Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Wherever you are is my home—my only home."

— Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Erika's screams, her distraught cries of pain, echoed throughout the pathways of the catacombs. Only then, when Christine was able to decipher the wailing, did her frightened expression falter, a strangled sob of her own slipping past her lips.

The trembling woman's footing became unsteady and wobbly, her hand reaching for the crumbly stone to line the walls of the narrow pathway, feeling far more suffocating than it ever had before. Dim lighting encased the area, and the flames from the mounted candelabras were not bright enough to guide her in the proper direction or soothe the nerves that had spiked dramatically in Christine's mind. Her chest heaved, breathing ragged as she tried to see through the tears to gloss over, but to no avail. To solve this dilemma, Christine tried wiping away at some that had already fallen, wetting her cheeks in the process. With every blink, the singer's mind reminds her of the face of her maestro—a face she claimed that love would be able to welcome with open arms.

Where is that love now? Was it within the secret gardens, where she left Erika behind? Or perhaps, those flickers of love simply weren't enough? Maybe her song was filled with empty words that she claimed to have felt to quell her morbid curiosity for the unknown. 

"No, that's not true...!" Christine shook her head at the thought. She loved Erika, she could feel it resonate within each treasured memory. When the maestro would praise her, whispering sweet nothings into her ears when she was nervous, the tender touch of the masked woman's hands when she held her own—the young soprano's heart fluttered at the recollection. Then, as if her mind served to be against Christine, it would suddenly flash with the knelt-over musician looking up at her, revealing to her the truth that had been hidden for so long. Sniffling softly, she pressed her shoulder to the wall for support, her thoughts still disoriented from the sight that she was exposed to; regrettably, the memory alone was enough to make Christine stumble back, the rugged cobblestone marking her backside as she struggled to keep her body standing. Fear was meticulously strung at her body, preventing her from moving one way or the other; consequently, it left Christine to be subjected to Erika's lament, the melodious voice filled with so much love and adoration now howling in agony.

The woman hated herself for being so plagued by her own emotions that she couldn't see the effect of her actions properly or how much pain she brought when she fled away. Shakily, Christine placed a hand over her racing heart, as if mentally preparing herself for what she was going to expose herself to when she slowly let her eyes close, pushing past the initial terror to shroud her mind. The dread that Erika's scars brought, being the focal point of her attention, gradually began to broaden.

The image that had concealed her eyes, the horrid misconception that had caused Christine to flee senselessly without so much as a moment to process her own mistake, the damage was already being dealt with tenfold. The singer cursed herself, the truth of the situation becoming all too clear. There was no monster to unmask itself to her, no phantom that she was cursed by from the view; instead, it was a vulnerable woman desperate for her lover's approval, to be loved and appreciated wholeheartedly—something that Christine failed to do. 

She had failed her.

Staring down at her with gaping, watery eyes and a quickly diminishing smile, Christine's outstretched, welcoming arms hastily closed themselves off from her, the skirt of her gown getting caught on the foliage to surround her as she backed away from Erika, only breaking eye-contact when she was far enough away. The momentary lapse in judgment prevented Christine from seeing the same compassionate soul that she loved in all her glory—the bareness of her face that longed to be looked at in full—yet all the soprano did was scorn at her cruelly, providing an illusion of endearment that in her heart she knew was true. Christine just happened to be startled—a fault of her own for not processing her feelings fast enough—which resulted in the woman running away, hurting her beloved teacher in the process. Oh, how foolishly optimistic she had been, asking for something without considering the chance of everything going awry. The soft hiccups and weeping began to change in purpose; no longer a reaction of fear, but for the overwhelming guilt that threatened to consume her whole. She had been so insensitive to Erika behaving in such a manner—especially for a wish that she begged to be granted. 

Christine had to be heartless to not even consider glancing back, to comprehend how broken Erika must've been after baring her most intimate secrets to the sympathetic woman, the only person she could confide in. There was not a chance that Christine could simply run away to the upper levels of the Opera House, repressing the encounter as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. She needed to return to Erika to do what she should've done initially. To take the trembling woman into a warm embrace, to gently brush away the falling tears—to kiss her like she had dreamt of nights on end. Her Angel of Music, her dearest mentor, the woman who had managed to capture her heart with her music and loving nature. That unmistakable love that seemed so far came surging back up with each slow, anxious step towards the light of the warm sun that became brighter the closer she moved in Erika's direction.

The words that once flowed so freely became jumbled and disorganized, the soprano unsure of how to approach the woman after such an outburst. The sound of her sobs still rang in Christine's ears, increasing in volume the closer she came to the opening of the gardens, its warmth being disrupted by a slight breeze that swept past the singer's shoulders upon entry. Shivering at the winds through the frilly dress, despite the layers of lace and fabric to adorn the attire, Christine's eyes searched the area in a state of panic.

The maestro was not in sight, hidden through the full trees and flowers in bloom to discombobulate the woman's already-tearful gaze. The only indicator of Erika's presence was her minute, disheartened sniffles and muffled whimpers as if she were trying to keep herself hidden after the sound of her footsteps crunching beneath the dirt and fallen leaves. "Erika...! Erika, where are you?!" Pushing past the heaps of bushes back to the open space, where the picnic arrangement had been laid out for the pair, that is where Christine found Erika—her beloved Erika.

Her mask had been carelessly tossed aside, the musician's face buried into her arms as she was hunched down upon the floor, making herself seem as small as possible. The urge to cry intensified in Christine's heart, the consequences of her action were bare in front of her very eyes, and she could no longer stand back, making large strides towards her love. "Erika!" She called out again, this time with far more conviction than before, as she watched the musician flinch slightly at the sound of her voice. "Christine...?" Meekly, the crumpled figure questioned, her face still directed to the ground as Erika lifted her head from the sleeve of her shirt, dampened with her tears. The slight crack in the maestro's voice was evident; she was unable to properly compose herself for the singer's unprecedented return. While one hand supported her knelt-over position, Erika lurched her hands forward, searching for the mask to have strayed far from her reach, yet Erika refused to lift her head to see where she had left it.

Wordlessly, Christine bent down to her level, sitting on her legs in front of the unassuming woman, grabbing the item that she had been aimlessly looking for. "Yes, it's me, Erika," the soprano affirmed, slipping the mask in her direction as she quickly retracted her hand soon after the gesture, not wanting to overwhelm the fragile woman with the featherlight graze of her hand to her own, despite Christine's desire to comfort her beloved. To soothe away all the pain that she had delivered and replace it with a warm touch of love to radiate throughout her fingertips. Even in her gaze, the fondness held towards Erika was distinguished—an adoration that could no longer be frightened away, for Christine wouldn't allow it to happen again. This was a declaration made to herself as she watched her mentor fumble with the tool that would conceal her away from the singer again, concealing herself away once more—whether out of fear of facing the young woman or instinct, Erika couldn't discern the truth. 

With a shaky breath, her hands fell to her lap once the mask was fastened, her head turning away from her to stare into the expanse of her torn-up world, letting herself go rampant as an outlet for the intense melancholy that consumed her very being. The rose-bedded walls had remnants scattered across the floor, not even realizing the sting of the thorns cut upon her skin until now, but the pain paled in comparison to the grief that blinded her brutish actions. The book, Songs of Innocence and Experience by William Blake, was laid open, set to the pages that Christine had been reading before Erika stopped her. Unconsciously, her eyes surfed the pages intently, and her lips parted to recite the poetry properly.

"My mother bore me in the southern wild," Christine began, hands brushing against the paper so she could see over the dip from the spine of the hardcover.

"I live in darkness, but my soul is light." Recalling the next line, Christine averted her attention to the book fully, unaware of the rise of Erika's head as she spoke. "But I am black as if bereaved of light."

"My mother taught me that if you look up to the morning sun, you can see God smiling, and it will bring a calmness to your heart..." The soprano felt the tears begin to swell in her eyes, but they would not deter her from continuing; after all, this was the spokesman of Erika's heart, a treasured piece of the woman that Christine wanted to understand. 

"We are put on earth, a little space, that we may learn to bear the beams of love." The murmuring of her words began to pass as the blonde began to process the connections that were hidden from her, hands clutching onto the sides of the book firmer, bringing it closer without creasing the smoothed-out paper.

"...And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face is but a cloud, and like a shady grove," Christine had become so engrossed in the contents of the poem that the subtle movements from her maestro sitting up, looking towards her with a guilt-ridden expression upon her features. "For when our souls have learned the heat to bear, the cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice..."

It was hard to recognize throughout her glossy vision; only when the droplets of tears began to stain the tea-stained book did the singer lift her head. Clumsily wiping at the tears with the sleeve of her dress, the young woman cursed herself for not having a better hold on her emotions, the constrictions of her throat tightening, making it difficult to speak when she finally had the musician's attention. That is, until the warmth of Erika's hand cradled Christine's face delicately, gingerly wiping away the falling tears that simply refused to cease. "Thus did my mother say, and kiss me," Erika finished on the soprano's behalf, her voice weaker than the melodious tone that it was prone to carry. "A beautiful piece, isn't it?"

Hearing her maestro speak to her was enough for another heartbroken cry to fall past her lips, unconsciously nuzzling her cheek further into her lover's palm. The usually timid and gentle nature of Christine faded away momentarily as her fingers reached to hold Erika's, wanting to keep her close. "...I'm not the one who needs to be comforted; I am not deserving of this affection," whispered Christine, her eyes finally meeting her beloved's, filled with so much tenderness and concern that the soprano's regret intensified drastically. "I was the one who hurt you, Erika. You trusted me, and I betrayed that trust—I left you here all alone...!" With each word, Christine's frown deepened, her unoccupied hand grasping harshly at the skirt of her gown, allowing her gaze to avoid the musician's once again. Her throat bobbed at the confession and the retelling of the events to occur, and she couldn't be more ashamed—not even being worthy of being called her angel.

A silence passed by the pair momentarily, allowing the chirping of the birds, the soft spring breeze, and echoes of Paris's harmonic tunes from afar to fill the space—a wonderful accompaniment that would normally be appreciated by the musical soul within the singer, but she was far too nervous to acknowledge it further than that. Everything that she had said was correct, and the maestro's lack of response was justifiable—she was not required to forgive her. Erika could banish her from the secret gardens, never to cross paths with her again. To never be allowed to be blessed with the beauty that was her music, to never share in the duet that made Christine brimming with joy, or to never exchange any semblance of contact forevermore. Her heart grew heavy thinking of each possible outcome, her soft hands interlacing their fingers together, squeezing it lightly to steady herself.

"...But you came back to me, didn't you?" With the faintest whisper, Erika spoke, the wiping of her thumb continuing once more until the tears were soothed to submission. “You didn’t leave me alone; you’ve returned to my side... That means far more than you will ever know.” Ever so gently, the faint squeeze was returned to the diva’s fingers, and Christine suppressed the urge to weep once more. It was senseless how the woman could act so inhumanely towards such a loving soul—never once showing the soprano any meanness or a shroud of deception. Like a haven, Erika’s arms were always outstretched for her to lay in; the pianist’s tender hands were a balm to the doubt that plagued her restless mind. Truly, she was the angel to grace her, the purest of souls, cursed with a face that failed to show the inner beauty that was held internally. 

“That doesn’t change how I reacted—oh, I was so insensitive, running away! And you trusted me; you trusted me to stay by your side, and what did I foolishly do? I left you all alone.” Rambling with no coherence of thought, the opera singer pulled the soft touch away from her cheek, not wishing for her shame to be muddled by the sweetness that the maestro offered. “I am sorry, Erika…so very sorry. I will say it however many times you’d like to hear it; I will do whatever it takes to make it up to you.” The declaration was clear—a truth that she wished for the other woman to register accordingly. Her head had lifted while affirming this to Erika—the unadulterated love that brimmed within her gaze as her gentle hands reached to cradle the unmasked portion of her face.

The skin was moist to the touch, the remnants of her tears apparent as the corners of her sclera were tinted red, and a faint puffiness under her eyes. Christine watched as her gaze flickered away under scrutiny, almost as if she was shielding herself from any chance of ridicule. Unconsciously, Erika had put up her defenses again, attempting to bury the emotions to reflect in the deep pools of her golden eyes. The hesitancy of the musician to bare her emotions and showcase her already fragile heart made the opera singer's chest ache with guilt. Of course, the diva never expected forgiveness to be handed out to her upon a silver platter, to be welcomed back into the tender embrace of her lover without a chance of recoil or doubt; even so, there wasn't anything that the naive costumer wouldn't do to return to her maestro's good graces, an all-too-familiar eagerness to please, to bask the masked woman in her affections, boldened her body to peer closer.

With the most precarious reach, Christine tilted Erika's head upward, her thumb outlining the curve of the other woman's jaw, studying each indentation of the masked woman's face that enraptured her heart with such tenacity. It took every fiber of her being not to take the leap and kiss her, but her heart...her heart yearned to do so. The mind and desires were at war with one another, but the diva was typically inclined to make her decisions based on the emotions that bloomed in her chest. It was senseless—perhaps even rather reckless to not think further than the moment that she was in, but at this moment, the pull towards those soft-looking lips was magnetic; helplessly, she was lured in, her eyes flickering between the gentle slope of the musician's lips back up to the crystallized gold that glimmered in her teary gaze.

The pianist was watching her, observing the opera singer's movements with a bated breath, but the moment of exhale was halted by the feather-light press of Christine's lips. Tingles were steadfast in their eruption, hands fixing themselves to draw Erika closer, fingertips slowly tracing down the curve of her cheek to her jawline, while the other hand cradled the masked portion of her face. The sweetest of noises left her maestro's slightly-parted mouth as she allowed herself to be consumed by the delicate kiss, her nails biting into the fabric of the soprano's skirt at the foreign touch. The light brush of contact, a timid gesture that conveyed a small fragmentation of longing, quickly developed into madness, the necessity that their bodies remain close together, lingering in the prima donna's thoughts. It was not the perfect synchronicity that the naive Daaé girl had anticipated; unlike their music, it was off-paced and frantic, and the diva couldn't stop her sweaty palms from traversing upwards, entangling themselves within her beloved mentor's hair.

Despite all the chaos held within such a brief contact, it held all the passion the feelings to go unprofessed. 

The longing withheld in each longing glance spared during practice, every featherlight graze that restrained from putting pressure to ensure decency was being spared—all of it was unceremoniously tossed away in the face of expressing their pure and utter devotion for one another. Nothing about was elegant or inherently formal about the exchange, but none it mattered, not when it all felt so good. Every sense was heightened, each distinctive sensation between clothing to skin becoming more of a challenge to establish as Christine's mind grappled with the notion that this was real, and nothing could pull her away from the woman before her; however, Erika was the first to distance herself, chest heaving as an unsteady hand reached up to trace the outline of her lips, mind astray from the unexpected contact upon her untouched mouth. The tingles to disperse upon the musician's skin failed to dissipate as her wide-eyed expression, her facial expressions far more lively than before.

The flush to spread across her flesh, making the maestro undeniably hot to the touch as she panted softly—as if that small notion of contact was able to denounce her touch-starved soul, a comforting warmth that had finally managed to find her after the years of solitude to lead her astray. "Christine..." The masked woman whispered breathily, the golden hue in her gaze glimmering by the light casted by the setting sun. The soprano thought she had frightened her away with such a bold maneuver, something that she hadn't anticipated herself acting upon so carelessly. An apology was on her tongue, ready to be spoken aloud as her jaw became slightly ajar to speak when the softness of the pianist's lips returned to hers, and the young Daaé found herself turning into putty once more, melting into the capturing of her maw. In the whirlwind of such a strong, overzealous feeling that is love, Christine let herself fall helplessly deeper in this moment, with Erika.

Perhaps everything that was left unsaid could come into fruition another day, in a moment where both parties were willing to face the truth, but all either of them desired was right in front of them, and the two lovers refused to cast aside what was wanted more than anything: to be with one another once more, as they were now.