, I… I’m sorry.” She stammered. Surrender, then. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I only wanted a chance to learn who you—”

            Erik interrupted her with a hiss. “You would not like who I am.”

            The words came before she could stop them. “You don’t know that.”

            So much for surrender. But it seemed that the outburst had not been a mistake; for the first time, Erik’s stance faltered. His bony shoulders twitched with surprise at her response, and at that, her reckless bravery solidified into something stronger.

            “I like the things I do know about who you are.” Christine started. “I like your intellect. Your bitter sense of humor. Your cooking.” Her words gained momentum as Christine found her confidence. “I like that when you teach me, you are always gentle but firm. I like the way you talk about music, like it is alive.” The bunched spring within Erik began to uncoil, and soon he sagged against the counter, still facing away from her. Hope bloomed in Christine’s chest. She was reaching him.

            “And if there is anything I do not like about you, Erik,” she continued steadily, “it is because I do not understand it. I did not understand your desire for privacy. I resented it. But now I understand, and I can at least accept it, if I cannot manage to like it.” She took an unconscious step toward him. “Give me a chance, Erik. To understand who you are. Then I will decide for myself whether or not I like him.”

            An unbearably long silence passed. Erik was no longer shaking, but he made no move to face her. After several expectant minutes, Christine’s confidence began to waver. It was not enough, she realized. The way he had relaxed, it had looked like she had reached him. But it had not been enough. Hurt, but no longer afraid, Christine forced herself to turn and leave.

            “Italy.” Erik croaked.

            Christine paused, her hand gripping the curtain that concealed the exit. “Italy…” She repeated blankly.

            She heard Erik inhale shakily. “It’s where I learned to cook. Italy.”

            Christine let her hand fall back to her side.

            “I…I was not a well-fed child.” Erik continued. “I lived on scraps for most of my early years. So, when I got my first job—in Italy—I spent all of my money on food.” He let out a little, strangled laugh.  “I suppose, after a while, I got curious about how everything was made. That’s just how I am, you know. Through trial and error—lots of error—I taught myself my favorite recipe. And I guess, I just kept going.”

            Silence fell. Christine almost wanted to laugh. Italy. Finally, she knew something about him that she had not directly observed. He had lived in Italy.

            Cautiously, Christine looked over her shoulder. Erik had not moved from his place at the counter, but his body now sagged against it; propped up on his elbows, head in his hands. Something in her longed to go to him, to offer a soothing touch and help support his haggard frame. But her instincts told her that he needed space to breathe, so she did not approach. Instead, she did her best to express her cares in words.

            “It was wrong of you to hide, Erik.” Christine swallowed hard. “But it was wrong of me to press. I’m sorry for that. But I hope… I hope this is only the beginning of what you will share with me. I would like to trust you as a friend, but I cannot do so until you do the same for me. Will you do that, Erik? Can you?”

            Again, Christine waited—hoped—for a response. And again, Erik remained motionless. He did not even seem to breathe. He needed time. Christine’s heart ached for the life this man must have led to make him so guarded and slow to trust. How unfair it was that a man such as him must bear a curse such as his. But his was not a wound she could heal in a day. And even if there was still a chance to mend what was broken in him, there was no way he would escape unscarred.

            With a final sad glance, Christine left him there. As the curtain fell back into place behind her, a whispered reply rose up, barely audible over the swishing fabric.

            “I will.”

Chapter Text

                Marie Bonheur was reading on her bed, generally enjoying her Sunday afternoon, when the door to her dormitory swung open. Behind it was Christine, and Marie couldn’t help but notice that she was still wearing yesterday’s dress. She raised an eyebrow at that. Christine was known for her virtue. What was she doing staying out all night? Marie watched from behind the pages of her book as her roommate went to her trunk and selected a nightgown. Did that mean she hadn’t slept either? What on earth had she been up to?

                Christine’s actions didn’t reveal much. She went straight to work brushing out her hair and changing into her nightgown, not speaking a word even to Meg, who was doing some needlework at the table. Marie had thought she’d been noticing a growing rift between the two formerly inseparable girls. She supposed this proved it. Marie almost couldn’t believe it. Not only was Christine Daae returning in yesterday’s dress, but it was also becoming clear that the longest-standing friendship in the corps de ballet was coming to an end. Marie wondered if this meant the apocalypse was nigh.

                After a moment more of watching for clues, she decided it was none of her business what her roommates had been up to, and tried to go back to her book. She was reading Robinson Crusoe, which had been sent to her as a gift by her brother Adrien. He was at university studying classic literature, and as such he came across many works he thought his bibliophile of a sister might be interested in. Their letters back and forth discussing the books often resembled books themselves, as long and detailed as they were. Reading—and discussing what she read—was the only thing Marie loved more than dancing. Every moment of spare time she had was spent like that afternoon: reading benignly in her room. But that’s not what most of the dancers believed. They had much different ideas regarding Marie’s activities.

                There was no telling who started the rumor originally, but Marie suspected Camille. That girl was only an adequate dancer, and made up for her shortcomings by trying to knock down her competition. Marie was the first one to fall, and she fell hard. One hurried kiss in a darkened corridor… and then all at once, she was the shame of the Opera Garnier. The stain on her reputation had even grown to the point that the other girls were too afraid to speak to her, for fear they might be tarnished too. And it was not an unreasonable fear. In the corps de ballet, rumors were even more common than blistered feet.

                Marie attempted to return her focus to Crusoe and his “Island of Despair”, but she kept being distracted by Christine’s mindless humming. Christine had a lovely voice, and Marie was sure she would enjoy the tune if she could interpret it. But as it was, Christine was too far away and humming too softly for her voice to sound like anything but an annoying drone. Rather than quiet her, though, Marie decided to move closer to hear. A bit of music (that wasn’t an overplayed rehearsal tune) would be a nice addition to her relaxing afternoon.

                Christine was plaiting her hair in sections so that it wouldn’t tangle overnight. Or rather, during her mid-afternoon nap, as it was. The ritual was a necessity for someone with such thick, curly hair as Christine had. But Marie was a stranger to such practices. Her fine blonde hair resembled a baby’s, and was almost too thin to be scraped into the various hairstyles required of her as a dancer. Fortunately, its fineness meant she needn’t worry so much about tangles.

                When Christine saw Marie’s face suddenly appear in the mirror, she let out a gasp and dropped the plait she was working on.

                “Oh, Marie. You scared me.”

                Marie smiled innocently. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just… wondered if you wanted any help with that?” She gestured to the numerous plaits. The other girl was taken aback by Marie’s offer. The two of them had never been very friendly towards each other. In fact, Marie was pretty sure that Christine didn’t like her. A result of the rumors, no doubt. In any case, Marie supposed it must have seemed strange for her to make such an offer.

                Christine searched Marie’s eyes for a moment through their reflections, and Marie sensed it was to look for any hint of ill will or ulterior motive. She had to wonder when the younger girl had gotten so paranoid. Finally, Christine shifted to make room for her on the bench in front of the vanity, and Marie took a seat.

                Christine’s hair could appear frizzy at times, but as Marie took it into her hands, she realized it was also surprisingly soft. As they both braided, Christine began humming her song again, this time mumbling the words under her breath.

Euch Lüften, die mein Klagen

so traurig oft erfüllt,

euch muß ich dankend sagen,

wie sich mein Glück enthüllt!

                “That’s a pretty song.” Marie commented.

                “Hmm?” Christine mumbled, nimble fingers working at the plaits much faster than Marie’s. “Oh. I didn’t realize I was singing. Sorry.”

                “No, no! It’s lovely, go on.”

                Christine smiled a little and continued, louder.

Durch euch kam er gezogen,

ihr lächeltet der Fahrt,

auf wilden Meereswogen

habt ihr ihn treu bewahrt.

                As Marie became familiar with the melody, she attempted to sing along. But her voice was far inferior to Christine’s. It didn’t help that Marie also lacked even the slightest sense of pitch, and she ended up getting so off that even Christine got confused. They broke off with a giggle.

                “Alas, I’ll never be a singer.” Marie sighed dramatically.

                “You never know.” Christine pointed out. “That’s what I used to think, and now I’ve got an audition for next season.”

                Marie’s eyebrows shot off her forehead. “You do? Oh that’s fabulous, Christine! Congratulations!” She cried, genuinely happy for the younger girl. “When? What are you singing?”

                Christine’s answer was cut off by a disgruntled voice from across the room.

                “Please keep it down you two, I can’t concentrate on my stitching!” Meg snapped.

                To Marie’s surprise, Christine immediately withered at her friend’s exclamation, falling into silence. Marie looked between the two girls for a moment and felt a queer sense of familiarity with the situation. She decided to put that feeling to good use.

                “Can I… offer you some advice?” Marie asked quietly, so that only Christine could hear. She didn’t know where the suggestion came from, but she suddenly realized that this had been the reason she’d approached Christine in the first place.

                Christine’s eyes were guarded but curious as they met Marie’s in the mirror, so she pushed on.

                “I see myself in you, Christine. Or at least, the way I used to be. Ambitious, strong-willed, and utterly indifferent to the way others think of you.” Marie sighed wistfully. “And in a place like this, those tributes can spell disaster.”

                Christine tied off a braid in silence, her full attention on the other girl. Marie was seized with the realization that this was the longest conversation she’d had with another dancer in months. She hoped she wouldn’t ruin it.

                “What I mean, Christine, is… be careful. Be careful of the company you keep, be careful of the decisions you make, and be careful of the people you anger along the way. I’m living proof of the way those things can come back to bite you.”

                Too embarrassed to meet her eyes, Marie shifted her gaze to the back of Christine’s head (which, she had to admit, now looked rather comically like Medusa with its many plaits). For some reason the conversation made Marie ache for her brother. She wondered if this was what it was like to have a younger sibling. Did Adrien worry about her this much?

                Christine startled her by turning in her seat, causing the plaits to move and once again look snake-like. Marie was startled even more when Christine embraced her.

                “Thank you, Marie.” The younger girl said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

                The two exchanged an awkward smile, and with that, Christine went off to bed. Marie lingered where she sat for a moment, not sure what to make of the exchange, even though she had initiated it. She hoped her advice would be taken to heart. Marie knew better than anyone else that it wasn’t easy being the black sheep in a herd of white-clad ballerinas. But though she still felt like an outsider, Marie began to realize that she had finally taken the first step towards leaving her own “Island of Despair.”

Chapter Text

            “Christine.”

            Christine’s head jerked up. Erik was looking at her with concern, and it took her a moment to put together exactly why. She sucked in a hiss of embarrassment.

            She had nodded off.

            “Sorry.” She murmured, rubbing the haziness from her eyes. “From the top?”

            Erik rather firmly set the sheet music down on his desk. “Not if you can’t keep your eyes open. What’s the matter with you?”

            Christine cringed at the harshness of his words. “I’m…I’m just a little tired is all. I—” A well-timed yawn interrupted her. “I’m alright. Actually, do you have any coffee?”

            Erik frowned at her for a moment, then glanced at the clock on the mantle. Christine followed his gaze. Her eyes were too blurred with fatigue to read it clearly, but she could see the hour hand hovering somewhere around the two. 2am. Another yawn overtook her.

            “We’re done for the night.” Erik announced, snuffing the lamp on his desk. Christine wanted to protest, but quite honestly couldn’t bring herself to. Her body was crying out for sleep, badly needed after a solid week of long days and late nights.

            “Thank you,” was all she managed, drowsily watching Erik gather up their music. She ran her hands across her face, heaving a sigh. A headache was forming behind her eyes. Hopefully, rest would subdue it, she thought. She was probably dehydrated too. That wouldn’t be helping things. A tall glass of water. Yes, that sounded good. She would go back up to her room and make herself a nice, tall, cool glass of…

            “Christine!”

            “What!” She gasped, eyes flying open and heart stuttering in her chest. Erik was in the doorway, once again staring at her with brows narrowed.

            “Did you just fall asleep again?”

            Christine blinked slowly, processing the question. Yes…yes, she had.

            “I’m…I’m sorry. I’m leaving. Right now. Sorry.” She shook her head in an attempt to banish the drowsy haze that clogged her thoughts. With concentrated effort, she heaved herself out of the armchair, mourning the loss of its plush warmth when the chamber’s cool air chilled the back of her neck. Feeling like her head was full of cotton balls, she lumbered toward the door.

            “No, you’re not.”

            “Hmm?” Christine paused, resting her hip against the fireplace. It was too much effort to stand unassisted. She swung her head sluggishly toward Erik, who was still glowering in the doorway.

            “You’re not leaving. Not when you can barely keep your eyes open,” Erik grumbled. “Even if I guided you by the hand, I don’t think I could stop you from falling into every trap in that passage. Not in this state.”

            Christine sighed wearily. “Just…make some coffee. Or something. I’ll be fine.”

            “You need sleep, not coffee.” Erik approached her and seized her by the wrist and shoulder, propelling her forward and out of the room. “You’ve worked yourself too hard Christine,” Erik chastised. His pace faltered when he spoke the next words. “I’ve worked you too hard.”

            Christine found herself being driven across the great room and into a smaller, less used chamber that Erik had called the morning room.

            “What are you doing?” She mumbled as they crossed the threshold.

            “Sit.” Erik answered, depositing her on the daybed and promptly exiting the room.

            Christine took in the darkened chamber. Why had he brought her here? Why wasn’t she going home? Somewhere in the back of her groggy mind, an alarm was registering. She was alone down here—alone with Erik—and hardly in any state to defend herself. And he had just set her down on a couch in a remote room. The circumstances were not comforting.

            If only she could think straight. Had he drugged her? She thought back to her arrival that evening, fighting the dense cloud obscuring her thoughts. She hadn’t eaten anything…tea? Had he given her tea? She couldn’t remember.

            She should go. While he wasn’t watching. She could make it upstairs, probably, now that her adrenaline was flowing. She just wished the damn fog would lift from her mind, but it seemed her fear had only scrambled her thoughts more. She struggled against her exhaustion, willing herself to move, until at last her brain and body reconnected and she shoved herself to her feet.

            Erik entered just then, a bundle in his arms.

            “I thought I told you to sit down,” he admonished, raising an eyebrow at where she was standing, panic-stricken, in the middle of the room. “All the better, actually,” he amended casually, setting down his burden on the couch. “Can’t make the bed if you’re sitting on it.”

            Christine trundled a few steps over to the buffet table on the back wall, leaning on it to support herself. In silence, she watched Erik unwrap the bundle. Sheets. Blankets. Pillows. Erik made quick work of the bedclothes, and soon the daybed was fit for sleep. When he was done, he turned to her expectantly, casting a pointed glance at his handiwork. “Well?”

            Christine swallowed. How paranoid could she be? Hadn’t she realized by now she could trust him? His angel lie had long been forgiven, and until now he’d given her very little reason to suspect he had any ill intentions. He was her friend. Perhaps the lack of sleep really had gotten to her.

            “Are you alright?” Erik asked gently when Christine didn’t move.

            Christine shook away her thoughts. “Yes, sorry. Tired,” she mumbled, approaching the bed.

            “I noticed that,” Erik said dryly. “And…stop apologizing. It’s my fault; I’ve been letting our rehearsals run too late,” he admitted. “I should have been more considerate.”

            Christine suddenly felt very guilty for ever doubting him.

            “Now go to bed,” Erik ordered.

            Christine yawned again and crawled onto the settee, glad she had worn her nightgown to rehearsal that night. Erik left a lamp lit on the coffee table and made his exit, slipping through the curtained doorway with all his usual grace.

            “Goodnight, Erik,” she whispered just before he vanished from sight.

            Erik paused. With uncharacteristic softness, he responded.

            “Goodnight, Christine.”