Phantom of the Opera 1. Chapter 1

Hello everyone!

I decided to post this story after a ridiculously long debate with myself and I can honestly say that it needed all of my bravery. It's my first attempt to write a multichapter story, please take it with all of its faults and values; I tried my best. There will be seven chapters which I plan to upload weekly. I hope you'll like it.

Thank you for reading!

**Ch1**

Something was pressing his legs adamantly. When he commanded them to move, they didn't. Then he tried to lift only one of them but it refused to move. They weren't chained to the ground, though; they were rather grown into the ground, condemning him to stay still while every fiber of his being wanted to run. Far away from him in the distance he could make out the snow-white layers of her skirts as they flew after her running form.

"Christine, wait!"

It seemed she couldn't hear him for she never once looked back but kept moving, faster and faster with every passing moment. His knees buckled and he dropped to his knees, feeling how water sipped through the legs of his trousers.

Just water…

Of course he wasn't able to run in water! With great effort he lifted one leg, then the other, putting them slowly after each other but Christine's frame was already so small he could hardly make it out in the distance. A drop of something fell to his face, then another, and another. Water was running down his cheeks, blurring his vision and the image of his beloved and he angrily wiped them away.

Tears.

By then Christine was nothing more than a little white spot on the horizon but he couldn't bid himself to stop running. She can't leave, she has to stay and he has to tell her…

She disappeared. For minutes, he resumed running toward the direction he saw her dissolving into thin air but he couldn't catch a glimpse of her again. Maybe she'd come back… All he has to do was to wait for her arrival.

Or maybe she's been behind him for all the time… Frantically, he whirled around but there was no one there. Even the water vanished from around his ankles and he had no idea where he was. No walls; it couldn't be his lair. No blue sky; he wasn't outside. No darkness so it must be daytime – without the sun or light. How could he see at all without light? Something warmed his chest but there was nothing he could feel in his heart. Maybe it stopped beating, freeing him from this life he didn't want to live anymore. He closed his eyes but her picture was already burned into his mind; he didn't need to think of her, her face was all that he could see.

"Christine…"

"I'll always be here…"

Erik's eyes cracked open with a start and he needed a couple of minutes to slow his breathing. Just a nightmare…

Was he asleep? When was the last time he had any sleep at all? And how long had he been asleep? Hours? Days? _Weeks?_ He couldn't sleep since she left – since an unknown period of time before. Maybe he really died, not just dreamt it. Maybe this was death itself. Cold and lonely; not very different from what he already knew.

"_I'll always be here…"_

When did Christine say that? Certainly not when she left. Some time later, some time what wasn't so long ago but when was that 'not long ago'?

Though his nightmare was now far away, the pressure on his legs remained there, making him unable to move or to rise. Shreds of memories came back to him about sitting on the floor, about crying and cursing fate for his very existence and he groaned in embarrassment and shame and – pain. It didn't really matter though; it wasn't as if he'd never done so before. The only thing he didn't understand was why didn't he end his life last night.

Maybe he was still situated on the floor; that would explain that terrible ache in his back, too. How strange, the warmth on his chest remained there from the dream as well…

With a tired sigh, he rubbed his eyes and then opened them again, and this time he knew where the pressure and the heat came from.

Christine was still peacefully asleep on his lap, her head resting on his shoulder and her breath ruffling the fabric of his shirt.

Memories rushed back to him in an instant and now he remembered that yesterday – or rather at the time before he fell asleep – she came back in tears, sobbing fitfully before she could form any kind of answer or explain why was she there.

One of her hands rested in her lap and on her forth finger there was something, glittering even in the darkness of the house. _His_ ring. She could have left easily while he was unconscious – considering that he didn't even remember at first that she was sitting on his lap in an awkward position – but she stayed. Emotions flooded him but for fear that he'd wake her instantly if he gave in to them, he simply stroked her cheek lightly with one, trembling finger.

She decided to stay with him…

"If only you'd stay here forever," he whispered to her motionless form and secretly he was grateful beyond anything that she didn't stir. Good. As long as she was asleep, she couldn't change her mind.

His head pounded savagely. When was the last time he got anything to eat or drink? A week, maybe? Crying for days surely didn't help, either. As minutes ticked by, the urge to move his tired limbs grew more and more insurmountable until he warily had to switch his weight a little on his legs. Christine woke up immediately.

"Good morning," she breathed into the air, smiling without opening her eyes. "Erik."

"Good morning, my love." It was a fitting term, wasn't it? She was to be his wife soon; she wouldn't take it as an offence, right? Seemingly she didn't mind that for her smile only grew brighter and finally she opened her eyes.

"I had a wonderful sleep," she said then gave him a soft kiss to his exposed cheek and he froze. He had entirely forgotten he wasn't wearing the mask and the knowledge that she touched his face without hesitation made his heart beat frantically. Fortunately, she didn't notice it. "And you?"

"Yes… me too," he stuttered inelegantly before moving a little again uncomfortably.

"Do you feel uncomfortable? I haven't realized I should…" In that instant, she rose to her feet with a little sway and he already regretted he stirred at all, missing her weight and warmth in the very moment she stood.

"I'll light some candles," he addressed her softly. _But first, I have to find my mask._

"Do you want me to help?" She offered timidly while trying not to stumble on anything. She didn't remember the floor would have littered with so many… something.

"No," he replied immediately, then hastily added, "Thank you."

Now he could feel, too, that the floor of his once tidy house was covered all over with broken furniture and shivers of glass and little pieces of the broken mirrors cracked every now and then under his boots. _Great._ She would come to see all the damage he caused in his home after she'd left him. The last few days he spent in the haze of fury, ripping and breaking everything he could reach and destroy and now the effect of that would be on display for Christine to see. This was a very great start, really.

After some moments of feverish search for his mask he gave up without result and lit the first candle he could find. The house was a mess and in ruins and Christine's surprised gasp didn't lessen the terrible feeling in his chest. Was this the moment she changed her mind?

"I fear there's nothing I can offer you for breakfast but if you wait a little I'll fetch you something," he said, careful to keep his back to her direction.

"That would be wonderful," she agreed helpfully but he could hear in her voice the confusion as well. "Can I help you with something?" _Clean up the house, maybe?_

"No, I'll be back soon. Make yourself comfortable… if that's possible."

With that he turned, leaving a very baffled Christine in the main room. His bedroom was in ruins as well but there remained enough for him to take a quick bath and to change into crumpled yet clean clothes and finally, he found a mask. Somehow his coat managed to stay on its right place, and he draped it over his shoulders before leaving for shopping.

When he opened the gate he was faced with the grey, afternoon sky and huge, lazy snowflakes were swaying in the air. Usually he did all his shopping at dawn or right after sunset but it seemed he lost track of time since he was last up in the world. He should have asked Christine how many days passed since then – or rather not, considering that she'd seen him weak enough and now was closed in with the evidence of his desperate state of mind.

At least it wasn't suspicious at all that he pulled the hood deep down into his eyes.

Generally he chose different shops all around in the city to avoid being recognized but it wouldn't have been wise to keep Christine waiting while he picked up food from the other side of Paris. And he needed to go back to fix the damage he caused in the rooms. It seemed fate was against him as he had to wander for a very long time until he finally found a small bakery without any customer and he slipped inside, ready for attack in every moment, should someone recognize him.

There was an old man standing behind the counter and Erik cautiously walked towards him. His demeanor seemed calm enough to purchase quickly why he came.

"A good day to you, monsieur!" He greeted Erik cheerfully and Erik growled something what could be taken as an answer before the man spoke again.

"Can I help you, monsieur? We have the most delicious bread rolls to offer in the whole city." The fact that Erik kept the hood on didn't bother the man the slightest; he had good eyes to recognize the fine quality of his attire and now was hoping that he'd win a rich and a hopefully regular customer.

"Do you have pastries?"

"There are dozens you can choose from! Which one would you like the best?" He lowered his voice suddenly. "Or is it not for yourself? For a beautiful girl, maybe?" The man winked here meaningfully. "Would you like some sweets as well?"

Though he got no answer, the man watched with growing satisfaction as the rich customer picked five different pastries and was walking toward the breads. The more he sampled the best it would be for the business.

"Oh, these days are not very pleasant for young ladies. You'd better to watch that girl closely, monsieur," the salesman continued unwaveringly, now determined to sell him as much food as he was able to since the customer in the hood was still not finished. "They say that the Phantom of the opera house now is out in the city since the building burnt out."

In that very moment Erik's heart leapt to his throat and he felt how rage flooded his veins in an instant. With forced slow and deep breaths he commanded himself to calm before he'd give away his true identity. The man didn't suspect a thing for he eagerly reported the rumors he knew, or if he did suspect something he was foolish enough to reveal the information for him. It seemed he didn't know who he was; he was walking towards him to wrap up a piece of bread for him. Yes, he couldn't know it, yet. Erik was determined to keep it that way.

"My neighbor told me this morning that the Phantom abducted that young soprano, Christine Daaé again, this time from the very home of the young Vicomte! The gendarmes are already after him but I don't think they'll find him." At the end, the man shook his head reprovingly and Erik was tempted to kill this man right there and then. How dare he to state such a thing! He didn't abduct Christine, she came back willingly!

Or did she?...

She could have come back with the plan to give him away to the gendarmes, to help the Vicomte to finish his failed plan days ago. How foolish he'd been to believe her! Her tears, her sobs, the look in her eyes, her vows of love and marriage, they all seemed genuine to him. He wanted so badly to believe she genuinely loved him that he didn't question her motives. But it would be useless to kill this man. The rumors were probably all around in the city by now.

The salesman finished wrapping up the items he'd chosen but Erik wasn't so eager to buy them anymore. However, if he stormed out of the bakery now to get back to the opera house as soon as possible, the man would know in the instant who he had talked to. No. Rather he'd pay quickly and rush back to take Christine with him to a safe place. The man told him the cost and he paid without a thought.

"Be careful, monsieur, they say he's more dangerous than any criminal they've ever seen! And," here the man lowered his voice conspiratorially, "it's said he's as hideous as the devil himself." The man finished with a look of triumph on his face, satisfied that it was him who could share this exquisite gossip with this taciturn and obviously ignorant man.

For a torturous moment, Erik was tempted to show the shopkeeper how damn right they were but then reluctantly decided against it. He needed to leave in this instant; he had no time to waste, especially not for murder. It would be messy and slow him down. He forced nonchalance and picked up the package with the pastries.

"I've been told he died in the fire," he managed to growl through clenched teeth and with that, he left the shop and its disappointed owner behind.

Fresh air cleaned his thoughts however as he stepped out into the streets. What kind of fool would believe gossips? And he would have seen the gendarmes around the opera house as he left earlier if they were after him as he thought; but no. Christine said the truth. She _decided _to be with him.

Not as if it would have been the first time she betrayed him…

Experience fought with conscience until he reached the opera house, where at least forty gendarmes were standing in front of the building.

It was definitely a large enough number for a burnt out building.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much for every reviewer, favoritist, alertist and reader, your appreciation means a very great deal to me! I hope you'll like this chapter as well.

**Ch2**

Inside the tunnels, hope tried to convince Erik that it was just a gossip he heard, not a lousy, painfully simple trap, set for him with a collaborating Christine. She said she loved him! She kissed his face, his bare face… That couldn't be faked… could it? His face definitely wasn't something what could be skipped through so easily. Yet she was an actress; she should be able to convince him, that's what she was trained for! And she was very convincing, really, if she was lying all the while…

He almost missed a turn in his fuming rage, a thing he never did before.

Maybe the rest of the gendarmes are already in the tunnels, waiting for him to return. It wouldn't be too difficult to get into the catacombs, since Christine did come through them… when she returned. Damn, he still had no idea what day it was. He should have asked that talkative fool in the shop.

Erik couldn't risk to be caught in his generally used tunnels. There were other passages to his house that nobody knew of and though he still had a weak voice in his head repeating him again and again to trust Christine, he turned to his never-used corridors.

- o -

When Erik left, Christine looked around with twisted amusement. It was… it was… The house was turned upside down; she hadn't notice this last night. The main room was as it always had been but the rest of the house… She couldn't find an untouched piece of furniture, a broken chair swayed on the top of a table with a broken leg, slats from unknown objects were scattered on the floor, a small counter with several drawers lay on the floor of the kitchen, even a heavy cupboard was out of its previous place and everything was covered with little pieces of mirrors.

_And all because of me… _

What if I had stayed, she mused absently but she already suspected the answer. Everything would be different if she stayed back then. Now it seemed foolish to leave at all but then she was almost completely convinced that she did the right thing. She wouldn't be as keen on staying with him if he didn't let her go on the first place, probably. Most likely she wouldn't. Loving him and staying with him wasn't one and a same. But it wouldn't change the fact that she'd have missed him terribly; she already did the very next moment she left. For days, she'd been mourning the chance for the life she still wanted only half a year ago and cursed her weakness that she obeyed her teacher, even when he wanted her to do something she didn't want at all.

Maybe it was for the better to leave then because if she hadn't, she'd never know how much he meant to her. Erik. A bright smile came to her lips. He had a name, a real name; not just Angel or Master but a real, human name. Yes, it was the best way how it happened, because now she knew that she really loved him, not just like her Angel or her teacher, but him. Erik. And she knew that contrary what she may have believed, he loves her as well, more than his own life.

It was impossible not to remember his eyes when he told her to go. Tears began to form in her eyes but she didn't let them fall; now she was here, waiting for his return, after a night what she spent sitting on his lap. Blood rushed to her cheeks as the thought entered her mind that it was her first night spent with a man. She had to smile again, unable to decide whether it was because of the nice memory of it or because of her bewilderment. She very much liked to be so near to him…

Having no other option, she decided she'd clean up a little, or at least she'd try to rearrange the broken… everything. It was just like a real house, like any house aboveground so not long after that she began searching for it, she found a broom under a pile of – books? The house needed to be cleaned, indeed. After she finished in the kitchen she went to the parlor and that was when she heard him.

"Where is he?" His voice was furious, demanding, enraged, and she turned to see Erik marching into the room as if he was ready to kill the first man who came into view. Her arms began to tremble; maybe it wasn't just a thoughtless semblance.

"Where is he?" He asked her again and she managed to whisper,

"Who?"

"Your lover! Where is he?" He was still yelling at her and she took an involuntary step back. Where was the gentle man whose arms she woke this morning in?

"I don't know what you're talking about," she choked, feeling how air escaped from her lungs. He was still approaching, coming closer and closer and she wasn't sure she liked the idea of him being that near to her in this moment.

"Of course you don't! You have had just enough time to call for them. Maybe they're already here, waiting for your sign!"

She was backing away from him until her back hit the wall and she had no space to move backward. His tall frame was looming over her, his arms lifting in every minute as if he was about to hit her or he was trembling so violently, she wasn't sure. His hands were clenched into fists and he was dangerously near, so near that she could see that in his eyes were nothing else than unfeeling rage and anger.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she repeated voicelessly and tried to stay upwards as her knees ceased to support her weight. She couldn't remember when she dropped the broom but now was grateful for that for this way her hands were free to find some kind of strange hold on the stone wall.

"Was this your plan all along, to deceive me again with your tears until I'm unsuspecting enough to be caught?" He thundered and she couldn't find it in herself to keep her tears from gathering in her eyes. She was trembling all over with fear from this stranger who was ready to hurt her in the instant she said something unwanted and she was alone, without the chance to call for help or to run away. What had she done that angered him that much, she had no idea.

"I didn't do anything," she breathed weakly.

"And the gendarmes just happen to be here, aren't they?" He demanded still shouting, uncaring about her quick and shallow breathing or the fact the she was adamantly looking at the floor.

"I didn't do anything," she repeated it like a mantra, still not looking up at him.

"Look at me!" He demanded relentlessly but she didn't.

"Christine, look at me!" He repeated, firmer this time and she snapped up her face defiantly, finally letting him see the thick tears in her eyes. Until now she hoped she didn't have to show him, that he would see reason and stop interrogating her about something she had no idea of – it was in vain. _See what you've done, then._

A thick teardrop left the corner of her eye and run down on her cheek and finally fell from her chin. Then another and another… They weren't the first ones, she must have been crying moments before. Her left hand rose shakily to her face, unthinkingly wiping away tears what flowed down on her fingers, her ring…

She was still wearing it and slowly the thought seeped into his mind that she was crying, repeating over and over that she did nothing while trembling all over; he didn't realize that before. Her knuckles were white from her effort to keep herself steady and her eyelids quivered when he moved away from her as if she waited for to be struck. Could she really think he'd harm her? _The only person in the world who…_

He staggered backwards until he could grip the edge of a table; something was pressing his stomach so hard he wasn't sure he wouldn't fall to the floor if he didn't catch something that could support him and he leaned heavily on the tabletop.

"Everyone knows where you are," he rasped after several, agonizingly silent minutes when only her silent sniffling could be heard.

"Not from me… I didn't tell anyone where I went," she managed to answer finally.

"Anyone?" He asked her skeptically and she debated with herself before she decided to tell him the truth. Of course Raoul knew where she went but she was sure it wasn't him who'd strewn gossips all around the city. But to mention his name to Erik right now didn't seem the wisest thing to do. Nor did lying.

"Only Raoul." She saw how his back tensed from the name but he didn't lash out at her as she thought he would. She couldn't see his face therefore she had no idea what he was thinking - there was nothing what would help her what to say. "But he wouldn't come after me. He promised. I told him not to and he promised. I told him that I chose you and he accepted it." _After several hours of pleading._

If only she didn't tell Erik this; then he wouldn't want to die of shame right now. That choking he felt must have been the result of that. Thank the Heavens she couldn't see his eyes in this moment. The pounding in his head increased mercilessly, every breath he took making it worse.

"They say I'm holding you against your will," he said, his voice completely devoid of his earlier confidence and strength, it was nothing more than a ragged whisper. _And from now on, they're most probably right._

"You're not," she replied timidly and he wasn't able to tell whether it was still the effect of the shock he caused in her that she said so or she really meant it. "It's a very big house with dozens of maids, maybe one of them overheard something and…" her voice tapered off as if unsure and she was waiting for his words of belief. But they never came. All she could hear was his uneven breathing.

"You believed what the gossips suggested while you didn't believe me?" It came out against her will and she feverishly hoped he didn't hear it. Again, she got no answer.

"Tomorrow you'll visit a friend," he spoke at long last and his glorious voice was barely above a whisper, yet it was as firm as it could be. "Make sure to be seen with her; you have to convince them you're not missing. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Good," and with that, he was out of her sight, leaving her still shaking form clutching at the wall fiercely.

- o -

His mind kept saying 'She didn't betray you' for about two hours but he still wasn't fully convinced. She said she didn't but how could he be sure of that? There was nothing that could prove that, was it? It seemed he had no other choice than to believe her but this was an unnerving possibility. In all his life, it only happened once that he was wrong; today. One occasion didn't prove anything, in fact, it proved nothing! This one time was nothing more than a mistake he did because he wasn't his old self, to say the very least. Long days spent in agony didn't do well even for a man like him. He really should eat something and sleep a few hours.

However, by the time he finished his meal, he became restless. He could easily make sure that the Vicomte wasn't planning anything with Christine by his side. With three long strides he was at the door but suddenly stopped. What if he'd be wrong again? Twice a day was a too large amount of numbers. And he didn't want to see her eyes reflecting disbelief and disappointment again. But she didn't need to know; she was already asleep, probably, since he didn't hear a thing outside of his room for a very long time for now.

Suddenly he sat back. No. He would trust her, he _could_ trust her. There was no sign that anybody wanted to enter the catacombs of the opera house until then; maybe they really wouldn't come.

In the next moment he was out of the door.

Who he wanted to fool?

It was already dark outside and he blended easily into the shadows. The mansion of the Vicomte wasn't too difficult to find and it wasn't actually a well-guarded building; it was without effort when he climbed to one of the balconies on the drainpipe. Most of the windows were dark; highly unusual in such a social state as the boy was. For minutes, nothing happened. He stood next to the wall, listening to the sound of the wind, just in case it would carry some noises which would give him further information about the whereabouts of the inhabitants. When no sound came, he considered to come round the building when two tiny spots of lights appeared in the room, slowly revealing the forms of two maids. He pulled back abruptly.

"…I don't think so," he heard from inside.

"Poor Monsieur Raoul, he loves her so much."

The two women placed the candles on a small table and from the shadows Erik could make out the shape of several suitcases, some of them empty, some half full. The taller maid disappeared for a moment then came back with something that looked like a pile of shirts. "Do you think he'd come back by Easter?" She asked her companion then.

The other girl took the shirts and shoved them into one of the cases. "I'm sure he wouldn't. He said Jules that he leaves to forget. I don't think he'd be back even for Christmas."

"That opera-girl must be a ninny; choosing any other man over the Vicomte… Were I her, I'd have married him in that instant he asked me," she said and Erik saw how they tried to fight down her giggles.

"Believe me; no one else would have missed a chance like that!" Here she stepped closer and looked around as if contrary that they were alone in an empty room, someone would listen to what she was about to say. "But I've heard something else, too."

The taller one clutched at her companion's arm. "Tell me this instant! Do you happen to know who she rejected the Vicomte for?"

"I'm sure of it! I heard it when that girl spoke with Monsieur Raoul that she's leaving. He asked her whether she's going back to him and she said yes."

"Who is that 'him?' You have to tell me, right now!"

The girl looked around again theatrically before giving away the answer. "The Phantom of the Opera!"

"She didn't…"

"Yes, she did indeed! I've heard it with my own ears!"

"She really must be a fool…"

_Yes, she is…_Minutes ticked by but he didn't have the strength neither to listen to them anymore nor to move. Christine told him the truth.

Now he knew exactly who the source of the gossips was; it was devastating. Whether because he'd been wrong again or because he failed her again was the more painful he couldn't decide. As the voices of the maids faded into nothing, he climbed down and headed for home, hating himself more and more with each step he took and anger mounted in him uncontrollably. As he stepped into his room he couldn't keep it at bay any more and with a sweep of his arm, he tossed everything on his desk to the floor. A large book's edge broke a small bottle and he watched with satisfaction as ink seeped into the carpet.

She told the truth and he didn't believe her, twice already, and she was there no more than a day!

This was a very great start, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

As always, many thanks for my readers for their support!

**Ch3**

For hours, Christine sat on her bed, waiting for him to ask her forgiveness.

He never came.

She cried herself to sleep.

She should have known better than to think at night, though. These one-sided conversations always left her powerless, helpless and everything seemed insolvable at nights and that remained true in the underground house, too, no matter that it was always dark down there.

The next morning Christine woke with the determination the she would _not _mourn her hopelessness. It was nothing that had never happened previously. He had been angry before, the only thing that changed was that now she saw him in his fury. It was simple.

It didn't lessen the frightening memory of his outburst, though. But yesterday all she felt was disappointment yet now she was furious. How dare he to reprimand her in such a manner! Was that what marriage meant to him? For her marriage was based upon trust but for him… If only he would be still her Angel! She could speak with him as freely as she used to.

She spent the morning in her room, thinking.

Soon she would have to go out but what could she tell him? If he didn't believe her yesterday he wouldn't do so today, either. Maybe he would act like as if it never happened at all and as tempting as it seemed to accept his choice she still wanted to tell him not to do it again. If she had a voice in his terms of marriage, of course.

Was it selfish to expect some kind of right for that she came back? Not if she did so just to use the fact against him but did staying with him mean she had to subject herself to every of his whims? Christine was so very sure that the real character of him was what she'd seen when he let her go but then again, what was what happened yesterday? The most reasonable explanation was too horrible to even think about… But no. She may have been inexperienced but she had to be sure in one thing at least: her own judgement.

It was obvious, though, that she couldn't live her whole life chained in her room, waiting for something to happen. Besides, hunger became almost unbearable by the start of early afternoon - she assumed it was afternoon, being without the reassurance of a clock. Her hand rested on the doorknob for about five minutes before with a deep breath, she opened the door.

As soon as she stepped out of her room her feet tumbled in something and Christine propped herself by gripping the doorframe. When she looked down she realized she had almost fallen over Erik who was sitting at her door, judging from his position for a very long time by then. He stood up but at first he didn't look into her eyes; after a minute he ventured a quick glance at her but he dropped his gaze again as if he was about to say something, he opened his mouth yet no sound came out. It was very clumsy: she couldn't walk away for he was blocking her way out but she dared not to ask him to allow her more space, either, for he was seemingly too engrossed in his inner battle. She took refuge in silent waiting.

Finally, after two minutes of cumbersome silence he raised his eyes to hers, showing much more emotion than he intended to. "Forgive me," he began earnestly. "You were right and I want you to know… that I'm sorry." His voice was rasp and uneven and as soon as he finished, he turned away from her. "I'll prepare you something to eat," he called back softly and Christine decided it meant she was to follow him, so she did just that.

The kitchen was in a lot better condition than she saw it yesterday, though the broken objects were missing what made the room look empty and cold. Somehow he managed to make the table usable and now he was preparing on it a mug and a plate for her while she watched him astonished. It was strange to be faced with the fact that he knew how to make a quick lunch for her; never before did she wonder about that he had to eat, too. He set the table only for one and she wasn't too surprised that he did so. Christine warily walked toward the chair, not sure if she should help him or not, so eventually she ended up obstructing him in nearly every minute and brushing his arm once or twice in her inertness, causing him to avoid even the slightest physical contact. She couldn't explain to herself why the fact hurt her so.

"I can do this better," he spoke finally, his voice laced with despair but firm in its resonance. "I will do it better." He placed her meal before her and quickly vanished from the room.

She didn't catch a glimpse of him again all day.

Only when she went to sleep did it occur her that she missed her meeting with Meg. Maybe he'd insist upon it on the next day.

But the next day started just as woodenly that the previous one. In the morning she was reluctant to step out of the safety of her room, and when finally she went out and sneaked into the kitchen, she tried to cause as little noise as it was possible, then returned to the room, feeling oddly relived that she didn't meet him.

True, he asked her forgiveness and she couldn't deny it from him – it was obvious from his uneasiness that he meant every word – but… being without the experience how to handle such situations made her wary about everything. She gave a deep sigh. It was a lot easier until she thought he was an angel. Until then every of his eccentricities she considered and handled with the confidence that that was how angels behaved. _And humans, too._ She would keep this in mind for future occasions.

In the afternoon she thought about venturing out again since boredom started to threaten; reading would be quite acceptable in this situation, would it not? Or she should seek him out and talk to him. The lamp on her bedside table was empty anyway.

But there must me some kerosene to refill it in the kitchen…

- o -

Erik felt a lot better in his sanctuary, without the ever searching gaze of hers. All that that room lacked was the peace that he felt on the last morning when she woke up in his arms, but she certainly wouldn't want to see him after his rather unfounded attack against her. Her tearful eyes haunted him still – never again did he want to see that look and if he would go out now he would be faced with that indignant – and rightfully disappointed – look in her eyes again.

Maybe he should go back to her and act as if nothing had ever happened. It sounded acceptable enough.

_Because it would prove her what a caring husband she would have…_

If only he didn't accused her! If he could think straight! If he didn't force her to choose him days ago, didn't frighten her, if only he didn't love her so much! If only he could be someone else…

He buried his face into his hands then run his fingers through his hair.

He should go out and accept her accusations; most likely she was right in every one of them, anyway.

A loud crash broke the silence of his thoughts; then he heard a few hurried and angry murmured words. Tearing the door open he was already out and in the kitchen; the source of the fumbling sounds were seemingly in there.

Christine was standing with her back to him but as she noticed him behind her she whirled around, tucking her hands behind her back. She was paler then ever.

"I'm sorry," she began softly. "Nothing happened. You may go back," she said with forced calmness, half-expecting him to return to his room but it was too late. He'd already seen the shards of glasses.

"Step away," he ordered coldly and she guiltily obeyed, steeling herself for the likely following reproach.

"I just wanted to read a little and… and I needed more than one candle but then the bottle just slipped and the lamp broke but I didn't want to bother you with it…" she stammered but obviously he wasn't listening to one single word: pushing her away he picked up the cloth from the back of a chair, then he crouched and took the pieces with the little towel. Having no other idea, she lowered herself to the floor as well, picking up the remaining parts of the lamp. But before she had a chance to touch any of them she drew back her hand immediately from his warning tone.

"Don't touch it!"

Regretfully she stood up, standing next to him and switching her weight from one leg to the other in every two seconds until he finished and stood up as well, removing the remainder parts of the lamp.

"Are you hurt?" He asked her; she clasped her hands together involuntarily.

"No."

All of a sudden his hand caught her wrist, bringing it before his eyes to examine it.

"You're lying," he said as both of them stared at the small cut on her finger.

"It's nothing," she began but as his fingers pressed her wrist more tightly she stopped and winced against her will. The pressure on her arm loosened immediately.

"Don't lie, Christine. Never lie to me."

"I didn't want to disturb you with a simplicity like this," she whispered, wishing to get free of his hold and welcoming the rare touch from him at the same time.

"Never," he repeated.

"If I promise such a thing, would you do the same?" She retorted, already suspecting that such a possibility was highly unlikely.

The very idea of telling her everything she wanted to know was frightening, terrifying, numbing him. How could she know everything yet stay with him? And how could he live with the thought that she knew? To tell her everything… Telling her how or how many people did he murdered? Answer her questions about what did he plan on the night of the fire? Or giving her the exact details how he wanted to end his life in his agony of loosing her? He wouldn't give her any more reasons to leave or to hate him! Or worse, pity him for his miserable life.

"No," he answered coldly at last.

At his rigid answer she softly yet firmly disentangled her wrist from his grasp and left for her bedroom without another word.

"Fine; go and hide in your room until you need me again!" He called after her and with celerity he thought her unable to move she whirled around, shouting,

"As if you didn't do the very same thing!"

"What did you expect me to do, Christine? Pretend that the last day never even existed?"

"Because you think it would be very convenient, wouldn't it?"

"As if you had any idea what I think! Be grateful that you don't."

"Then tell me, Erik," she continued somehow calmly, for a moment honestly expecting him to give her the reason. Of course, he didn't.

It was embarrassing enough that he had no idea how to treat her as his soon-to-be wife but it was even more embarrassing that she expected him to know it while he didn't. Rightfully, because it was him who insisted upon their marriage. Now he knew it was foolish to think that if she decided to stay with him it would be the end of their problems. Naturally it wasn't and unfortunately that didn't change a thing that she was there willingly.

She waited with forced patience for an answer until it became apparent that he wouldn't give any. She sighed resignedly, but asked anyway,

"Would you play for me?"

He could already picture what a lovely situation it would be: she would be struggling the whole time to forget about how he insulted her at almost every turn. If she would bother to try at all…

"I have work to do." He answered sternly. _I have to rearrange my music… this time in key's order._

"Can I have a lesson?" She continued, though her voice lost even that slight hope that remained.

"No."

"Can we go out for a walk?"

"No, I said…"

"Or I could help you."

"No, you can't."

"Fine, keep hiding," she growled and stormed out of the room, shutting the door of her room to Erik, who stood still on his spot.

After a stiff minute, he turned and left.


	4. Chapter 4

**Ch4**

Probably there couldn't be a much more awkward way to start the next day.

Christine woke up at a time she assumed was in the morning and dressed hurriedly with the intention to leave for the kitchen to purchase some kind of meal for the day; most likely it was the only time she would go out during daytime. As quietly as it was possible she opened the door and stepped out.

She happened to choose the exact same moment when Erik came out of _his_ room.

For long moments they openly stared at the other; apparently both of them thought to forego the other in order to avoid any kind of contact. What is more, Christine noticed he wasn't even dressed for the day; he wore a dressing gown over a white shirt instead of his black coat and his hair was swept back in an unusual fashion as if it was wet – he wasn't wearing the wig! It must have been very early in the morning, she decided, if he ventured out in such an outfit.

Perhaps that was why he seemed he would turn and go back to his room but finally he reluctantly let go of the handle and stiffly bid her good morning, then disappeared in the kitchen. Christine followed him short after.

By the time she arrived he had already prepared a bowl and a pan on the countertop and was now busy with measuring flour into the bowl. Since he decided to stay she thought she would return the gesture, so rolling up her sleeves she took a deep bowl and the eggs that he previously prepared on the tabletop and gingerly broke them into the bowl.

"Uhm… I'll need a fork," she called timidly and he handed her the desired object in that instant.

"Where do you keep salt?" She asked a moment later and he showed the place where she could found the rest of the ingredients. He certainly wasn't angry anymore but then what was that distant uneasiness in his behavior she had no idea. Heaven forbid; for a moment she had the faint suspicion that he was almost afraid to be in the same room with her. Something must have been really wrong with her mind.

"How is your cut?" He asked softly, casting a quick glance at her.

"I barely notice it," she answered in a similar tone. _I told you it's nothing._ "You see?" She held out her arm and showed him that ridiculously small slash on her finger he was so concerned about. But in a way, it was very comforting that he cared at all, after she'd been so harsh yesterday. For a moment, he leaned closer to examine it then nodded and she went back to her task.

Not long after her breakfast was ready and steaming on her plate, and she sat down to eat. Though it was clear he came for the same reason she didn't complain that he didn't eat with her. After what she'd said yesterday she wasn't surprised. She shifted uncomfortably on her seat.

"Would you stay, please?"

His shoulders fell with the deep sigh he gave but then turned back to her and lowered himself on the opposite chair. The fork twirled between her fingers a couple of times as if it could give her the courage to talk yet it was him who spoke first.

"Will you visit your friend today?"

She nodded. "I missed it yesterday, didn't I?" She swallowed the lump in her throat and her eyes flickered up to his, then they returned to her meal again. "I'm sorry for what I've said. I shouldn't have been that crude."

Ah, here it was he wanted to avoid. She would confess now and it was too late to leave. Listening to her apology while it was him who should have asked for hers…

_W__eak… weak… weak…_

"I just can't… be on my own," she continued, her eyes downcast. "I… have to know that I belong to someone."

"And now you want me to tell you what to do?" He had to struggle with every word but in the end ha managed to keep his tone quite even.

"No. I want to know that you're always there for me."

He turned away from her. "I am," he rasped, well aware of the fact that it was just a partial truth; he could be there for her if only he could be brave enough to accept that allowing her to see his love would make him extremely vulnerable at the same time. If it was up to him, she would never see him cry again and would forget about that he ever did so.

"You weren't in the last few days," she continued, with a little more confidence than before, now that he was willing to listen.

"Why would you have needed me?" He asked bitterly, his palm pressed firmly to the tabletop. "I already know what a monster I am; I didn't need to see it in your eyes as well."

"You wouldn't have seen it because it wasn't there. I wanted us to talk." Under the table the fingers of her free hand twisted and untwisted themselves in the fabric of her dress relentlessly. Talking to him was much easier until she couldn't see him; now that he sat just in front of her it made the whole scene grave, pressing down on her shoulders in a strange way. She shouldn't have started this conversation.

"About what?" He asked exasperatedly. His reaction wasn't any helpful in her distress.

"I don't know. Anything."

"Why?"

"Because that's what people do."

"It wouldn't change anything."

"Yes, it would. We used to talk a lot."

"Before."

"Why not continue?"

"And just forget about what happened?"

"Yes. Why do you want me to remember so much?"

"Because you should! Because you shouldn't… forgive me." At the end he run his fingers through his hair with annoyance; then turned to leave as if something life-altering, highly important thing had just come into his mind.

"I already did," she replied, and hesitantly he sat back. She had been seeing him like this since she woke up, changing into his usual attire wouldn't matter pretty much.

"Why?" His voiced was tired now, almost strained.

"Because I love you. Because if I didn't forgive you I couldn't live with you. And having to forget about you proved to be impossible," she said gently, watching with amazement how his features softened at her words.

"Christine, I don't know what to say," he admitted, suddenly finding the curved, little handle of her mug extremely fascinating. For minutes, both of them remained silent.

"You don't have to say anything," she said thoughtfully, measuring every word she wanted to say. Trust me, she wanted to say but most probably asking for his trust would only achieve the lack of it. "Just – just let me be with you."

Christine finished her meal in silence. Why was she so sure of him when he himself wasn't half as sure about his decisions? She certainly gave more credit to him than he deserved or possessed, contrary that she'd seen many things that she shouldn't have. Was it really her love why she forgave him?

When the rhythmic clatter of her fork on the plate stopped, he took away her dishes.

"I can do this myself," she protested meekly. "It's a wife's duty anyway." At least she should show him that even if she didn't practice them, she knew what a wife owed to her husband.

"They shouldn't have duties. And you certainly won't have any as my wife," he growled and gently brushed her aside.

"And when… will we be married?" She asked shyly; he answered without looking at her.

"On Sunday."

_Why was he so __gloomy then?_

Later on that day Erik brought Christine aboveground as he promised, and she spent the afternoon with Meg. To avoid the suspicious glances, the long pauses and uncomfortable questions she told where she stayed recently right away but refused to say anything else about it and fortunately Meg didn't press the topic. They wondered around Paris for a very long time, and after she bid Meg farewell, Erik escorted Christine back to the Opera House.

They talked definitely more from that day. It still wasn't as it used to be before but at least he didn't shun the conversations with her; on the next day she even started her lessons anew. It was overly unfamiliar to see him watching her while she sang; in the first ten minutes or so she had to close and open her wet palms several times and she couldn't find it in herself to take a full breath for long minutes. It was years ago since stage fright was so dominant during her lesson.

It was a lot easier the next day. With a little difficulty they managed to return to their old routine, the lesson was now just a little less comfortable than it was before… before. Christine finished her line and listened to him as he played, waiting for her next cue. Her eyes fell on the sheet music in front of her in confusion – these chords certainly weren't in that song. Soon they transformed into something else, fusing, changing, closing and darkening, then finally emerging to a bright, new melody what resonated triumphantly on the strings. Christine listened fascinated, watching with amazement how Erik closed his eyes while music was still floating from underneath his fingers, never once missing a note. Placing her elbow on the top of the piano she rested her chin in her palm, not exactly sure about what to do now. _So that's how music is being created._

In the next moment the music stopped, and he shuffled through his papers until finally pulled out an empty one, then began to scribble feverishly. For long minutes, only the scratch of the quill on paper could be heard and Christine decided that her lesson was most probably over and she turned to leave.

"Stay there," he ordered her, not bothering to look up. He must have sensed her uneasiness, though, because a moment later he stopped and slowly lifted his eyes to hers. "Would you?"

She nodded and resumed waiting by the piano, until after another five minutes or so he finished and handed her the music.

"Start from the beginning," he instructed and started on the first, instrumental measures without any note on what he was to play – he didn't need sheet music to know exactly where they were.

Never before had Christine been so grateful for an eight-measure-long pause – she spent it with studying his handwriting. Honestly, it took her several attempts to understand his hastily written instructions. Only then did it occur to her that she wasn't even familiar with his writing yet soon she was to be his wife. Taking a look at someone's handwriting always astounded her; Mme Giry's characters were long, narrow and even, Meg's were rounded but irregular and Christine's fiancée's were almost unreadable. It was very fitting for him, she concluded.

She sang a few lines with great difficulty when he stopped her.

"No, stop! It's all wrong!"

"But I did as it was written on the…" She argued but he didn't let her finish.

"That's what is all wrong. Give me back," he reached an arm for the music in front of her.

Timidly she handed him the papers and after he corrected a few notes he returned them to her – now she could only imagine what was written between the lines. But he didn't complain again.

Later when they finished he thanked her assistance, fumbling a little with his words in his inexperience but she couldn't care less about such simplicity. She was already in an overjoyed haze of pride.

- o -

It was two in the morning when he finished working. It never occurred to him before that so many hours passed since he left Christine on the couch, reading; she must have been asleep by now. Feeling unexpectedly tired, he left for the kitchen, casting a quick glance at the couch on his way: of course, she wasn't there.

Stepping inside the kitchen, the first thing he saw was a plate on the table, full of food. She never left anything undone, no matter how many times did he tell her that she didn't have to spend her time cleaning. It seemed she finally listened to what he'd said. Picking up the plate he wanted to put it away when a scrap of paper fell from its edge.

'_I knew you wouldn't have eaten with me.'_

Unfamiliar feelings gathered inside of him at the thought that she had prepared meal for him while she knew exactly well that he would refuse to eat it with her. _Sweet Christine…_

Shoving the note into his pocket he returned to his room with the supper that _his bride_ had prepared to him.

- o -

Anticipation made Christine's morning brighter than the dark room would have warranted it. As quickly as possible she readied herself for the day, all the while wondering about what he would possibly say when they'd meet. If he would say anything at all.

Her legs carried her to the kitchen first then to the small parlor, expecting him to be there; the empty room disappointed her more than she was willing to admit. However, on the table there was a tiny bouquet of snowdrops, tied elegantly with a narrow pink ribbon. Though she came to like the black ribbon as his unique sign, she was grateful that this time he decided to change it for something else. She turned around excitedly, founding him standing in the doorway.

"Why…?" She began but then let the rest of the sentence dissolve into the air.

"Do I need a reason to bring flowers for my… bride?"

"No, you don't." A bright smile came to her lips and she looked up into his eyes shyly. "Thank you."

He nodded and left with an expression that she thought was the closest to a small smile she'd ever seen on his face.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for everyone who reviewed or read my story so far. It means me a lot.

To LadyCavalier: Thank you so much for your kind words! I'm always trying to keep the story believable and I'm just so happy to know that you like it as it is. Thanks again!

* * *

><p><strong>Ch<strong>**5**

He did it again.

Christine was tempted to tell him to take it off, to tell him he didn't need to wear the mask in her presence since she had already seen his face quite a few times, yet dared not to mention it. The first time she'd taken it off without his consent was a good enough reason why not to.

But he touched it again.

Yes, it was only her earlier experience that kept her from telling him he could very well take it off right now.

It was as if he was making sure it was still on his face yet she knew it wasn't the case: he was so absorbed in his book he didn't even look at her; he definitely couldn't pay attention what he was doing. Christine was sure that that damn thing was cumbersome and itching and hot and distracting but she wasn't sure he'd take it well if she told him that he could take off his mask when with her. These last few days were so peaceful; she had no desire to ruin it.

But when he touched the mask again she lost her patience.

"Erik, why don't you take it off? It must be terribly uncomfortable."

"I don't need you to glare at my face," he growled without casting at her more than a furious look.

"I have to look at your face if I'm speaking with you. It doesn't mean I'm glaring."

"No."

"But why not? I've already seen you, it doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does!" He tossed the book aside furiously and leapt to his feet. "You already pity me for wearing it; what should I expect if I took it off?"

"I'm not…"

"Enough!" He shouted suddenly and before she could say anything else, he disappeared in his room, shutting the door loudly as he went.

Christine remained sitting on the couch, unmoving. Was that really pity what made her say what she did? That was far from what she wanted. The only thing she wanted was to make him feel comfortable around her. She could have easily brushed this argument aside; he wouldn't mention it again when he would come out. But she didn't want to.

Bracing herself for the upcoming yelling and fighting she stood from the couch, walking to his door. She knocked softly yet got no answer, as expected. She took a timid step into his domain.

"Go out," he ordered her sulkily.

"No."

"I don't want your pity, Christine! Don't you dare to pity me for what I am!" He growled assertively; she didn't move. Neither out of the room, nor towards him. She stood her ground but was startled a little after he sent several items from his desk to the floor. For minutes there wasn't other sound in the room than his ragged breathing.

"I didn't offered it out of pity," she whispered finally and he turned around, ready to attack again. "I simply wanted you to know that it wouldn't bother me. It wouldn't disgust me, either. But I was asking too much. I'm sorry. I always want too much." In the end her voice was barely above a whisper but to her relief she managed to keep it at least even. She wondered whether she should leave now.

Her offer was tempting, to say the very least. Of course that that damned thing was uncomfortable but being without it? It was… unimaginable. How could he be _without_ the mask? Naturally, she said she wouldn't gawk at him but how could one keep such a promise? No doubt she offered it out of sheer politeness. But then again, she was standing still, as if waiting for an answer or for him to take it off.

Would it be really such a terrible thing to do it now? If they would be married – and they _would_ be married – he had to discard it at some point. Just… just not now. _I always want too much. _But he knew she didn't.

He did nothing. He did nothing and it terrified her. First he was looking at her intently but then his eyes darted to the floor and he stood still. Again, she said the wrong thing, she was sure. She should have remained silent, instead of coming after him and anger him further. When would she be able not to infuriate him?

In the end she almost convinced herself that she could silently disappear from the room since he didn't seem he was going to answer her, when from the corner of her eyes she saw his hand slowly lifting up to his face then after a moment of hesitation, he lowered his arm with the mask in his hand. His expression was unreadable.

It wasn't as if his face ceased to be repulsive since she'd seen it the last time. No. It remained as it was, twisted and torn, scarred and… hideous. It wasn't disgusting, though. She had kissed him, touched his face; it wasn't disgusting to see it the slightest. The only disgust she felt was for herself: she claimed to love him and she really did yet she still saw his face as it was; disfigured. She never hated herself more than in that moment.

"Thank you," she whispered in a tone that she thought was reverent, grateful maybe, but instead of finding him relieved or at least _calmer_, he looked down to the floor as if he wanted nothing more that to disappear before her eyes and slowly turned away. He staggered to his desk and placed the white scrap of leather on top of a pile of paper what survived his earlier fuming, all the while his back to her. Without a word.

What had she done? She thought back feverishly what he could have taken as an offence or that unwanted pity but she couldn't find anything. How could she offend him with a simple 'thank you'?

When a moment later it dawned on her she felt more foolish than she thought it was possible. All the while she wanted him to take off the mask with the intention that that way she could tell him that it didn't matter and in her blindness it never occurred to her that maybe he didn't want to be consoled, didn't want to be constantly assured about her acceptance. Maybe… maybe he just wanted to forget about his face completely, pretending that there was nothing wrong with it, contrary that it wouldn't change a thing. Just get rid of the constant reminding that who he was…

"Can I have a lesson now?" She asked lightly, almost, _almost_ cheerfully and this time not waiting for an answer she flopped down on the piano bench.

"Now?" She heard him ask tensely. It sounded in her ears as 'Like this?'

"Yes, right now, actually."

"You just had breakfast," he objected, still not turning around, instead he rearranged some items on his desk as if it was something he needed to do immediately. She knew he didn't.

"I meant a piano lesson," she continued calmly and finally, he peeked over his shoulder.

"You want to learn playing the piano?"

"It always fascinated me seeing someone playing it. I'd like to know how they do it."

He nodded but said nothing. Her heart began to beat erratically. _He would simply refuse it._

"Would you teach me?" She asked timidly and waited impatiently for an answer, any kind of it. Her fingers folded and unfolded in the front of her dress until he stopped staring at her with that voiceless resignation and reluctantly let go of the edge of the table and walked towards her.

His steps faltered a little seeing that she intended him to sit beside her on the bench; she even rearranged her skirts for him to sit. It would be a shame to let her see how weak and indefinite he was. Warily, he sat down next to her.

"You already knew the notes and scales and how to read music so I will skip that part." He cleared his throat and ventured to cast a quick look at her. She was listening intently. "Let's begin with a simple C scale."

He played the notes slowly for her to watch the order of his fingers. Even now, that he sought rejection and offence in her every movement he couldn't find a single sign of disgust or even pity. For a moment he questioned if it was really present minutes before when he raged at her; twistedly he hoped that it was, because if it wasn't he just hurt her again without any reason. He always hurt her without reason.

When he finished, he motioned her to repeat it and she began to play eagerly, only to find that it was more difficult than it seemed – or was it because of her nervousness?

"I don't think I have enough fingers to play this," she complained with a small smile on her lips and started again. Nothing changed.

"You can play it slower, you know. You don't have to rush so."

"Yes," she choked, ridiculously finding herself on the verge of tears. It was nothing but a simple scale and there she was, fumbling with it like a child who'd never seen a piano before. Angrily, she started again.

"It was better this time," he encouraged her, seeing how she bit her lower lip while playing. Why, he had no idea.

Before she had the time to take her hand off the keys, he covered it with his. "Next time try it like this," he said and started to play with her fingers under his, showing her the right order of them. As soon as he finished, he let go of her hand while she awkwardly rested hers on her lap.

She wanted to take _his_ hand but it would have made her seem demanding again and that was something she wished to avoid; she was already demanding enough. Besides, it would lead him to the suspicion that she wasn't interested in her lesson the slightest and that wasn't true. Her intention with the lesson really was to learn _and _to make him feel comfortable. He would take her hand when he pleased to do so. She hoped he would want that, too.

To cover her uneasiness, she adamantly started again, slowly and leisurely, all the while thinking about how his fingers pressed hers earlier. It was easier this time. After she successfully learnt that first scale, he taught her the G scale, than the D scale; now that she knew the most basic knowledge it was a lot easier, she admitted, and having him near as her teacher was a welcomed change. It was different from her voice lessons: she was experienced on that field so his sternness wasn't offending anymore, she knew what she was expected to do and she acted accordingly.

But this lesson was different. He was as strict as before but she found that he was permissive at the same time, if such thing was possible. He wasn't as distant as he usually was during her voice lessons, not just because he was sitting right next to her but otherwise. She heard the soft sound of his breathing, she noticed a fresh cut on his finger. She was sure he had seen it that she noticed yet he didn't try to hide it as she had expected. Watching closely his movements, his behavior, the little signs he gave away unintentionally was comforting in a way and it was even more so that he allowed her to see them.

In the end, just to make her studies a little more interesting and to give her something to feel successful about, he taught her a simple song and her happiness about it finally gave him the courage he lacked quite some time for now.

"Christine?" He asked softly, testing his own determination as well.

"Yes?" She turned to him, folding her hands in her lap politely.

"Will you allow me to kiss you?" There, he said it. The suffocating feeling remained, though. Most likely she would recoil.

"Yes," she breathed without giving a thought to his ravaged features or his murderous past; all she could feel was her heart hammering in her throat, the anticipation in her stomach and the tingling in the back of her head. Closing her eyes she tried to keep breathing while a pleasant chill run up her spine.

Then she felt his lips' soft, inexperienced touch on hers.

After the first brush she feared he would withdraw but he didn't. He kissed her again and again until she slid closer to him and placed her hands timidly on his shoulders, wishing he would hold her back and he did. Tentatively, but he did.

And it felt so much better than she ever imagined.


	6. Chapter 6

Hello everyone! You completely amazed me with your wonderful reviews to the latest chapter, thanks a lot for everyone! I hope you'll like this chapter, too!

To APhan: I'm so happy you found it realistic! As much as it's a fiction I still like to keep it credible so it's very helpful to know that the pacing is all right. Thanks for the review!

To LadyCavalier: What a relief to know that the kiss came out well! I didn't want to make it explicit but I wanted it to be impressive nonetheless. I'm glad it worked. It's flattering to know that my story made you understand him a bit more. Thanks a lot for your kind words!

**Ch6**

He was late.

It was always him who woke up first, and by the time she came out of her room he was usually already engaged in preparing her breakfast, though he never ate with her.

Not today.

She came out of her room in the usual time but he was nowhere to be found. Having no other option, she chose to prepare food alone, secretly hoping he would appear.

He didn't.

After a short while she began to suspect the reason behind his delay yet first she dismissed it as nonsense, though with time it made more and more sense to her. Last evening she kissed him goodnight and… things carried away a little from that point and eventually it lead him to practically flee the room.

Her stomach trembled even from the memory of the soft touches of his lips on her neck.

Had she not been so enthusiastic in her reply he wouldn't have realized what he was doing – or he would have realized it a little later.

Christine let out a deep sigh. She wouldn't know how to act if he would be out so maybe it was for the better just not to mention it at all.

Later on that day Christine visited Meg again. They spent a pleasant afternoon in each others company, markedly avoiding every topic that could be uncomfortable as if according to a silent agreement. But it was obvious that such a thing couldn't last forever.

"Raoul left Paris last week…" Meg timidly addressed Christine after a specifically long and awkward silence.

"I don't care."

"I've been told he went to America," Meg pressed, curious beyond anything and determined to get some kind of detail from her taciturn friend. She didn't really tell her anything about her decision or about what happened after the fire; it was more than suspicious.

"Please, Meg, I don't want to know." Christine looked up pleadingly into her friend's eyes. "I don't want to know," she repeated, whispering.

"Why? You speak as if you are afraid to talk about him and yet first you agreed to marry him."

"I shouldn't have," she said and dropped her gaze to the floor. "He must hate me now for leaving him."

"Why did you leave then if you regret it now?"

"I don't regret leaving him; I regret hurting him. I regret hurting everybody. I never wanted to cause so much pain," she sighed and dropped her gaze to her hands in her lap. Her ring glistened in the pale light of the setting sun and her thoughts wandered to Erik. The first thing that always came to her mind was the look in his eyes, then that rare, exceptional smile, his lips…

Meg placed a hand on her friend's and Christine returned to the current conversation. "Would you feel better if you'd have stayed with him?"

"No! No," she protested adamantly, the picture of her beloved slowly fading from her mind, allowing her to concentrate on what Meg was saying. "I felt so miserable for days, Meg. I couldn't. But…" She took a deep sigh again. "Am I now selfish for choosing what I wanted while I knew how much I'd offend Raoul?"

Ah, that was why she didn't want to talk and Meg could hardly blame her for that. After all she had been through it was a miracle she was able to think clearly at all. She was much stronger than she thought before. "I don't think so. You couldn't possibly sacrifice yourself for either of them," Meg answered finally.

"That's why I left Erik the first time," Christine continued solemnly. "I believed I would be sacrificing my life for not hurting him. Besides a lot of other reasons, of course."

"Is that his name?" Meg asked, smiling. The thought that the Phantom had a name made him oddly human in her eyes.

"Yes," Christine answered dreamily and wondered what he could do right now. But after a minute, she sobered again. "Do you understand now why I don't want to talk about Raoul?"

"Yes. Forgive me for bringing it up."

Christine squeezed Meg's hand a little as the sign of her forgiveness.

"So you're going to marry… him?" Meg asked, not being able to hide her uncertainty on how to consider the former Phantom: using his name seemed outrageous but calling him the Phantom - besides that it was obvious now that he wasn't - would probably hurt Christine.

"In two days, yes." It was so strange: Christine's mood considerably brightened now that she talked about… him. The intimidating, murderous Phantom. Meg wasn't sure she would want to meet him in person, yet it was unimaginable to avoid such a thing if she would visit her friend every now and then in the future.

"Do you think… Do you think I can be there on your wedding?" Meg asked timidly, not at all convinced she could handle the though of being present on the Opera Ghost's wedding. The thought was laughable, too. "I always imagined I would be there to help you with the dress and…" The rest of her sentence drifted into silence from the confused look on Christine's face.

"I had the same dream, too," she began uneasily. "But… I don't think he'd allow anybody to come. I would like you so much to be there for me but…"

"Not even your best friend?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I'm sorry."

"It doesn't sound like the wedding you dreamt of…"

"No, it doesn't," Christine agreed resignedly and averted her gaze.

"But if he denies your wish… why did you agree to marry him? You could have…"

Christine cut her off before Meg had a chance to finish. "Because I love him. More than anything." She gave a deep sigh. "I know he's pretty distrustful and I'm still working on keeping his trust which is not easy at all. But I'll ask him about it."

"Thank you," Meg replied earnestly.

- o -

Chilly air blew back her hood as Christine stepped out of the building. After readjusting it on her head she meticulously pulled on her gloves and pulled her cloak tighter around her body; it was colder outside than she remembered. She shouldn't have stayed so long, she was well aware of that; Erik would be furious when figuring out she had to go home in dark.

The sound of shivers on the cobblestones broke the silence of the dark, then Christine heard a woman's shriek from one of the alleys.

Then nothing.

Blood cooled in her veins and the satchel (in which the rest of her garments were; the other part of her clothes was already in the house by the lake) fell from her hand to the ground. It was definitely foolish of her to stay so long and suddenly the idea that maybe Erik had followed her wasn't the sign of his mistrust anymore.

"Erik?" She called out timidly. No answer came.

She certainly wouldn't go back alone but if she would go back to Meg… the consequences were too dark to even imagine.

"Erik?" She called again, this time desperation creeping into her voice. Still no answer, the streets as quiet as before.

"Erik, I'm scared to go alone, please come here," she pleaded, swallowing hard to fight back the threatening panic that built up in her. What if he wasn't there?

Suddenly two burning eyes appeared in the darkness, slowly coming closer to her trembling form. She gave a deep sigh of relief and picking up her satchel, she hurried closer to him.

"You shouldn't have stayed so long. What if I wasn't here?" He asked her sullenly, taking the bag from her hand without another word.

"You're always here," she answered, feeling disappointment sinking in her mind for he simply turned and started to leave instead of offering her his arm.

"I told you not to waste your time," he glowered and watched as she scurried after him. To his amazement, when she reached him she folded her arm through his; and Heaven forbid he really felt as if she nestled close to him.

"I know and I'm sorry. It won't happen again," she vowed, deciding not to point out how talking with Meg wasn't the waste of her time. Next time she would tell him, though.

When he successfully composed himself after her earlier - seemingly - simple action and was sure about his voice, he asked her,

"How did you know I was there?", just to cover his uneasiness.

"I had ten years to learn this ability," she replied, feeling how he tensed under her arm. She didn't want him to draw back. "In the last year or so I've discovered what it feels like when you're near." Bracing herself against his possible recoil, she brought her other hand on his arm. "The feeling remained the same."

As they walked in silence her disobedience slowly drifted from his mind during the journey to the Opera House; it was more and more believable with each passing day that she was going to marry him, what is more, on her own free will.

They arrived at the house in that same, comfortable silence. He opened the door for her as they walked in, then took her cloak and hang it with his next to the door (she kept hers in her room). They spent the rest of the evening together, and he didn't mention again that she should have ended her meeting earlier. He even offered to continue her piano lessons and she gratefully accepted.

This time it was him who kissed her goodnight – on the cheek. Christine couldn't decide whether to be delighted that he initiated it or feel disappointed that it wasn't on her lips.

- o -

The next two days passed quickly. Christine asked Erik whether Meg could be present on the ceremony but as expected, he refused it. He wasn't furious about her question, however, but she didn't catch a glimpse of him in the next hours. She didn't bring up the question again.

The day before the wedding was peacefully uneventful yet Christine was so anxious about the forthcoming nuptials that she couldn't bring herself to lie down and sleep soundly. Should she go out and talk to him? She had no desire to spend the night tossing and turning; maybe she should read a little before going to bed.

She took her time with her bath and readied herself to bed, spending as much time during the process as was possible but it didn't help. In one day she would be a married woman. It was hurried; she didn't plan to be married a year before and she always thought she would have a long engagement. Strangely enough it wasn't the wedding night she was so afraid of; actually, she was quite curious, she admitted to herself. It didn't lessen that little fear she felt about it but the knowledge that she could tell him how she felt was encouraging. He would surely understand her fears.

But then what it was that was so troubling? If only she cold speak with someone! Maybe he was still out in the main room. Christine started for the door but then stopped abruptly and listened. Nothing.

"Erik? Are you there?" She asked with the hope that she didn't have to go out.

For a minute, she thought she wouldn't get any answer but then she heard his voice, saying softly,

"Yes."

After a moment of hesitation she slowly lowered herself to the floor, leaning her back to the door. Speaking with him through the door would be sufficient as well. But neither of them spoke for a very long time and in the end she feared he had left.

"I can't sleep," she admitted finally.

He didn't answer immediately. "Why is that so?"

Now it was her turn to be silent, contemplating how to tell him what she couldn't figure out for herself, either. "I'm getting married tomorrow," she said softly, half to herself. Another long pause followed her words and it soon became quite pleasant as she got used to the long silences between the sentences.

"You regret it?" She heard him ask through the door. He must have been very close, judging from his voice. She could very well go out and speak with him face to face.

"No, I don't," she replied calmly. If only she knew why she was so nervous then!

"I wonder if it would change me," she blurted out uneasily at last, grateful that he was willing to listen to her silly thoughts. But again, nothing changed. He did the same for ten years, always listening and never reprimanding – not for her thoughts, at least.

"I hope it wouldn't. I don't want you to change, Christine."

"Don't you want me to be like a real wife? Obedient and dutiful towards my husband?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because… I prefer you to be honest. A wife who's inferior to her husband would never be completely honest. I wish I could be your friend as I used to be."

"You still are," she hurried to reassure him when she heard the hint of disappointment in his tone.

"Contrary that everything that happened?"

"Because of them." For a moment she wondered whether she could mention it, then decided to take advantage of the door between them. "I wish it could be mutual."

As she suspected, he didn't respond at first. "I can do it, Erik. I can learn to accept many things. Just let me do it."

"You shouldn't."

"Maybe. But I'm willing to do it. For you."

They sat in silence for another while. Talking to him really did help as did his willingness to talk to her.

"Christine?"

"Hmm?"

"Good night."

"Good night, Erik."

Strange calmness descended on her during their short talk and it remained present even now that the conversation was over. _Peace, _she thought to herself and smiled. Yes, in a day she would be a married woman, to a man who is willing to listen even in the middle of the night.

Pulling the blanket up to her chin she fell asleep, content in the thought that next evening she wouldn't have to be parted from him for the night.


	7. Chapter 7

Hello everyone! First and foremost, thank you for your reviews for chapter 6! I appreciated all of them.

I'm sorry to say that this is the final chapter of this story. Thanks a lot for everyone who read, reviewed, alerted or favorited; you really made it easier to post the next chapters! I hope you liked it. Please, let me know!

**Ch7**

The words of the old man were nothing more than incoherent, blurred lines in his ears. The scent of the small chapel was oddly foreign to his nostrils, completely different from what he was used to, the damp smell of the tunnels beneath the opera house. This was disconcerting; constantly reminding him that he didn't belong here and he longed for his familiar catacombs, even if they suggested his outcasted state with their every haunted turns.

Two candles were lit on the altar before them, the light of their flames danced on the fancy embroidery of the frontlet and on the pages of the Holy Bible. Trepidation stubbornly rose in him until he had to venture a glance at her beautiful frame, just to convince himself that she was still there. When Christine realized his furtive glimpse upon her she cast a reassuring look at him with the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen on her lovely face, then shyly turned her head back to the priest.

_Face._

The old man didn't mind the mask, seemingly. For that good amount of money he'd better not to. At first, he had protested to no end but now that he saw Christine's willingness he was probably convinced, considering that he said nothing against their union. He even managed to greet the two of them with a beaming smile when they arrived.

Erik refused to let go of Christine's hand, just in case she had any intention to leave in the last moment. No. She came back and he couldn't let her leave again. Not now that he knew he couldn't even die without her. Not if she showed any intention to leave, anyway.

She looked at him again and her eyes shone with unshed tears. Did she know what he was thinking? Did she suspect her decided fate now? Were her tears for her helpless state? Tears began to choke his throat but then he saw how her sight traveled to their entwined fingers and she gave him a soft squeeze on the hand. What was that exactly she knew already? What a shame he couldn't ask her without seeming weak or insecure.

As much as he wanted to be the strong and confident husband of his bride he still found his hand shaking savagely while pulling the ring upon her slender finger before he, too, received the symbol of their legal bound on his finger. There were only two witnesses of her current performance yet she was much more nervous than she had ever been when she performed for hundreds of people in the opera house. Or was her apprehension genuine? He tried to convince himself with the events of the last few days but he dared not to be confident in it again. He did that once and failed miserably.

_Anything else than to feel that again._

The ethereal voice of her still rang in his ears as she said "I do". It seemed his senses conspiredagainst his right mind and now wanted to convince him with her every movement about her love. From the very beginning of the ceremony he watched her with silent fear mixed with amusement toward her calm demeanor. But even now, that they were facing each other, holding hands, he couldn't find any sign of protest on her face. Yes, her cheeks were wet with tears but she was smiling. Smiling! At him, and only him. At the Phantom who forced her to marry him. The Phantom who lied to her for years. Who took away her future. Her fiancé.

But contrary to any of that, she came back. To stay and to marry him.

He stepped closer to her trembling form and looked down at her _wife_. If only he could have this picture of her forever in his mind... Looking at him as if he was the only man in existence... With racing heart, he lowered his head and tried to seem twice as sure of himself as he truly was before he softly brushed her lips with his own. She responded without any restraint, without paying any attention to the old man watching them and in that moment, he felt he achieved all that he wanted in life.

Yet as soon as the ceremony was over, Christine was drawn out of the chapel by the arm onto the streets. It was already dark outside when they came and the night was now even darker; and her husband deliberately chose abandoned alleysand narrow, empty streets while returning to the opera house. Never once did he turn back to her and seemingly he didn't even care about if she could follow him or not; she almost tripped on the hem of her dress twice. When they reached the gate on Rue Scribe he ushered her in and after he locked the gate behind them he yanked her to his frame, his arms encircling her waist, not leaving any space between their bodies while he buried his masked face in her hair.

First she was caught too off guard to figure out what was wrong with him but what she did know, that it didn't start right in that moment. He was already distracted during the whole ceremony and pressing her hand so hard as if he feared she'd fly away in the instant he let her hand go. Then she considered it as excitement, but now that their obligation was over he didn't seem so eager to continue their way home. And he didn't say a single word since they left the old priest, nor did he explained anything here in the safety of his domain.

Her arms went around his rigid frame, embracing him with the thought to console him. Though once he said that wives shouldn't have duties she still felt she was bound to comfort him. Whatever were spouses for if not caring for each other?

But after several awkwardly silent moments she became restless. All she could hear was his calculatedly deep and even breathing and he was holding her still as tightly as minutes before. Not if she was displeased with it but she didn't know the cause of it and that was unnerving. And on top of that, he showed no intention to tell her at all.

"What is it?" She asked him finally, caressing his back lovingly. She got no answer save from his purposely regular breathing and a tremor running through his frame. She suspected that it wasn't meant for her to feel that.

It was suspicious beyond anything.

"Are you crying?" She inquired further.

"No," came his forced reply, leaving no doubt in her that he was lying.

After a long pause, she tried again, prodding him gently. "Would you tell me what it is?"

"Nothing," ha answered stiffly yet stayed just as tense as before. Yet when she didn't ask again but continued to hold him, it broke his stubbornness.

"Christine, you've made me the happiest man alive… and I've just ruined your life forever," he revealed at last, not pulling away from her embrace. She had no intention to break it, either.

"You haven't," she said softly.

"You're bound to me for the rest of your life," he continued adamantly and the last words sounded mysterious and tragic, though these were the last things she felt right now. The first was confusion.

"That's exactly what I wanted. That's what _you _wanted. From the very beginning, didn't you?"

"Yes. But not like this." It was unimaginable to share his thoughts with her but only until he convinced himself to display them to her, and now that he could have easily stopped as her curiosity was satisfied, he didn't want to stop. Or rather he couldn't.

"What do you mean: not like this?" He heard her ask timidly.

"I wanted it to be beautiful. I wanted you to want it as much as I wanted it... I wanted you to dream about it, to be excited about it… I wanted you that if - years later - you look back on this day you could say that it was the most beautiful day of your life." His voice faded into a whisper. "Because for me it was. It was foolish of me." At the end his voice tapered off but then continued anyway. "Not force you into it."

"You didn't force me," she assured him gently. "When I came back, it was with the intention to marry you. I wouldn't have come back if I didn't want that; it would have been cruel for both of us to pretend waiting for something that would never happen."

He pulled back and reached for her hands, wanting to thank her something he didn't have the words for in his undeserving state. Her fingers were chilly from the February air but they slipped into his palm easily; she curled them around his hand and his eyes snapped up to hers. She was so supportive, trying to accept something he knew she shouldn't and he loved her even more for that. Yet her current calm demeanor wasn't able to wash away the memory of her face before the wedding as she tried to hide the disappointment in her eyes.

"I wanted you to have a memorable wedding, as you imagined it through the years. I wished for you the attention of hundreds of people and the admiration that you deserve," he said while softly rubbing her knuckles warm.

For long moments, both of them were silent.

"I'll get that every night I'd sing. You don't like to be seen," she said at long last.

"No, I don't," he agreed bitterly, his eyes fixed on her fingers. "You'll never have the wedding you dreamt of."

"But I have the husband I dreamt of." If there was a thing that could make him feel worse, than that was it. It was disturbing enough to know he couldn't give her everything but to know that she knew that too - it was unbearable. He gave a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl.

"Don't do that. I meant it," she scolded him briefly and tightened her grasp on his hands. "My dream-wedding wouldn't have meant me anything without you."

"I wouldn't ask anything else from you, Christine," he vowed fervently, holding on to her hands as if they could give him her forgiveness. "But I can't let you go again."

"I know. I don't want you to let me go, either," she smiled but the grave expression remained on his face nonetheless. "Would you ever accept that I love you and want to be with you? That I'm here because you make me feel important, that I'm not just a girl among the others but the only one in the world? Would you?" She asked with all of the passion she had inside, determined to make him see the truth.

He drew her closer in reply, kissing her temple softly, taking in the sweet scent of her hair. It didn't make sense to fight any longer against his mind. She said she loved him and he was willing to take it as the truth. Why not, when it was her who'd chosen to come back and marry him? Not so long ago she turned away from his touch on her hair but now - now she was enjoying it. She even leaned her head on his chest and he was able to convince himself that she wouldn't pull away if he caressed her back softly. He was right.

"Your hair smell of jasmine," he stated plainly after a few minutes, not entirely sure that it was a usual habit of her hair, having not too much experience to be sure.

"I hoped you'd like it." She moved closer, allowing her arms to rest lightly on his shoulders. "Because it's for you."

The rhythmic movement of his fingers stopped abruptly on her back and a long shudder ran down on her spine.

"Nothing will happen, Christine," he assured her nervously, feeling awkward and embarrassed and dozens of other things he had no desire to name.

"It's not that. It's because of the cold," Christine hurried to explain to him when she felt him drawing back.

Without a thought, he unclasped his coat and draped it over her shoulders. "I don't want you to be frightened of me," he said, struggling to have the courage to look into her eyes. When he did, his sight met with her affectionate and loving gaze. "I won't do anything that you don't want."

"Good. Because I don't want you to leave me alone tonight." She pulled the coat tighter around herself, then leaned her head back to his chest.

"You don't have to do this out of courtesy or duty or anything that may make you think you're obliged to do it." While speaking, he ventured a light touch on her back again and she nestled closer to him. It was hard to keep his hands above her waistline but he managed to succeed.

"Is it so hard to understand that I'm trying to say that I want you?" Though her voice was muffled by his coat he heard her just as well. He heard that small embarrassment in her voice, too, that she wanted to cover so badly. He decided to swallow the rest of his doubts and take her fisted hands in his coat as the truth.

Without another word he gingerly lifted her in his arms, carrying her as he headed back to the house.

"What are you doing?" She asked with an excited smile, afraid that he'd stop if she spoke longer.

"Is it not how married couples enter their new life?"

A bright smile appeared on her face. "It is," she said as she snuggled close to him, moving her arms around his neck as he held her.

Neither of them had ever been that happy before than on that first night of their long marriage.


	8. Chapter 8

Hello everyone!

I know, I know, I said there would be only seven chapters but I really had to add an extra chapter. I wanted to try writing something that is a little more than T rated stuff, so here is my first (and probably last) M rated chapter. My main purpose was to avoid all the terrible clichés, so a one-shot, where the characters fall for each other and have sex right away was out of the question. I hope this would do it; I tried to keep it somewhere between explicit and boring. Let me know what you think!

So again: this chapter is rated M, keep this in mind while reading. Thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Ch08<strong>

It was very hard to open the door, especially that neither of them felt the urge to do so quickly. Even when they managed to close it behind them it was still with great reluctance to break apart from the kiss they'd been engrossed for long minutes by then.

At last Erik deposited Christine to the floor, then they stared at each other until Christine's cheeks became red and she gave her _husband_ a perplexed smile.

"I feel so funny," she admitted, not entirely sure that it was exactly that she wanted to say. Both of them knew what was to come next. Even when it was with both of their consent and willingness it was still rather embarrassing. "I have no idea what to say," she added and her hands moved to the clasp of her – his – cloak.

"Let me," he breathed and her hands fell to her sides, allowing him to do the task for her. He reached up and slowly undid the knot first on his, then on her cloak as well – barely brushing the skin on her neck during the process – and hung their coats next to the door.

Christine was standing before him in her pure white wedding dress, the veil still on her hair, her shoulders uncovered. She was still smiling. Erik wasn't sure he wanted to move.

And it wasn't him who moved next, indeed, but Christine, who took a hesitant step towards him and lifting her arm, she asked,

"May I?" And she motioned vaguely towards his mask. Barely visibly, he nodded.

She placed the white leather on the little table beside them while watching him intently, deliberately not saying a word about his features, her feelings about it, the current situation, anything, that might have referred to his face. But even without that, she felt terribly nervous.

"Would you mind if I had a cup of tea?" Before we go to bed, she wanted to continue but managed to swallow the rest of the sentence. "Would you like some, too?"

"Yes," he said, maybe a little too eagerly. "Please," he added almost inaudibly. Truth was, that he was grateful for her offer; he knew she was nervous, but he was actually terrified. He might have hoped for the forthcoming event but to become actually one step from it, it was devastating. It seemed embarrassing enough to let her know that he'd never been so close to a woman before that he would be within mere minutes; but now she would be faced with that very fact, she would experience it at first hand. But what was worse, it was him who was supposed to lead her!

The silence in the kitchen was palpable and when the cups jarred against the saucers, his breath hitched in his lungs. Ridiculous, really.

"I haven't been so restless five minutes ago," Christine said, again with that perplexed smile around her lips. Needing to show her some confidence on his part already – and convincing himself that he _did_ have some – he reached across the table and squeezed her hand encouragingly.

Christine's gaze wandered to their rings: they were perfect matches, and however odd it seemed that he was wearing a ring, she quite liked the idea that he wouldn't be without it from now on, just like her.

"I like our rings," she mused silently, sweeping a shy caress across his knuckles.

"If you'd like some fancy jewels, I'd give it to you but…"

"No, no. You know that I'm not fond of jewels." She ventured a quick glance at him – he nodded silently at her remark. "And what the ring symbolize is what matters, does it not?"

"Yes," he agreed, gaining some courage to speak again. "You know that you don't have to do anything," he managed to say at last and as much as he meant it as a selfless offer, he still couldn't deny that it would serve his part, too. How strange it was: he could have everything he ever dreamed of but he was too afraid to take it. He hoped that she was still willing, though.

"But I want to do it!" She hurried to say, feeling the hated blush creeping into her cheeks once again. Why, when it was her husband she was talking to? "As scandalous as it is, I like to enjoy your touch."

Again, she blushed, and for a moment it seemed that he did, too. That was not at all how he imagined the night.

"Don't think it scandalous! I'd die of shame to know you've been forced. I don't want you to silently suffer through this night just because it's the proper thing to do."

"I don't intend to. It's just hard to forget about it." She trailed off shyly, then drunk her tea in one sip; he did the same.

"I'm hardly the one who should remind you of your possible mistakes," he addressed her finally in the hope of calming her; it seemed he succeeded – her shy gaze met his again.

She wanted to kiss him – deeply and soundly, just like he did a few days ago, when he bolted from the room afterwards. He would not now, and she was sure she'd have the same effect on him as he had on her.

They stood from the table in the same moment.

"Where do we… go now? Your room or mine?" She asked, consciously fighting with the ever-present blush on her cheeks; it just had to disappear at some point!

"Mine," he answered hurriedly, but then added, "If you don't mind."

After her reassuring nod they started for the mentioned room and taking a deep breath, Christine took her husband's hand in hers, entwining their fingers and pressing their palms together. He squeezed her hand back and opened the door for her.

It wasn't a large room and there was not much in it, but that wasn't what got her in the first minute she stepped in. The bed was made with white sheets and when he lit the candle on the nightstand, Christine noticed that the sheets were decorated with matching white embroidery. It was definitely made for her; surely he didn't sleep with such fancy bedclothes. But even if she had any more doubts that it was indeed for her, she was convinced by the single red rose on top of the pillow and the wrapper on the back of a chair. She remembered one of the ballerinas mentioning that her lover covered the bed with hundreds of rose petals and in the morning she was faced with the withered ones, scattered now not only on the bed but all around it. She said it took hours to get rid all of them.

Christine was grateful that Erik didn't have the same idea.

She turned around; he was visibly uncomfortable as he shifted on his feet and how his sight fluttered around her form. She'd never seen him acting so unsure before.

"These were just optional preparations, you know," he began, closing his eyes briefly before looking back at her again. "I wouldn't have mentioned it if you'd have chosen to stay away. And I would have been content to have you here only for sleep."

She had to smile again, but now it was for his comfort. "No, it's fine. I like it."

"Good," he concluded stiffly, and took refuge from the threatening silence in sweeping his fingers across her features. She was standing so close that he even ventured a kiss on her lips and she didn't draw back, despite that she was trembling all the while; and when he pulled her closer to hold her tighter, she wreathed her arms around his back. Her warm breath caressed his face in short waves.

When he held her as securely as right now, it didn't seem improper the slightest to be so near to him. And even nearer. His body was warm and steady, but it was still a little unfamiliar to feel his heaving chest touching hers – it wasn't displeasing, though.

Slowly his fingers crept up into her hair, but soon were tangled in the veil. _The first piece of clothing that has to be discarded._ He tried to lift it but stopped immediately at her sharp intake of breath.

"There are pins in it," she said apologetically. "It refused to stay up without them."

"You should have told me to stop," he murmured. _And I should have known that it wasn't fixed on your head by some miracle_, he added in his mind.

"Please don't feel bad. It makes me feel all the more nervous," she pleaded and he decided that she was right. He, too, was nervous enough already.

"How many?" He asked with a soft sigh as he began the search for them by burying his fingers in her hair once again.

"Seven or eight, I'm not sure. It's a rather long veil."

But it was easier than he'd though to remove the hated pins and the veil slid from her curls effortlessly; he folded it carelessly on the back of a chair. At first he allowed only his fingertips to touch her hair, but as she continued to watch him in the same mesmerized way like during the ceremony, he couldn't help but let his fingers disappear completely in her curls. They fell around his wrists, caressing them temptingly - it was so warm inside that brown mass and it smelled from jasmine.

_I hoped you'__d like it because it's for you._

He shivered.

Gaining her courage, Christine lifted her arm to rest it on his chest, brushing a finger across his coat's top button. Should she…?

She stole a glimpse in his eyes. His gaze was fixed on her face.

The button slipped from its place. She followed the movements of her fingers with her eyes as they moved down, but when she finished, she dared not to look lower, contrary her burning curiosity. Instead she looked up into his eyes again, taking in his slightly opened lips, and thinking it as an invitation, she touched them with her own. She didn't need to watch to know that he wanted her. As much as she thought it would frighten her, it was flattering to feel it against her body.

It did nothing to dampen her anxiety, though.

His hands slowly slid from her hair, passing her neck, tracing her bare shoulders and finally ending their way down on her arms. Her hands were quivering a little, he realized, but so were his.

Christine pushed the coat from his shoulders, revealing the white of his shirt, and Erik searched the clasps of her dress, undoing them with deliberately slow motions.

His wife stood before him in her white undergarments.

Everything was white on her.

Soon her petticoats were discarded as well; her pantaloons ended just above her knees with several layers of ruffles. Breathing became almost impossible.

After a short fumbling she managed to untie his ascot, removing the pin before she moved forward to discard his vest and the meticulous undressing continued until she accomplished unbuttoning his shirt. After parting it she hesitated only for a moment before placing tentative hands on his chest. She was supposed to touch her husband, was she not? She _wanted_ to touch him, too. Whenever she did that something in his posture changed, as if her touch made his muscles relax - knowing that he liked her touch urged her forward, forgetting about hypocrite propriety.

Her fingers drew slow paths down from his shoulders and then up again, his muscles changing constantly beneath her skin.

Amidst her ministrations he hurriedly caught her wrists but it was too late; a long shudder ran through his body while he pressed her hands tightly in his grasp and his breath came in short gasps. His eyes were shut tightly.

"Have I done… something wrong?" She asked worriedly, trying to free her hands from his grip. His eyes snapped open but he lowered his gaze to the floor immediately, refusing to look at her.

"No," he rasped, finally succeeding in catching his breath. "I'm sorry." Reluctantly, he let go of both of her hands and she withdrew them uncertainly.

"Is there… is there something wrong?"

"It should have happened later," he said to the carpet, still not looking up at her.

"Oh." His forced answer made it clearly obvious what happened but Christine didn't really have any idea how to handle that. It was definitely not the time to ask for his explanation or instructions.

"And what should I do now?" She heard herself ask anyway.

The two tails of his shirt hung loosely on his dropped shoulders and the embarrassment in his eyes as he looked up at her startled Christine more than the forthcoming act did. Usually he was the confident one in the two of them and the knowledge that now he wasn't had an overpowering effect on her.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then no sound came out. There couldn't possibly be a more humiliating situation than this one. When nothing happened leaving the room didn't seem much more embarrassing than to stay anymore, but then he heard the soft sound of movement beside him.

Christine stepped closer, resting her arms on his back under the shirt; then lifting herself on her toes, she breathed a kiss to his neck, then another, and another… At last she achieved to feel him relax against her while his palms rested on her hips. She felt her heart in her throat when during the next kiss she tasted the salty flavor of his skin while her own skin tingled all over; even the roots of her hair seemed to crawl with excitement; especially when she felt her husband's hands probing at the laces of her corset.

"Let me turn around," she implored and he conceded.

Remembering the affair with her hair pins, now he lifted her curls well before starting on the corset, before the laces could tangle with her hair. It was a mystery how she managed to lace herself up so tightly without help.

"I wish you wouldn't wear it anymore," he said when the knot came undone. The lace slid between his fingers as he loosened it.

"It's necessary," she protested, although feebly. When the corset fell to the ground with a thud, she turned around.

"It's unhealthy," he stated firmly and she nodded her agreement.

"I'm not so fond of it, either," she smiled and noted with satisfaction that the corners of his lips turned a little upwards, too.

His shirt joined the corset in a minute and this time when she stepped closer to him, she couldn't help but steal a glance down… there, and she bit her lip. Her stomach was knotted from dread and anticipation, but her earlier trembling was now a well-definable, pleasant pulse. It shouldn't feel so good if this was considered something… dirty, should it?

He saw her shaking her head and stopped her wrists in mid-motion. "What is it?"

"I've forgotten about our rule." His brow lifted a little and she continued. "That it's not forbidden to relish what we are doing and what I feel."

"No, it's not," he answered huskily when her fingers reached for the clasp of his trousers. It wasn't a difficult piece of clothing yet her inexperienced fingers needed a full minute to undo the strap; when she finally opened it, he doubtingly got rid of the garment.

He was standing naked in front of a woman. It was extremely disturbing.

The fact that she was boldly observing him didn't help, either.

She wasn't so very sure anymore that he was meant for her, considering the size of him and then her knowledge about hers – it seemed impossible to work.

From the look on her face he wanted nothing more than to get his trousers back; he wanted to speak but found that he was too at a loss to do so.

"I haven't changed my mind," she assured him and licked her lips absently.

With numb fingers he reached for her chemise, and taking the hem Erik lifted the garment from her body, then when no protest came from her, he lowered her pantaloons as well, fighting back a throaty "Oh," when finally he caught a glimpse of her similarly naked form. Her gaze flitted awkwardly from one place to another, calming only a little when he rested one hand on her waist.

She lowered herself to the bed warily and he joined her uncertainly in a minute. It was more than allowed to touch the other yet hesitancy was still present when he placed a shaky hand on her knee and slowly moved it upwards. She managed to catch a content sigh before it escaped from her lips; instead she leaned forward cupping his cheek and kissed him soundly. His palm slid up a little and she moaned into their kiss against her will.

He froze in mid-motion.

"Don't stop," she asked, her own voice very much reminding her of begging, and probably it was closest to the truth than anything else.

"Would you let me know if you want me to?"

"Yes," she replied earnestly and his other hand found its place on her back. Soon she was laid on the bed, his hands exploring her curves while she timidly followed suit his movements. As ridiculous as it sounded in her mind, she still feared that her anticipation became plainly obvious for him as well. That strange pulling and pulsing in her abdomen and between her legs was as intriguing as perplexing, and it definitely couldn't go unnoticed by him.

Her skin was warm and soft under his fingers; shouldn't she be cold without her clothes? She wasn't shivering, either. Her breath hit his ear and he let out a deep sigh; her fingers traced little circles on his back in return. The feeling of her breasts against his chest was something he wasn't prepared of; the small tips poked at him with every breath she took. Her rapid heartbeat was evident from the pulse on her neck.

She truly wanted him. It was so very difficult to believe it, but when it was so apparent from her demeanor he couldn't even think of denying it. He wondered whether she would allow him a plainly bold touch.

Considering that she allowed him to see her naked it sounded reasonable enough.

She felt his manhood occasionally brushing her thigh and she wondered how he would continue from here. Would he ask her to part her legs or…

It was just so… awkward.

Her questions were soon answered, though, when she felt his palm slid from the side of her breast, stopping for a moment at her hip, then giving an unsure caress to her thigh. Then he moved it slowly to her inner thigh.

He didn't need to ask her to do it; she gave him access without a word. She couldn't remember thinking about moving her limbs, though, it was as if they moved on their own.

When she felt his fingers' uncertain touch on her she had to brace herself on his shoulders; his shuddering breathing was quite startling but since he didn't force himself at her right away, she calmed considerably. It was well-known in the ballet-dormitories how men tend to loose their mind during such activities, but like so many times, these 'facts' weren't true for everyone, and for a moment Christine truly questioned whether anything that those girls talked about was based on reality. It certainly didn't seem so; especially not, since her husband's eyes sought out hers before moving forward. She didn't deny him.

Now. Now she would feel him… there.

Her knees trembled when she felt him lifting himself up on his elbows and his hairy legs tickled her inner thighs as he settled between them. The top of him brushed against her and she relaxed immediately; it was completely unintentional. But when he snuggled up to her, her muscles clenched again – and that _was_ intentional.

"I don't want you to be afraid," he murmured gently, staying away from her this time as he caressed her cheek with the pads of his fingers.

"I don't want to be afraid, either. I just am." Christine gave a nervous laugh. "I should return the pleasure you're giving me but I don't know how. I don't really know what am I doing, but I definitely should and…" His kiss ended her anxious rattle.

"You overestimate this," he told her.

"I think so." Her hand rested on his cheek, and Erik reached up to cover it with his.

"Everything's fine." He kissed the inside of her wrist. "Don't worry, my love."

She rewarded him with a timid smile for the endearment. "All right."

Understanding her silent encouragement he tried again, but when she felt the warm and smooth something probe at her again, she pushed her hips down in the mattress. He pulled back again.

"I'm sorry," she choked. "I didn't mean to…"

"I'm not sure how best to…" But he should have known it, he thought. He was supposed to lead her; he was older and her husband, and…

Before he tried again he gave her a lingering kiss and she strove to stay relaxed when she felt him slowly pushing inside her. It really did hurt and after their lips broke apart she took deliberately deep and even breaths as he slid forward bit by bit, and she struggled not to move at all until the pain would hopefully subside. She could only hope that her nails didn't break the skin on his shoulder.

The whole ordeal didn't last longer than a few seconds but she was still gripping him tightly afterwards.

"Is it still so bad?" He asked her in a shaky voice; she was breathing against his chest and wasn't looking at him.

"It's wearing off," he heard her muffled voice and noticed her effort to stop the quivering of her legs around him. His fingers tangled in her hair when he kissed her temple.

"It was silly of me to dread this so much," she lifted her head, but contrary her feigned bravery he beheld the shine in her eyes.

"No, it wasn't," he whispered in a low voice, caressing her cheek with his thumb. Their breathing, their heartbeat, the pulse of their bodies, everything was shared now. When she took a breath, he felt it too. Her heartbeat was against his chest, too. The thought that she allowed him to feel her so close forced every other thought from his mind.

However, when he made the slightest movement, her breath was caught in her throat.

"Does it still hurt?" He queried, sweeping one hand gently across her face.

"I think it's almost over," she answered tentatively, placing one hand on his nape and cupping his face with the other. He gave her a rather unreadable look but before she could decide whether to draw back her hand or not, she heard his low voice.

"It really doesn't matter, does it?"

"Doesn't matter what?"

"What I am. What I've done. My face."

"No," she answered simply.

"Why?"

"Because you make me feel precious." She began to giggle, jolting aware the reason why they had to stop. It wasn't half as bad as a minute ago, though. "I can't remember the last time I said such nonsense. But it's true," she finished, sober again.

"Should I say something just as flourish I'd say you make me feel worthy of living. And that would be true as well."

He was rewarded with a smile from his bride, who was slightly amazed from his light tone – who could have thought he could be so at ease with her? Especially in such a situation like this one. She brushed her fingers through his hair lovingly.

This time when he shifted she didn't feel the insurmountable urge to clench herself shut and push him out, and the previously present ripping sensation had reduced to a simple, uncomfortable throb. Even that disappeared short after and then, then it was truly wonderful. His eyes were riveted on hers and Christine caressed both of his cheeks fondly, relishing the way how his breath shuddered between his parted lips.

Stroking fingertips edged from her scalp to her nape, trailing down her neck; then his eager palm skimmed her breast, finally sneaking to her back where his fingers tensed as he held her body tight – her stomach quivered with pleasure. She wished the feeling would never end.

His hair fell to his eyes and she smoothed it back in to place, drawing her hands down his sides subsequently.

Soon she realized that they were her deliberate touches that made him shiver – she trailed her lips along his neck with the new knowledge and he moaned her name as he clung to her.

His face was almost touching hers, hovering over hers, dipping several times with his kisses and she liked how his body was pressed so firmly to hers. It wasn't trapping her, as she feared; in fact, it was making her feel protected. How it was possible when she obviously wasn't threatened at all she had no idea.

Drops of sweat formed on his brow and her body was soon covered with sweat, too. She liked how the heat of his body enveloped her and how his scent filled her nostrils when he pressed his cheek to hers – if there really was no space left between them at all. His skin stroked hers – everywhere, and she wanted to tell him how overwhelming it was but only broken sighs could leave her throat. Erik didn't seem to mind it, though.

He was too caught up with the look in her eyes. Every time he pulled back it was with the intention to make sure that she was still comfortable, that she was still feeling well, and then later, that she was still enjoying what they did. Not only did she allow him to be with her but she purposely took part of it, relished it, and once even implored him not to stop but he wasn't convinced that she was aware of her request. The experience was overpowering.

Her soft body picked up his rhythm long ago and now was folded around his, her arms finally finding their favorite place, his back. It thrilled him how her nails scratched his skin almost undetectably with every stroke she'd given him.

The various sensations clouded Christine's mind and everything else sunk in obscurity, everything else became nonexistent. Not even her previous reservations, not his distorted face, nothing existed except how his touch tingled her skin, how he strove to please her, how his tightening muscles felt under her palms and how thrilling all of these felt when happening all at once…

His scent.

His taste.

How their bodies echoed the other's warm embrace -

and then –

the bliss.

Unimaginable, overwhelming, sheer bliss.

It took her a couple of moments to realize that it was her own voice that was making such noises and that it was her body that twitched uncontrollably under his weight. With her closed eyes she could only feel him moving and she clasped herself tautly to him, only to feel his body jerk and tense while groaning her name in cracked voice next to her ear.

She had no resolve to break the peace that descended upon them afterwards.

The sound of his labored breathing in her ears.

The wet feeling of his chest against hers.

His matted hair around her face.

The numbing throb that bound their bodies together.

It was like floating in the nothing and it was fascinating. She wondered whether he was feeling the same.

Was it possible to fall from here – to this very same place? It certainly sounded unthinkable yet it just happened a moment ago. It sounded ludicrous, too, but his empty mind couldn't find a more fitting term to describe this strange peace. Not if he needed any. Her scent filled his nostrils as they lied unmoving on the crumpled sheets, her arms still resting on his back securely.

He felt oddly proud of himself, even if it was with great reluctance to admit such a thing after his earlier mishap. He felt her feeling the same pleasure that he did – and heard her gasping _his_ name in the midst of it. His throat tightened with the memory of the knowledge: his wife craving for his touch.

Her rapid breathing ruffled the hair behind his ear as she wheezed in the beaming stillness.

It was him who brought her back, timidly kissing the damp skin on her neck and she moved her fingers leisurely on his back in return. Even after this it took him minutes to lift himself up on his elbows. His eyes were glistening in the candlelight but not from tears and she was utterly captivated from the sight. He adored her, it was clearly written in those beautiful eyes, and from his look she was sure that he saw the same emotion in her eyes as well.

"That was… breathtaking," she said at last, sweeping back his hair from his eyes again. Christine decided that she loved that curl very much.

"Quite literally," he agreed and twisted one of _her_ curls around his finger, letting it drop to the pillow in the end.

"You're smiling," she exclaimed with tired cheerfulness.

"And so are you." Her fingers combed through his thin hair and Erik closed his eyes to store that content feeling inside; her lips gently brushed his face.

"You know, I did dream about this before," she continued, referring to his earlier words in the tunnel. He lifted one of her curls again and she drew slow paths on his shoulder and upper arm.

"And?" He prodded, his eyes searching the answer in her features.

"I've never expected it to be as it turned out in the end." Her husband's countenance was quite unreadable and he became perfectly still. Christine hurried to continue. "I've heard a lot… in the dormitories… about first nights. How terribly it hurt; how it lasted only for three minutes," here she felt him squirm under her palms but she kept him in place. "Or how much pleasure one felt…" She couldn't stop the slight embarrassment's effect on her face, no matter that she was still feeling some of that very pleasure herself. Thankfully his features softened at this a little. "But they never mentioned the most beautiful part of it."

"And what is that?" He asked, drawing his thumb softly across her lips – she pressed a small kiss to the pad of his finger.

"The trust. I've never trusted anyone before as I trust you now."

Silence followed her remark. Erik was staring at her without any word, until at long last the corners of his lips lifted upwards and the shining in his eyes grew brighter – he kissed her palm and slowly placed it on his cheek before bowing his head to kiss her lips. He kept her hand pressed to his face, and Christine felt him shudder when she softly caressed his detested cheek.

Something dropped to her face, running and tumbling down her features until it finally disappeared in her curls.

_Thank you,_ she thought when he pulled back and saw the confidence in his eyes.

It was only fatigue that could make him move away from her. He shifted slightly to roll to his side - when he pulled away from her, she missed the feeling of him immediately; it was as if she was now sort of… incomplete. Or something like that. It was very new and very inexplicable, but Christine decided that she was too tired to think of that right now. With great difficulty he managed to untangle the blanket from under their bodies and she warily climbed beneath the coverlet; the soreness remained present even after his withdrawal, but nothing else from her earlier fears came true.

She didn't age several years during their activity, nor did her feelings and thoughts changed mysteriously. She didn't loose her memories, either. Everything was the same, except that she felt some new-found bravery inside – besides the slowly diminishing waves, of course.

The rose was still intact on the pillow though it slid to the side a little; Christine picked it up and filling the glass on the nightstand, she placed the flower in it.

"Do you need something? Anything?" Erik asked his wife who was busy with cuddling up to him, adjusting the sheets around their forms. It was foreign to feel the warmth of someone else beneath the coverlet as her skin was pressed to his in their embrace. He was free to pull her closer and when he did so, he felt her frame resting in his arms, not just her imagined body like thousand times before, but her true form. Her breathing hit his shoulder evenly.

"No," she smiled at him sleepily. "Good night," she said while holding on to his forearm before succumbing to sleep completely.

"Good night," he answered solemnly, smothering the glimmering candle.

Her even heartbeat was echoing in his chest throughout the night.


End file.
