Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A soft, pulsating glow filtered through the colored glass of a deeply set wall lamp. Christine blinked as she slowly came to. The room she was lying in was quiet. Soft blankets wrapped around her on an elegant bed. The air smelled of paper and something earthy she couldn't quite place. She began to remember: fog, and in that fog, a boat. And in the boat with her... a man.

She heard music from an adjacent room. Her Angel of Music had come for her, she recalled. Only, it wasn’t an angel, but a man. Christine wasn’t necessarily surprised. She was no longer a little girl, and deep down, she had always suspected that behind her angel lay a rational explanation. She had simply never felt the need to find it out. The way things were had been enough for her. 

Now, however, a curiosity flared up in her that she had never known before. In the two years that she got music lessons from her angel now, she started to have gentle feelings for the soft voice that always soothed her when she was angry, consoled her when she was sad and celebrated with her when she was happy. There was a strange comfort when she felt his presence, a comfort that she felt now as well. And at the same time there was this feeling of intensity that had culminated after the performance yesterday. She never felt such thrill before and it excited her.

The music she heard wasn’t loud. A melody, gentle and beautiful, wound through the room, carried by deep organ chords. Her heart beat faster, and she threw off the blanket.

Carefully, she stood up – barefoot on the stone floor, the white overskirt still crumpled around her. Light flickered through a narrow passageway. The music became clearer. She stepped closer.

There he was.

At the massive organ, half-shrouded in shadow, his hands flew over the keys. He wore no jacket, only a shirt and vest, sleeves rolled up, his shoulders moving subtly with the music. He looked focused, immersed.

She hadn’t really expected him to be a certain way. She never really imagined anything. But she was somehow smitten by his presence. 

Christine stood at the threshold, leaning lightly against the cool stones. She could have interrupted him – a word, a sound. She felt the strong impulse to look beneath his mask. She wanted to know who he truly was, and seeing only half his face felt... unsatisfying. After last night, when he had brought her here and shown her his "Music of the Night," the mask felt misplaced. As if it upheld a distance that was no longer needed. But she resisted that urge.

Instead, her gaze wandered through the room: piles of books, inkwells, sketches, mechanical parts, and in the center, a workbench with a small golden music box, half-open, as if it had just been set aside.

He seemed to sense her, stopping his playing. Without turning, he said:

“You're awake.”

Christine stepped closer, slowly, her footsteps nearly silent on the stone. “I woke… because of the music.”

He turned toward her. His gaze was cautious, as if he had to make sure she was truly there.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

A brief silence hung between them. Christine saw his hands twitch nervously. One little finger tapped rhythmically on the keys without pressing them. Then she stepped closer to the organ.

“Are you composing something?”

“For you,” he said as his eyes flew to the sheet music she was pointing at. “I’ve been writing it since… since you sang yesterday. It hasn’t left my head.”

Christine reached for the sheet beside him. As her fingers touched it, they brushed his – warm and tense. He didn’t pull away. Christine felt her breath catch, her heartbeat quicken. The air seemed suddenly thicker, charged with something she couldn’t name. She remembered the feeling from yesterday before she was so overwhelmed that she fainted. The intense excitement still lingered.

“Angel?” she asked.

“Mhm.” His voice was tight.

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” Christine observed. She was nervous. It felt like she was intruding into his world, perhaps even uninvited. Then again, he had willingly brought her here, to his world, where he lived. Asking for his name didn’t seem too presumptuous.

“Oh…” He hesitated a moment. “My name is Erik.”

“Erik,” she repeated in a whisper and looked at him for a long moment. There was an uncertainty in his expression she had not expected. Last night, he seemed so confident, imposing. The Angel of Music, showing her his world. In that, he seemed sure of himself, she thought. Christine’s gaze moved over his mask, and for a moment, she considered asking him about it. Her intuition warned her not to.

Instead, she stirred and turned her attention back to the room. Her eyes scanned the high chamber, the heavy carpets laid over the cold stone floors, and the flickering candles in wrought-iron holders. Everywhere, there were things – sketches, instrument parts, books with strange scripts, and small automata, some completed, others open like exposed thoughts.

Fascinated, she stepped toward a table with a brass mechanical bird. It was barely larger than her palm but finely crafted, with tiny feathers made of etched metal.

“What’s this?” she asked quietly, without taking her eyes off of it.

Erik rose slowly and stepped noiselessly beside her. “A nightingale. I tried to capture the sound of its voice. The mechanism inside is delicate – too delicate for replication. It sings when you press its belly lightly.”

His self-assurance returned, his stance upright and voice deep and rough again.

Christine did as he said, carefully. A high, clear tone rang out – not quite like a real bird, but sweet enough to bring a smile to her lips.

“She sings like you,” he said.

Christine gently placed the little bird back. “It’s beautiful.”

Now Christine's attention was captured by  a dark glass case, in which a strange object shimmered – like a ship, but made of silver and glass, suspended by fine wires.

“An... airship?” she asked.

“A dream,” Erik answered. “An idea from years ago. It works… theoretically.”

She laughed softly. “So this is how my angel planned to fly?”

He looked at her from the side. Something in her smile eased a tension in his shoulders he hadn’t even realized was there.

Christine eventually stopped before a large easel bearing a half-finished portrait – her own face, sketched with confident strokes. Beside it was a mechanical arrangement working with wires and shadows. The outlines were shaped from metal threads that shifted depending on the light. Now, they formed her profile, with cascading curls.

“You… painted me.”

“I’ve tried to understand why I can’t stop hearing you, even when you’re silent.” His fingers began twitching again at his side.

Her heart beat faster, as if it had just awakened.

She stepped a little closer to the portrait, her throat tightening. Her voice was barely more than a breath. “And… did you understand?”

“No,” Erik said. “But I try every day.”

She turned to him. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then she gently picked up one of his sheets, scanning the notes.

“I want to keep coming here,” she said. “The music lessons… can we have them here?”

He looked at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “As long as you want.”

Another question still burned in her. Uncertain, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Why did you pretend to be an angel? Why didn’t you just show yourself?”

He stepped away from her, turning his back. His hand reflexively ran through his hair, smoothing it erratically.

“I thought you’d be afraid if I revealed myself. You were so vulnerable when we first met, Christine.” He turned back toward her.

She looked at him thoughtfully. Would she have been afraid of a strange man randomly comforting and offering her singing lessons? Probably. The first time she’d heard his voice had been two years ago. She had just turned eighteen and always fell into sadness on her birthday. When she was little, her father would tell her her favorite stories on that day. She had been crying in one of the empty ballet dressing rooms when she first heard his voice. Angelic and beautiful. In her grief, she had asked if he was the Angel of Music her father had promised. He had begun to sing her a lullaby then, and without thinking, she found herself singing with him — softly, instinctively, as though their voices had always known each other.

“Come,” he said suddenly. “You must return. These two idiots who run my theatre will be missing you.”

Chapter Text

Erik didn’t say a single word as they walked through the damp corridors beneath the opera house. The way back seemed much shorter to Christine than the journey there—perhaps because her thoughts were louder this time. The music, his world, his gaze... and now the silence. His pace was brisk.

When they finally reached the back of the mirror in her dressing room, he stopped abruptly. The darkness in the hollow space behind the glass was thick, stifling. Christine leaned forward, ready to slide the mirror aside, when suddenly his hand closed over her arm.

She gasped.

“You must come back,” he said hoarsely. It was not a request. “Promise me you’ll return to my world.”

“I... yes,” Christine stammered. His fingers pressed into the skin of her wrist—painfully. She tried to see his eyes, but a shadow lay over his face like a veil.

“Christine.” His voice was more insistent now. “Only here can you truly sing. Only with me.”

She nodded slowly, uncertain. Something in his gaze—if she had read it right—sent a shiver down her spine. He had always been strict, even when he was only a voice from the walls. But then it was all about the music lessons. This felt a little different… more intense.

“I’ll come back,” she said quietly.

He let go. She heard a faint mechanical click, then the mirror rotated silently, and she stepped back into her dressing room. The warm glow of the gaslights greeted her like something from another world.

It was quiet, apart from the fading sounds of a drunken celebration by the ensemble in the distance. There were always a handful of dancers and stagehands who stayed to party until morning after a successful premiere. Outside, it was still dark. The gaslights cast sleepy light across the room’s walls.

Then the door burst open.

“Christine Daaé!”

Mme Giry swept in like a gust of wind. Her face was pale, her forehead creased with worry.

“For heaven’s sake—child! Where were you?”

Christine turned to her in alarm. Her hair was tousled, her shoulders trembling with cold.

“I... I fell asleep. In a room behind the stage. I wanted to be alone.”

Mme Giry closed the door quietly. Then she stepped closer, calm now, but every movement radiated unease. She placed her hands on Christine’s shoulders.

“You were gone. All night. I searched for you. The stagehands, the singers—they’re already whispering.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Something always happens when a young woman disappears, Christine. You’re no longer just a simple ballet girl. You’re in the spotlight now.”

Christine frowned. She knew very well what went on behind the opera’s curtains. The other girls shared more than enough stories, and most of the time it was more than one ballet rat slipping off into the dark corners or empty dressing rooms with a patron or stagehand after a performance.

“I’m not saying this to scold you. You know I feel for you like a daughter. But the world out there—the audience, the directors, Parisian society—they won’t look at you the way I do.”

“But the other girls—” she began.

Mme Giry cut her off: “The other girls aren’t being watched like you are. Since last night, all eyes are on you. If you want a career as a singer, you have to appear flawless. As I said before: You’re no longer just a ballet girl.”

A silence settled between them. Christine glanced at the mirror. Just minutes ago, she had been in a world of shadows and sound, free from societal judgment.

“He was with me,” she whispered.

Mme Giry’s expression changed. Her features froze for a moment. Her fingers, still resting on Christine’s shoulders, tightened ever so slightly.

“I saw him. He has a name... Erik.”

A faint tremor ran through Mme Giry. She said nothing, but Christine saw it: the flicker of recognition—and fear.

“Christine...”

“You know who he is, don’t you?” Her voice was firmer now. “He’s the opera ghost, isn’t he? You give me his letters and messages all the time. You open Box Five for him. You know . Tell me.”

Madame Giry stepped back as if she needed to compose herself. Her hands slid slowly from Christine’s shoulders. Then, softly, almost soundless: “I know him... yes.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Christine’s heart pounded.

“What do you mean, ‘He was with you’?” Mme Giry asked now. Her voice was calm, but something stirred beneath the surface. “Where were you all night, Christine?”

Christine hesitated.

“In his realm,” she said at last. “He took me there.”

Madame Giry closed her eyes for a moment. Then she fixed her gaze on Christine.

“You spent the night with him?”

“I...” Christine faltered. “He didn’t...”—she cut herself off. Her cheeks flushed red.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No,” Christine said quickly. But her voice lacked conviction.

Mme Giry studied her. Then she stepped closer, gently lifted Christine’s arm, and looked at the place where a dark bruise was beginning to form—Erik’s fingers.

Her gaze hardened.

“He is not an ordinary man, Christine. And his past is... complicated.”

Christine recoiled as if burned. “But... he was gentle. He composed for me. He painted me...”

Her voice trailed off. Mme Giry nodded slowly, as though not dismissing the words, but trying to make sense of them.

"I haven’t told anyone this, Christine… but yes. I’ve known about him for a long time. I am the one who opens and closes Box Five for him. For years now. He never shows himself, not fully. But sometimes, when I’m alone in the upper corridors, I speak—and he answers. His voice comes from the shadows. He’s always… polite. Intelligent. And, in his own way, charming.”

Christine listened, her breath caught between disbelief and fascination.

“When I realized he was speaking to you—regularly, not just as a voice in the walls—I confronted him. I waited in Box Five one evening, and refused to leave until he came.” She shook her head with a wry, distant smile. “He was furious at first. I’d never seen him until that moment. The anger in him—raw, overwhelming. But when I told him I was only concerned for your safety… something changed. He calmed. He promised me, very solemnly, that he would never harm you.”

Christine’s heart thudded in her chest.

“And I believed him,” Madame Giry continued. “Because I had seen it. The way you changed. You began to smile again. You stood taller. There was joy in your eyes again, Christine. So I allowed it. I didn’t interfere. In fact… I may have helped things along with the messages and letters.”

Christine’s breath was shallow, as if she were fighting with everything she had experienced. “He wants me to return.”

“And do you want to?”

Christine said nothing. Her thoughts spiraled—music, masks, eyes that pierced her, hands that held on as if they'd never let go. She did want to. But the scene on the other side of the mirror kept replaying in her mind. She was so confused. She just wanted to sleep.

“You’re young,” said Mme Giry. “And you’re an artist. You hear more than others, you feel more deeply. That’s your gift—but it can also be your weakness.”

Christine looked at her. “You think I shouldn’t go back?”

“I think,” the older woman said, without humor, “if I see one more bruise on you, he will be the one not going anywhere ever again.”

Then, with a gentler voice: “Now... go home. Rest. It’s five in the morning, you had a performance, and... a very long night.”

Chapter Text

Christine stepped slowly into the corridor outside her dressing room, her thoughts still caught somewhere between shadows and light. The opera house was quiet now—eerily so. Only the distant echo of laughter and the faint clinking of glasses told her that the night still wasn’t quite over for everyone.

And then—stumbling around the corner like a half-lost troubadour—a blond man, somehow familiar. Christine tried to get a closer look.

His cravat was loosened, his hair delightfully disheveled, and a very pretty ballet girl dangled from his arm, giggling softly into his shoulder. It was Marie - she was Christine's age with beautiful blonde hair and lots of talent for dance. The man looked like trouble, but the charming kind. The kind you'd forgive before he even apologized.

“Little Lotte!” he exclaimed when he spotted Christine, his voice carrying far too much enthusiasm for the hour. “There you are! I was looking for you all night! Nobody could find you!”

Christine blinked in surprise—then grinned.

“Raoul?” she said, amused. “What in heaven’s name—?”

“Where is it?” he interrupted dramatically, coming closer with theatrical flair. “Where is the red scarf? Don’t tell me you've lost it again!”

Christine laughed despite herself, caught off guard by the warmth of the memory. Him, running wildly into the ocean despite it being almost november in the north of France. Suddenly the unease she just felt on the other side of the door melted away. 

“Oh, that old thing? I’m sure it’s tucked away in a drawer somewhere. Along with your other boyhood triumphs.”

Raoul clutched his chest in mock offense. “Cruelty! Ingratitude! My heart, Little Lotte, it breaks.”

Christine laughed.

Marie in his arm hiccuped adorably and giggled as well.

Christine gave her a fond smile, then turned to Raoul with a raised brow. “I think this little étoile has had enough of tonight.”

“Untrue,” the girl mumbled, her cheek now resting on Raoul’s chest. “I’m perfectly... vertical.”

Christine stepped forward and gently took Marie by the arm.

“I’ll get her to bed,” she said. “Go find some coffee—or whatever nobles drink at sunrise.”

Raoul sighed dramatically but let go, giving Christine a playful, wounded look.

“You steal my victories,” he muttered with a smile. “First the scarf, now the damsel.”

“You’ll survive,” Christine said. “Besides, I thought noblemen enjoyed rescuing virtuous maidens, not carrying intoxicated ballerinas.”

“Fair.” He bowed slightly, swaying with dramatic flair. “You’ve grown into quite the prima donna, Little Lotte. Still dragging us fools out of trouble. But to be perfectly honest I was about to bring her safely to her dormitory - without a hidden agenda, I promise!”

She softened. “You haven’t changed.”

Raoul straightened again, his voice dropping to something more sincere. “Neither have you.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Not awkward—just familiar. The kind of quiet that came from years shared, even if at a distance.

Raoul rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down the corridor. “Listen, once you’ve caught up on sleep—and I mean properly—you and I should catch up.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Dinner,” he added quickly. “Or breakfast, even. Something normal. Just friends. Like we used to be.”

Christine smiled, a genuine one that reached her eyes.

“I’d like that. You have to explain to me at least what on heaven’s earth you are doing here at the Opera Garnier of all places,” she said.

Raoul grinned. “Good. Then it’s settled. You are standing before the new patron of the opera! But I’ll give you all the details about that when we both got a good amount of sleep, Little Lotte.”

He gave a mock salute and turned to leave, humming some off-key operetta tune as he wandered away, boots tapping unevenly against the stone floor.

Christine watched him go for a moment, then turned around and led Marie to the dormitories.

_________________________________________________________________________

The curtains in the office of Messieurs Firmin Richard and André Moncharmin were still drawn against the late morning sun, but the air buzzed with news, unrest — and cigar smoke. A stack of freshly printed newspapers lay on the desk, the headline bold and impossible to miss:

"Opera Star Christine Daaé Vanishes — Romance? Scandal? Abduction?"

Firmin dropped into his chair with a satisfied grin.

“Would you look at this, André,” he said, tapping the paper. “Front page, and not a dead tenor in sight. Publicity like this — we couldn’t have bought it.”

André scowled. “We also don’t have a soprano. Carlotta stormed out, threatening to resign. And Christine herself is—”

Firmin raised an eyebrow. “The most talked-about woman in Paris?”

“—still missing.”

Firmin waved a hand dismissively. “You saw the ticket sales this morning. We’ll have a full house tonight, no matter who sings. Scandal sells .”

André muttered something unrepeatable and pulled a crumpled letter from his pocket.

“And in the meantime, I get this.” He read aloud in a flat, mocking tone:
‘Dear André, what a charming gala! Christine enjoyed a great success. Otherwise, the chorus was entrancing, but the dancing was a lamentable mess. The corps lack discipline. The blonde girl in the second row steps on the beat instead of with it. Fix it. — O.G.’

Firmin gave a low whistle. “I got one too.”

He leaned over and pulled an envelope from his desk drawer.
‘Dear Firmin, just a brief reminder. My salary has not been paid. No one likes a debtor, so it's better if my orders are obeyed! - O.G.’

André looked up, brow furrowed. “He’s threatening us now?”

“More like managing us,” Firmin said dryly.

Just then, the door swung open with a burst of energy.

“Messieurs,” came a voice, half amused, half annoyed. Raoul de Chagny stood in the doorway, looking dapper despite a slight puffiness around his eyes.

André groaned. “Not you too.”

“I received a letter,” Raoul said, stepping inside and holding up a dark, formal-looking envelope. “Apparently, someone has taken it upon themselves to inform me that I’m to stay away from Mademoiselle Daaé. Or face... consequences.”

Firmin chuckled. “You’re not special, Vicomte. Everyone gets letters these days.”

Raoul approached the desk. “Is this some twisted publicity stunt? Are you behind it?”

“We have no idea who’s writing them,” André said. “And frankly, we have bigger problems than your love life.”

Raoul raised a brow. “Love life? She’s a friend . That’s all.”

“Tell that to whoever’s penning these threats,” Firmin muttered.

Before the tension could rise further, the door burst open again — this time with operatic drama.

Carlotta swept into the room like a storm of velvet and lace, her cheeks flushed with rage, a letter brandished in her jeweled hand.

“I will not sing under threat!” she declared. “ This —” she slammed the paper onto the desk, “—tells me to stay off the stage tonight or suffer the consequences. This is an attack! A personal one!”

Firmin picked up the letter with two fingers, skimmed it, and passed it to André.

Raoul stepped back slightly. “Wait. You received a letter too?”

Carlotta spun on him. “ You! This is your fault! Everybody knows that you asked for Christine Daaé the whole night. And weren’t you gone a considerable amount of time as well last night? That little peasant girl has bewitched you!”

Raoul laughed, incredulous. “Carlotta, I barely spoke to her last night!”

“You don’t need to speak,” she snapped. “It’s written all over your face. You want her to have my role. You want her to have everything .”

Before the shouting match could escalate, a knock interrupted them. The door creaked open, revealing Madame Giry, calm and composed as ever, with Meg lingering just behind her.

“I have another letter,” she said, stepping into the room. “Delivered to Box Five.”

Firmin groaned. “Not again…”

André took the envelope and opened it carefully. He cleared his throat and read aloud:

‘Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theater is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance. Christine Daaé has returned to you and I am anxious her career should progress. In the new production of Il Muto you will therefore cast Carlotta as the pageboy and put Miss Daaé in the role of Countess.

I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in box 5, which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant - O.G."

Another silence followed — heavier this time, tinged with unease.

“Christine Daaé has returned?” 

“She came back early this morning. She’s unharmed. A little tired, but otherwise well.”

Carlotta scoffed, folding her arms. “How very convenient.” Firmin forced a smile. “Well. That’s... good news. Thank you, Madame Giry.”

Giry gave a curt nod but didn’t leave.

André stepped in quickly, glancing at Carlotta. “Of course, this changes nothing about tonight’s performance. Carlotta, ma chère, your presence on stage is absolutely essential.”

Firmin nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed! Paris wouldn’t forgive us if we denied them your voice. The passion, the brilliance—truly irreplaceable!”

Carlotta narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

André added with a sycophantic smile, “We will investigate the letters thoroughly. No one threatens our diva and gets away with it.”

Carlotta studied them both for a moment longer, then gave a regal sniff. “See that you do.”

With a dramatic swish of her skirts, she swept out of the room.

Raoul looked at the managers, incredulous. “You don’t actually believe she’s the victim in all this, do you?”

Firmin sighed as he sank into his chair. “We can’t afford to lose her. She’s still the lead soprano. For now.”

André leaned over the desk. “But Christine clearly has talent. And a growing audience.”

Firmin nodded. “We’ll ease her in. A smaller role for the next production. Something to test the waters.”

André added, “And she can begin rehearsals as Carlotta’s understudy. Quietly. If Carlotta throws another fit, we’ll be ready.”

Raoul raised an eyebrow. “So you’re playing both sides.”

Firmin smiled without shame. “We’re running a theater, Vicomte. Not a monastery.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Christine awoke in her familiar room in the flat she lived in with Mme Giry and Meg. The shutters cast thin lines of sunlight across the room, cutting through the dust like golden threads. A faint breeze slipped through the cracked window, carrying with it the scent of bread from the bakery down the street and the distant murmur of carriages along the Rue de Provence.

Their apartment was modest but well-situated—a small second-floor flat in a narrow building just off the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre, not far from the Opéra Garnier. It was tucked away in a neighborhood where shopkeepers, ballet girls, and minor theater folk lived, close enough to walk to rehearsal with shoes in hand.

The room was warm, the bedsheets tangled around her legs. When she sat up, her head felt light and strange, as if the night’s memories hadn’t quite settled into place. But they began to drift back—first in fragments, then in waves. The candlelight. The mirror. His voice.

Erik.

Her Angel of Music had a name. A face. A body. A past. The lie of it should have made her furious. But she wasn’t.

That fury she would have expected never came. In its place was something messier. She remembered instead the way his voice wrapped around her name, the scent of him—dust and leather and still this earthy scent she couldn’t quite place —and the graceful, oddly elegant way he moved, even in shadow. She remembered how his words, when he spoke of music, were not just spoken—she felt them.

And yet… there was unease. His grip at the mirror. The desperation in his voice. You must come back. The way he hadn’t asked—it had been a demand. That frightened her. Not in a way that made her want to run, but in a way that made her heart race for reasons she couldn’t easily name. There was something… too much. And yet part of her was drawn to it.

She pulled the bedsheets closer and curled her knees to her chest. Outside the hallway, Meg’s soft singing floated past the door, followed by Madame Giry’s clipped footsteps. The familiar sounds grounded her.

She glanced at the clock on the mantle. Nearly one o’clock.

Her next lesson with him—if she could still call it that—was at six. There was no rehearsal today, no obligation to be at the opera. And yet she already knew: she would go.

Chapter Text

Cool, damp air seeped through the underground passage as Nadir ducked beneath a low arch, the soft drip of distant water echoing through the stone like a ticking clock. He had been walking for nearly twenty minutes, following a path he only half-remembered — a path that changed, shifted, was never quite the same twice.

Still obsessed with misdirection, he thought, stepping carefully over a suspicious-looking tile. As if anyone besides me would ever try to find him.

A sharp metallic click sounded to his left.

Nadir froze.

A bead of sweat formed at his temple as he slowly turned his head. A needle-thin wire was now taut across the path he’d just stepped over — one more inch and—

“ You’re lucky I still recognize your footsteps, Nadir, ” came a low, sharp voice from the darkness.

Nadir exhaled, his body relaxing even as he rolled his eyes. “You could just leave a bell at the door like a civilized person.”

Erik emerged from the shadows, dressed in black, his unmasked side drawn tight with suspicion. His yellow eyes gleamed in the dim torchlight — unnervingly feline.

“I thought I told you not to come here unannounced.”

“I never announced myself,” Nadir said, brushing some invisible dust from his sleeve. “I assumed your infernal traps would alert you the moment I crossed the third corridor.”

“They did.” Erik stepped closer. “What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“That’s never good.” Erik turned. “Come, then. If you’re going to accuse me of something, at least let me make tea first.”

“You know very well that I prefer coffee.”

Erik let out a quiet huff — not quite amusement, not quite irritation — and gestured for Nadir to follow. They moved through the winding corridors in silence, broken only by Nadir’s footsteps. Nadir Khan moved through the underground passages with a quiet confidence. In his mid-forties, he carried himself with a kind of worn elegance — not the flamboyance of Parisian nobility, but the composed grace of a man who had seen both palaces and prison cells. His features were sharp and dignified: dark eyes that missed little, high cheekbones, and a mouth more accustomed to sardonic half-smiles than full laughter.

His skin bore the warm tone of his Persian heritage, and though his black hair was beginning to silver at the temples, it only added to the sense of distinguished weariness he carried with him like an old coat. He was dressed impeccably, but simply — a tailored wool coat, deep charcoal, with a scarf wound neatly at his throat, and polished boots.

There was something of a scholar in him — or perhaps a monk who had once been a soldier. He rarely raised his voice, preferring to disarm with insight rather than aggression. His eyes held the quiet weight of someone who had spent years trying to understand the human soul.

He was the only man in Paris who could walk into Erik’s domain uninvited and still be offered coffee.

At last, they reached the main chamber — a cavernous lair of shadows and silk, illuminated by candlelight that flickered against velvet drapes and polished instruments. The lair had not changed much in the last year. Still filled with strange mechanisms, walls of sheet music, the soft glow of candles — and that strange tension, like the place itself was holding its breath.

Erik moved toward the brazier, setting a kettle atop it with practiced hands. "No tea, then," he muttered. "I'll brew that horrid sludge you call coffee."

“I’ll take that as hospitality,” Nadir said, removing his gloves with deliberate calm. He remained standing, letting his gaze sweep across the room. “You’ve redecorated.”

“You always say that. And I never did.”

They fell into silence again, and Erik busied himself with the kettle — too deliberately. Nadir didn’t press yet. He waited until the water began to simmer before speaking again.

“I heard about Christine Daaé,” he said quietly.

Erik’s back stiffened.

“She vanished after her performance. Caused quite the stir — my contacts in the Prefecture were very curious. And I too began to wonder.”

Erik didn’t turn around. “You came to accuse me.”

“I came to ask.” Nadir folded his hands behind his back. “Because I know what you’re capable of when your emotions get the better of you.”

A long pause.

Finally, Erik turned. The flickering light caught the edge of his mask, gilding it with an almost sacred glow. “She is safe,” he said. “She was never in danger.”

“That’s not the same as answering me,” Nadir replied, voice sharp but low. “Did you take her?”

Erik met his gaze, and for a moment, the tension in the room drew taut. “She followed the voice,” he said. “She wanted to know who I was. So I showed her.”

Nadir studied him. “And?”

Erik gestured to one of his armchairs. “Please sit down. It unnerves me, you standing there.”

Nadir remained standing for a long moment before finally lowering himself into the offered armchair. He didn’t lean back. His posture was alert, hands steepled loosely before him, eyes fixed on Erik with quiet intensity.

“I’m not here as a policeman,” he said finally. “But if you so much as frighten her, I will become one.”

Erik gave a quiet, almost imperceptible laugh and turned away, busying himself with the kettle. “She wasn’t frightened.”

“She wasn’t, or she said she wasn’t?”

Erik didn’t answer that. The silence stretched, filled only by the soft hiss of the heating water and the distant, cavernous drip of underground moisture.

“I know you, Erik,” Nadir continued, softer now, but no less firm. “I’ve seen the things you are capable of. I’ve seen the things you regret.”

A twitch passed across Erik’s shoulders.

“Did she see your face?”

“No.”

“Good.” Nadir exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. “Let her come to know your mind first, if anything. Or your voice. But not your loneliness. And not your need.”

Erik turned, eyes narrowed. “You think I’ll use her.”

“I think you don’t know the difference between love and possession.”

That struck something — Erik flinched, almost imperceptibly.

Nadir watched him with an unreadable expression. “You care for her. I see that.”

Erik’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

”I’m sure she is curious. She is young.” He leaned forward slightly. “But desire, Erik — desire must be free. Like a bird. You cannot trap it and call it affection.”

The kettle whistled. Erik moved to take it off the flame, not responding.

Nadir continued, voice low and steady. “You must be still. Like the surface of water. Let her see herself clearly in you. If she sees only shadows and hunger, she will run. And you will call it betrayal — but it will only ever have been fear.”

Erik poured the water into the pot, steam rising between them. “You sound like a monk again.”

“And you sound like a boy with a matchbook near a curtain.”

Erik turned, a single cup in hand — coffee, black. He placed it in front of Nadir without ceremony and finally sat down opposite him.

For a moment, neither spoke.

“She’s coming back,” Erik said finally, quietly.

“Is that a hope or a fact?”

“She said she would.”

Nadir stirred the coffee with the tiny silver spoon Erik had placed beside it. “Then you have a responsibility to meet her with calm. With humility.”

Erik scoffed faintly.

“You laugh, but you know I’m right. You’ve lived in darkness too long. Don't drag her into it.”

They sat in silence again, the scent of roasted beans hanging between them.

“You have the mind of a philosopher,” Erik said at last.

“And the liver of a card shark,” Nadir answered, sipping. “Ah, if only you’d learn to make proper qahveh. This French nonsense tastes like burnt rainwater.”

Chapter Text

The soft click of the lock was the only sound in the dimly lit dressing room when Christine closed the door behind her. She had arrived early—half an hour early, in fact—hoping to gather her thoughts in the quiet before he came. Her hands trembled slightly as she lit the lamp, the soft glow casting a circle of warmth that didn’t quite reach the corners of the room.

Just as the match flickered out, the mirror behind her gave a soft, unmistakable hum.

He was here.

The panel slid open with its usual grace, revealing Erik, tall and silent, the half-mask catching the amber light like bone turned to gold. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Christine straightened. “Bonsoir,” she said, voice composed though her heartbeat skipped.

“Bonsoir, petite. ” His voice was lower than usual. Almost… uncertain.

She hesitated, then stepped forward—but only a little. “I’d prefer to stay here tonight.”

His head tilted. “Why?”

She looked down, trying to find the right words. “I don’t know… I just feel safer here.” Her eyes flicked up to his face. “I’m not afraid of you. I just—need to take things slower.”

Silence.

For one moment too long, Erik didn’t respond. His shoulders had stiffened. The air seemed to hold its breath.

“You said you would come,” he said quietly. Something flinched in his voice—small, sharp. “You gave your word.”

Christine’s throat tightened. “I know. I’m not breaking it—I’m just… moving it. A little.”

He turned his head slightly, away from her. The low light caught the curve of his cheekbone, sharp and pale on the side without the mask. His fingers flexed at his sides.

Inside, the old current surged—rage, rejection, fear. The familiar voice whispered: She’s leaving. They always do. They all run. His breathing quickened—

But then, like a lantern flickering on in a maze, another voice returned. A quieter one, heavy with patience and bitter coffee:

“Desire must be free, Erik. You cannot trap it and call it affection.”

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, his features seemed to soften.

“Very well,” he said at last, calmly and controlled. “We can stay here.”

Christine blinked. “Thank you.”

Erik offered the faintest nod. “But you must let me move the lamp. The acoustics in this corner are abysmal.”

She gave a half-smile. “You always say that.”

“I always mean it,” he muttered, already moving the lamp with precise hands. “The walls here are far too flat. They swallow the resonance.”

She sat on the edge of the chaise, her fingers folded neatly in her lap. For a moment, she just watched him — the graceful economy of his movements, the faint gleam of the mask in the shifting light. It was strange how little she understood of him.

“I heard from Madame Giry today,” she said after a pause. “She told me about the… letters.”

Erik stopped, only for a heartbeat, then continued adjusting the lamp without looking at her.

“She also said I’ll be singing smaller parts for now. And understudy for Carlotta.”

A silence hung in the air.

“Does that upset you?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said, truthfully. “I need more time. And… experience.” She tilted her head, watching him. “And I don’t want anyone threatening people for me.”

He turned then, slowly, his form very still. “You believe it was me?”

Christine didn’t flinch. “I know it was.”

Erik’s hand twitched, curling slightly. “They don’t treat you fairly. Carlotta—”

“I can speak for myself,” she interrupted gently. “I don’t need you to fight for me. I’d rather you help me improve.”

A flare of something passed through his posture—tension, old and bitter—but he said nothing.

Christine’s voice softened. “You’ve guided me for so long. But if you want me to trust you… you have to trust me, too. You can’t control everything around me...”

His eyes were fixed on a point just past her, still unreadable. “Control is all I’ve ever had.”

She frowned slightly. “What is that supposed to mean? Why don’t you just work here like everybody else? Teach openly. Compose. Be part of the company.” And why are you hiding beneath that mask? She wanted to ask but stopped right before she could say it.

Now, finally, Erik looked at her. The lamp caught his eyes.

His voice was quiet. “I’ve seen too much to try. Society is cruel.”

She held his gaze. “Why? What did they do to you?”

He didn’t answer at first. Then, in a voice more breath than sound: “They looked at me.”

Something cold and invisible rippled through the room. Christine frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Erik turned away, his gloved fingers adjusting a sheet of music on her music stand that didn’t need fixing. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t speak again.

Then: “I don’t look like other men.”
A pause. His voice stayed low, but clear. “I was born... wrong.”

Christine stood slowly. She stepped toward him, careful not to move too fast, as if approaching a frightened animal.

“That doesn’t matter to me,” she said without thinking.

He gave a bitter laugh, sharp and without joy. “It will. It always does.”

She hesitated. Then, softly: “Let me see you.”

He froze.

“Erik—”

“No.” The word cracked like a whip, sharper than he meant it to be. He closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself, the lines of his body taut as a wire.

He turned toward her. “Not tonight.” His voice was quiet now.

Christine nodded slowly. She didn’t smile. She didn’t argue. Instead, she said only: “Alright.”

His posture softened. The tension eased, just enough. He gestured to the chair, his composure again like the confident, tall maestro he seemed to turn into when it came to music.

“Shall we begin?”

Christine sat down slowly, the score closed in her lap.

“Before we do… just one more thing.” she said.

He stilled, just slightly.

“I want you to promise me something.”

“Anything for you, my love.”

Christine exhaled slowly, meeting his eyes. “Promise me that you won’t threaten anyone anymore. No more notes. No more trying to control things through fear.”

Erik’s expression didn’t change, but the air between them thickened slightly, a quiet tension filling the space. “Christine,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of something that wasn’t entirely at ease. “If I didn’t keep things in order, if I didn’t maintain control…” He trailed off, as if the implication was enough. “The opera house needs someone to keep things running smoothly.”

Christine shook her head slightly, her hands tightening around the score. “That’s not the point. The point is—people aren’t pieces on a chessboard.”

For a moment, Erik remained silent, his gaze lingering on her. His posture was relaxed, but there was something in his eyes that hinted at something more. Finally, he sighed, his shoulders shifting as he spoke, his voice more quiet now, almost resigned. “I don’t threaten them for the fun of it, Christine.” That part wasn’t entirely true. ”I do it because it works”

Christine grew frustrated. “But it doesn’t have to be this way. You could lead differently, Erik. You don’t have to control everything. You don’t have to live in fear of losing it all.”

“And what would you have me do instead? Allow chaos to reign?”

Christine’s gaze hardened, a flicker of even more frustration flashing in her eyes. “Are you scared over your 20,000 Francs a month?” she asked, her voice cool and steady.

Erik flinched, his shoulders tensing slightly. “You think me greedy?” His voice was quieter now, but still laced with an edge. “I’m the one who led this opera house to success, Christine. I made it what it is today. I’ve earned every single coin of that salary. Do you know how much the managers of an opera house like this normally get?”

“Fine—do whatever you want when it comes to your own business. But leave my name out of it.”

For a moment, Erik’s expression shifted. His voice, when it came, was tinged with hurt. “I just tried to help…”

Christine’s frustration flared, and she sprang to her feet, unable to contain it any longer. “Yes, but you're not helping! The whole opera house thinks I’m sleeping with Raoul to get whatever I want!” Her words hung heavily in the air, thick with a mixture of anger and disbelief. “And it’s all because of your damned letters!”

At the mention of Raoul, a flash of something darker crossed Erik’s face. His jaw clenched, his posture tightening.

“The Vicomte—you have a connection to him?”

“What?” She blinked, momentarily confused. “That’s not the point I’m trying to make here.” But then, it hit her—he was jealous. The realization lingered, and despite herself, a strange wave of satisfaction washed over her. She shouldn't feel that way, she knew, but it was there, nonetheless. Her frustration softened just a fraction.

Stepping closer to him, Christine gently placed her hands on his arms, her gaze steady as she met his masked face. For a brief second, she could feel him tense beneath her touch, his body stiffening slightly.

“Raoul and I are just old childhood friends. He is like a brother to me.” she said gently. “Look, let’s make a deal,” her voice shifted to a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “You promise me that you will never seriously harm anyone, and that you’ll let me manage my career on my own unless I ask for your help. And in return, I’ll turn a blind eye to all your little... opera ghost antics and the way you handle your... business.”

Erik’s eyes searched hers for a long moment, his mind clearly weighing her words. Then, with a sharp nod, he agreed. “Alright.”

Chapter Text

In the quiet of his lair, the only sound was the soft echo of the keys as Erik's fingers brushed across them, trying desperately to compose something. But his mind wandered—far away from the notes, the chords, the music. Instead, his thoughts returned to her. Christine. Her soft voice, her delicate hands, the way she had looked at him, her eyes full of trust, of curiosity.. and something more intense that he couldn’t quite place. His breath hitched at the thought.

It had been hours since their singing lesson, but since then he had been sitting at his piano. The sheet music in front of him was a jumbled mess of unfinished thoughts. He could hear her words, so clear in his mind: “Promise me.” And he had. He had promised. He had agreed to step back, to stay out of her path, to let her carve her own way. His heart tightened at that. How could he stay away when every part of him longed to help her, to guide her?

He closed his eyes, letting the music fade into the background as he imagined her again. He could still see her standing there, her soft hands resting on his arms, that gentle touch that sent shivers down his spine. His lips parted slightly as he thought of her eyes—those eyes that pierced right through him.

He tried to shake it off. Focus, Erik. Compose, he told himself. He pushed his fingers back to the piano, but the notes seemed hollow, like they were playing for someone else’s benefit—like his music no longer belonged to him. It was like the sound of the keys mocking him, pulling him into her, into the warmth of her smile, into the way her hair fell over her shoulder, the way her body moved when she spoke.

His breath quickened, and his hands stilled on the piano. He tried to push the thoughts away, but her face lingered in his mind, her brown locks, the curve of her neck, the way her voice held both innocence and something deeper. He could still feel the weight of her hands on his arms. Her scent... It was like jasmine, something soft, something that made him want to lean in closer. He couldn’t stop himself, the image of her body, her movements, her lips—

No, stop, he thought, frustrated. His body felt tight, his thoughts spiraling, focusing on things he knew he shouldn’t be thinking about. His heart pounded in his chest, and a surge of heat flooded through him. He buried his hands in the fabric of his thighs and tried to ignore the bulge that had formed in his pants. Like always he desperately tried to not relieve himself thinking of her. Sometimes he succeeded, sometimes he failed. He was ashamed at the thought that she would never welcome it if she knew. Whenever he gave in to these cravings he felt as if something from his abyss had been transferred to her. It made him feel dirty, as if he betrayed her trust somehow.

He slammed his hand down on the piano, the harsh sound cutting through the silence of the room. His breath came fast as he stood up abruptly, his chair scraping across the floor. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, a small cloth from one of his many work desks, and rushed to the Rue-Scribe-Exit. 

_________________________________________________________________________

The street was quiet — deceptively so — as Erik slipped through the shadows of Pigalle. The gas lamps flickered in the mist, catching the gleam of cobblestones. He didn’t bother with the main roads; he knew the shortcuts, the alleys, the cracks in the city where things not meant to be seen thrived best.

At the far end of a narrow passage behind an abandoned print shop, a rusted iron door waited, almost invisible beneath layers of grime and old posters. He knocked twice, paused, then knocked again. A slit opened — eyes, suspicious and dark — then a grunt. The door creaked open.

The space was cavernous, once perhaps a warehouse, now thick with sweat and cigar smoke. Lanterns strung from overhead beams gave off a molten amber glow, casting long shadows on the concrete floor.

A makeshift ring stood in the center, roped off with fraying cords, its mat stained and worn. Around it: men in varying states of undress — bare-chested, glistening, some with old scars across their ribs, others bouncing on their heels, waiting to be called. The scent of blood, tobacco, and whiskey hung like incense.

To the left, a woman with red curls and heavy eye makeup sat cross-legged on a crate, calmly smoking a clove cigarette, her gaze sharp as a blade. She wore a man’s shirt, open at the collar, and fingerless gloves. She watched the fighters with the detached interest of someone who had seen too many men lose teeth to flinch.

Near the back, a pair of young boxers — barely out of boyhood — leaned against the wall, arms folded, whispering about the next round. One of them spotted Erik and nudged the other.

He removed his coat with slow, deliberate precision. Beneath it, he wore a loose white shirt, the sleeves already rolled up to his elbows. The black cloth he grabbed in his home was now tied neatly over one side of his face.

To the right of the entrance, near a dented filing cabinet and a rust-covered desk, stood a woman in a wine-red waistcoat, her dark curls tied back into a messy knot. Her eyes scanned a leather-bound ledger with boredom. A cigarillo smoldered between her fingers.

“Name?” she asked, not even looking up as Erik approached.

“I’m ready to fight,” he said without preamble.

Now she looked up, slowly, arching one brow as her gaze took him in — the dark cloth, the sharp cheekbones, the cool voice that cut through the heat like a blade. She smirked.

“Yeah? So’s everyone else. You get a number, dearest.” She gestured with her cigarillo toward a battered metal bucket filled with brass tokens. “Pick one. Sit down. Bleed later.”

“I don’t wait,” Erik said flatly, his eyes locked on hers.

“And I don’t give a damn.” She pulled the cigarillo from her lips and exhaled a thin stream of smoke directly between them. “Unless you want me to tell Gaspard someone in lace gloves tried to skip the line.”

A man lounging just behind her stood up from his stool — tall, bald, his suit sleeves shoved up and a gold tooth flashing as he grinned.

“Let him through, Fleck,” he said, his voice like gravel. “That one’s been here before.”

She glanced back, surprised. “He yours?”

“Not exactly.” The man’s grin grew wider. “But I like what happens when he steps in the ring.”

Gloria looked back at Erik, this time with a little more interest. 

“Fine. You’re next in.”

“Good,” he muttered. “I’m not here to watch.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The air inside the pit shifted as Erik stepped beneath the swinging cage lights, casting long shadows over the bloodstained floor.

The crowd buzzed. A woman in a backless velvet dress whispered something into her lover’s ear.

Erik stripped off his shirt without ceremony, revealing a body carved more by necessity than vanity — lean muscle, whipcord tense, a pale canvas broken only by old scars. His black cloth mask clung to his face, stark against his otherwise bare torso.

His opponent was already waiting: a broad-chested Englishman with a nose that had been broken too many times and a cocky grin that hadn’t yet learned humility. He cracked his knuckles.

“What’s with the cloth? Somebody already ruined your face?” he mocked, loud enough for the front row to hear.

Erik didn’t answer. He was already circling.

The bell rang — not a real bell, but a rusted triangle struck with a crowbar — and the fight began.

The first blow came fast — the Englishman charged, fists swinging, a flurry of force and brawn. But Erik dodged with a dancer’s grace, his body twisting just out of reach, muscles rippling beneath pale skin. The audience gasped as Erik struck — one precise jab, his biceps straining, knuckles meeting ribs with a sick thud. Not brute strength but rather precision and control.

The man grunted, stumbled, and came back harder.

They clashed in the center — sweat-slick bodies grappling, breath coming hot and heavy, the heat rising between them like steam. Erik’s hand darted out — grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted — and slammed him down, the crack of spine on concrete muffled only by the roar of the crowd.

But he didn’t stop. Erik’s body moved on instinct — his mind elsewhere. Her voice still in his ears, her hands still gentle on his arms. Christine.

He struck again — a clean hook, cheekbone to knuckle — and the head of the man hit the ground hard.

Panting, Erik stepped back, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat glowing beneath the lights. His eyes were wild. Unfocused. His hands flexed at his sides.

The man stumbled up again. “We’re not done yet,” he growled dangerously — but the words had barely left his mouth when Erik surged forward, no pause, no hesitation. His opponent reeled from the first blow, and then another came, and another. His fists moved faster now — not with elegance, but with fury. Bone met bone. A burst of blood at the nose. The dull crunch of cartilage giving way.

The crowd erupted — some cheering, some falling into stunned silence — as Erik drove him back, blow after blow. The man was barely fighting back now, his arms raised in vain. But Erik wasn’t stopping.

He didn’t see the man anymore.

He saw the flash of Christine’s eyes, the image of her standing too close to that Vicomte — her hand on his arm.

He saw the mocking faces of the world. The managers, the patrons, the opera filled with gasping mouths and narrowed eyes.
He saw the child in the cage. The masked thing in the circus tent.

And he kept striking.

One.

Two.

Three.

The bell rang, sharp and insistent.

He didn’t hear it.

The man crumpled, but Erik grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up again, slamming him back with a savage grunt. Blood smeared across Erik’s chest, across his knuckles. His breath came ragged and fast.

“Stop!” someone shouted.

Two men vaulted the ropes, Gloria Fleck right behind them.

“Get him off!” she barked, grabbing at his arm.

It took three of them to drag him back, to wrestle his fists away. He fought them at first, teeth bared in a wordless snarl, his eyes burning like something wild and ancient.

But then—

A voice. Not real. Just in his head.

“You promised.”

Christine.

He blinked, frozen mid-struggle, and the air around him thinned like fog lifting. His chest heaved, sweat clinging to every line of his body. His fists trembled, the knuckles raw, split and red.

The man he’d beaten lay groaning on the ground, barely conscious.

Gloria stood nearby, one hand wiping blood off her cheek where it had splattered. Her expression was unreadable — equal parts admiration and caution.

“Well,” she said, her voice rough, almost dry. “You're a fucking storm, aren't you?”

Erik didn’t respond. He staggered back a step, glanced at his hands and let out a shivering breath. One of the men grabbed him by the neck and shoved him out of the ring. He didn’t fight back.

Silently, he bent down, retrieved his shirt, and slipped it over his shoulders. It clinged uncomfortably at his sweaty skin. The blood on his knuckles had begun to dry in dark rust-colored patches.

He crossed the gritty floor of the club toward the scarred wooden counter near the door, where a line had already formed — eager fists clutching crumpled betting slips. The air buzzed with the clink of coins, the murmur of winners collecting their share, and the sharp bark of Gloria Fleck, who managed the small chaos with one raised eyebrow and a voice like sandpaper dipped in whiskey.

The bald man from earlier stood just behind the counter next to the line, grinning as Erik approached. “It’s the same every time,” he told the newcomer on the other side of the counter. “All the rookies bet against him. And the rest of us walk home rich.”

Gloria looked up from her clipboard, unimpressed. “You broke the rules,” she said to Erik. “No one keeps hitting after the bell. You’re banned.”

The bald man gave a low chuckle, leaning on the edge of the counter. “Come on, Gloria. You know how it goes. He doesn’t follow rules—he pays enough to make his own.”

Before either could say more, Erik pulled a small leather pouch from his coat and tossed it onto the counter. It landed with a soft, heavy thud — unmistakably full. Gloria’s eyes narrowed as the bald man burst out laughing.

“It’s either brave,” she muttered, “or incredibly stupid to flash that kind of coin in this part of the city.”

The bald man smirked. “Tried taking it from him once. That’s why I smile with a gold tooth now.”

Erik said nothing. He simply adjusted the black cloth tied across his face and turned toward the back hallway. “I’ll wash up. Then I’m gone.”

And without waiting for a reply, he disappeared into the shadows of the club’s rear corridor, his footsteps silent beneath the bass thump of fists meeting flesh.

Chapter Text

Erik moved quietly through the narrow hallway, his boots silent on the worn stone. The corridor was dim, lit only by a single flickering lamp that cast long, crooked shadows on the walls. He wasn’t headed straight to the washroom anymore — he’d heard something. Low voices. A stifled laugh. The sound of movement that wasn’t meant to be heard. 

He paused, back pressed to the wall. Old habits stirred — the need to know what others kept hidden. Secrets were power. Secrets made men dance. 

He inched closer, eyes narrowing through the dark. Two figures. A man pressed against the cold brick, mouth parted in a silent gasp, while another leaned in — hands roaming with casual intimacy, one thumb stroking along a jawline. Erik’s breath hitched, realization flickering. Not a man and a woman. Two men. The angle, the tension — it was unmistakable. 

He squinted, about to step back, to disappear like a ghost into the walls — when one of the men shifted, just enough for the light to catch on a familiar gold earring. A familiar jawline.

Erik stepped forward, unthinking. “Darius.” 

The man against the wall froze. The second spun around — eyes wide, breath sharp — and for a heartbeat, Erik stared at him.

The young man’s mouth parted slightly. “Shit,” he whispered, eyes darting, already calculating. His companion bolted without a word, vanishing down the corridor like a startled cat.

For a moment, neither Erik nor Darius spoke. Darius’s chest rose and fell. His shirt was half open, his hair tousled, lips still red. 

“Well,” he finally said, voice tight, “that’s one hell of a reunion.” 

Erik didn’t speak. His gaze was pinned to Darius like a knife.

Darius straightened, brushing a hand through his hair as if that might smooth out the tension in the air. “You always had impeccable timing,” he said, mustering a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Erik didn’t return it, but the stiffness in his shoulders eased by a degree. He turned, continuing toward the washroom without a word.

Darius followed, falling into step beside him like nothing had happened. “So. You still haunting opera houses and playing the tortured genius, or have you finally retired into a crypt somewhere?”

Erik shot him a sidelong glance. “And you still running errands for Nadir, or have you graduated to espionage?”

Darius grinned now, more genuinely. “Both, actually. You wouldn’t believe the kind of things people leave lying around in the Ministry buildings when they think no one’s watching.”

“I would,” Erik muttered.

They walked a few steps in silence, the sound of distant cheers from the fight ring echoing faintly behind them. Then Darius bumped Erik lightly with his shoulder — a small gesture, but enough to cut through the last of the awkwardness.

Darius bumped him again, this time with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So… should I be congratulating you?”

Erik narrowed his eyes. “For what?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Darius said airily. “The little article I read this morning in Le Figaro ? ‘Young soprano vanishes from the face of the earth — authorities baffled, Opera House silent.’ Very theatrical. Very you .”

Erik said nothing, but the slight twitch in his jaw gave him away.

Darius chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m not Nadir. I’m not going to scold you.” He paused. “I mean, I might tease you. But I won’t scold.”

Darius tilted his head. “Is it her?” he asked more quietly now, the teasing tone softening just a touch. “The girl you’ve been training?”

Erik gave him a long look. “Why do I let someone live who knows this much about me?”

Darius laughed, full and unbothered. “Because you love me.”

“I certainly do not,” Erik said sharply, turning down the corridor toward the washroom.

But Darius only grinned, trailing after him. “Keep telling yourself that, ostād-e aziz . One of these days you’ll even believe it.”

Sometimes Erik actually asked himself that question. Why did he allow Darius to live? The boy knew far too much. He’d asked too many questions, stolen too many things — books, plans, small instruments that Erik had carefully collected over the years. Darius had always been a thief.

The boy had first appeared in his life when he was thirteen, a street urchin running errands for the Persian. He was half Persian as well, and Nadir had a soft spot for him so he always tried to pull him from the streets. But Darius had never stayed in the caring home of Nadir — rebellious, independent, free. Yet, when the cold Parisian winter hit, and the boy nearly starved, he sometimes took the offered help. He never stayed for long, always slipping away the moment things seemed to settle. There was something in Darius — a spark, an unrelenting curiosity that reminded Erik of someone.

Reza.

Nadir’s son, long gone. Reza had been everything Erik wasn’t — open, curious, filled with potential. Darius was the same. It made Erik uneasy. A part of him wanted to believe that if he let Darius stay close, if he allowed him to see behind the mask, then maybe — just maybe — the now grown man could accept what’s under his mask, too. He shaked that thought off. 

Erik moved toward the washroom, absently wiping his bloodied hands on the hem of his shirt. He wasn’t looking forward to the moment when he would face himself in the mirror.

He wasn’t prepared for Darius to follow him in, but as the younger man sidestepped into the small room, Erik didn't protest, even though it meant that he could not take off his black cloth. It was always like this—Darius never quite knew boundaries, but Erik had grown used to him, in his own strange way. At least he never tried taking his mask in any way. He never even really asked about it.

The washroom was lit by a single flickering bulb, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and alcohol. Erik immediately moved toward the sink, letting water run over his hands, his gaze unfocused. Darius leaned casually against the doorframe, watching him intently.

“Haven’t seen you fighting in a long time,” Darius remarked, his tone light but perceptive. “What’s going on tonight?”

Erik didn’t look up, his fingers working the soap into a lather. “Sometimes it’s the only way to get the noise out of my head.”

“Is it because of the soprano?”

Erik’s hands stilled in the water. “No,” he said, his voice colder than he meant it to be. “It’s not.”

But Darius had known him far too long, and he wasn’t buying it.

“You sure about that?” he repeated, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Because you’re not the type to lose control over just anyone. And I’ve seen you lose control tonight. I don’t think you’ve been this wound up since… well, since you started taking that girl under your wing.”

Erik turned his back on him then, focusing entirely on scrubbing the blood off his knuckles. 

Darius’s curiosity was relentless. “How old is she, this soprano of yours?”

Erik didn’t even think about it. “Twenty,” he said, his voice taut with a mix of pride and frustration.

The answer seemed to make Darius pause, his eyes lighting up with an unexpected interest. “Twenty? So, she’s exactly the same age as me,” Darius said, clearly delighted with the connection. “Most likely much more pampered in this opera world of hers. I bet she has no idea what she’s in for if she stays close to you, huh?”

Something in Darius's question struck Erik. He had always seen Christine as someone to protect, someone to keep away from the dangers of the world, to control. But hearing her age out loud, hearing Darius's casual remark.... She was young. However she had a world that was already planned out for her by the opera, first with the ballet and now with his lessons. He knew he could be strict.

Darius never really had plans or prospects. However, he always held on and protected his freedom fiercely. The realization hit Erik hard. Christine, like Darius, was her own person, not something to be molded or confined to the plans he had for her. A small voice within started to whisper again. Nadir is right. The harder he tried to hold her in place, the more she would slip through his fingers.

Fear and shame hit him in the chest. Fear at the thought of Christine making her choices without him, maybe even against him. And shame about wanting to deny her that freedom, wanting to manipulate and threaten her into giving in to his desires, even though he promised to stop manipulating and threatening.

He turned around and rushed out of the washroom, his breath coming in shallow, hurried gasps. The cool air of the hallway felt sharp against his heated skin. He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn back to look at Darius, though he could hear his voice, light and teasing, calling after him.

“I guess I see you around then?”

Chapter Text

The gas lamp on Christine’s nightstand had long since burned low, casting the room in soft amber shadows. The quiet of the flat in the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre was a comforting kind of silence, broken only by the distant hum of the city outside.

She lay on her back, the linen sheets tangled around her legs, her rehearsal notes forgotten on the floor beside the bed. Her body was tired, her voice raw from hours of singing—but her mind wouldn’t rest.

He hadn’t come yesterday. Or today. No music lessons. No voice in the mirror. No Erik.

She told herself it was fine. He was unpredictable. Mercurial. Perhaps he was angry because she made him promise. Or busy. But it didn’t stop her from missing him with a strange, almost unbearable intensity.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her nightgown.

She thought of the way he moved—quietly and powerful, something feline in his movements. Power in every step, somehow even when he stood perfectly still. She thought of his hands, how long and graceful they were, the way they moved across the piano keys, or how they had corrected her posture with the barest brush on their first and only lesson in person.

And then, of course… his voice. That deep, impossible voice—warm velvet wrapped around steel, vibrating somewhere deep in her chest whenever he spoke her name.

Christine turned on her side, restless.

The memory of his eyes came next—gold, intense, impossible to look away from when they met hers. That single cheekbone she could see, sharp and elegant and the part of his lips not covered by his mask. 

She closed her eyes.

Her hand slid slowly beneath the hem of her nightgown, a breath escaping her lips before she could catch it. The heat had been building quietly for days—lingering behind her ribs, low in her belly. A fire she didn’t quite understand, and didn’t want to extinguish. That must be what the other ballet girls described when they giggled and whispered behind the stage.

She imagined him closer—too close. Imagined him whispering into her skin instead of her ear. His hands not on the piano, but on her. The rasp of his breath. The weight of his body above hers, steady and demanding.

She let her fingers slip between her folds. She felt herself slick between her legs. Everything prickled excitingly.

Then her fingers brushed over the sensitive nerve bundle. A quiet moan escaped her, half surprise, half pleasure.

She saw his hands again in front of her, on her body.

She moved her fingers more boldly now, guided by the memory of his gaze, by the way her name sounded on his lips. His voice wrapped around her even now— Christine, sing for me —and she arched into the thought of it, into the unbearable ache blooming in her core.

Her thighs tensed, her breath caught, and for a moment everything else faded—Paris, the flat, the bed she was lying in, the day of rehearsals, her exhaustion, the longing for him.

There was only the warmth, and the thought of him.

And when her release finally took her, soft and trembling, she bit down into her pillow and whispered his name like a prayer.

Erik.

_________________________________________________________________________

Christine had just finished brushing out her hair, the dressing room quiet around her, still warm from the day's rehearsals. Her new schedule had been full again — chorus in the mornings, lessons in the afternoons, now her understudy role shadowing Carlotta. It was thrilling. And somehow emptier without him.

He still hadn’t come yesterday. It’s been three days.

She told herself it was nothing, that she didn’t care — but the way her eyes kept flicking toward the mirror told a different story.

The candle on her vanity flickered once — then again, though there was no breeze. A shimmer passed across the glass. A shape behind it, faint as breath. Her heart caught, and before she had time to think or speak, the mirror parted.

He stepped through with his usual quiet grace. 

Christine stood. She hadn’t realized how tightly her hands were gripping the edge of the vanity until she let go.

“You came,” she said excitedly.

“Yes, I did,” Erik replied.

Something in his voice was different tonight. Warmer, perhaps. Or maybe it was simply her — hearing him differently now.

She smiled, slow and real. “You’re late.”

He tilted his head slightly. “I thought anticipation might sharpen your pitch.”

A breath of laughter escaped her, and he stepped closer — not touching her, never touching unless guided, but near enough that she could smell the scent of him.

“I missed your voice,” he said.

“I missed yours more.”

That hung between them for a moment.

Then Erik turned slightly, gesturing toward the piano tucked into the corner of her dressing room. “Shall we begin?”

Christine hesitated.

Her fingers brushed the edge of her vanity, but her gaze didn’t follow. It remained on him — sharp, intent, a little braver than before.

“Not here,” she said quietly.

He stilled. “No?”

“I want to go below.” Her voice was soft, but the conviction behind it was clear. “To your home.”

His expression didn’t change — not at first. But something in the air shifted. The temperature, perhaps. The quiet hum between them deepened.

“You feel safe here,” he said carefully, as though warning her. “Here, you can leave anytime.”

“I trust you,” she replied.

He didn’t breathe for a moment — or if he did, it was so quiet it might as well have been the air around her.

Then, slowly, he offered his gloved hand.

“Very well, Christine.”

She took it without hesitation.

_________________________________________________________________________

Over the next few weeks, something quiet and steady began to grow between them.

Christine came regularly to the underground for her lessons. What had once been a hidden, dark space slowly became something warmer, more familiar. She grew used to the flicker of torchlight on damp stone, to the faint scent of old paper and oil, to the creak of ancient mechanisms in the walls.

After two weeks, Erik began to show her more than just music.

He taught her the paths — the silent, winding passages that spidered through the Opera House like veins. He explained which routes were safe, where the pressure plates lay, which tunnels would carry her to his home without the need for a boat. “If you ever wish to come alone,” he said, his voice low, as though offering her something sacred. “You should know the way.”

It was a gesture of trust. She felt it like a key placed in her palm.

Now and then, when her eyes lingered too long on something — a delicate music box half-hidden beneath blueprints, or a small mechanical brooch in the shape of a bird — he noticed. And days later, she would find it set aside for her, polished and waiting. He gave them to her without ceremony, but always with a glance that asked her to take it.

She always did.

Christine, for her part, gave back in her own way. She asked questions — endless, gentle questions, never pushing too far, but always returning. About music, about books, about the strange, intricate devices scattered across his tables. About his voice. Sometimes he answered. Sometimes he didn’t.

And one evening, after she nearly fell asleep during a long rehearsal and arrived at his home with exhaustion in her eyes, she found that a small room off the main chamber had been rearranged. A bed now stood there — simple but comfortable, draped in dark fabrics and tucked neatly into the alcove. He didn’t mention it. Neither did she.

But when she fell asleep there the following week, with a book still open in her lap, he didn’t wake her.

Instead, he sat nearby in the half-light, listening to her breathing — soft and even.

_________________________________________________________________________

The music lesson had ended. Christine, still wrapped in the warmth of the music they’d shared, moved slowly around the room as she often did after a lesson, her curiosity guiding her footsteps as she explored the bookshelves that lined the walls.

Her fingers brushed against the worn spines of countless volumes, the scent of aged paper filling the air. The soft hum of the world outside seemed to disappear as she stumbled upon a thick, dark-covered book tucked behind others.

“Rimbaud” , she read aloud, intrigued. “ Saison de l’enfer ?” she murmured to herself. She had never heard of it before. A Season in Hell .

Erik, who had been sitting quietly at the piano, his fingers resting lightly on the keys, noticed her curiosity. He tilted his head, the mask still perched firmly in place.

Christine pulled the book from the shelf, her eyes scanning the cover, then glancing back at him. “It’s... poetry?”

“Yes, in a way,” Erik replied, his tone distant.

“Which poem is your favourite?” She asked.

“Favourite?”

“The one that speaks to you the most,” she clarified.

He hesitated for a moment, considering. Then, unsure, he said: “ Mauvais sang .”

She opened the book carefully, flipping through the pages until her eyes landed on the site which held the poem. She started to read some lines that called out to her:

“I detest all professions,
I am, for all eternity, a product of inferior races,
My spirit is the embodiment of defects
And I am, in all things, a liar.”

She read the words slowly, the heavy melancholy of them settling in the room between them. Her eyes lingered on the page, then she looked up at Erik.

“What does this mean, Erik?” She did understand the words, she just wanted to know how he understood them.

Erik’s gaze shifted to her, his expression unreadable behind the mask. For a moment, there was silence.

“I think it speaks of self-loathing,” he began, his words steady, but there was a flicker of something hidden beneath. “Of the rejection of everything — society, profession, even one’s own existence. He speaks of being tainted, poisoned. I think... it’s the feeling of never being enough. Not being able to fit into the world you’re expected to live in.”

Christine felt a knot tighten in her chest. She continued reading aloud, her voice soft.

“A stone in my mouth,
I spit in the faces of those who look at me.
I have bad blood,
Which poisons my veins.
I have, in my heart,
The taint of all vices.”

She paused again, the words resonating in the quiet. She looked up at him, a hesitant question in her eyes. “And this… speaks to you? Why?”

Erik didn’t immediately respond, his eyes distant as though lost in his own thoughts. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice a little softer.

“I am not proud of who I am, Christine. Rimbaud’s words... they echo that part of me, the part that is bad blood .”

Christine watched him in silence. His words stirred something deep in her, something uncertain and aching. She knew so little of him still, despite the music, despite the hours spent in his world. The poetry had revealed more than he likely meant to, and now she felt it pressing on her from all sides: a hunger to understand.

"Erik," she said gently, stepping closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you call yourself that? Bad blood ?"

He looked away sharply, shoulders tensing. “Because it’s true.”

“It can’t be,” she said, shaking her head. “You speak to me in music. You’ve opened a world to me that no one else could. How can someone capable of so much beauty believe only the worst of himself?”

He didn’t answer. She took another step closer.

“I don’t know what happened to you before we met. I don’t know what Mme Giry meant when she said you had a complicated past. I don’t even know what lies beneath that mask…”

Her hand lifted tentatively, not touching, only hovering. His breath caught, and she felt it more than she heard it.

“I want to know,” she whispered. “Not because I want to satisfy some silly curiosity — but because I care. Because you matter to me.”

He finally met her eyes then, something like panic flickering there, battling with disbelief and longing and something deeper — something wounded.

“You don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Then help me,” she said, softer still. “Trust me.”

The room felt impossibly quiet, the air thick with unspoken things.

He didn’t move at first. Just stood there, looking at her like someone standing at the edge of a cliff — knowing the fall could kill him.

His voice, when it came, was quieter than she’d ever heard it. “You must understand something, Christine. I am not… like other men. I never have been.”

She held his gaze, heart beating fast but steady. “I know. You told me you… look different.”

“No,” he said, more firmly now, the steel returning to his tone. “You think you know. You think it’s something dramatic, something tragic. But it’s just… horrifying. It is not the kind of difference that earns sympathy. It is the kind that earns screams and stones thrown in the street.”

Christine opened her mouth, but he held up a hand — not to stop her, but to steady himself.

“I am not warning you because I doubt your courage,” he said, more softly. “I’m warning you because I care. And I would rather live in shadows forever than see fear in your eyes when you look at me.”

Her chest ached.

“I promise,” she said, stepping closer, voice thick. “You can trust me.”

She meant it — even if something in her fluttered with nerves. Not fear, exactly. Just the uncertainty of not knowing what came next.

She knew how she felt about him.
She only hoped that whatever she was about to see wouldn’t change that. 

He reached up in silence and took off the mask. Christine’s eyes met his—just for a second—and though her body tensed in surprise, it was only that. A flicker. Barely more than a breath.

His hand moved quickly, slipping the mask back into place with practiced ease, shame flooding him. He turned away from her, shoulders taut.

“I shouldn’t have—”

But she was already stepping forward, quietly, deliberately.

She slid her arms around him from behind, gentle and unhurried, her cheek resting against the space between his shoulders. 

He didn’t move.

Christine stayed where she was, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, shifting so her forehead was now pressed to the soft fabric of his shirt. She buried her face against his back—not because she couldn’t bear to look at him, but because she needed a moment. The steady warmth of his body, the solid weight of him beneath her hands—it grounded her.

She didn’t know what she felt. It was bad, what she'd seen. Worse than she'd expected. But the fear she'd half-anticipated never came. Maybe because she'd known him too long. Because his voice had been in her life for years, because the past weeks had been filled with something gentle, real.

She didn’t feel afraid. Just a quiet ache in her chest. A strange tenderness.

She closed her eyes, fingers curling slightly into his shirt.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice barely audible, her forehead still resting against his back.

For a moment, there was only silence. And then she felt it — a subtle trembling beneath her hands, the slight pull of his breath catching in his chest.

He didn’t speak.

A shudder went through him, and she felt the first quiet shake of his shoulders. He was trying to hold it in. But the weight was too much, and finally it spilled out — a low, broken sound, almost more breath than voice.

He raised a hand to his face, though the mask was already back in place. The gesture was instinctive.

Christine held him tighter. Not forcefully, just enough so he would know she was still there. That she wasn’t going anywhere.

Erik’s breath hitched again — and then he broke.

A raw, shaking grief that escaped in gasps he tried to suppress. Christine gently guided him toward the sofa, her hands steady at his back, her voice quiet and sure.

“Come. Sit.”

He let her lead him, collapsing more than sitting, hands pressed over his mask like it might keep the rest of him from falling apart. Christine slid beside him, arms encircling him once more, and this time he turned into her.

“I can’t…” His voice cracked, words tumbling out without shape or thought. “You don’t understand. You’re… light. You’re everything good. And I’m—” he sobbed violently now, curling slightly forward, “I’ve done things, Christine. I’ve built traps and lies and… I am not something you can love.”

She said nothing, just let him speak.

“I thought I could keep it separate,” he went on. “The music. The mask. You. That I could give you the best parts of me and bury the rest so deep you’d never see it.” Still he tried to suppress sobs. “And you can’t love this.”

Christine’s hand moved to the back of his head, her fingers stroking gently through his hair. She felt the wetness of his tears against her shoulder.

Christine's fingers stilled in his hair as Erik's hand covered hers, his voice barely a whisper. "Not even this is real."

She frowned, confused. "You mean... your hair?"
Erik was quiet for a moment, then gave a small nod, the tension in his shoulders betraying how much even that admission cost him.

Christine was silent for a breath, then gently said, “Erik… you can’t decide for me what I can and what I can’t love.”

His head lowered even more into her embrace.

“I love your voice,” she said softly. “It fills my spirit with a strange, sweet sound.” He lifted his head to look at her at last, his eyes red but the tears gone for now. “When you call my name, it sounds like a prayer to me.”

She saw the way his throat worked, the way he was struggling to hold back the tide again.

“With your music,” she whispered, “my soul begins to soar.” She leaned forward, catching the flicker of his golden gaze beneath the edge of the mask. “And in your eyes… I can see the sadness of the world. But I still want to look.”

Erik didn’t move at first. Then slowly, as if drawn by something outside of his control, he let out a trembling breath.

Their faces were close now — too close. Christine could feel the warmth of him, his breath against her lips. Her eyes flicked to his mouth for the briefest moment, and his to hers.

His gaze dropped, and he leaned back just slightly, enough to break the spell. 

Erik stood up abruptly, almost too fast, his movement sharp in the quiet room. He cleared his throat, a rough, strained sound that didn’t quite hide the emotion still lingering in it.
“We should… you should go,” he said, his voice suddenly formal again, too composed. “You need rest. The rehearsals are long, and your voice—”

He didn’t finish.

Christine blinked, slowly straightening where she sat. The shift in him was jarring — the return of walls she thought had just begun to crumble.

“Of course.”

Chapter Text

The Café Montreuil sat tucked into a narrow passage just south of the Opéra Garnier. It was modest from the outside—green shutters, hand-painted signage, a bell that chimed softly each time the door opened. Inside, the café pulsed with life: small round marble tables packed tightly together, walls painted a deep red and plastered with yellowed opera posters and caricatures of famous tenors.

The scent of strong coffee, flaky pastries, and old stage powder lingered in the air. This was the place where the Opera’s heart beat offstage: ballerinas with sore feet, chorus girls gossiping, orchestra musicians arguing about tempo. It was loud, familiar, and alive.

Christine sat in a cozy corner booth with Raoul and Meg, their favorite spot near the window. She sipped her hot chocolate, her eyes unfocused, distant as if lost in thought. But her mind wasn’t on the music or the warm cup in her hands—it was on something much more immediate. Or rather, someone.

Raoul raised an eyebrow, glancing at her with a playful grin. "You’re thinking of someone, aren’t you? I can tell." He leaned back, swirling his coffee idly. "Come on, don’t leave me hanging—who is it?"

Christine blinked and looked at him, a little caught off guard. "It’s nothing, Raoul."

“Nothing doesn’t make people look like that ,” Raoul teased. “You’re practically glowing. Who is he?”

Meg, always the one to push for details, leaned forward eagerly. "Oh, Raoul, you’re right! Why didn’t I see it? Come on, Christine, give us a hint! You know we can’t stand suspense."

Christine felt her heart give a small, nervous flutter, the same feeling she’d had when their almost-kiss had been interrupted, that almost-intimacy they’d shared, which left her unsure and restless. She could still feel the tension lingering, the weight of it—the way Erik’s body had been so close to hers, yet so distant at the same time. His walls, his hesitations, those were the things that left her confused.

“Well, it’s just... complicated,” Christine said softly, her fingers curling slightly around her cup. Her mind drifted back to that moment, before Erik had pulled away so suddenly, leaving her breathless, unsure. At first she was sure that he liked her, but... there was always that barrier. Always that distance.

Raoul, ever oblivious to the subtlety, flashed her a grin. "Complicated sounds like a challenge. You know, if you won’t tell us, I’ll start guessing." He tapped his chin. "The new baritone, maybe? Or that clarinetist, the one who’s always a little too serious for his own good."

Meg groaned, dramatically slumping into the chair. “No, no, I bet it’s one of the dancers! The one with the long hair—oh, wait—what about that stagehand with the big hands—”

Christine laughed, but it was a nervous, quiet sound. “Stop it, you’re being ridiculous,” she said, trying to hide the warmth that had flooded her face. “It’s not what you think.”

Raoul and Meg exchanged a glance, then leaned in closer like conspirators.

“So it is what we think,” Meg whispered with a grin. “You just don’t want to say it.”

Christine bit her lip, her smile faltering just slightly. “It’s really nothing. Just… a private sort of nothing.”

Raoul leaned back with a theatrical sigh. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But don’t think we won’t keep trying.”

Meg nudged her under the table, winking. “We’ll find out eventually.”

Christine only shook her head, letting their teasing wash over her. She couldn’t tell them—not just because of Erik’s secret, but because even she didn’t fully understand what was happening between them. How could she explain a man no one believed in, who haunted the rafters and yet made her feel more seen than anyone ever had?

Her fingers toyed with the rim of her cup. Through the window beside them, she could see the glow of the opera house rising into the night like a second moon. Somewhere in its shadows, he was likely watching. Or remembering that almost-kiss just like she was.

She smiled faintly to herself, cheeks still warm. Let them guess. Some things were sweeter in silence.

_________________________________________________________________________

The corridors were quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that made old buildings feel alive—creaking timbers, whispering curtains, gaslight flickering against the stone. André muttered to himself, unlocking the office door, already dreaming of his wine and warm apartment. He had already been on the way home, when he realized he left his briefcase in his office.

He stepped inside—and froze.

The lamp on his desk was already lit.

He hadn’t left it like that.

A sudden chill crept down his spine. He swallowed, cleared his throat. "Is someone there?"

Nothing. No reply. Just the low hum of silence pressing in.

He approached the desk cautiously, eyes darting to every shadow. Nothing looked disturbed. But the air... the air had changed. It felt thinner somehow. Sharper. His mind instinctively went to the opera ghost.

Then something cold brushed the back of his neck.

André spun around, heart in his throat. No one. The door was closed. The room was still.

But then, a voice—not loud, not even raised. Just there , disembodied, too close.

"You are not listening."

He staggered back, staring wildly into the empty room. “W-what do you want?”

Silence.

Then, above the fireplace, the large gilt-framed mirror slowly fogged—as though someone were breathing on the other side.

"Box Five."

The words seemed to hum inside his skull. Not shouted. Imprinted.

André backed toward the door, chest heaving, mouth dry.

The lamp on his desk flickered once—then went out.

And just before the room plunged fully into darkness, he heard it again, closer now, almost intimate:

"Keep it empty."

He fumbled with the handle, burst into the corridor, and didn’t stop until he was on the street outside, panting in the fog, not daring to look back.

_________________________________________________________________________

Firmin blinked down at the updated seating ledger.
“Why is Box 5 marked ‘Permanently Reserved’ ?”

André didn’t look up. “It’s... it’s just to be left empty.”

Firmin raised an eyebrow. “Again? I thought we agreed—”

André cut him off. “And now I don’t agree.”

He walked away, pale and tight-lipped.

And Box 5 remained untouched.

Chapter Text

"Christine," came the voice—low, urgent, and unmistakably Madame Giry’s—just as Christine was fastening the last ribbon on her bodice in the chorus dressing room. The clatter of voices and rustle of fabric around her muffled the seriousness in Giry’s tone at first.

She turned, brows lifted. “Yes?”

Madame Giry stepped closer, eyes sharper than usual. “Carlotta has taken ill.”

Christine blinked. “Again?”

“This time, it’s real.” The woman’s mouth was set in a tight line. “She has no voice. The doctor has been sent. You’re going on.”

The words struck her like cold water. You’re going on.

Christine’s heart seized in her chest. For a moment, the room around her dimmed. The chatter continued—combing wigs, dabbing rouge, pinning skirts—but none of it touched her. 

“You’ll be Marguerite tonight.”

The Opera House surged around her like a machine—bells ringing, stagehands shouting, dancers darting between corridors. Christine followed Giry through winding halls, past the clatter of wheels and pulleys, past crewmen adjusting lights and carpenters hammering sets into place.

Her costume was waiting in her dressing room, already laid out by a dresser for her. White silk, delicate embroidery, rows of tiny buttons that took a second pair of hands to fasten.

Another girl laced up her corset while Christine stood still, breathing too shallowly to speak. Powder dusted across her cheeks. Lip rouge dabbed carefully at the center of her mouth.

Her hands trembled. She clenched them at her sides.

In the background, the orchestra began tuning. The low hum of strings. A burst of trumpet. The sound sent a shiver down her spine.

"You’ve rehearsed every note," Madame Giry said behind her, softer now. “You are ready.”

Christine nodded, but it didn’t feel like her head that moved. It felt like someone else’s body—stronger, braver.

The backstage corridors were lit by dim gaslight, casting long shadows over set pieces stacked against the walls. Dancers in Act I costumes flitted by, whispering to each other.

Someone handed Christine a small bouquet—props for her performance.

Her heart pounded like a war drum.

The moment was coming.

She stood just beyond the wing, hidden from view, the curtain separating her from a sea of expectant faces. The overture began, and the floor beneath her seemed to pulse with the weight of the music.

Someone tightened a ribbon at the back of her dress.

Christine took a deep breath and dared a glance upward.

Box Five. Empty. Or so it seemed at first.

But then her eyes caught the faintest movement—just the glint of gold. A flash of light off something metallic. His mask.

Erik was there.

Watching.

Her chest lifted. The nerves didn’t vanish, but they steadied. Like his gaze pinned her in place, reminded her of every note she’d sung for him in secret, every whisper in the walls, every lesson in breath and clarity and power.

And now, she would sing for them all again. She took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage.

The door of her dressing room clicked shut behind her, but Christine could still feel the pulse of the audience echoing in her veins.

Still in full costume, corset tight, pearls clinging to her damp skin, she twirled once in the middle of the room—half-laughing, half-dazed. Her eyes landed on the mirror—and caught him already standing in front of it in her dressing room.

“Erik,” she breathed, still flushed from stage and spotlight.

He stepped fully into the room, silent as breath, his gaze steady, a single rose in his hand. “You were magnificent.”

Three words. That was all. But they struck deeper than any applause.

“Did you see the whole thing?” she asked, stepping toward him, her fingers fluttering restlessly at her bodice. “I didn’t even know I’d be going on until they told me Carlotta had a fever and—God, I could barely feel my legs—but then I just…”

She laughed lightly, catching her breath. “I thought of everything you ever taught me. Every vowel. Every line of breath control.”

“I heard you,” he said quietly. “Not just on the stage. In the music. In the choices you made. You sang like the words meant something to you.”

“They did,” she looked up at him, eyes shining. “I felt it. I really felt it tonight.”

His head tilted just slightly, a familiar gesture. “So did I.”

Her chest ached at the sound of it — praise, simple and clean. From him, it meant everything.

“I was so afraid,” she admitted, voice catching, “that I’d let you down.”

“You could never let me down.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch, never quite — but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the gravity. He held out the rose to her. She took it with trembling fingers. Then her hand clutched the rose tightly, fingers brushing his by accident. Or maybe not.

For a heartbeat, she thought he might lean in. His eyes, beneath the mask, were unreadable but intent. Searching.
Then, something softened. A flicker of a smile — there and gone.
“Rest now, my little dove,” he murmured. “Even golden voices must sleep.”

Before she could reply, there was a sudden loud thump against the door, followed by Meg’s unmistakable voice calling through it, breathless with excitement:

“Christine! Come on, everyone’s going to the bar — it’s your night, you have to come!”

Christine blinked, startled, then let out a breathless laugh, clutching the rose closer to her chest. She turned back to Erik, searching his expression.

“Should I?” she asked softly. As if his opinion still mattered most of all.

He held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

“You should go,” he said gently. “They’re your friends. And this was a triumph again.”

She hesitated, her fingers curling around the rose, a sudden wave of emotion catching her off guard. She wasn’t ready to leave the warmth of this moment, the space between them that felt so real and fragile.

“But—” she began, her voice faltering for just a second.

His tone softened, almost a whisper in the quiet room. “ Go , Christine. This is your night.”

The tension between them was palpable, but so was the understanding. There was something in his eyes — something that said he was letting her go, but only because he wanted her to have what she deserved.

Her smile was small but genuine. Her fingers brushed his glove lightly before she turned to the door.

Meg knocked again, more impatiently this time. “Christine?”

Christine called, “I’m coming!” then turned back toward Erik. Her voice was soft but filled with gratitude. “Thank you… for everything.”

Erik didn’t say anything. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. Then, without a word, he turned and stepped toward the mirror.

Christine watched as he approached the reflective surface, his movements fluid. 

As he placed his hand on the mirror, it shifted and creaked, parting just enough for him to slip through. And then, Erik was gone.

Christine stood there for a moment, her heart still fluttering from the performance, the tension of the evening still clinging to her skin. She inhaled deeply, then turned back toward the door.

“Meg, I’m coming! I just need your help to get out of this costume first!”

_________________________________________________________________________

The bar was a riot of sound and color—cigarette smoke curling through laughter, the clatter of glasses and heels, the off-key hum of someone at the piano in the corner trying to remember a drinking song from La Traviata . The regular haunt of the Opéra’s ensemble was packed tighter than usual, buzzing with the excitement of another one of Christine’s triumphs. Someone had ordered a round in her name, and someone else had climbed onto a table to offer an impromptu toast.

Christine had slipped away for a moment, needing air—well, wine, really. Her nerves still tingled from the performance, and her heart hadn’t quite calmed. She waited at the bar, eyes scanning the room without really seeing it, her lips parted in a soft, unconscious smile.

“Christine Daaé?”

The voice beside her was warm and curious. She turned.

The young man standing just to her right was not familiar—not one of the usual stage crew or chorus boys. He looked about her age, perhaps a little younger, with a mess of dark hair, a lean frame, and a mischievous glint in his intelligent eyes. There was something quick about him. Sharp. Like a mind always slightly ahead of the moment.

“So it is you,” he said. “I saw your name in the paper. The soprano who vanished..”

Christine’s smile faltered a little, cautious now. “That’s me,” she said lightly. “Though I don’t much care for how they write about it.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Forgive me. I only meant—I wanted to meet you. For a reason.”

She tilted her head. “And what reason is that?”

He glanced around once, then leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to draw her in. “We have someone in common. Erik.”

Christine’s wine glass paused halfway to her lips. “You know Erik?”

“I do,” he said. “Through Nadir. He’s the one who tried to take me off the streets when I was thirteen. Said I was too clever to be wasting away in the gutters.” He grinned.

Her brow furrowed, stunned. “So you’ve known Erik for how long?”

He grinned. “Seven years. Though I’d hardly say I know him—no one really does, do they? But I’ve worked for him. Run errands. Talked with him. Well, I talked mostly.”

Christine’s pulse quickened—not from fear, but fascination. Here was someone, finally, who knew a piece of Erik’s world outside of the opera. She lowered her voice without realizing. “What’s your name?”

“Darius,” he said with a slight bow, though the gesture was more playful than formal.

She looked at him for a long moment, curiosity blooming fast and fierce. “Maybe,” she said slowly, “you could tell me what he was like… before. And who is this Nadir?”

Darius tilted his head thoughtfully. “Nadir Khan? He’s an old friend of Erik’s from Persia. Bit of a mystery himself, to be honest. Polite. Quiet. Always watching. He’s the only one who knows how to get to his house under the opera and when he’s around, Erik listens to him.”

Christine blinked. “... Persia? Do you know anything of Erik’s past?”

He shrugged. “Not really. Just that he used to be an architect. He worked on the Garnier, actually, during construction. Spent years on it. That’s how he knows every secret passage and creaking beam.”

She studied him carefully. “But where did he learn everything he knows? The music, the engineering, the… everything.”

“He learned it as a child, I guess. And much of it, I think, came from a man in Italy,” Darius replied. “At least, that’s what I heard him say once. But Erik’s the kind who learns like other people breathe. You just give him a room and silence.”

Christine hesitated. Then, very softly, as though testing the shape of her own uncertainty, she asked, “And… do you know why he wears the mask?”

At that, Darius frowned. “The mask?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “I mean, he has always worn it. But I figured it was just… you know. A quirk. He’s not exactly one for company. Seems to me like a thing rich, eccentric men might do.” He grinned.

Christine quickly hid the flicker of realization behind a gentle smile. “Yes… perhaps that’s all it is.”

Darius squinted at her, curious, but didn’t push. Instead, he smirked and leaned one elbow against the bar. “Anyway, it’s not like he tells me his secrets. Erik talks when he wants to talk. The rest of the time? Silence and sarcasm.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “Then why do you think he lives under the opera?”

Darius laughed with her, shaking his head. “He hates people. And he loves music. Seems like the perfect arrangement to me.”

Just then, her name echoed across the room—Meg, waving wildly from their table, flanked by Raoul and the rest of the ensemble. “Christine! Come on! We’re singing next!”

Christine turned toward them, then back to Darius. Impulsively, she grabbed a torn scrap of parchment from her small evening bag, scribbled her address and name, and pressed it into his hand. “If you ever feel like talking again… come find me.”

He looked down at the note, then back up at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in an amused, curious grin. “I might just do that.”

And then she was gone—swept back into the noise and warmth and laughter, her figure slipping between candlelit tables and velvet chairs.

_________________________________________________________________________

The flat was quiet now.

Paris still murmured beyond the window—distant hooves on cobblestones, a carriage rattling past, the soft creak of old wood in the walls—but here, in the cocoon of her tiny bedroom, the world had finally gone still.

Christine lay on her back in the narrow bed, arms above her head, hair loosened and spilling across the pillow like dark silk. The room smelled faintly of roses and powder, and the echoes of laughter from the bar still flickered through her memory like candlelight.

Her cheeks were flushed—not just from the wine or the dancing or the way Meg had kissed her cheek and called her a star—but from something deeper, something more private.

Erik.

It always came back to him.

She exhaled slowly, her body still buzzing from the performance, from the adrenaline and attention, but most of all from that strange and thrilling conversation at the bar. Darius had been charming, yes—but it was what he’d said about Erik that stayed with her.

He’d helped build the opera. Studied in Italy..

She pulled the thin sheet higher over her bare shoulders, her fingers absently brushing the hollow of her throat. The way he’d looked at her after her performance, the way his voice had trembled just slightly when he’d handed her that rose. The way he'd always kept just enough distance to make her ache.

Christine's hand drifted lower, resting lightly against her abdomen.

There was so much he wouldn’t say. So much he wouldn’t let her know. But she’d known enough to want more.

Her legs shifted beneath the sheet, seeking comfort in the soft weight of fabric and the warmth of her own skin. Her breath slowed, deepened. It wasn’t about the mystery—not really. It was about the way he made her feel when he sang. When he looked at her like she was the only light in a room full of shadows.

She closed her eyes, letting the image of him bloom behind her lids: the shape of his mouth, the ghost of a smile, the raw, aching beauty in his voice. 

Again her hand slipped between her legs. It had become a way to wind down lately, for especially exhausting rehearsal days, since she discovered what feelings she could entice this way, her hand exploring, her mind thinking of him.

She found herself thinking of his face often between phrases of music, in the hush before sleep, in the shadows that stretched across her ceiling. At first, it had unsettled her: the memory of his face, the jarring contrast between elegance and distortion. But over time, her gaze had begun to soften. The asymmetry no longer startled her; instead, it drew her in. There was something deeply human in it, something fragile and strangely moving. The stark line of his cheekbone, the way the light caught on the edge of the damaged skin, the uneven lips —she had started to see it not as something broken, but as part of the story written into him. There was beauty there, strange and defiant, carved by pain but softened by music. And when she closed her eyes, she did not only see the scarred face, but the man beneath it—and the way he looked at her, as though she were the first light he’d ever seen.

Again she worked herself up, imagining him, his hands on her, his voice humming against her skin, teasing the soft spot behind her ear.

With a gasp she saw the sparks behind her eyes again, the now familiar tingling feeling rushing down her spine.

Afterwards, her body, still humming with night, finally began to still.

And when sleep came, it came gently—like the last notes of a melody lingering in the dark.

Chapter Text

The music room was quiet save for the faint ticking of the metronome left forgotten on a side table. Erik sat at the piano, his hands resting still on the keys, chords that he just played still lingering in the air. He stopped playing when Christine missed her cue.

“Christine?”

Christine stood beside him, her shoulders tight, her eyes fixed on the sheet music she hadn’t even tried to sing.

When she didn’t react Erik’s voice broke the silence again. “Your mind is elsewhere.”

She didn’t answer at first. Her arms were folded loosely in front of her, one hand gripping the fabric of her sleeve.

“I thought I’d feel… different,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

He turned his head just slightly, watching her from the corner of his eye. “After the performance.”

She nodded. “Everyone said it was perfect. That I was perfect. But today it feels like…” Her voice caught. “Like it didn’t matter.”

Still, she didn’t look at him. “All day I keep thinking, ‘He would have loved this.’ My papa.” She drew in a shaky breath. “He never got to hear me like that.”

Erik didn’t speak. He simply waited, still as stone, as her words began to spill.

“I wanted it so badly. For him to hear me. To see what I’ve become. And when the curtain fell, for a moment, I felt like he was there. But then—” her voice cracked, “—I realized he wasn’t. And never will be again.”

She shook her head, pressing her fingertips to her brow. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Erik said softly.

She turned toward him now, her eyes glistening, her mouth trembling. “I miss him. So much.”

Something in Erik shifted. Slowly, carefully, he rose from the piano bench, as if approaching a wild bird he feared might fly at the slightest movement.

Then, without a word, he opened his arms.

Christine hesitated only a second before stepping into them.

He held her gently, one hand at her back, the other cradling the back of her head. Her cheek rested against his shoulder, warm tears soaking quietly into his coat.

For a long time, they stood like that, the only sound Christine’s sobs.

And when she breathed a little easier, when her trembling had calmed, he whispered, almost inaudibly:

“He would be proud of you. As I am.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Later, she sat curled up on the chaise longue, a soft wool blanket draped around her shoulders, her hands wrapped around a cup of cocoa. The bitter sweetness warmed her lips, but it couldn’t chase the heaviness from her chest—not fully.

Erik had refused to resume the lesson after her tears. Instead, he had moved with quiet purpose, fetching the blanket, lighting another lamp, making sure she was warm and comforted before retreating to the piano. He’d told her gently that such melancholy wasn’t uncommon—that after the high of a triumphant performance, a low often followed. It was natural. 

Now he sat at the keys, his back straight, the soft lamplight casting long shadows across the room. His fingers moved almost absentmindedly, weaving a slow, sinuous melody that caught in the air like incense smoke.

Christine tilted her head, drawn in by the strange beauty of it. It didn’t sound like anything she’d heard before—sad, but not only sad. It stirred something in her.

She leaned forward slightly. “What key is that?”

Erik didn’t turn around. His hands moved fluidly, dreamily. “It’s not a key in the Western sense,” he murmured. “It’s a mode. Dastgah Shur .”

“Shur,” she repeated softly.

“It’s Persian,” he continued. “The scale is different… the intervals, the colors.”

“Did you learn it from Nadir Khan?” she asked quietly.

The notes stopped mid-phrase.

Erik’s fingers hovered above the keys, frozen. Slowly, he turned his head, not fully facing her—just enough for the edge of the mask to catch the lamplight.

“I never mentioned Nadir to you.”

Christine’s voice was soft, placating. “You also never mentioned that you lived in Persia. Or Italy.”

A long silence fell between them, delicate as spun glass.

“I don’t want to intrude,” she added quickly. “I’m only… curious.”

His gaze, though partly hidden, was sharp with something unreadable. “Where did you hear all that?”

She tucked her legs up onto the chaise and pulled the blanket a little closer. “I met someone last night. At the bar.” She hesitated, then added, “His name is Darius. He said he’s your friend… and Nadir’s.”

Erik was still again. Not tense, exactly—just… still. As if listening to something deep within himself.

“He told me very little,” she said. “Just that Nadir is a friend of yours from Persia, and that you once studied in Italy.”

“And what else did he say?”

“Nothing important. Only that he’s known you for years. He didn’t tell me anything personal. I think he respects you too much.”

Erik turned back to the keys and pressed down one low note, letting it vibrate through the quiet room.

“Erik, I just want to know you.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His profile was still as a statue, but something in his shoulders shifted—a slow, careful breath.

Then he spoke. “I ran away from home when I was very young.” A pause. “I didn’t belong there.”

He kept his eyes on the keys, as though what he said lived inside them.

“I lived with... traveling people for a time. They found me.” His tone tightened just slightly. “That part of my life isn’t worth much retelling. I… left them after some time and travelled Europe. It ended when a man named Giovanni Balestra came across me and decided I was worth educating. That was in Italy. Music, engineering, architecture... I learned everything he offered. Then I travelled Europe again, making a name as an engineer.”

Christine listened in silence, giving him space to go on.

“I was sixteen when a Persian emissary heard of me. A few months later, I was summoned to Persia. I went.”

“To do what?” she asked gently.

“I built a palace,” he said. “A strange one. Full of illusions, hidden things. The Shah liked... elaborate designs.” A faint smile curved his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I gave him what he wanted.”

She tilted her head. “And Nadir?”

“I met him there. He was... different from the others.” A beat. “He saved my life.”

The way he said it gave her pause.

“And then?”

“I lived in Belgium for a while and then came to Paris. I met Nadir here again”

Christine’s voice softened. “And then you worked on the Opera.”

“I did,” he said, almost absently, as his fingers played a drifting melody. “That’s what I came here for. I helped build it. I know it better than anyone.”

His eyes were on his hands, but his thoughts were racing. He knew that there were gaps in his story. Carefully placed omissions. He gave her pieces, yes—but the ones he offered were smooth and clean. Nothing sharp. Nothing bloody.

Erik’s fingers slowed on the keys again, letting a chord fade into the quiet.

Christine’s voice was soft. “Do you ever go up? Into the city, I mean. Just to… walk. To see it.”

He didn’t answer right away. A pause stretched between them, filled only by the gentle ticking of a clock somewhere in the shadows.

“Sometimes,” he said finally, without looking at her. “Late. Mostly at night.”

“And Nadir?” she asked. “You said he comes to check on you… does he live nearby?”

Erik nodded once. “Not far. He keeps an apartment near the Jardin du Carrousel.”

“Do you visit him?”

“Rarely. He prefers to come to me.”

Christine tilted her head. “But he’s your friend.”

A small silence followed, and then Erik murmured, “He’s the closest I’ve ever come to one, yes. But that kind of closeness... doesn’t come easy to me.”

She wanted to say more—ask why he spoke like that—but she sensed the edge of something frayed beneath his calm, and she hesitated.

Instead, she asked gently, “You don’t miss it? Being above? Among people?”

He turned to her, and for a moment, there was exhaustion in his voice.

“I miss what I thought it could be,” he said. “Before I learned what I was.”

Christine rose slowly from her chair and crossed the short distance between them. She didn’t touch him, not yet—but she stood close enough for him to feel her presence.

"Is there anything that would make you return to the world above? To society?"

His eyes lifted to hers, startled at first by her question—and then something deeper stirred behind the mask. That fierce, aching honesty he tried so hard to restrain.

A breath passed between them.

“You,” he said quietly. “Christine.”

The name sounded different in his voice, as always—softer, reverent.

“If you asked it of me… if you truly wanted it… I would. For you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and his voice dropped even lower, just above a whisper.

“Anywhere you go, I would follow. If you’d let me.” A pause.
“I’ll follow anywhere you lead.”

Christine didn’t speak.

Instead, she moved—slowly, deliberately—and lowered herself beside him on the bench, the worn cushion creaking softly beneath her. She didn’t look at him right away. Her gaze lingered on the piano keys, the space between them charged with things unspoken. Then, without a word, she turned and leaned in—arms threading gently around his shoulders, her head resting against the curve of his neck.

Erik froze. The weight and warmth of her against him was a shock he hadn’t braced for. His hands hovered, uncertain—then settled lightly at her back, holding her as though afraid she might vanish.

His voice, when it came, was nearly a whisper.

“If you asked me to follow you into the light,” he said, “I would. Without question.”

Her silence didn’t frighten him. It steadied him.

"I’d leave behind every hiding place, every darkness I’ve made my home, just to be known by you."

He shifted slightly, turning just enough so his temple could rest against her hair.

“You are the only soul I have ever wanted to belong to.”

Chapter Text

It was Christine’s idea.

“I’d like to meet him,” she’d said one evening, her voice gentle but steady. “Nadir. The man you trust.”

Erik had hesitated. For him, Nadir meant history, and history meant shadow. But Christine’s eyes held no demands—only warmth, and curiosity, and something far more disarming: affection. So he agreed.

They walked to Nadir’s townhouse just after midday the next day, the sunlight bright and cool between the Parisian rooftops.

She glanced at him more than once as they walked. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, his usual dark coat buttoned to the throat and his mask neatly on the left side of his face. Still, to her, he seemed almost exposed under the open sky—his posture tight, his gloved hands curled slightly as if expecting to be looked at, judged, feared.

But no one gave them a second glance.

And that—more than anything—seemed to unsettle him.

Christine gently brushed his arm as they crossed a sun-dappled boulevard. “No one’s staring,” she whispered, smiling up at him.

They passed flower carts and cafés, the clink of glasses and distant violin music painting the street in soft color. At one point, a child ran past them chasing a hoop, and Christine saw Erik flinch. She reached for his hand without thinking, curling her fingers through his gloved ones.

He didn’t let go.

For a few steps, he even breathed easier, walked taller.

By the time they reached Nadir’s door, Christine’s chest felt oddly full—of sunlight, of nerves, of something close to tenderness.

They arrived just after noon. Nadir Khan opened the door himself, his warm eyes creasing with surprise and then welcome. He kissed Christine’s hand, offered them ‘proper’ coffee or tea, and treated her with a calm respect that immediately set her at ease.

The afternoon passed in an easy rhythm between Christine and Nadir —quiet conversation, light laughter, stories from Nadir’s travels. Erik stayed close to the window, as if only half-present, but he watched Christine carefully, almost studying her.

By early evening, the sun dipped behind the Parisian rooftops, casting warm amber through the windows. Nadir brought out glasses of sweet wine, and Erik, already on edge in the unfamiliar setting, declined. Christine sipped hers slowly.

Then the front door opened without warning, and a young voice rang out:
"Did someone forget to lock the door or am I finally welcome without knocking?"

Darius strolled in, grinning like he belonged there—which, in a way, he did. He greeted Nadir with a brief embrace.

“You are always welcome without knocking, you know that,” said Nadir.

Then Darius spotted Christine and lit up.

"You!" he said with mock offense. "You really do know each other."

Christine laughed, delighted. “So you weren’t lying either.”

“Never about important things,” Darius said with a wink.

Then his gaze turned toward Erik, who had grown very still on the sofa. “You didn’t tell me he’d be here,” he said to Nadir, then turned back to Erik with a boyish grin. “You know what I’ve missed?”

Erik narrowed his eyes. “If you say my voice—”

“I am saying your voice,” Darius cut in. “You’re always hiding it away like it’s gold.”

“I don’t perform,” Erik said flatly.

“You sing for her,” Darius said, nodding toward Christine. “I know you do. So sing for us.”

Christine’s eyes were already on him. She didn’t speak, but her expression was soft, open. Hopeful.

Erik looked between them, sighed, and finally rose.

“All right,” he muttered. “But just once.”

He moved to the upright piano in the corner and sat without ceremony. His long fingers hovered briefly over the keys before he began to play—soft, restrained at first, like a breath held just under the surface.

And then he sang.

"Nessun dorma…"

The room held its breath. The walls themselves seemed to lean in. His voice rang clear and brilliant, with a power that carried pain and longing in every note. Christine stared, transfixed, her chest aching with something she still couldn’t name. Darius, for once, was silent, caught in the gravity of the moment. Even Nadir closed his eyes.

When the final phrase left his mouth— "Vincerò!" —the silence that followed was thick and electric.

Christine stood as if waking from a dream. “That was… beyond.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The night air was cool, brushing gently against their faces as they walked side by side through the quiet streets. Paris had taken on its evening hush—the clatter of dishes behind restaurant windows, the distant clop of hooves, the occasional muffled laugh from an open window above.

Christine walked with her hands tucked into her coat, her cheeks still flushed from the evening’s emotions. She glanced sideways at Erik, whose face was half-shadowed beneath the brim of his hat.

“You made the room disappear,” she said softly. Christine smiled to herself, then gathered a breath. “I had a thought—while you were singing.”

“Mm?”

“I’d like to learn to play. The piano.”

He turned his head, surprised.

She added quickly, “I mean—I can read music, of course, but not with my hands. Not truly. I’d like to accompany you one day. I thought about it tonight. I was sitting there, and I could almost hear it—what it would feel like to support your voice like that.”

Erik slowed his pace just slightly. His gaze softened, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You want to play for me as well? Besides singing?”

She nodded, half-shy. “Will you teach me?”

He looked forward again, but there was a hint of something in his expression—something both humbled and lit from within.

“I’ll teach you anything you want,” he said.

And they kept walking, their steps in quiet rhythm with one another, as if the music hadn’t really stopped at all.

Chapter Text

The rehearsal hall echoed with the soft thumps of slippers on polished wood and the occasional laugh bouncing off the tall mirrored walls. Shafts of morning light fell through the high windows, catching in the fine chalk dust that lingered in the air. The scent of resin and worn silk pointe shoes mingled with the faint trace of perfume from someone’s scarf.

Christine sat with Meg in the corner, her rehearsal skirt tucked under her, putting her pointe shoes on, while the other ballet girls stretched, gossiped, and braided each other’s hair.

Jammes, nimble and wide-eyed, leaned forward conspiratorially toward one of the other girls. “My mother says the managers are struggling,” she whispered, loud enough for the others to hear, which of course was the point. “Apparently there’s all sorts of confusion backstage. Budget issues, missed deliveries, scheduling nightmares…”

“Your mother’s the secretary, isn’t she?” asked Antoinette, lifting one leg onto the barre.

“She sees everything,” Jammes said with a proud toss of her curls. “She says under the old director things were far more organized. Firmin and André don’t know how to run a house like this.”

“Oh, please,” someone muttered from behind a stretch, “as if anyone could run this place properly. It’s cursed.”

That got a few giggles—and a few uneasy glances toward the dark upper reaches of the mirrored walls, where chandeliers loomed and shadows clung.

_________________________________________________________________________

The sunlight filtered through lace curtains, spilling golden patterns over the pale wood floor of Christine’s small but tidy room. The window was open just a little, letting in the hum of Paris and the faint smell of bread from the boulangerie below.

Christine sat cross-legged on her bed, mending a torn hem in one of her rehearsal skirts. Meg lay upside down on the floor, her feet up against the wall, flipping lazily through a fashion magazine. Her long blonde braid trailed over the floorboards like a ribbon.

“I swear, if one more of the basses tries to flirt with me during warm-ups, I’m going to trip him on purpose,” Meg said, mock-exasperated.

Christine laughed softly. “Which one this time?”

“Jacques. The one with the voice like a bear and the ego to match.” Meg rolled her eyes and flipped a page. “He said I danced ‘like honey on warm bread.’ What does that even mean?”

Christine giggled and threaded her needle carefully. “Maybe he was hungry.”

“Probably.” Meg tossed the magazine aside and rolled over onto her stomach, propping her chin on her hands. “You know, it wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t all so terribly obvious. It’s no fun when they just fall over themselves. Where’s the challenge?”

Christine gave her a look. “I don’t think you want a challenge. You just want to win.”

Meg grinned.

Christine set her mending aside and leaned back on her hands. “Have you ever been in love?”

Meg considered that seriously for a moment, then shook her head. “Not love. Not really. I’ve had… moments. Kisses. A few almost-things. But love? No. I think I’d know.”

Christine hesitated, her gaze falling to her lap. She twisted a bit of the skirt fabric between her fingers, then glanced up at Meg with a strange light in her eyes—half fear, half hope.

“I want to tell you something,” she said softly. “But you have to swear to me you won’t repeat it. Not to anyone. Not even to Raoul.”

Meg straightened up, instantly alert. “You know I’d never—Christine, of course. I swear.”

Christine nodded slowly, gathering her thoughts like someone approaching a ledge. “You know the… stories. About the ghost.”

Meg’s eyes widened. “The Phantom?”

Christine nodded again. “He’s not a ghost. He’s a man. He calls himself Erik. He’s the one who taught me to sing. For years now.”

Meg’s mouth fell slightly open. “You mean… you know him? You’ve met him?”

“I see him. Often,” Christine whispered, as though saying it aloud might make it less real. “He lives below the Opera. He built rooms down there. A whole world. And he’s… brilliant, Meg. He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known.”

Meg stared at her, stunned. “But—he’s the one who sent those letters, who made demands. People say he’s dangerous.”

Christine frowned “I guess, he can be. But he’s also kind. And he’s never hurt me.”

Meg leaned back, trying to process what she’d just heard. “Does my mother know?”

Christine hesitated, then gave a small, solemn nod. “Yes. She does.”

Meg blinked. “You mean… she’s known this whole time and never said a word?”

“She trusts him, in a way” Christine said softly. “And I trust them both.”

Meg pressed a palm to her forehead, still trying to wrap her mind around it. “This is mad. Completely mad.”

Christine looked up at her. “I needed to tell someone. It’s been so much—keeping it all inside.”

“I can see that,” Meg murmured. Then, after a beat, her voice turned teasing. “So… you see him often, hmm?”

Christine’s cheeks colored slightly.

Meg arched an eyebrow. “You care for him.”

Christine didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze drifted to the window. “I know he cares for me.”

Meg’s face softened, her earlier shock easing into quiet support. “Well… I suppose if anyone could tame a ghost, it would be you.”

Christine gave a small, amused huff. “I’m not trying to tame him.”

“No,” Meg said, nudging her gently. “You’re just falling for him.”

Christine didn’t respond—at least not with words. But the look on her face said enough.

Meg squeezed her hand and leaned her head on Christine’s shoulder. “You know I’m here, right? For whatever comes next.”

“I need you to keep this between us,” Christine said. “Please, Meg. If anyone else knew—Raoul, the managers… it could ruin everything. For him. For me.”

Meg took her hand. “You have my word. This stays with me.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The office was overheated as usual, thick with the scent of old paper, cigar smoke, and polished wood. Gilded mirrors threw slanted shafts of afternoon light across the room as Christine stepped in. Firmin stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, while André sat at his desk, nervously sorting through a stack of papers that had nothing to do with her.

“Mademoiselle Daaé,” André began, rising with a carefully polite smile, “how kind of you to make time for us.”

“Of course,” Christine replied, polite but curious. She was rarely summoned to this office—and when she was, it was never without reason.

Firmin turned toward her, his brow slightly shining. “You’ve enchanted Paris these past weeks. The reviews, the audiences… It’s become impossible not to hear your name.”

Christine gave a modest smile and tilted her head. “That’s kind of you to say.”

André stepped forward, his tone growing more official. “As you know, we’re finalizing the repertoire for the upcoming season. And… well, we believe it’s time to expand your place within the company.”

A glance passed between the directors before Firmin continued, “Carlotta Giudicelli will remain, of course, our prima donna . That’s contractually settled. But we’d like to offer you the lead role in select productions.”

“Starting with Hannibal ,” André added. “You would be our first cast for Hannibal for the major performances. Carlotta would take the second cast.”

A brief silence fell. Christine’s heart was suddenly pounding. Hannibal . A lead. Her first real lead for a whole season.

“We’re confident,” Firmin said, surprisingly gentle, “that you would bring a new depth to the role just as you did when understudying. And the public already adores you.”

Christine took a slow breath. She felt pride—but also the weight of change, of responsibility.

“I accept,” she said at last, her voice quiet but clear. “Thank you for your trust.”

André looked visibly relieved. “Wonderful. Rehearsals will begin in the following summer break.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Christine ran, her footsteps light and breathless, heart thudding not just from exertion, but from joy. She wound her way through the passageways beneath the Opera with the ease of someone newly initiated—newly trusted. Her skirts caught the air as she flew down the final corridor, until at last she reached the hidden door Erik had shown her weeks ago.

The smell hit her first: something warm, spiced, unexpected. She stepped into the dim-lit room and froze.

He stood at the stove—an apron loosely tied around his waist, sleeves rolled up, stirring a pot with utter focus. It was the most domestic, human image she had ever seen of him. The brilliant, brooding maestro reduced to—cooking stew?

Christine's breath caught, and for a second she simply stood there, smiling and winded and utterly enchanted.

He turned, startled by her sudden presence, his visible eye widening. “Christine?”

She beamed, cheeks flushed from her run. “I’m going to be the lead in Hannibal!” she burst out. “They offered me the lead role! The main cast! For the whole season! I—”

Without waiting, she launched herself into his arms.

Erik caught her on instinct, stumbling slightly under the unexpected weight of her joy. She laughed, and for the first time, he laughed too—a raw, startled sound that rang off the stone walls as he spun her once in a circle, her momentum carrying them both.

The moment he stopped, she remained in his arms, their faces inches apart, both breathless. Christine’s smile softened as she raised her hands to his face, holding it with an intimacy that stole the air from the room.

Then, without thinking—only feeling—she kissed him. A fleeting touch of lips, warm and full of unfiltered delight.

Erik froze.

He set her down as if waking from a dream he wasn’t prepared to have.

Christine stepped back, blinking, confused.

He turned away quickly and sank onto a chair, his hands braced on his knees, staring straight ahead like he’d just been struck. He didn’t speak.

“Erik?” she asked, her voice softer now. She knelt beside him, touching his leg gently. “Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer right away. His chest rose and fell, a slow, uncertain rhythm. At last, he shook his head and looked at her with something like sorrow in his eyes.

“I think… you should go now.”

The words were quiet. Almost kind. But final.

Christine swallowed. Her joy began to dissolve under the weight of his reaction, but she nodded slowly, rose, and took one last look at him before she turned to leave.

And Erik sat very still, listening to her footsteps retreat into the maze of stone and shadow.

_________________________________________________________________________

The room was dim, curtains drawn tight against the morning light. Christine lay curled beneath the covers, her face turned to the wall, the air around her heavy and still.

The door creaked open quietly. Madame Giry’s measured steps crossed the threshold, and she paused just inside, eyes adjusting to the gloom. She said nothing at first—simply listened to the silence.

“I spoke with Meg,” she said finally, softly. “You’re not ill.”

Christine didn’t move.

Madame Giry came closer, sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. She didn’t scold or question—only waited.

After a long moment, Christine’s voice broke the silence, muffled by the pillow. “He didn’t want me.”

Madame Giry frowned slightly, her expression unreadable. “Erik?”

Christine nodded. Her shoulders trembled, and then the words came in a rush—halting, broken. “I was just… happy. I wanted to share it with him. And I kissed him, and he… he looked like I’d hurt him. Like I’d crossed a line I didn’t even see. He told me to go.”

Mme Giry let out a slow breath, not surprised, but saddened.

Christine rolled over, her face blotchy with tears. “It was stupid. I know he’s not… I don’t know what I thought—maybe I just wanted to make him feel how much he means to me.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Madame Giry said gently.

Christine swallowed hard, tears brimming again. “I thought I saw something in him. I thought… he wanted that too. It seemed so clear to me. He said he would follow me anywhere, that he would live in the light with me. That our souls belong together. I was so sure.”

Madame Giry reached out, smoothing a strand of Christine’s hair back behind her ear. “I cannot tell you what he wants. But I can tell you that right now, you should feel everything you’re feeling. All the heartache. All the pain. Take your time. ”

Then she left, and Christine lay still, eyes open, the shadows on the ceiling blurring with tears she no longer tried to hold back.

_________________________________________________________________________

The air in the underground club was thick with sweat, blood, and the low thrum of victory and violence. Erik sat on the edge of the ring, chest heaving, body slick with sweat and bruised from the fight. Applause still echoed faintly in his ears, but he paid it no mind. This wasn’t about winning. It never was.

As he stepped down from the ring, toweling off half his face, his eyes caught on something out of place—something too still, too refined.

Nadir.

Sitting at the far end of the bar, a dark coat draped neatly over his chair, he looked like a carved statue of judgment amidst the chaos of fists and liquor. His eyes were sharp as flint, locked on Erik with a calm that somehow cut deeper than a punch ever could.

Erik cursed under his breath. He considered walking out, considered vanishing into the back corridors of the club. But instead, almost against his own will, his feet carried him across the floor.

He stopped before him, still shirtless, his fists raw.

“What are you doing here?” he asked flatly.

Nadir didn’t answer at first. He lifted his glass, took a measured sip, then set it down. “A woman named Giry came to me.”

Erik’s jaw tensed. He looked away and his bruised hands started fidgeting at his sides.

“She told me about Christine,” Nadir continued. “About what happened between you.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Tough.” Nadir stood slowly, smoothly, eyes not leaving Erik’s. “I thought you loved her.”

“I do.”

“Then why the hell did you reject her?”

Erik’s voice was hoarse. “Because I’m not good enough.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Then Nadir took two steps closer—close enough for Erik to feel the heat of him, the steadiness. He reached out and gripped Erik’s arm, firm and unforgiving.

“Then be better,” Nadir said, voice low. “Be good enough. Be a man worthy of the woman you love. And don’t be such a childish idiot.”

He held Erik’s gaze for a long beat, and then he let go. Turned. Grabbed his coat from the chair. And walked away without another word.

Erik stood still, chest rising and falling in the thick air, his own pulse thundering like a second heartbeat in his ears.

He wiped half his face again, slower this time.

And then he went to get dressed.

_________________________________________________________________________

On the third day after the incident, a small, folded note lay on Christine’s dressing table. No envelope. Plain paper. But the handwriting—precise and deliberate—was unmistakably his.

Christine,
meet me tomorrow at four o’clock. Rue Auber 8.
— E.

She held the note for a long moment, as if it might shift in her hand, reveal something more beneath the ink. Rue Auber … A street near the opera.

Her heart fluttered in her chest—uncertain, bruised, but hopeful. Three days of silence. Three nights of restless sleep. She hadn’t cried since that first night, but she had felt hollow. Drained by the ache of something she couldn’t quite name.

She thought of his voice, of that brief, rare moment when he had laughed. She thought of his eyes when she’d kissed him.

Christine smoothed the note gently and slipped it into her coat pocket.

The next day she stood before the tall doors of Rue Auber 8, heart beating like a quiet drum beneath her corset. The building was elegant, stately—its facade a harmony of stone and ironwork.

She hesitated for only a breath before lifting the polished brass knocker.

The door opened swiftly.

He looked paler than usual. The one eye she could see had a heavy shadow beneath it.

For a long second, they just looked at each other.

“Hello,” Christine said, quieter than she meant to.

“Hello,” he echoed, his voice low and raw with something unreadable.

An awkward pause settled between them. Then Erik stepped aside and motioned her in with a small, polite gesture. She entered the foyer slowly.

A massive chandelier hung above them—grand and glittering—but the space beneath it was entirely empty. The marble floors echoed beneath her feet. There was no furniture, only echoing silence and light.

“It’s… big,” she said, half a smile on her lips.

Erik blinked, fidgeting with his fingers at his sides. “Yes.”

Then he motioned for her to follow him, and they moved through the halls—his footsteps nearly silent, hers just slightly hesitant.

“This could be a music room,” he said as they entered a bright salon with tall windows. “The acoustics are clean. Almost too clean—it’ll need drapes, a rug, books. Softness.”

Christine glanced around, taking it in. It was beautiful. 

“And here,” he continued, leading her to another space, “I thought perhaps… a study. Somewhere to read. Or write.”

They walked from room to room. A long gallery that would make a lovely winter sitting room. A small parlor that opened to a wrought-iron balcony. A bedroom suite on the upper floor, flooded with late afternoon light.

She turned to him then. “Why am I here, Erik?”

He stilled in the hallway.

“You’re showing me all of this—but why? Do you intend to buy this flat?”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then turned, walking back toward the grand landing at the top of the stairs. She followed.

“I’m tired,” he said at last, his voice quiet. “Of the dark. Of the damp. Of tunnels and lanterns and silence. I want… a door. Windows. Sunday walks. Morning light.”

She stared at him, a bit stunned. “But what about—what about your inventions? Your music? Everything you built?”

He turned to her, brow raised slightly. “That all comes with me. Those things live in me. Not in the walls.”

“And why are you showing me this? What does my opinion matter?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her.

Then, softly, he said, “You already know why.”

Christine’s breath caught, and for a moment she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. Her voice was almost a whisper. “It must be expensive.”

Erik’s expression didn’t change. “It is.”

She glanced around at the gilded molding, the marble fireplaces, the tall windows spilling golden light across the floors. “And that doesn’t concern you?”

He gave the faintest smile, a rare softness in it.

“I’m not only an artist but a businessman. I built the Palais Garnier,” he said. “There are no money concerns.”

Christine stood very still, trying to take it all in. The chandelier. The hush. The strange, quiet hopefulness in his voice.

“So,” she said carefully. “You’re buying this place?”

He looked back at her.

“Only,” he said gently, “if you like it.”

Christine didn’t speak right away.

She turned in a slow circle beneath the chandelier, taking in the sweep of the empty space, the echo of her own footsteps against marble. A flat. With windows. With light. A kitchen. A piano. A door that led to the street, not a tunnel. She imagined it—not clearly, but enough. A coat hanging by the entrance. A cup of tea. A voice singing in the next room.

She looked back at him.

“I don’t know what the future looks like,” she said quietly. “But…”

Her voice caught, and she smiled, nervously. Softly.

“…if it ever includes a home like this, that would be wonderful.”

Erik’s face—what she could see of it—didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, something broke open. He exhaled, long and soundless, like he hadn’t let himself breathe until now.

“Then I’ll make it ready,” he said.

Chapter Text

Erik sat by the underground lake in silence, the still water mirroring the dim light of the distant oil lamps. His mask, cold and familiar, rested as always upon his face. He finished the paperwork of the house at the Rue Auber today. It had been easier than he thought and it all happened rather quickly. Now there was nothing left to do for him to occupy his mind.

Earlier that night, he had tried to compose. He had sat at the organ for hours, letting his fingers drift over the keys, searching for a melody, a spark—anything. But the music would not come. What did escape his hands felt lifeless, hollow. He abandoned it in frustration.

He had not eaten in days. He could not sleep, though exhaustion tugged at his body. A restlessness clung to him like fog, thick and shapeless, wrapping itself around his thoughts. There was no danger, no pursuit. He should be happy. And yet, something inside was deeply unsettled.

Christine had kissed him. Nadir had told him to be worthy of her. But Erik didn’t know how. The words rang in his head with the weight of a promise he couldn’t keep. Be worthy. As if it were a task with clear steps, something he could master like music or architecture. But this—love, trust, hope—these were things he had never learned to hold.

Even now, after everything, doubt gnawed at him. He had bought the house. He had tried to give her something beautiful, something real. But it felt hollow, as if it weren’t truly his to give. Deep down, he feared he had somehow tricked her—into pitying him, into giving him a moment of tenderness he had not earned. The kiss lingered on his lips, both a treasure and a torment. Had it meant what he hoped?

He closed his eyes, and her face appeared before him with agonizing clarity. Christine. Her smile, soft and radiant, undid him. The way her hair caught the light like a halo, the warmth in her voice when she spoke his name—he could hear it still, echoing in the shadows of his mind. And when she danced… God, when she danced, it was as if the world itself paused to watch her. She moved with such grace, such lightness, as though her feet barely touched the ground. And for one brief, impossible moment, she had touched him—had kissed him.

It tore at him.

He should have been happy. Was this not everything he had ever longed for? Her touch, her voice, the faint promise of something more? But the joy slipped through his fingers like mist. A cruel voice in the back of his mind whispered doubts he could not silence. What if it had all been a fantasy? What if he was dreaming, already dead, the lake around him not a home but a grave?

The thought gripped him with icy fingers. What if none of it had been real? What if he opened his eyes and she was gone somehow and he was alone again, just as he had always been?

The fear hollowed him out. He had built this place, carved a home from darkness, and now it pressed in on him like a tomb. The silence echoed too loudly. The mask on his face felt heavier than ever.

What was he supposed to do now?

He had no answers.

_________________________________________________________________________

The rehearsal room still echoed faintly with the last chords of the duet as Christine toweled her neck and loosened her bodice a little, breathless but flushed from the intensity of the final scene. M. Reyer left swiftly, already being late for choir rehearsals. Piangi was slower, wiping his forehead with a silk handkerchief and watching Christine from the corner of his eye.

"Very fine work today, ma belle ," he said as soon as the door fell shut behind Reyer, stepping closer. His tone was oily—overly familiar.

"Thank you," Christine replied politely, still focused on folding her sheet music.

"You really inhabit her now," he continued, circling to stand in front of her. "The queen. Sensual, beautiful... You’ve grown." His eyes lingered too long on her chest, and he reached out as if to touch her arm.

She stepped back.

"That’s kind, Ubaldo, but I’d rather we kept things professional."

He blinked, his expression souring immediately. “Professional? Come now, Christine, don’t be so modest. You’ve clearly learned a thing or two about using what God gave you.”

She stiffened. “Excuse me?”

His mouth curled. “Oh please. First Carlotta gets pushed aside, and suddenly you get a lead—what a miracle. Though I suppose the Vicomte’s favor comes with... benefits, hmm?”

Her face went cold.

“You think I got this role because of Raoul?” Her voice was low and firm now. “Because a man showed me kindness?”

Piangi laughed—sharp, bitter. “Kindness. Call it what you like.”

She slapped him—not hard, but with deliberate precision. The echo was louder than any note they had sung that morning.

“If you ever speak to me like that again,” she said, eyes burning, “you’ll find out exactly how much influence I really have in this opera house.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, the hem of her rehearsal skirt brushing angrily behind her.

_________________________________________________________________________

A few days later, the mood in the Opera was different. The chorus girls whispered more than usual. The wardrobe assistants gave Christine curious, knowing glances. Even the kind prima ballerina Sorelli paused just a fraction too long before greeting her.

Christine noticed, of course—but it wasn’t until Meg pulled her into a quiet corner behind the stage that she understood why.

“They’re saying things,” Meg whispered, eyes darting nervously. “About you. About how you got the role.”

Christine froze. “What things?”

Meg swallowed. “That you’ve been... using your charm. That you’ve got the Vicomte wrapped around your finger. And that you’re spending nights with someone else too. No one says it outright, but…” She hesitated. “They say you ‘bewitched’ another powerful man, one that threatens the managers and made sure you were cast. That you’re his… kept thing . And Piangi says you came onto him too.”

Christine felt her stomach twist. “He didn’t like being told no. So now he wants to humiliate me.”

“But none of it’s true,” Meg said, outraged. “That’s disgusting. You earned that role.”

Christine gave a hollow smile. “Doesn’t matter. Truth has nothing to do with gossip.”

She turned away, the weight of the rumors heavier than any costume.

_________________________________________________________________________

That evening, Erik waited for her in the music room under the opera. He stood in plain view by the piano, mask gleaming in the low light. When Christine entered, she felt the tension immediately. Like a string pulled too tight.

“You heard,” she said quietly.

He nodded once. “I did.”

His voice was low, calm—but far too calm. “I saw Piangi today. Holding court in the wings. Laughing too loud. Whispering too much.”

Christine looked at him. “He tried something, Erik. After rehearsal. I turned him down. He didn’t take it well.”

A muscle in Erik’s jaw twitched.

Inside, something ancient and feral uncoiled. “Tried something”  echoed like a blade dragged against bone. After rehearsal. He didn’t take it well. He could picture it—Piangi’s sweaty, bloated hands, reaching, pawing at what did not belong to him. 

Erik’s fingers curled into claws.

He wanted to flay him. To drag him by the neck into the catacombs beneath the Opera, where the screams never reached the surface. He imagined chaining him to the iron grating above the lake, letting the cold and dark seep into his skin, minute by minute, until Piangi wept like a child. He would carve the smugness from that foolish face, strip away the silk and the wine-stained bravado until there was only meat and terror left. He would compose a symphony from his cries.

His vision swam red.

How dare he? What if Piangi, that oaf, that parasite, really touched her — his Christine — as though she could ever belong to anyone else.

He looked at her then, something ice-cold coiling behind his ribs.

“Did he touch you?”

“No.” She hesitated. “Not quite. But he was… disgusting. Angry. And now he’s punishing me the only way he can.”

Erik didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked over to a drawer in the far wall and opened it—mechanically, without looking at her. He pulled out a pair of thin black gloves and began switching them with the leather ones he was wearing. Not hastily. Deliberately.

“Erik,” Christine said, alarmed. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he said flatly. “But I’m afraid we have to postpone our lesson today, my little dove.”

Her eyes searched his face, wary now. “You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

Erik turned slowly to face her, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence between them thickened like a storm about to break.

He looked at her—at her delicate, beautiful face framed by the soft light—and suddenly an overwhelming, fierce protectiveness surged through him. It was as if every dark thought and violent impulse retreated, replaced by a desperate need to shield her from harm. His heart pounded not with rage, but with an intense determination to keep her safe, no matter the cost.

He swallowed hard, struggling to steady the storm inside him.

“Christine, my Christine, don’t worry about anything.”

His voice was softer than she expected, almost fragile. He took a careful step toward her, as if afraid to break the fragile connection between them. His eyes, dark and intense, searched hers with a fierce protectiveness that caught her completely off guard.

For a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them. The distant echoes of rehearsal and the shadow of Piangi faded into nothingness. All that mattered was her, standing so close, vulnerable and real.

Slowly, hesitantly, Erik reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and she leaned into his hand.

He remembered the way her lips had felt against his—soft, sure, like a promise whispered in the dark. But even that memory couldn’t silence the doubt clawing at him. Had it been real? Had she truly meant it? Their conversation in the house at Rue Auber had been so… unsure. Everything had been implied and the more time passed the more he was sure that he had somehow misunderstood something. That it was all a cruel joke of the universe.

His heart hammered with longing, yet his mind wavered in uncertainty. Did she want him now? Did she trust him enough to let him in? Or was he reaching for something that only existed in his own desperate hope?

Caught between the ache to hold her and the fear of losing her, his breath hitched. Then, as if pulled by a force stronger than reason, he closed the distance and pulled her into his arms. The warmth of her pressed against him was both a balm and a challenge—he was holding her and no other man could claim or hurt her right now. He had it under control, nothing could happen.

Christine didn’t pull away. Instead, she closed the small distance between them, her hands resting lightly on his chest.

Their eyes met again—deep pools of emotion swirling with uncertainty, hope, and something dangerously close to longing.

Christine pulled back just slightly, searching his face with wide, uncertain eyes. Her breath caught, trembling on the edge of a fragile hope and a deep fear. With all the courage she found in herself she slowly, almost tentatively, leaned in— pressing her lips gently to his, as if afraid he might pull away at any moment like he did before. Only the thought of the Rue Auber house gave her enough certainty to try this again.

The kiss was soft, careful, filled with a hesitant vulnerability. Erik’s heart hammered in his chest, every inch of him screaming both to close the distance and to hold back. Then, ever so slowly, as if discovering a fragile treasure, he responded—his lips barely moving at first, shy and unsteady. This time he didn’t go into a state of shock and he was grateful for it, even though a voice at the back of his mind started screaming at him. He tried to push it down. 

His hands loosened their grip, resting lightly on her waist, unsure but willing to let himself feel this delicate connection. The world around them seemed to hold its breath as the kiss deepened just enough to promise something real.

Erik’s mind was a storm of longing and doubt, but in that moment, all that mattered was the warmth of Christine’s lips against his.

_________________________________________________________________________

Later that night, Piangi left his dressing room alone.

The corridors were mostly empty now. Just the lingering echo of distant footsteps and the heavy silence of a theater at rest. He adjusted his coat, mumbling to himself, puffing his cheeks in irritation.

Then he heard it.

The echo of a single footstep behind him.

He turned. Nothing.

“Who's there?”

Silence.

He shook his head and kept walking toward the staircase. A little faster now.

Another step. Closer this time.

“Is someone—”

Before he could finish the sentence, something lashed from the darkness. A fine red  rope, as thin as a wire. It looped around his throat and yanked him back into the shadows with terrifying force.

The rope didn’t tighten. Not yet. It just held.

Breathless, trembling, Piangi tried to turn his head, but a gloved hand pressed hard against his cheek, keeping him still.

Then—calmly, intimately—Erik’s voice spoke just beside his ear.

“One more word,” he whispered. “One more lie, and I will carve the truth into your tongue.”

Piangi whimpered, frozen.

“You know what you said. About Miss Daaé. All of it filth.”

The rope flexed slightly. Not enough to break skin, but enough to remind him it could.

“You’ll go to the managers tomorrow,” Erik continued, “and you will say you lied. That Miss Daaé is innocent. That your pride couldn’t handle rejection and your tongue betrayed you. You will end those rumours. You will never try to… approach Miss Daaé again. And if you do not meet these demands…”

He yanked the rope tighter. Just for a moment. Just enough to make Piangi gasp, to feel the edge of it bite.

“—I will make sure your final aria is screamed from a cage below the earth.”

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the wire vanished. Erik stepped back into the dark. Piangi collapsed to his knees, clutching his neck, eyes wild, breath rasping.

The hallway was empty again.

_________________________________________________________________________

The change was subtle. No more sideways glances in the hallway. No more snide giggles behind gloved hands as she passed. Even the stagehands, once oddly tight-lipped around her, had resumed their easy, respectful tone.

Piangi kept his distance now. At rehearsals, he barely met her eyes. When he spoke to her, it was curt. Careful. And for some reason, the managers seemed unusually firm with him—especially André, who had a quiet meeting with him behind closed doors and emerged looking more exasperated than angry.

Meg noticed it first. “They’ve stopped,” she said during a break, stretching beside Christine on the practice mat. “The whispering. The ugly talk.”

Christine blinked. She hadn’t realized just how heavy that cloud had been until it was suddenly gone.

“I wonder why,” she murmured unconvinced.

Meg shrugged. “Maybe they finally grew up.”

Christine smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. A part of her wondered. But she pushed the thought away before it could form in her head.

Erik, though visibly shaken, finally gave her the promise she needed: he wouldn’t harm Piangi. Yet, despite that vow and with a careful excuse about pressing matters related to Rue Auber, he had postponed their time together and had rushed off after dropping her off in her dressing room.

Chapter Text

The grand double doors to the managers’ office opened with a low groan, and Madame Giry stepped inside with her usual crisp efficiency. Behind her followed a tall man swathed in black, moving with a rigid precision that made his discomfort plain. His coat was immaculate, his gloves buttoned tight, and a white half-mask clung to his face like a second skin, catching the morning light.

Erik kept his gaze low, avoiding the brightness streaming in through the office windows. Even filtered through lace curtains, it struck his exposed cheek with a harsh warmth he didn’t welcome.

André rose quickly from behind his desk, almost knocking over a stack of ledgers. Firmin followed, more slowly, brushing invisible dust from his waistcoat.

“Messieurs,” Madame Giry said smoothly, “allow me to present Monsieur Erik Renaudin.”

Erik gave a tight nod, his voice quiet but precise. “I… appreciate the invitation.”

André offered a hand, but Erik hesitated a moment before taking it — his gloves felt suddenly too thin. Still, he grasped it briefly, then withdrew.

Firmin studied him with reserved curiosity. “Madame Giry speaks well of your expertise. She says you know our theatre better than we do ourselves.”

At this, Madame Giry spoke up with quiet assurance. “He has been a student of this house for years—long before you took over. He knows the architecture, the acoustics, the mechanics beneath the stage and above it. He has studied every performance, every failing, every triumph.”

Firmin raised a brow, intrigued. “A long-time admirer, then.”

Erik shifted slightly, uncomfortable under their gaze, but said nothing to deny it.

“And she tells us,” Firmin continued, glancing at a note on his desk, “that you worked in Persia? At the Shah’s court?”

“I did,” Erik answered, his voice tight. “I was commissioned to oversee the construction of performance halls and gardens. I composed and advised, as well.”

André looked impressed. “So, you’ve led large-scale projects before.”

Erik inclined his head. “And completed them to perfection.”

Firmin glanced at Madame Giry again, a bit more thoughtfully now. “You’re certain he’s the right man for this?”

She met his gaze steadily. “There is no one better.”

The silence that followed was a little too long. André cleared his throat. “Well. The Opera has… suffered from a lack of structure. We're in need of strong oversight. Not only artistically but practically.”

“And someone who can command respect,” Firmin added. “From the corps, the orchestra.”

Erik didn’t smile. His jaw twitched faintly. “Respect is earned by consistency.”

That got a short laugh from André, though it faltered quickly. “Do you consider yourself... ready for a leadership role?”

Erik looked toward the floor. The polished marble caught the afternoon sun and reflected it too brightly; it stung his eye. “I do value order and precision.”

Firmin and André exchanged a glance—uncertain, but not unconvinced. Finally, André extended his hand again, more gently this time. “Then allow us to offer you the position. We could use someone who sees things so clearly.”

This time, Erik removed his glove with care and reached out, though his fingers trembled faintly. Not from nerves—at least not in the usual sense—but from restraint. From the unbearable sense of exposure.

His knuckles, covered with thin scabs and bruises, looked out of place here, against the gleaming civility of the managers’ office. André noticed, perhaps, but said nothing.

The handshake was brief, measured. Erik let go quickly, as though contact itself were a cost.

Firmin smiled with forced cheer. “Let’s introduce you to our performers, then. Our leading ladies are waiting.”

Erik stood a little too quickly. The tips of his boots scuffed the floor. He didn’t answer.

Out in the corridor, the light was worse. Gilded mirrors caught the sun and splintered it in shards across the tiled floor. Madame Giry walked beside him in silence — only she noticed the way his fingers stayed curled tightly, his gloves in place again.

As they reached the grand staircase, Carlotta Giudicelli was already waiting, her gown a blaze of crimson and gold, her laughter echoing like bells through the vaulted space. She turned with theatrical flair, spotting Erik instantly.

“Messieurs!” she trilled. “Is this our newest director?”

Her eyes swept over him like a hawk’s. “Mon Dieu, Madame Giry wasn’t joking. Eccentric indeed. What is this? A funeral coat and a carnival mask?”

Firmin gave a tight smile. “Carlotta, this is Monsieur Renaudin.”

Erik inclined his head stiffly, keeping his distance. He could smell her perfume already — thick and powdery, making his throat tighten.

“A pleasure,” he managed.

Carlotta fanned herself as if she were faint from intrigue. “Charmed. And tell me, do you bite, or just glower?”

Before the exchange could sour, André turned. “And here is our other leading soprano — Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, a rising star.”

Christine stepped forward, her rehearsal dress simple, her hair pulled back. She moved with none of Carlotta’s flamboyance, and yet Erik felt as though the room quieted around her.

Her gaze met his. She paused. “Monsieur... Renaudin ?”

There was a trace of confusion in her tone. Erik tensed.

Erik bowed stiffly, avoiding her gaze. “Mademoiselle.”

She curtsied, slower than expected. “A pleasure.”

For a moment, the light didn’t sting as much.

Carlotta tilted her head, frowning faintly at the silent exchange.

“Well,” André said, eager to move forward, “we know you’re already familiar with the opera house—perhaps more than either of us, according to Madame Giry—but allow us to give you a proper introduction nonetheless. A little tour to mark the beginning.”

“Oh, let me!” Carlotta said brightly, already seizing Erik’s arm. He flinched — subtly, a tightening of the shoulder, a flicker in his posture — but Carlotta either didn’t notice or chose not to. She simply tightened her hold and swept forward, her laughter bubbling like champagne.

“Come, come,” she trilled. “You must see the grand salon first. Did I ever tell you about the time I saved a performance of La Juive by composing an entirely new aria in the wings while the orchestra waited? Oh, it was chaos, pure chaos , and yet—divine!”

Erik allowed himself to be led, jaw tense, eyes flicking to the walls and arches like they were lifelines. Behind them, Christine fell into step, hands clasped behind her back.

“Welcome to management,” she murmured, amusement curling in her voice.

He didn’t look back. But the corner of his mouth moved—just a fraction. The closest thing he could offer to a smile.

Chapter Text

It was quiet when Christine arrived.

The Rue Auber flat still felt more like an echo of a home than a real one. No furniture yet, no carpets. Just polished floors, bare walls—and tonight the faint, intoxicating scent of roses.

They were everywhere. Not arranged, not overly adorned. Simply placed. Some in jars, others loose across the floor in the drawing room, a few on the wide windowsill catching the last golden light of the day. It wasn’t opulent. It was… careful. As if someone had spent all afternoon wondering where each flower should go.

Christine stepped inside slowly, closing the door behind her. She found Erik standing in the middle of the space, hands clasped behind his back. His coat was off, sleeves rolled. He looked as if he’d been pacing.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he said, quietly.

“I said I would,” she replied, almost smiling. “It’s beautiful, Erik.”

“It isn’t finished.” He looked around, as if seeing the empty space through her eyes. “To this day I’m still not sure how I can make this flat worthy of you. I just—” He stopped himself, shook his head. “That’s not why I asked you here.”

She tilted her head. “I meant the flowers.”

He blinked, startled, nervous, like he didn’t know what to say or do.

Then without answering, he took something from the pocket of his pants. A small, dark box. His hands were shaking faintly.

“I know this place isn’t a home yet,” he said. “But it could be. I want it to be. For you.”

He didn’t kneel—he didn’t trust himself not to fall if he did.

“I don’t know how to say it right,” he blurted out. “I’m not… I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve never asked anyone for anything this important. But I want to ask you.”

He opened the box. A ring—elegant, gold with a beautiful black stone.

“Christine,” he said, his voice low, the words catching slightly in his throat. His eyes locked on hers—not with confidence, but with the quiet desperation of a man already bracing for the answer he feared.

“Would you—” he faltered, then forced it out, barely above a whisper, “would you marry me?”

He held himself unnaturally still, as if movement might shatter the moment. Something in his expression curled inward, preparing for the rejection he was certain would follow—like a wound closing on itself before the knife could land.

She didn’t speak. Her eyes filled, and then spilled over.

He froze even more. Panic flickered across his face.

His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal. The old, familiar ache of rejection—the way it had hollowed him out so many times before—rose up like a suffocating tide. I told you this would happen. I warned you. You’re just setting yourself up to fall again.

Additionally, fear washed over him in a suffocating wave. His breath caught, and his body tensed as if bracing for an inevitable blow.

He wanted desperately to take it all back — to erase the words he had just asked, to protect the fragile thread of trust and warmth that had begun to weave between them. The last thing he wanted was to shatter the delicate friendship they’d built, to send her fleeing from him. His hands trembled, clenching into fists at his sides, as if holding back a storm inside.

Please don’t let this be the moment everything breaks.

“No—no, I didn’t mean to upset you—oh, I’ve gone too far, this is too much—Christine, please—”

But she didn’t interrupt him. She couldn’t. The tears came soundlessly, and she covered her mouth with one hand, staring at him like he’d cracked something open in her.

He stepped forward, unsure. “Please say something....”

Still nothing.

He set the box gently on the windowsill and came closer, hesitating before reaching to take her by the elbows, as if she might vanish if he held her too tightly.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he whispered. “I only wanted to give you something that no one could take away. You don’t… I understand that you want to say no…”

That broke her. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her carefully—still confused, still not knowing what her tears meant—but holding her nonetheless.

Her sobs faded slowly, until they were just shaky breaths against the fabric of his shirt. Erik stood still the whole time, his arms around her, one hand gently resting between her shoulder blades. He didn’t speak.

Eventually, Christine drew in a breath, pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her cheeks were wet, but her eyes were clearer now, steadier. He loosened his hold, unsure—but she didn’t let go of him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said gently.

She nodded slowly, her fingers brushing at her face. “It wasn’t just your question. Or the ring. It was everything. The past few days… everything just came crashing down.”

He waited.

“I was heartsick,” she said. “When you told me to go, that night. I thought I’d imagined it all. Your feelings. That I’d made things up in my head. And then the rumors started. And I had to smile through all of it—on stage, in rehearsals. Pretend I didn’t hear what people whispered behind my back.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“And I was so surprised when I saw you with André and Firmin - not in a bad way. It’s just - everything moves so fast and I … I feel so overwhelmed. And it makes me feel… small again. Like a little girl hiding in corridors, not knowing where she belongs.”

A pause. A long, soft breath.

“My father was the only family I had. And when he left, it felt like the last piece of me went with him. Since then, I’ve never really felt like I had a home. Not one that was really mine. I’ve lived in borrowed rooms, in someone else’s house, and even with Meg and Madame Giry… I’m not her real daughter. I’m not like Meg to her, I know that. Always just passing through. And that you offer me all this… “ She gestured around her.

“Christine, you deserve so much more than this.”

Christine gave a shaky smile through her tears. “You say that like this isn’t everything.”

He blinked, startled.

She stepped closer, her hand finding his again. “I don’t need chandeliers or rooms with high ceilings. I don’t necessarily need roses or grand gestures. I just want to stop feeling like I’m passing through someone else’s life.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around his. “You make me feel like I’m finally home. You guide me so well.”

Erik opened his mouth, but no sound came. He looked at her, his face torn between disbelief and something like wonder.

And then, softly, Christine said, “Yes.”

A stillness fell, reverent and full.

“Yes?” he echoed, as if afraid to touch the word.

She nodded, smiling through fresh tears. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

His shoulders sagged with relief, and his laugh was quiet, breathless, disbelieving. He reached for her again, pulling her gently into his arms.

“I won’t let you lose this,” he whispered against her hair.

Then he lifted one of her hands to his lips, kissed it while gazing at her.

They stood like that for a while. The newness of the moment wrapping itself gently around them.

Eventually, she smiled. “So… do I get to see the ring again? Properly this time, now that I’m not crying all over it?”

He let out a sound—half laugh, half breath of disbelief—and reached for it. The ring had been carefully placed inside a small box. He took it out and offered it to her again, this time with steadier hands.

It wasn’t overly ornate. A thin gold band, with a single black stone, framed in a delicate crown of rose-shaped filigree.

Christine gasped quietly. “It’s beautiful.”

“I made it,” he said. “Long ago. Before I thought there would ever be a need.”

She looked up at him again. “You’ve thought about this a long time.”

“I have.”

She took the ring, slid it onto her finger, and watched how the light caught the stone.

“It fits perfectly.”

“Of course it does,” Erik said softly. “It was always yours.”

Chapter Text

The ropes groaned faintly under his weight. Erik moved through the narrow catwalk above the stage like a shadow. The evening air was thick with resin, dust, and the residual warmth of stage lamps. He kept to the service corridors and rafters where only ghosts and flies belonged. Up here, he could breathe.

Not that he needed the height tonight — he wasn't hiding.

No, not tonight.

His movements were sharper than usual, though not out of anger. Something electric ran beneath his skin, an agitation of the hands, a restlessness of the shoulders. He had tried to work. As one of the managers of the opera, he was now free to maintain the technology of the stage without interference. He had tried to tune the hydraulics, adjust the pulleys, recalibrate the trapdoor timing. All of it felt insufficient. Like trying to fold thunder into silence.

Christine had said yes.

He had not dreamed it — though he had spent most of the day convinced he might wake at any moment.

A laugh rose in his throat and he bit it back. Fool. Madman. Do not tempt the universe with your joy. But still, his fingers twitched at his sides, aching to do something reckless. Not violent, not tonight — something loud. Something absurd. He wanted to hang upside-down from the chandelier. He wanted to scream music through the old organ pipes.

He wanted—

A flicker of movement below halted his thoughts.

Erik froze, half-crouched among the ropes. A quiet shift of shadows in the corridor below caught his eye.The movement was wrong. Tense. Struggling.

He leaned forward silently, adjusting his position with a practiced hand against the ropes. His breath stilled.

Below, in the dim corridor, two figures stood — or rather, one stood and one struggled.

Joseph Buquet.

The man's wide frame was unmistakable, his grip brutish. He had a young woman pressed against the wall, his hand clamped over her mouth, his other arm pinning her against him. She thrashed — her heels scraped the floor, her hands beat against his chest, desperate and furious. He recognized the young woman. He knew all the ballet girls by name. Thérèse.

Erik’s eyes narrowed. His pulse, which had only moments ago raced with some strange, unfamiliar euphoria, slowed to something colder. Sharper.

He didn’t blink.

Buquet leaned close to the girl’s face, saying something Erik couldn’t hear. She shook her head wildly, sobbing now. Her hands, clawing, caught him in the jaw. Buquet grunted and pressed harder.

Erik’s fingers found the tension in the rope beside him.

Something slid through him, slow and poisonous.Tension travelled up his spine like a memory — not physical, but cellular. Deeper than thought.

The dark. The stink of straw and old blood. Cold iron. Breathing that wasn’t his own.

The memory was a splinter, lodged and waiting.

A man. Approaching. Slow, deliberate.

And Erik — a boy, a creature — curled like a snapped vine in the corner of a cage. Bones too thin, skin too wrong. Not speaking, not blinking.

His brain suddenly shut off. It floated, disconnected. He could still remember — with horrible, perfect clarity — how his own fingernails had broken against the iron bars trying to climb out of his own skin.

Now, in the present — in the Opera’s corridor — his grip on the rope above his head tightened.

Below, Buquet pressed harder against the girl. She was crying now, her whole body in revolt. Her feet kicked out weakly. Her breath came in broken gasps under his hand.

Erik did not think .

It was like falling upward, out of his body. Watching himself move, detached and soundless. His muscles were too calm. That was how he knew.

When the madness came, it wasn’t fire. It was ice.

He descended the rigging like water flowing down stone, without a breath of sound. His feet kissed the beam, then the ledge, then the ground.

The noose was already in his hand.

He didn’t remember taking it.

And then — with unhuman precision — he threw.

The lasso whispered through the air like silk drawn through a knife.

It caught.

Joseph Buquet barely had time to react. The noose snapped tight around his neck and yanked him backward mid-motion — his back arched, his heels skidded across the floor. A choking, high-pitched gargle burst from his throat.

The corridor erupted in chaos.

Erik surged forward like a shadow given shape. He turned Buquet so that he could look at him. He slammed against the stone wall with a grunt, hands fumbling at the rope, trying to wedge fingers beneath the strangling tension. He kicked out wildly, catching Erik in the thigh — Erik barely flinched his face now only inches from Buquet’s but still holding the noose in an iron grip.

Thérèse was frozen, eyes wide, unmoving, too stunned even to scream. Her breath caught in her throat like it didn’t know which way to go.

Buquet grabbed Erik’s arm, trying to wrestle the rope away. Erik yanked it tighter, twisting it between his hands like a garrote, his face expressionless — save for the cold flicker in his eyes.

There was a violent scuffle, limbs struggling, the sound of boots sliding over dust, fists connecting with ribs — until Buquet’s legs buckled. He sagged, choking, one knee hitting the floor.

Then Thérèse screamed.

A sharp, broken sound — the kind torn out of a soul rather than a throat.

Her paralysis shattered all at once.

She turned and fled — the hem of her dress vanishing around the corridor corner.

Erik didn’t turn.

His grip tightened.

Buquet writhed, one hand clawing at the rope, the other scrabbling uselessly against the wall. His mouth opened and shut like a fish gasping in airless water. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, wet.

Erik leaned in, one hand steadying the rope where it dug into Buquet’s throat, the other braced flat against the wall beside his head — close enough to see the sweat gather in his pores, to smell the stink of his fear.

“I want you to feel it,” Erik said quietly.
His voice was calm. Detached. Almost instructional. “The moment you realise that it’s actually over. The second your body betrays you.”

Buquet gurgled something—pleading, maybe. But Erik wasn’t listening.

His hand jerked the rope tighter, one smooth, practiced motion.

There was a wet crunching sound. A twitch. Then another.

Erik watched his face — the way the eyes bulged, blood vessels blooming red in the whites. The lips turned blue, blood leaving his mouth and nose. The convulsions slowed.

And then came the moment he was waiting for:
That flicker.
The dimming.
The strange, beautiful emptiness as the last traces of thought fled Joseph Buquet’s eyes.

Erik tilted his head, studying it the way another man might study a painting.
“Better,” he whispered.

Then he let go.

Buquet crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut — graceless, heavy, forgotten. His legs twitched one last time before everything fell silent.

_________________________________________________________________________

The opera house was nearly silent, emptied after the evening’s performance. Only a few distant footfalls echoed from the upper floors, and the warm scent of stage powder, wax, and old velvet lingered in the air.

Christine walked barefoot along the corridor, her shoes dangling from her hand. Her silk rehearsal skirt whispered with each step. She stayed behind rehearsing after all the other girls went home. She couldn’t sleep — not with the way her heart raced. Not with the thought repeating in her mind:

She had said yes.

To him.

She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, almost laughing at herself. At her own wild hope. At the joy she hadn’t dared feel in weeks.

Then she heard it.

A sharp, sudden crack . Then a scuffle.

She froze.

The sound had come from backstage — one of the service corridors that wound like arteries behind the sets and props. Unused at night.

Christine moved slowly toward the noise, her bare feet soundless on the stone floor. Her breath caught in her throat.

Then — a scream.

High and real and terrified.

She ran.

The corridor bent left, then right, plunging her deeper into shadow. Gaslight sputtered in its sconces. She rounded the last corner—

And stopped dead.

Just ahead, half-shrouded in gloom, a man lay crumpled on the floor. His boots twitched once—then stilled. Blood seeped slowly from his nose and mouth, pooling along the floor. His neck hung at an unnatural angle.

Coiled loosely around his throat, barely visible in the shadows, was a thin length of red cord.

And standing above him—

Erik.

He loomed in the flickering light like a shadow torn loose from the walls. His coat was disheveled, the hem damp with blood. The pale gleam of his mask caught the nearest flame, but it did nothing to soften him—it made him stranger. 

The end of the cord hung in his gloved hand, limp now.

His shoulders rose and fell, breathless with fury just spent. His whole frame shook with something primal and hollowing. His fingers flexed once, then stilled.

Christine stood frozen in the corridor, hidden just barely in a pocket of shadow. Something inside her cracked. A tiny sound escaped her lips—half-gasp, half-sob.

Erik didn’t see or hear her.

Christine stumbled backward, barely catching herself against the wall. Her heart slammed. She tried to breathe but couldn’t. The man on the floor—

Buquet.

She knew that face. He worked backstage. He’d always been vulgar. But this—

He’s dead.

And Erik—

She clutched the wall, trying not to make a sound. Every inch of her body screamed to run, but all her feet could do was stumble backwards almost falling.

Erik looked up. 

Christine didn’t breathe.

His eyes, strange in the gaslight, swept the corridor. Then — they landed on her.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Christine turned — and ran.

Her footsteps echoed sharp and fast down the stone corridor, the silk of her skirt catching the edges of the wall as she fled.

But Erik moved faster.

She didn’t hear him until he was almost upon her—his footsteps were like breath.

A hand clamped around her waist. She shrieked, but—

His other hand was already over her mouth.

She thrashed violently in his grip, kicking back at his shins, her nails clawing at his wrist.

“Christine—! Don’t scream, please! Christine, stop—please!” he hissed into her ear, breath ragged. “It’s not what you think—! Just—just be still!”

She writhed harder, a muffled scream escaping beneath his palm. Her eyes were wild.

He tightened his hold. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered, panicking. “You’re safe—I swear on my life, you’re safe.”

But she wasn’t listening. She couldn’t.

She fought like someone drowning, every muscle taut with terror.

Erik’s face twisted—pain, frustration, panic. He had never meant for her to see.

There was no choice now.

He shifted his grip, lifted her off her feet as if she weighed nothing, and began dragging her through the servant corridors, down—down into the depths of the Opera.

She kicked, pushed at his chest, screamed into his hand. Her heel connected with his shin. He didn’t stop.

“Stop—struggling,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “You’re only making this worse.”

The torches blurred as they passed. The air grew colder, damper. Walls turned from velvet to stone. Her panic did not ease.

She sobbed into his palm, her voice breaking with every step. “Please—Erik—please—don’t—”

He said nothing now. Could say nothing.

Only when they arrived at his underground home did he finally stop.

Erik stood frozen for a breath, the shadows of his lair flickering against the vaulted ceiling. Then he let go.

Christine crumpled to the floor, her limbs folding beneath her. She didn’t fight anymore. She didn’t move. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her whole body trembled.

Exhaustion had replaced fear—for the moment.

Erik took two steps back. His hands hovered in the air as if unsure whether to reach for her or to claw at himself.

And then he turned sharply and began pacing. Fast. Desperate. His boots clicked across the stone with frantic rhythm, back and forth, back and forth. He dragged a hand through his hair. 

He muttered something under his breath. Then louder: “It wasn’t supposed to be— I didn’t—”

He stopped himself. Slammed his palm against a pillar.

Christine, still on the floor, choked on a sob.

Her voice was thin, barely more than a whisper. “Who are you?”

He turned to her—slowly, his chest rising and falling like waves in a storm.

Her eyes, red-rimmed and glistening, found his through the mask. “Who are you, Erik?”

He didn’t answer.

So she asked again. Louder. Shaking now with fury as well as fear. “Was it the first time?”

He flinched—actually flinched—as though the words were a lash across his back.

Christine pulled her knees up to her chest, shaking — but now from something sharper than fear. Her voice rose, brittle and furious.

“Tell me the truth!” Her voices echoed through the silent cavern.

Erik froze mid-step.

“Tell me!” she screamed. “Was it the first time? Or are there more bodies buried in the dark?”

He turned slowly, something snapping behind his eyes.

“You want the truth?” he hissed.

Christine stared up at him, chest heaving.

He stalked toward her — each footstep a strike. “ You want the truth? ”

She didn’t flinch. Not this time. Her eyes blazed.

With a furious growl, Erik ripped the mask from his face and flung it across the floor. It skittered into the shadows.

“Then look at me.”

He grabbed her chin with terrifying intensity—and forced her to meet his gaze.

“Look at what you are going to marry.”

His breath came in short bursts, wild and ragged. His bare face, distorted by rage and grief, burned in the flickering candlelight.

“I killed people, Christine,” he spat. “Not in war. Not in battle. In service. In obedience. I designed traps. Mechanisms. Devices meant to draw screams from the lungs of men and leave no traces of blood on the stone floors. I built them for a palace. For a man who paid in jewels and execution orders.”

He stumbled backwards like the truth physically unbalanced him.

Christine’s lips parted, but no sound came.

Erik laughed once—sharp, bitter. “I watched men die. Sometimes by my own hand. Sometimes because of what I built. I was… valuable. Terrifying. A creature they kept in silken chains. The Shah’s architect. His angel of death. I was paraded in gold.”

He slammed a fist into the pillar beside him. Dust rained down.

“We hung bodies from trees outside the palace to send messages. That was my idea. Sometimes, I chose the messages.”

He whirled to face her again, eyes wild now. No restraint.

“I buried a man alive once. Watched the light go out in his eyes through a panel of glass as the sand filled his lungs. He begged me to stop.”

A pause. A breath.

“I enjoyed it.”

Silence crashed down like a wave.

Christine didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He could see her knees shaking now.

And then—he saw it. That flicker, that unmistakable light behind her eyes.

It was more than just fear - it was horror.

Something inside him cracked.

He stumbled backward and then turned, roaring, lashing out. A chair splintered under his boot. A violin shattered as he slammed it against the stone wall. Candles toppled. A shelf came down in a cascade of papers and glass. His home—he tore it apart in a storm of grief.

Christine flinched, shielding her head as porcelain cracked and a mirror burst into glittering shards beside her.

Then she made a break for it, staggered to her feet. Bolted.

She ran, her bare feet skimming over the cold ground, dress tangled in her legs, sobs caught in her throat. She reached the threshold of the tunnel that led up toward the opera house.

She could see the first stone steps.

And then—

A hand caught her wrist. Iron-tight. Unyielding.

“ NO! ” Erik snarled.

He wrenched her back with a force born of pure panic, and they tumbled to the floor. She cried out, struggling—but he was faster, stronger. 

He loomed over her, shaking, frantic.

“You said yes ,” he choked, the words sharp, cracked. “You said yes , Christine!”

She trembled beneath him, unable to look away.

His voice broke into a full scream: “ YES! That means something! It has to—!”

He seized her by the shoulders, his fingers digging in with the kind of frantic grip that came from drowning.

“You stay! You stay, do you hear me?!”
His voice cracked, rough with panic, with need. “You stay with me—forever!”

She flinched. Her eyes filled. And then the tears came again.

A sound escaped her, small and broken. She sobbed once, then again—and something inside him buckled.

No. No, not this. Not the crying. Not her crying because of him.

He pulled her against his chest so suddenly she gasped, but he held on, too tight, like she might vanish if he loosened his grip by a breath.

“Shhh... it’s all right,” he whispered against her hair, his voice thin and shaking. “It’s all right, it’s all going to be all right. Please, stop crying. Don’t cry. Don’t be afraid of me.”

His breath caught. His hands didn’t know how to be gentle anymore, blood still on the hem of his shirt.

“Please... I’ll make it better, you’ll see. You’ll see. It’s good now. Everything is good now.”

But his whisper was wrong—too sweet, too soft, stretched thin over something broken.
A lullaby sung in the wrong key.

Christine’s sobs grew louder, shaking her small frame in his arms. Her hands clawed at his chest, desperate, trying to break free. She twisted, her fingers digging into his coat as if to find any purchase, any way out.

But Erik barely registered her struggle. His mind was elsewhere—lost in a haze of desperation and blurred hope; He was the only one who could hold her together.

He tightened his grip without meaning to, as if that would stop her tears, stop her fear. His arms locked around her, rigid and unyielding, holding her as if sheer force could fix the broken pieces.

Christine fought harder now, but Erik rocked her gently in his arms, trapped between wanting to soothe and an overwhelming numbness that dulled every sense but the ache inside his chest.

He murmured again, voice trembling, “It’s okay, it’s okay... I’m here. Don’t be afraid.”

Christine’s sobs rattled in her chest as she struggled weakly in his arms, her movements growing slower, more limp with every second. Panic and exhaustion tangled in her eyes, but her strength was fading fast.

Then, barely more than a whisper, her voice cracked through the silence, exhausted and tired.
“Please Erik, let go… you’re hurting me…”

The words struck him like a blow, sharp and sudden. For a moment, everything stilled. Her limp body in his grasp, the pleading in her broken voice—it all snapped something inside him.

His grip loosened instantly, the weight of what he’d done crashing over him.

Erik stumbled back, horrified. Staring at his own hands like they belonged to someone else.

He took another step back, his hand absently smoothing down his waistcoat. His foot crunched on something — a broken shard of the mirror. His eyes flicked to the wreckage, to the chaos he’d made of his home. And then to her.

She still was crunched on the floor not crying anymore.

Just staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes, her body drawn into itself, breathing heavily.

And that look, he couldn’t bear it.

He sank to his knees with a broken sound. One hand covered his mouth. The other pressed to his chest, as if he could crush the ache before it drowned him.

“I didn’t mean—” He stopped. The words dissolved in his mouth. They were useless.

He bowed his head. Swallowed hard.

Then: “Go.”

The word came out flat. Empty. Like something torn from a deeper place.

Christine didn’t move.

He raised his voice — still hoarse, but clearer now. “ Go, Christine.”

Her eyes filled again, tears silent and hot. Slowly, shakily, she pushed herself to her feet.

Erik didn’t look up. Not even when she passed him, barefoot and trembling, eyes still fixed on him like he might vanish if she blinked.

She reached the tunnel, turned away — and ran.

Her footsteps echoed behind her. Lighter with distance. Then gone.

For a moment, Erik just knelt there.
Frozen.

Then something inside him cracked.

A sound tore from his throat — not a word, not even a scream. Just pain. Raw and animal and wretched. He doubled over, fists pressing to the floor as if he could shove the grief back into the stone.

But it spilled out.

He lunged to his feet, chest heaving, and let out a roar so loud it shook the air. He seized the candelabra beside the organ and hurled it across the room. Glass shattered. Wax splattered like blood on the walls. He tore down a curtain, kicked over the writing desk. Papers scattered like ghosts.

Then he grabbed one of the mirrors — what was left of it — and slammed his fist through it with a howl. His knuckles split. Blood joined the glittering rain of glass, covering the floor with small, red mirrors.

Chapter Text

The fever had set in with the dawn.

Christine lay in her narrow bed in Madame Giry’s apartment, pale and unmoving but for the tremors that occasionally rippled through her limbs. Her skin was clammy with sweat, her hair damp against the pillow, her breath too fast. She hadn’t spoken since the night she returned—if one could call it returning. She had stumbled through the rainy, cold streets of Paris like a ghost, barefoot, in her light rehearsal skirt, eyes hollow, barely able to stand. It was Darius who had found her—Darius, who by chance had been crossing the Rue Saint-Denis, and recognized her instantly in the flickering gaslight. He had kept the address she’d once given him.

Meg had screamed when she opened the door.

Now it was the third day. The fever had yet to break.

Madame Giry sat beside the bed, one hand gently moving through Christine’s tangled hair, the other resting on the edge of the blanket. Her eyes were hollowed by worry, but her touch remained steady. Meg hovered in the corner of the room, pale and quiet, holding a damp cloth that she dutifully refreshed.

The doctor had finished his examination. He stood now near the foot of the bed, solemn and quiet, before nodding toward the door. Madame Giry followed him out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind her with a soft click.

“She is strong,” the doctor said in a low voice, “but her spirit is bruised. Whatever happened that night when you found her in the streets weighs heavier than any illness.” He paused. “There is a tincture—feverfew and valerian. Brew it strong and give it to her every six hours. It may ease the fever.”

“Where can I find it?” she asked.

“I will send it,” he promised, and offered a final, weary nod. “Keep her warm. Watch her closely. If it rises further—”

“I will know,” Madame Giry said, quiet steel in her voice.

She walked him to the door and thanked him with a small, grave bow. Only when she closed it behind him did she allow her hand to linger on the wood, her breath catching for the briefest moment.

When Madame Giry quietly opened the door to Christine’s room again, she found Meg still sitting at Christine's bedside, her delicate hands clasping Christine’s cold one. The late afternoon light filtered through the window, casting shimmering patterns on the floor of the room, but the air was thick with the silence, broken only by Christine's irregular breathing.

Meg looked up when she noticed her mother, pale as a ghost.

"How is she?" Madame Giry asked softly, gently laying a hand on Meg’s shoulder as she bent closer.

"It's the same," Meg replied, her voice fragile. "She sweats and shivers. Her breath is heavy. But she doesn't speak. It's like she's not even here." She pulled the blanket up a little higher and gazed at Christine for a long moment. "Mama... do you think this has to do with him? With the opera ghost… this Erik?"

Madame Giry sighed deeply, her eyes focused on her daughter’s face as if weighing her words. She knew how much Meg loved Christine and how confusing everything had been. It was time to speak the truth.

"Yes," she said finally, her voice quiet and thoughtful. "I think it has everything to do with Erik.”

"You knew this whole time." Meg’s voice was barely above a whisper, as if she couldn’t fully grasp the weight of the question.

Madame Giry nodded slowly, her hands folding in her lap, a small tremor in her movements. "Yes, Meg. I knew. I saw the way he looked at her, how he tried to keep her near him."

Meg swallowed hard, a look of disbelief creeping across her face. "Then why didn’t you stop it? We all knew the Opera Ghost was dangerous, why didn’t you protect her?"

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unsaid things. Madame Giry shifted uncomfortably, looking at Christine’s still form, her fragile body bathed in sweat from the fever. She hesitated for a moment, the weight of her own failures pressing down on her.

"He... promised me, Meg," she finally whispered, her voice barely audible. "He promised me he would never hurt Christine. That he would keep her safe. I believed him. I thought..."

She trailed off, and for the first time, Meg saw the deep pain in her mother’s eyes, the guilt. Madame Giry’s voice cracked as she added, "And now look at her..." Her eyes blurred with unshed tears. "How wrong I was."

Meg was silent for a long moment, then her brow furrowed. “Mama… what about Joseph Buquet?”

Madame Giry froze.

“I heard the stagehands talking,” Meg whispered. “They found him two nights ago, behind the stage. His neck was broken. They said it was the Opera Ghost. That it was him.” 

She hesitated, then said, carefully:
“Meg, the police said Buquet’s death was an accident.”

The words hung in the air like dust after a collapse.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away, as though ashamed of her weakness.

Meg nodded slowly, clinging to the explanation. “An accident,” she repeated, her voice almost inaudible. “Yes... that would make more sense.”

Madame Giry didn’t correct her. She only looked down at Christine and folded her hands in her lap, so tightly her knuckles whitened.

The silence that lingered in the room was thick, full of dread.

And then, as if the tension in the air had cracked the moment, there was a loud, frantic knocking at the front door. The noise startled them both, and Madame Giry stood abruptly.

“Stay with her, Meg,” she said, her voice steady but urgent. “I’ll see who it is.”

Meg nodded silently, her gaze flickering between her mother and Christine. She barely had time to process the instruction before Madame Giry hurried out of the room.

The seconds stretched into eternity before Madame Giry returned, but not alone. She was followed by a pale, frantic Raoul, his face a mask of worry and disbelief. He hurried into the room, barely sparing a glance at Madame Giry as he rushed to Christine’s side.

“I came as soon as I heard. I knew she was ill but Firmin only told me today how serious it is. And with this whole Buquet business…”

He collapsed next to her bed, his hands trembling as he took both of Christine's cold hands in his. His voice cracked, filled with emotion.

"Christine?" His eyes searched her face desperately. "Christine, can you hear me?"

Christine didn’t move.

Raoul looked up at Madame Giry and Meg, his gaze frantic, pleading. "What happened to her? What’s going on? Christine!" His voice cracked, and he clenched Christine’s hands tighter, as though his grip alone could bring her back to him.

The sound of her name on his lips seemed to stir something in Christine. Her eyelids fluttered, the faintest sign of recognition crossing her face.

"Raoul?" she whispered, her voice a hoarse breath barely audible.

“Christine!” Raoul’s eyes widened as Christine's voice broke through, weak and distant. Her gaze was unfocused, her pupils barely registering the presence of anyone in the room.

“Christine, you’re going to be alright,” he said, his voice trembling as he held her hand, trying to ground her. He leaned in closer, his voice desperate and soft. “Just stay with me, please.”

But Christine's eyes flitted around the room, unfocused. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her face pale and clammy. Her lips parted again, the words tumbling out in a disjointed, fevered whisper.

“The darkness… it’s there” Her words were fragmented, as if pieces of a broken puzzle were spilling out of her. “He... he told me things... awful things… death... death and shadows.”

Raoul shook her gently, desperate for her to snap out of it. “Christine, you’re safe! You’re safe now. It’s just a fever—listen to me! Please.”

But Christine only continued, her words growing increasingly erratic and incoherent.

“...he showed me the bodies... the broken bodies... they hang in the trees... I could see them through the glass... through the sand…” She gasped for air, the words almost choking her. “I was supposed to... I was supposed to...”

Raoul’s heart nearly stopped. What was she talking about? The broken bodies?

“Christine, please, stop,” he pleaded, his voice breaking as he tried to make sense of the fractured words spilling from her lips. “You’re delirious. You’re not... you're not thinking clearly.”

Raoul tightened his grip on her hand, his voice breaking as he tried to pull her from the feverish nightmare she was trapped in. Her incoherent ramblings were eating at his soul, and he needed to break through the haze surrounding her.

“No more talk of darkness, Christine,” he said softly, his voice a quiet plea. “Forget these wide-eyed fears, please… I’m here, nothing can harm you, I promise.” He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers, his words wrapping around her like a warm embrace. “Listen to me; My words will warm and calm you; Let daylight in your heart. I’m here, with you, beside you, to guard you. Noone will harm you.”

Christine’s breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. She seemed to be caught somewhere between the fevered visions and his voice, her eyes flickering in and out of focus. But Raoul didn't stop. He couldn’t stop. He had to anchor her, keep her from being lost forever in the shadowy abyss she was describing.

“Let me be your shelter, Christine,” he whispered, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. “Let me be your light. You’re safe now. Noone will find you, not as long as I am here.”

Christine’s eyes fluttered again, her breath trembling as she struggled to grasp the comfort in his words, but her mind was still racing through the dark images that seemed to have haunted her.

Raoul leaned in closer, his voice filled with desperate reassurance. “Christine, you’re not alone. Please, listen to me.” His hand brushed her cheek, gentle but insistent. “I will keep you safe, I swear.”

For a moment, it felt as if she heard him. Her eyes closed tightly, a faint sob escaping her lips, but she was still lost in the grip of her fever.

The next morning, Raoul was still at her side. His hand still held hers, but his head slowly lowered, finding its place against his chest as sleep overtook him. He looked worn—his usual sharp features softened in the stillness, his blond hair tousled, and his collar slightly askew. His coat hung across the back of the chair, as he sat there in only his shirt and vest.

The room was quiet, save for the soft rhythm of Christine’s breathing. The flickering candlelight on the table cast shadows that danced gently along the walls. Outside, the first light of dawn crept into the room, the pale light slowly replacing the darkness that had held sway for so long.

It wasn’t until the softest of sighs escaped Christine’s lips that Raoul stirred. He blinked his eyes open, slowly lifting his head from his chest. The grogginess of sleep was still heavy in his eyes, but he instantly straightened when he saw her, the small movement of her chest beneath the covers drawing his full attention.

Christine’s eyes fluttered open, blinking in the dim morning light. She stared up at the ceiling for a moment, confusion clouding her thoughts, as if trying to piece together where she was, what had happened.

Raoul’s gaze softened with relief as he saw her consciousness returning. He smiled faintly, his voice hoarse with exhaustion but full of warmth. “Christine...” He whispered her name as though it was the only word that mattered. He scooted closer, leaning over her bed.

Christine turned her head, her eyes meeting his. For a moment, she simply stared, still lost in the fog of sleep and fever. But then, recognition flickered across her face, and she whispered his name back, barely audible, “Raoul?”

He nodded, his hand brushing the hair from her forehead, his touch gentle as though afraid of frightening her. “You’re awake... You’ve been so ill. How do you feel?”

Christine's lips parted as though she wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she looked at him, her gaze searching, and a strange mix of confusion and pain crossed her face. She opened her mouth again, but her voice was weak, and the words she tried to say seemed to get caught in her throat.

Raoul waited, watching her, but before he could say anything else, Christine’s hand moved slightly, and she grasped his tighter. He felt her cold fingers, and he squeezed her hand in reassurance, knowing that the darkness she had spoken of was still there—somewhere, deep within her. But for now, she was here. She was awake.

Chapter Text

As soon as Darius had dropped Christine off at Madame Giry’s home, he raced down the streets, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew something was terribly wrong, and every instinct told him that Erik was at the heart of it. He made his way swiftly to Nadir’s home, bursting through the door without bothering to knock.

“Nadir,” Darius gasped, his breath ragged. “I found Christine… she’s shaken. She’s disoriented, scared. She’s been through something... terrible.”

Nadir, who had been at his desk, froze. He looked up sharply, his face tightening with a mix of dread and understanding. "Oh no," he muttered, standing up quickly, his chair scraping the floor. Without another word, they both hurried out the door, making their way down to the winding path that led beneath the Opera House.

The passageways were eerily quiet, only their footsteps echoing off the stone walls as they descended deeper into the labyrinth of Erik’s secret lair. Nadir barely remembered the way and traps from his last visit. When they reached the hidden door, Nadir pushed it open with a sense of urgency.

The sight that greeted them made Nadir’s heart seize in his chest.

Erik’s lair was a wreck—mirrors shattered, furniture overturned. Erik lay on the floor in the midst of the destruction, motionless, his body twisted at an odd angle. Blood smeared his hands, staining the floor where they lay. For a brief, terrifying moment, Nadir’s heart stopped. Seeing the blood he feared the worst.

"Damn it, Erik," Nadir cursed, rushing forward to kneel beside him. His eyes scanned Erik's pale face, looking for any signs of life, and then landed on the bloodstains. His wrists were not the source. Still, his hands were trembling as he reached for them, checking for a pulse.

It was faint, but it was there.

“Nadir, what’s wrong?” Darius asked from the doorway, his voice tight with anxiety.

Nadir swallowed hard, his eyes flickering with a mixture of relief and worry. “He’s alive, but barely.” His gaze landed on the syringe still embedded in Erik's arm. He grimaced, understanding.

“Get me some sal volatile , quickly! He always keeps some somewhere!” Nadir shouted. 

Darius hesitated, his eyes wide, body frozen for a second. His gaze had landed on Erik—collapsed beside the shattered remains of a mirror, his shirt torn, blood on his hands, and his face—

His face. He scanned the ruined side—raw, contorted, monstrous. A sharp contrast to the other, pale and heartbreakingly human.

His breath caught.

Then Nadir barked his name again, sharp and desperate, and Darius snapped out of it. He turned and scrambled through the chaos, searching for the bottle, hands trembling.

He didn’t look back. But the image burned behind his eyes.

Nadir, never taking his eyes off Erik, carefully tugged the syringe out of Erik’s arm. His eyes narrowed as he pulled it free.

Darius returned, a bottle of smelling salt clutched tightly in his hand. Nadir took it from him, pouring a small amount onto a clean cloth to carefully put it close to Erik’s mouth. His hands were steady now, though his heart raced—Erik was still alive, but just barely.

Erik groaned in his unconscious state, his body reacting to the sharp smell of the smelling salt, but his eyelids remained closed. He shifted slightly, a soft sound escaping his throat.

“Dammit, he won’t wake up,” Nadir said, his voice strained but calm. He quickly rolled Erik onto his side, making sure the man could breathe properly. “Help me move him.”

Darius immediately rushed over to assist, but Nadir was already lifting Erik’s limp body with surprising strength, using his legs more than his arms to move him. They worked together, lifting Erik’s tall frame and guiding him toward the stairs that led up to the main level of the lair.

“Take his mask and wig,” Nadir ordered, his tone sharp. “It’s important that we keep him… unburdened.”

Darius nodded quickly, grabbing Erik’s mask and wig from the wreckage of the room. Holding them carefully, he hurried after Nadir as he carried Erik toward the stairs.

Each step felt like an eternity as they made their way upward, with Nadir carrying Erik’s dead weight in his arms. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, but he pushed through, determined to get his friend to safety, away from the danger he had so carelessly inflicted upon himself.

_________________________________________________________________________

Nadir sat motionless in the worn armchair beside the bed in his apartment—a small sanctuary, a quiet refuge from the rain outside. The fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering shadows that danced across the walls, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. It was a small comfort, a fragile promise of warmth that tried to push back the cold.

Before him lay Erik, slumped beneath a thin blanket, his face pale and pained, caught in the heavy haze of delirium, his whole body covered with sweat. His eyelids fluttered restlessly, caught between consciousness and the slow, uncertain pull of death, weighed down by the overdose of morphine.

Nadir’s chest tightened painfully. His mind drifted back to the young Erik he had met in Persia—just eighteen then, raw and fierce, proud but hiding a fragile vulnerability beneath his tough exterior. That boy had been dangerous, yes, but also delicate, like glass ready to shatter at any moment.

He remembered the fire in Erik’s eyes back then—the fierce spark of youth, the quiet uncertainty that only a few could see. Erik had worn his armor well, but Nadir had glimpsed through the cracks and saw a gentle vulnerability.

Now, in this softly lit room, that proud boy seemed almost gone. Only shadows of him remained, trapped in a body that was struggling, fighting, slipping.

Nadir swallowed hard, his throat tight. Tears welled up, blurring his vision, and slowly traced warm paths down his cheeks.

His voice was barely a whisper, trembling with desperation. “Erik… please… stay with me.”

His fingers moved hesitantly, brushing gently over the thin hair on Erik’s forehead—a tender gesture that spoke of all the things words could not. Nadir felt the weight of it all: the fear, the love, the unbearable helplessness.

And then, without warning, the dam inside him broke. A sharp, ragged sob tore from his chest, and he couldn’t hold back anymore. His body shook with helpless grief, silent tears streaming down his face.

The door creaked open quietly. Darius entered, carrying a small bowl of warm water and a cloth. Without a word, he set them down on the table nearby and moved slowly to Nadir’s side. Kneeling beside the armchair, he rested a gentle hand on Nadir’s trembling shoulder.

Nadir sagged forward, unable to keep himself upright any longer. He let himself fall into Darius’s arms, burying his face in the young man’s chest as the sobs wracked his body. Darius held him steady, offering quiet comfort as Nadir’s grief poured out in unstoppable waves.

Between sobs, he whispered brokenly, “I can’t… I can’t sit by another bed while one of my family members is dying in it… not again.”

Darius tightened his hold, as if to silently promise he wouldn’t have to.

And the fire crackled on, filling the room with a soft warmth, but inside, the ache remained—deep and raw, as they both stayed there in the aching silence.
_________________________________________________________________________

The late morning light filtered softly through the thin curtains, casting a pale glow across the room. Christine lay propped against the pillows, still weak, her face pale and drawn. A cup of untouched tea sat cooling on the bedside table. Raoul sat in the same chair as the night before, though now more tense than tired, his arms crossed, his eyes sharpening as the door opened.

Nadir entered, somber in his dark coat, the brim of his hat low. His eyes immediately found Christine’s, concern plain in his features, though he nodded politely to both of them.

Raoul rose slowly, instinctively stepping between the bed and the man.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he asked, voice cold.

“Nadir Khan - a friend. I came to see how she is,” Nadir said evenly. “And perhaps answer some questions.”

“I don’t think—”

“Raoul.” Christine’s voice was hoarse, but clear. Both men turned to her. She met Raoul’s eyes, calm but firm. “Please. I want to speak to him. Alone.”

Raoul’s jaw tightened. “If he upsets you—”

“I won’t,” Nadir said simply.

Raoul cast Christine one last lingering look before leaving the room. “I’m right outside, if you need me.” The door clicked shut.

For a moment, there was silence. Christine stared at Nadir. He didn’t approach the bed, simply waited, hands folded behind his back. Finally, she spoke—low, but intense.

“Where is he?”

“At my house,” Nadir replied. “Darius is with him. He… is in a critical state.”

“Good,” she said, her lower lip trembling. 

Nadir’s expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes shifted—sorrow, maybe, or something closer to caution.

“Good that he’s in a critical state?” he repeated slowly, as if giving her a chance to take the words back. “Are you certain you know what you’re saying, my child?”

Christine didn’t flinch. Her jaw tensed, her eyes hard despite the wet sheen beginning to gather in them. She lifted her chin and stared at him, defiant.

“Christine, what exactly happened?” Nadir asked softly. “Did he hurt you?”

Christine swallowed hard. “I saw him kill a man.”

Nadir didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just waited.

She gripped the blanket tighter in her fists. “Behind the stage. After rehearsal. I followed the sound of a scream… and I saw him. Over Joseph Buquet’s body.”

She paused. “His—his lasso was still around the man’s neck.”

Nadir’s head dipped a fraction. No surprise. No denial. Only gravity.

“He dragged me down. Below. To his home,” she continued, her voice cracking. “He told me I belonged to him. That I’d said yes. And when I tried to run, he—” Her throat constricted. “He grabbed me.”

A long silence stretched between them. Christine’s breath shook.

Nadir closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if adding the final piece to a grim puzzle. When he opened them again, there was something pained in his gaze, but no disbelief. Only clarity.

Nadir took a slow breath. “Christine… I need you to hear something.”

She looked at him warily, eyes still shining with tears.

“These last days… while you lay ill, Darius was not idle. He’s always had a certain instinct for quiet doors and quieter voices.” Nadir’s mouth curved bitterly. “It seems he paid a visit to the opera house.”

Christine’s brows drew together.

“He spoke to one of the chorus girls. A young thing. Trembling like a leaf but… brave. She wouldn't give her name.”

Christine’s mouth parted, confused.

“She told him,” Nadir continued slowly, “that she was cornered. Behind the stage. By Joseph Buquet. That he had followed her, tried to force himself on her. She said nobody noticed.”

He paused. His voice lowered further, touched now with something heavier.

“No one… except a man in a mask. The new manager.”

Christine’s hands went still on the blanket.

“She said he came out of the shadows like a nightmare. That he pulled Buquet off her. That she ran. That she didn’t see what happened next.” He met Christine’s eyes. “Only that Buquet didn’t get the chance to harm her. Because of him.”

A silence settled between them again. Christine sat frozen, eyes wide, the blanket now forgotten in her lap. Her lips moved slightly, but no sound came.

Nadir softened his tone. “I do not tell you this to excuse him. Only to give you the truth, Christine. The whole of it. You saw a man kill. But she saw someone save her life.”

He let the weight of that settle, then added, barely above a whisper:

“Both things can be true.”

Christine didn’t speak at first.

She stared ahead, unfocused, as if trying to see something that was no longer there. Her breath came shallow. Her fingers tightened briefly in the folds of the blanket again—then stilled.

A long pause. Then, hoarsely:

“He was still so angry. Even if he saved her—he was furious.” Her eyes flicked to Nadir’s, full of haunted disbelief. “He dragged me down there. Into his place. Said I belonged to him. That I had said yes.” she repeated, her voice cracked, but she pushed on. “And- and he told me what he did. In Persia.”

Nadir’s face did not change, but his eyes fixed on her sharply now.

“He told you,” he said quietly.

Christine gave a small, tight nod. Her lips trembled, but she didn’t look away.

Then, something dawned on her. 

“You were with him in Persia. Were you a part of his… his crimes?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. That was not my role…”

“Then why?” Christine’s hands twisted the blanket in her lap again, her gaze lowered, caught in the patterns of the linen, as though they might anchor her. “Why would you call someone like that your friend?”

Nadir continued gently, “I cannot justify what he’s done. And I will never excuse the blood on his hands. But I know that he regrets it—deeply. If he could undo the things he’s done, he would. He’s no longer that man.”

Christine’s voice was tight, trembling. “But he said… he enjoyed it.”

Nadir bowed his head, nodding slowly, a shadow passing across his features. “Perhaps he did. Back then. He was barely more than a boy—eighteen, maybe nineteen. And he was filled with rage.” He paused. “As a child, he was taken by a traveling show. Kept like an animal, beaten and displayed like a horror. That kind of pain, Christine… it shapes a man.”

Her eyes lifted slowly to meet his, wide and haunted.

“After his mentor died in Italy—when Erik was only fifteen—grief joined the rage. And he was so brilliant… so arrogant and bitter. The world feared him, and for once, he held the power instead of being crushed by it. That power seduced him. But it was never who he truly was.”

Christine said nothing, but her throat moved as she swallowed hard.

Nadir’s voice softened. “He was a prisoner in Persia. A golden cage, yes, but a cage nonetheless. He built the Shah’s labyrinths, his torture chambers, because refusal meant death. Erik would have been the one hanging from the trees had he disobeyed. When the Shah ordered his execution—because Erik knew too much—I helped him escape. At great personal cost - I was imprisoned for several years.”

Christine’s brow knit slightly, her breath shaky. “Why would you do that?”

He gave a wistful smile, one lined with pain. “Because of Reza. My son.”

She blinked, confused.

“Reza was a sickly child,” Nadir said, his voice touched by something distant and aching. “Many didn’t have the patience for him. But Erik… Erik visited him often. He built him little mechanical toys, sang to him, told him stories. Reza adored him.” His eyes grew glassy. “When Reza’s illness worsened, Erik spent every moment he could by his side. He tried to find a cure—desperately. When Reza died, Erik sat at his bedside for three days. After that… he sat with me. He didn’t say a word. Just sat. So I wouldn’t be alone.”

Christine brought a hand to her mouth. The tears came without warning, silent and stinging.

Nadir leaned forward, his voice firm and full of quiet conviction. “Whatever else he is, Christine—whatever he’s done—he loves you more than anything in this world. That much, I know beyond all doubt. And I’ve seen how much love there is in him.”

“He’s always so… obsessive when he’s scared to lose me.”

Nadir was quiet for a long moment. Then he said softly, “Yes. He is.”

Christine looked at him, surprised by the simplicity of the reply.

“He’s obsessive,” Nadir continued, “because for most of his life, everything he’s ever loved has been taken from him. He’s never learned how to hold something without clinging to it for dear life. It doesn’t excuse the way he behaves, Christine—but it may explain it.”

She didn’t respond, but the muscles in her jaw tensed.

“He is… broken,” Nadir said. “Not irreparably. But profoundly. And he has never had to face that brokenness and truly change . Not until you. You were the first person who made him want to become someone different.” He met her eyes. “But becoming different takes time.”

Christine looked down at her hands, silent.

Then, she said, as if to herself: “ I think he tried to comfort me, even though I was terrified in that moment… and when that didn’t work … he let me go…” 

Nadir sighed softly.

“It is not your duty to heal him,” he said, eventually. “And it is not your fault that he is the way he is. You don’t owe him anything, Christine. Whether you choose to see him again, or not—that is your decision. Only yours.”

“Why is he in critical condition? What happened?”

“Morphine,” Nadir said quietly. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Too much of it. But he’s alive.”

Christine gripped the blanket in her lap, knuckles white. “Can I see him?”

Nadir hesitated only briefly, then nodded. “You are always welcome in my home, Christine. Always. However… I think your friends downstairs will not welcome it. Especially that Madame Giry.” He let out a breath, somewhere between reverence and exasperation. “ Khoda-ya , what a woman.”

________________________________________________________________________

The corridor lay in shadow, illuminated only by the faint glow spilling from beneath Christine’s door. The hush of the apartment pressed close, broken only by the faint creak of wood and the occasional murmur from behind Christine’s closed door.

Raoul sat slumped against the wall, legs drawn up, arms draped over his knees. His hair was still disheveled, his cravat loosened. He stared at the seam between floor and doorframe as though sheer force of will might grant him the ability to hear through it.

He didn’t notice the soft steps at first.

Meg moved quietly—almost like a child afraid to break a spell. She crept down the hallway barefoot, her skirts brushing the floor, and lowered herself beside him without a word.

For a moment, she just sat there, knees drawn up, her hands folded in her lap. Then, gently, she leaned her head against his shoulder.

Raoul gave a long breath. Slowly, as if exhaling something heavier than air, he let his head rest against hers.

"What’s wrong with her?" he whispered, his voice so low it barely made a sound. "That wasn’t just a fever. Something’s weighing on her soul."

He swallowed hard. "And who is that man?"

Meg was quiet for a long moment. Her head still rested against Raoul’s shoulder, her hands folded in her lap. When she finally spoke, her voice was hushed and hesitant.

“There’s a man… his name is Erik,” she said. 

Raoul stiffened beneath her, but didn’t interrupt.

“Christine told me she was in love with him, a while ago… .” The words came slowly, as if Meg still couldn’t believe them herself. “Then three days ago, she came to me, all happy. She said he asked her to marry him. She said yes.”

Raoul’s breath hitched.

“I was so, so happy for her too! But then… that same night, a boy named Darius brought her to us. She was completely soaked from the rain and could barely walk. She didn’t speak. And the fever started soon after.”

She paused, her voice shaking now.

“Mama thinks they fought. That something happened between them—something terrible. Maybe he hurt her. Or used her. And then left her.”

Raoul turned his head slightly to look at her, his eyes hard, searching her face.

“Is it that man in there?”

Meg shook her head. “No, mama said he’s Erik’s friend. Or was, once. That he knows more than anyone else. That’s why he’s here.”

Raoul leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. His jaw clenched.

Silence settled between them again, heavy and uncertain. Only the faintest sounds came from behind the door.

Chapter Text

The stairs creaked under their steps. Christine descended slowly, but with a quiet determination in every movement. Nadir walked beside her, his hands folded behind his back, gaze fixed ahead. Her coat brushed against her ankles as they reached the final step.

Raoul and Me were on their feet the moment they saw her. 

“What are you doing?” Raoul asked, his voice raw.

Christine met his eyes. “I’m going to see him,” she said quietly. “I have to.”

“Christine—” Madame Giry’s voice called from the hallway, sharp and urgent. She stepped from the sitting room, her apron still damp from the water she had used to cool Christine’s fever. “That is not wise. You’ve barely recovered. And Erik—” She faltered.

“I need to see him.”

“I cannot allow it,” Madame Giry snapped. “Not after everything—”

“Then I will go with her.” Raoul stepped forward, placing himself at Christine’s side.

A charged silence fell. The women exchanged a look. Then Madame Giry gave a slow, reluctant nod. “Then go,” she murmured. “But if anything happens—”

“Nothing will happen,” Christine said, soft but firm.

Nadir opened the door, and the chill of the Paris morning spilled in, brushing Christine’s cheeks like a ghost. She breathed in deeply and stepped out.

_________________________________________________________________________

Christine sat close beside Raoul in the carriage to Nadir’s home, her hands folded in her lap. Her posture was straight, but her eyes were distant, fixed on nothing. It took her a long moment to speak.

“Meg told you everything, right?” Christine asked softly. Raoul’ lips were a thin line - he nodded once, curtly.

“I need you to understand,” she said softly, barely above a whisper. “He didn’t hurt me. At least not in the way you think.”

Raoul turned his head, watching her, cautious and gentle. He said nothing, allowing her the space to continue.

“I was frightened. I still am, maybe. But what he did... what happened. He lashed out, yes, but… I don’t think he meant to. I don’t know what I’ll say to him yet. Or if I’ll forgive him. But I need to see him.”

Raoul blinked slowly, the weight of her words settling on him. She reached for his hand, wrapping her fingers around his. He turned to her and adjusted her red scarf affectionately with the other.

“You don’t have to justify any of this to me,” he said. “All you ever have to do is say the word, Christine. If you need shelter, if you need protection, if you need someone to stand between you and the world — I will do it. Gladly. Even marriage, if it grants you safety. You are... you’ve always been my dearest friend.”

Christine leaned her head against his shoulder, her fingers tightening around his.

“I think we might just be that in another universe,” she murmured. “Married.”

Raoul exhaled, his breath soft in her hair. “And in that universe,” he said, “I will save you. And be a good husband to you. I promise.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Darius was seated beside the bed, a book closed and resting on his lap. He stood the moment he saw her, offering a small, respectful nod. “He hasn’t woken,” he said softly, his voice hushed as though afraid to disturb the silence. “But he’s breathing better. And sometimes he says things.”

Christine gave him a grateful glance, and he quietly slipped past her, leaving her alone.

Her gaze fell to the bed.

Erik lay still — unmoving but alive. The sheets were tangled at his waist, his chest bare and slick with sweat. His mask was gone. The ruined side of his face was pressed into the pillow, hidden from her. What she saw instead was something unexpected.

The smooth, pale line of his jaw. His mouth, slightly parted in sleep. His lashes, darker and longer than she'd remembered. Without his guard up, without the mask, with only his handsome side visible — he looked... young. Not in years, but in essence. As if the rage and brilliance had drained out of him, leaving only the fragile boy that he had once been.

Her eyes drifted downward.

His back.

It was a tapestry of scars. Some old and white as chalk. Others angry, jagged, cruel. Raised welts, long lashes, burns, knots of healed tissue — like a map of pain carved into his skin over years.

Suddenly she saw a child. Alone. Terrified. Crying out and unheard.

Her vision blurred as the image bloomed behind her eyes: small hands covering a face, a whip cracking, laughter, a cage.

She sank slowly to her knees at his bedside and, with trembling fingers, reached out. Her hand hovered above his head for a heartbeat... then lowered, and gently brushed his sparse hair back from his temple.

“Erik,” she whispered, her voice nearly breaking. “It’s me.”

His breath caught — just barely. Then, slowly, his eyelids fluttered open.

For a moment, his gaze was unfocused, drifting. Then it found her.

His brow furrowed, not in pain, but in disbelief. As if he were gazing into some sweet, impossible dream. A fragile peace settled across his features.

“Christine?” he breathed. His voice was hoarse, the syllables thin with exhaustion. “You’re here… are you… are you real?”

She couldn’t answer. Her tears had already begun to fall, silent and steady, slipping down her cheeks.

He watched them, mesmerized. A faint, broken smile tugged at his lips.

“Then this must be a dream of heaven,” he murmured. “And you... my angel.”

A pause, then the faintest glimmer of longing crossed his expression. “Will you… sing for me?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Christine closed her eyes.

Her throat tightened — but she steadied herself, breathed once — and began, soft and trembling, her voice barely more than a lullaby.

“Think of me, think of me fondly
When we’ve said goodbye…
Remember me once in a while
Please promise me you’ll try…”

Her voice floated like silk through the stillness, gentler than moonlight. Erik’s eyes slowly drifted shut again. By the time she reached the last notes, his breathing had steadied — he was, again, fully asleep. She placed a long kiss on his temple, eyes squeezed shut, tears falling.

_________________________________________________________________________

It was the next morning.

The soft light of early day filtered through the tall windows of Nadir’s house, casting long slants of pale gold across the wooden floor. The household was still quiet; even Darius had gone out briefly to collect supplies. Christine had returned to Madame Giry’s home the night before, only to spend hours pacing her room in thought, her conversation with Nadir echoing in her mind.

Only you can decide what you want, he had told her.

And now, standing at the threshold of the room once again, Christine felt lost. She didn’t know anything, couldn’t decide what she wanted.

She had sent a message to Nadir at dawn. Tell me when he wakes.

Now, as she stepped into the room, he was awake. The door creaked softly open.

Erik turned his head at the sound—just barely—and when he saw her in the doorway, he moved with sudden urgency. With trembling hands, he reached for the mask on the bedside table and pulled it onto his face, his fingers fumbling over the familiar strap like a lifeline.

He sat up straighter, still pale and gaunt, the covers falling from his bare chest. His movements betrayed the weakness that still gripped him, but his spine was stiff with pride.

"Christine," he rasped, voice rough with disuse. 

She stood there for a moment, letting him see her—whole, unharmed, calm.

Then she sat down in a chair at the side of the bed.

"How are you?" she asked softly.

Erik stared at her for a beat too long, as though the question were in another language.

“I… I don’t know,” he said finally, voice raw. “I didn’t think you would… I didn’t think…”

He trailed off, swallowing hard, and looked down at his bandaged hands in his lap, as though ashamed to meet her gaze.

Christine watched him for a long moment—his silence, the way his hands fidgeted restlessly with the sheets, how his shoulders curved inward now as if trying to make himself smaller. As if he feared her presence as much as he longed for it.

Then, softly, she spoke.

“I’m going away for a while.”

Her voice was calm, unaccusing. Just a statement, yet it seemed to ripple through the air like a stone dropped into still water.

Erik’s head snapped up. For a moment, he only blinked at her. Then his mouth parted, but no words came.

His chest rose sharply, and he looked down again. “I see.”

She took a small breath, her hands clasped loosely in front of her.

“I need time. Space to think. To… remember who I am without so much… chaos.”

A flicker of pain crossed his face at that. But he nodded once—barely perceptible.

“You won’t be in danger,” he said, his voice low. “Not from me.”

“I know.” Her voice wavered just slightly. “That’s not why I’m going.”

He nodded again, slower this time.

Then, after a long silence, he asked quietly, “Will you come back?”

Christine’s lips parted—but no words came.

Instead, something in her seemed to break open. Her breath caught, sharp and high in her throat, and her eyes welled, suddenly, irreversibly.

She turned from him slightly, as if ashamed, but the tears fell anyway—quiet at first, then harder. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth as if to hold it all in, but it was no use.

“I don’t know,” she gasped, her voice cracking. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

The words tumbled out like water from a fractured dam. “It’s all too much. The pressure… the expectations… They want perfection. They want me to be everything. And I try. I always try.”

She shook her head, tears sliding down her cheeks now, unchecked. “And all the while I miss him. My papa. I still wait for him, sometimes. I still dream that he’ll walk through the door and take me away. And now—now there’s this. I don’t even know if I know you anymore - if I ever knew you. I thought I was safe with you, that you would be the man to take me away from the pain. And now…”

She turned to Erik again, her face crumpled in grief, exhaustion, tenderness. “I don’t know how to carry all of it anymore.”

And then, as if her body gave out beneath the weight of it all, she lowered her head, slowly, and sank forward onto the edge of his bed. Her arms folded on the blanket near his side, and she buried her face in them, shoulders beginning to tremble.

A sob broke from her chest—small, choked, but gut-deep.

“I want my papa,” she whispered into the fabric, the words cracked and childlike, as if spoken from some place deep within her that had never truly grown up, never truly healed.

She wept like a girl lost in the dark—grieving, not only for her father, but for everything: the safety that never returned, the innocence that was asked to grow up too fast, and the love that now sat quiet and broken beside her.

Erik didn’t move. He let her cry, let each tear fall without a word. Minutes passed.

When her sobs finally faded, Christine slowly lifted her head, drew a long breath, and sat upright. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks streaked with tears — but her gaze was calmer now. Tired, but steadier.

Her hand drifted to her chest, fingers brushing over the ring that rested there on a necklace.

“I’ll keep your ring, for now” she said softly, but with quiet resolve.

Erik looked at her. For a moment, she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes — perhaps gratitude. Perhaps pain. But he didn’t speak. He only nodded — small, silent, barely there.

Christine rose to her feet, moving slowly, like someone walking away from something precious. At the door, she paused, turned back to him.

Her lips trembled; tears threatened to rise again.

He met her eyes — still silent — and then, with the faintest motion, nodded once more. A gentle encouragement. Go.

And she went.

Chapter Text

Six weeks later.

The late spring sun was still hanging low as Christine stepped onto the quiet cobblestones of Rue Auber. A soft breeze tugged at the hem of her skirt, and dust danced lazily in the golden light. Her steps faltered as she reached number 8. The building stood the same as before—unassuming, private—yet something in her stilled, as if the very bricks held their breath.

She raised a trembling hand, pulled a small brass key from her pocket, and unlocked the door.

The moment she stepped inside, she knew: he had stayed.

The air held faint traces of the earthy scent she still couldn’t identify, of paper and ink, of something familiar—him. She let her worn travel bag slip from her fingers and fall softly to the floor. The hallway was no longer barren. A few framed prints leaned against the wall, unmounted. A coat stand stood waiting without a coat. It was a home in the making, half-lived in, half-dreamed.

Then, from behind a half-closed door at the end of the hall, came the sound of music.

A piano—hesitant, intimate.

She moved slowly toward it, drawn like a moth to the flame. The room was flooded with afternoon light. A grand piano stood in the middle, flanked by empty bookshelves and mismatched chairs. And at the keys, thin and pale, sat Erik.

His back to her. Shoulders sharp beneath his white shirt. Only with a waistcoat. The left side of his face was hidden from her, the profile she could see calm in concentration.

And he was singing, softly, almost to himself:

“Only got a human heart
I wish it didn’t run away
I wish it didn’t fall apart...”

Christine stepped closer, her throat tightening as she saw the bandages on his knuckles, the strain in his voice.

“Oh, my human heart
Night and day and light and dark...”

She moved to the bench beside him. He didn’t look at her, but something in him shifted, as if her presence filled a space he hadn’t dared to acknowledge.

She sat down slowly beside him, and—when her voice came—it was soft but certain, blending into his without hesitation:

“Any day, it could be torn in half
Only got a human heart...”

He didn’t stop playing.

They sang the final lines together, their voices tender.

And when the last note faded, silence followed.

Christine turned her head and leaned it lightly against his shoulder.

They sat in silence for a time. The late afternoon light filtered in through the tall windows, brushing the room in a warm, golden hue. Christine, still resting her head against his shoulder, let her eyes fall shut for a brief moment of peace.

“Are you real?” He asked, his voice hoarse.

She didn’t answer. Instead, quietly, she said, “You always smelled like something… earthy. I never knew what it was.”

Erik turned his head slightly, his voice just above a whisper. “Sandalwood?”

She lifted her head and looked at him. He reached into the inner pocket of his waistcoat with slow, precise fingers and withdrew a small fabric pouch—worn, soft from time and touch.

“Here,” he murmured, offering it to her. When his hand brushed his, his breath hitched slightly.

“So you are real,” he whispered, lowering his gaze, his eyes filling with tears.

Christine took it with both hands. Now she smelled the scent even more—warm, rich, grounded. Familiar. Her breath caught in her throat.

“This is it,” she said softly, holding it close to her face. “This is you.”

He gave a faint nod, his eyes still lowered. Christine cradled the little pouch in her palm, her fingers curled around it with care. The earthy warmth of the scent wrapped around her like a memory long dormant.

She looked down at the pouch, then made a small motion to hand it back to him. He gently closed her fingers around it with his own. “Keep it. As a present.”

She hesitated. “I shouldn’t take it. Then you won’t smell like it anymore.”

He gave the faintest of smiles. “I have more.”

There was a long, quiet pause. Christine looked at him, her expression softening. She tucked the pouch carefully into her coat.

He turned and was staring down at his fingers now, resting on the piano keys again, unmoving, as if afraid any motion towards her might shatter the fragile silence between them, as if she might vanish.

Christine leaned closer, inch by inch, until her nose nestled gently into the crook of his neck. He inhaled sharply—but still didn’t move.
Her lips brushed his skin, soft as a breath, pressing a kiss to the warm curve of his throat. Then she tilted her head and let her mouth travel upward, placing a kiss just behind his ear.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

His head turned toward her, slow and stunned. Their lips met.

At first, it was a delicate thing—hesitant, reverent—but it deepened as Christine’s arms circled his neck, drawing him closer. His hands, trembling slightly, found their way to her waist, settling there with aching tenderness. They kissed until they had no breath left, until the world around them faded into silence and heartbeat.

When they finally broke apart, they remained close, foreheads resting against each other. Christine laughed, breathy and light, her smile trembling with joy.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you, my love,” she whispered.

Their lips found each other again, softer now, slower, as if savoring the simple miracle of closeness after so much pain and time apart. When they finally paused, Christine stayed nestled against him, her fingertips drawing light, absent patterns along the back of his neck.

“Can I stay the night?” she asked quietly.

Erik froze, just for a moment. His hand tightened slightly on her waist before pulling back, just enough to meet her eyes.

“Christine… of course I would want nothing more,” he said, his voice low and careful. “But... I’m still officially one of the Opera’s managers. If word got out you were here—it could look as though you were... seeking favor. People might talk.”

She shook her head with a quiet smile. “No one will know. I won’t leave early in the morning. I’ll go in the afternoon—so it will just look like a normal visit.”

He looked at her, studying her for a long moment as if trying to decide whether he was dreaming again. Then he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders softening, and he gave a small, silent nod.

“Then stay,” he whispered. “Please.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Christine retrieved her travel bag from where it still rested near the front door. Without needing to ask, she disappeared into the bathroom to freshen up after the long journey. When she emerged some time later—her hair slightly damp, skin washed clean of travel dust, her cheeks lightly flushed—Erik stood waiting in the hallway.

He looked at her for a moment, unsure, then asked, “Are you hungry?”

She gave a small nod, smiling.
“Famished.”

“Then wait for me on the sofa,” he said.

She did as told, curling up on the wide, velvet-upholstered piece while he disappeared into what must have been a modest kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned with a plate arranged with care: bread, wedges of cheese, ripe fruit, a small portion of cooked lentils. He handed it to her silently, then settled into the armchair opposite her, watching as she took the first few bites.

After a moment, she looked up and asked, “Aren’t you going to eat?”

He shook his head lightly.
“No. Not now.”

A soft pause settled between them as she ate, and he continued to watch her, though not intrusively—more like someone committing every gesture of a beloved memory to heart.

Finally, his voice broke the quiet.
“Where were you? You and Miss Giry?”, he asked, shyly. “Noone would tell me.” His voice was low.

Christine glanced at him, finishing a bite of apple, and gave a small smile.
“Italy,” she said. “We stayed near Florence for a time, and later in a little coastal town whose name I still can’t pronounce properly.”

At that, something shifted in his posture. He leaned forward slightly, curiosity flickering behind his eyes.

“Florence?” he echoed, and his voice was quieter now, touched by something almost like wonder. He scooted closer on the edge of his seat, hands folded loosely in his lap.

“Yes.” Christine took another bite, then set the apple down and leaned back against the cushions with a thoughtful sigh.

“We saw the David ,” she said after a pause. “In the Accademia.”

Erik’s gaze flicked up, sharp with interest. “They’ve finally moved him indoors?”

She nodded.
“Yes. Into the Tribuna.”

A soft huff of a laugh escaped him, barely audible. “ When I was there, he was still on the Piazza, open to the rain and pigeons. Poor Michelangelo.” He tilted his head. “Emilio always said it would take forever.”

Christine’s eyes lit up. “You knew Emilio de Fabris?”

“Briefly. He invited me to see the early designs for the Tribuna—he wanted to show off his dome.” A wry smile touched his lips. “He called it his temple of light.”

Christine let out a soft laugh, then grew quiet again, remembering.
“It really does feel like that. When you stand in the center… it’s like the marble glows. Like he’s alive.”

Erik’s expression softened. “Did you enjoy the Tribuna?”

Christine looked down at her hands, then up again.
“Yes. I stood there for a long time.” Her voice was low. “He looked so… human. But impossible, too.”

A beat passed, and she added gently, “I thought of you.” She rose and crossed the room. He looked up, startled but unmoving, as she gently climbed onto his lap, her skirts settling softly around them both.

She cupped his face and kissed him, tender and unhurried.

When they parted, he let out a breathless, broken laugh and murmured,
“I don’t understand how you can stand before the statue of David… and think of me.”

Her eyes searched his, full of quiet certainty. “That’s because you don’t see yourself through my eyes.”

And then, with reverent hands, she reached up and carefully removed his mask.

He didn’t stop her. 

She leaned in, slow and sure, and pressed a kiss to the scarred side of his face.

“Take me to bed, please.”

_________________________________________________________________________

They did not sleep until the first light began brushing faint blue across the windows.

Erik’s bedroom was quiet, dimly lit by the single lamp on the small piano in the corner. Their clothing had been exchanged for nightclothes—hers borrowed from a drawer of soft, oversized shirts he had once worn around the house. She lied about not having any clean nightgowns anymore after the long trip home, just to get one of his shirts. Now, she lay nestled beside him on the bed, curled beneath the coverlet, facing him, her hand resting lightly on his chest.

They kissed, often and without hurry, as if making up for all the hours lost between them. And in between, they simply spoke—voices low, words threaded with laughter, quiet honesty, and long silences.

She told him about the weeks in Italy, the air thick with orange blossoms, the wine at dusk, carefully omitting the silly young men who had tried to charm her and who she turned down, one after the other. She spoke of sunlight on ancient stone and music echoing through cathedral halls. “It was beautiful,” she whispered. “But I kept thinking—I wish Erik could see this. Every time I laughed, I wished you’d heard it.”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “I don’t think I could’ve borne it. Knowing how much pain I had caused you before.”

She smiled gently and reached up to stroke his cheek. “You were never far.”

They lay like that for a while—quiet, close, her hand resting over the slow rise and fall of his chest. Outside the windows, the faint blue of dawn was beginning to bleed into the night, washing the corners of the room in soft, tentative light.

Erik shifted slightly, just enough to see her better. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from her face. But his eyes—so often hidden, guarded—were open now, unflinching. And something in them had changed.

“Christine,” he said, his voice low and rough-edged. “There’s something I need to say. And I need you to let me say it.”

She stilled. Nodded once.

He inhaled, slow and steady, as if gathering the courage to keep going.

“That night. When you tried to leave me.” His eyes flickered, full of pain. “I hurt you. Not just with my hands. With everything. I saw fear in your face—and I caused it. I wanted to keep you, and I thought… I thought if I held on tight enough, you would stay. Like that would make it real.”

She didn’t speak, only held his gaze, her fingers tightening slightly where they lay.

He looked away, ashamed.

“I was cruel. Possessive. I acted like I could tie you up, beg you, force you to stay.”

His voice shook.

“You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve to be dragged down into my pain, just because I didn’t know how to live without you.” His eyes met hers again—desperate, pleading, and his hand moved to hers, gently taking it. “I am sorry, Christine. I really am. If I could undo it…”

“Thank you for saying that.”

Her voice was quiet, but full—steady, despite the emotion that shimmered beneath it. She watched him for a moment, her thumb gently tracing the line of his knuckles where their hands were entwined.

“Nadir told me… about Persia.”
Erik’s breath caught, but he didn’t look away.

“About what it was like. I know I can’t understand what that kind of life really feels like—being used like a weapon. But I can try. And I do try, Erik.”

She paused, gathering her thoughts.

“I grew up traveling with my father. You know that. He was a great musician—but we were poor. Sometimes, we went for days with barely enough to eat. In winter, it was cold enough to make your bones ache. I remember once, I was so hungry I couldn’t sleep. I cried all night, and the next morning he came back with bread and a wool blanket. I asked where he got it.” She gave a small, sad smile. “He wouldn’t say. But I knew.”

Her voice softened.

“He stole it. He didn’t want to—but he did. Because I was cold and starving. Because we had nothing and no one. Because sometimes, survival makes you do things you’d never imagine yourself capable of.”

Her eyes found his again, shimmering with memory and understanding.
“I’m no stranger to what it means to do what you must. To choose the worst of yourself, because it’s that or nothing. But Erik—”

She leaned in just slightly, her voice low, firm, unwavering.
“You can never lash out at me like that ever again. Never at me. Remember that.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his breath trembled in his chest, and something in his expression cracked—raw, open.
Then he nodded, once.
“I won’t. I swear it.”

She took a breath, then continued softly,
“Nadir also explained why that power was so seductive for you - I even can understand that, in a way… especially when it comes to men like Buquet.”

Erik’s gaze darkened, but there was no anger, only a flicker of shame.

“Would you undo that, if you could?”
Christine’s voice was soft, searching.

“Christine,” he said, voice low and a little unsteady, “when you found out I was only a man and no angel—I swore to myself I’d never lie to you again.”
He shifted nervously, eyes flickering away for a moment before meeting hers again.
“No, I wouldn’t undo that.”

Her eyes hardened. “Good.”

He blinked, caught off guard.

“If I had been there… if I had seen what happened before—” she paused, voice steady, “I would have asked you to do it. The other ballet girls… sure, there’s gossip and fights sometimes, but they’re all my sisters in their own way.”

She looked at him quietly. “Does killing Buquet… does that weigh on you?”

He shook his head slowly. “Less than you leaving.”

Her eyes searched his. “How did you manage… when I was gone?”

Erik sighed, his fingers tracing slow, restless patterns along her back. “At first, I didn’t eat. Not much, anyway. I barely slept. Nadir tried to get me to eat. Darius, too. But I—” He shook his head, voice heavy with regret. “I missed you, Christine. Everything felt unbearably heavy. Like I was drowning in silence and shadows.”

He paused, swallowing hard, then continued, voice raw and haunted. “After two weeks of doing nothing—no food, no sleep—I started clearing out my home beneath the opera. It was a wreck. Everything broken, shattered by my own hands. I had to do something. Then I moved on to the apartment in Rue Auber—just moving things from one place to another, trying to create order out of chaos.”

His gaze dropped. “I still didn’t really eat. I still didn’t really sleep, but at least I had something to do.” His voice faltered slightly. “I saw you in every room. Not just in my mind—real, like you were really there. It felt so vivid, so real. And because furnishing the flat seemed to bring you back, I kept going.”

He swallowed hard. “But every time I reached out to touch you, you vanished—gone before my fingers could make contact. Up until today. Today you didn’t vanish.”

Her eyes flicked downward, catching the way his gaze lingered at her collarbone. She followed it—and lifted the small gold chain that lay around her neck. The ring hung from it, glinting faintly in the low light.

“You kept it,” he whispered.

“I told you I would,” she murmured.

They kissed again, slow and quiet, and then settled back into the pillows, her hand still twining gently with his.

After a moment of silence, she asked, “What happened to your hands?”

He hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he turned them up so she could trace the raw skin across his knuckles. “There’s a place,” he said. “In Pigalle. An old warehouse. Men fight. I go there, sometimes. It helps. The pain is simple. It quiets my mind.”

The realization hit her suddenly: Why he always wore gloves around her, even in his home. Then, she remembered something else. Her brows drew together, soft with concern. “No morphine?”

He shook his head.

“No more,” he said. “Not since that night. It actually… it drowned out the visions of you. So I stopped.”

She exhaled, a deep and shaking breath, and kissed the tips of his fingers, each one tenderly. Then she let his hand rest between hers for a long moment, her thumbs brushing over the bruised skin of his knuckles.

“I don’t like it,” she said softly, not scolding, but earnestly. “The thought of you in that warehouse, hurting yourself just to feel quiet again…”

He didn’t look at her. His gaze was distant, fixed somewhere past her shoulder.

“It’s not about hurting myself,” he murmured. “It’s about control. About the noise inside going still. It’s… difficult to explain.”

She reached out, gently guiding his chin so he’d look at her. “Help me understand.”

He searched her face, as if gauging how much she could bear.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” she whispered. “I just got you back.”

His features softened, wounded and moved all at once. “I won’t go again. Not if it troubles you.”

She shook her head slightly. “It’s not about forbidding you. It’s about… love. About wanting more for you than pain. Don’t you want that, too?”

His breath caught, the old instinct to flinch from tenderness flickering in his eyes. But he nodded—slowly, as if the truth of it was only now beginning to settle into his bones.

“I’ll try,” he said.

Christine leaned in and kissed his brow. “That’s all I ask.”

They sat in the quiet stillness of the room, the city asleep beyond the windows. Erik's hand was still cradled in hers, resting now more gently between them. For a while, he said nothing, only watched her — her hair a soft mess from travel, her eyes clear and tired all at once.

Then, softly:

“Do you still feel it?” he asked. “The pressure? In the opera? The weight of it?”

Christine's gaze dropped. Her fingers traced absent circles on the back of his hand.

“Yes,” she said after a pause. “But I’ve begun to understand it better. To see it for what it is, not for what I thought it had to mean. It’s not about being perfect anymore. It’s about... being true. To the music. To myself. We’ll see how I will feel now that I’m back.”

He nodded slowly, something easing in his shoulders at her words. Then, with even more hesitation, he asked, “And your father… do you still miss him like before?”

Christine's breath caught slightly. She didn’t answer right away. Then:

“I always will,” she said. “But it’s not the same ache anymore. It used to hollow me out. Now, I think… I carry him. Like a note in my voice. Like warmth in the sun.”

She looked up at him with a quiet, teary smile.

“He's not coming back. But I am.”

Erik watched her in the dim light — her words still echoing between them.

He swallowed, then spoke, voice low and unsteady. “I still want to marry you.”

Christine let out a soft, breathy laugh full of affection. She reached up and touched the chain around her neck, where the ring still hung.

“Why do you think I’m still wearing your ring?”

Chapter Text

The sunlight had crept in slowly, casting soft streaks across the floor and warming the walls. By the time Christine stirred, it was late morning — perhaps ten or eleven. The quiet of the room wrapped around her like a blanket, still and golden.

Beside her, Erik slept.

He took up more space than she would have thought, sprawled diagonally across the bed with one arm folded beneath his pillow and the other resting half-outstretched, fingers curled loosely. He was lying on his chest, his face turned toward her , the scarred side of his face was buried in the pillow, hidden even in sleep.

She wondered if it was a habit, unconscious and ingrained — this need to conceal himself even in dreams. Her eyes wandered over him. He wore a shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the collar slightly undone from the restless hours they’d shared talking and not sleeping. The fabric pulled tight across his back in places, but hung looser in others.

She found herself wondering what he looked like without it — properly, this time. Not fevered and half-conscious in a sickbed, but real and present and entirely his own. He had grown thinner in the weeks they’d been apart, but she wondered if the taut lines of muscle she remembered were still there, hidden under pale skin and scars.

Her body ached with the nearness of him. She had gone too long without touch - especially her own - before this night — always sharing a room with Meg, never alone, never space or privacy. Never this.

Slowly, her hand drifted toward him, almost of its own accord, until her fingertips hovered just above the back of his neck.

And then —

A loud knock shattered the stillness.

Erik jolted upright with a gasp, disoriented and alert in the same breath. He blinked toward the door, chest heaving once as he tried to orient himself. 

“It’s just the front door,” Christine said gently, watching him with a hand resting lightly over her heart.

He nodded, still startled but calming down. “Yes,” he said, “yes, just the door.”

“Did you invite someone?” she asked, sitting up beside him, the sheet slipping slightly from her shoulder.

“No,” he said, distractedly.

He threw the blanket back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet hit the floor with a quiet thud, and he reached for the trousers draped over the nearby chair. Christine’s eyes followed every movement — the flex of his spine, the muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he stepped into the trousers. Her breath caught.

There was something hypnotic in the simplicity of the moment, in the way his body moved with precision. She remembered, vividly now, how he had once looked fevered, ghost-pale and trembling. Now, even still thin and not yet fully recovered, he moved with strength again — with purpose.

He glanced back once, as though sensing her gaze, and something flickered in his eyes — a small, private smile not quite formed — before he reached for his wig and mask to put them on. Then he turned and walked barefoot down the stairs.

Christine waited a beat, then slipped from the bed and followed him into the hallway. She waited at the top of the stairs, the hem of Erik’s shirt brushing her thighs as she moved quietly down a few steps, staying just out of view of the door. The scent of sandalwood lingered around her, faint but grounding. She tightened the shirt around her body out of instinct — not modesty, but the awareness of being somewhere between intimacy and intrusion.

From her place on the stairs, she watched Erik as he crossed the floor below. He now buttoned his trousers with swift, practiced movements. The sharp lines of his profile cut against the morning light. Even barefoot and just awakened, there was a gravity to him — something commanding, even in quiet.

He glanced back once, catching her eyes through the railing. Something in his expression softened, just briefly — a flicker of private warmth — before he turned and stepped to the door to open it.

“You look like shit,” she heard Madame Giry say, blunt as ever.

“Always did,” Erik replied dryly.

“No, I mean you still look thin… pale. I thought Nadir made you eat, lately. But that’s not why I’m here.”

Christine could hear the faint rustle of cloth, the tension of someone shifting their weight just inside the door. She took another step, slower this time, careful not to let the boards creak.

There was a pause.

“Christine is here, isn’t she?” Madame Giry asked, voice softer now, but still direct.

Christine stepped into view without a word, descending the last few stairs with quiet dignity despite the way her heart thudded in her chest. Erik’s shirt, just barely brushing the tops of her thighs, hung loose around her frame, and her hair—unbound and still tousled from sleep—caught the morning light behind her like a halo.

Madame Giry looked at her for a long moment. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes moved—taking in the shirt, the bare legs, the closeness between the two.

Her mouth tightened. “Are you two insane? This is highly improper.”

Christine opened her mouth, but the older woman didn’t stop.

“I was fine when Meg said you wanted to go to him right away, I understood. But staying away all night?” Her voice rose slightly. “What were you thinking, Christine?”

Erik, ever composed but clearly tense, took a breath to speak. “Nothing dishonorable happened, I assure you—”

“Don’t,” Madame Giry cut him off sharply, eyes flashing. “Don’t try to defend it. You’re not married. I thought you wanted to protect her, Erik. You are a manager at the Opera. Do you know how this looks? Do you want the rumors to start up again? Because the moment Christine sets foot on that stage, all eyes will be on her—especially those eager to drag her down.”

Then she turned to Christine, and her voice was colder, sharper, edged with worry.

“And you. Have you lost your mind? Do you know what kind of consequences these… actions can bring?”

“But we didn’t do anything!” Christine said, the words escaping in a burst of frustration and shame.

Erik stepped forward, voice low and urgent now. “Please, Antoinette. Come inside. Let’s not have this conversation on the street.”

“No!” she snapped, her tone sharp as a whip. “I want you home as soon as possible, Christine. Get dressed!”

Then she turned on Erik, pointing at him with unmistakable authority. “And you—you’re going to marry her as soon as humanly possible, before the two of you can make any more foolish mistakes.”

“I was planning to,” he said quietly, without hesitation.

“Good,” Madame Giry replied, folding her arms. “Then that’s settled.”

_________________________________________________________________________

That afternoon, Christine met Meg and Raoul along the Seine, where the two had been walking and chatting together. The sun was warm above them, glittering on the water, and the breeze carried the scent of spring and river stone.

They greeted her with delighted smiles— Raoul took her hand, spinning her briefly in a mock dance before pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“I missed you, Little Lotte,” he said fondly, eyes bright. “Both of my girls, back in Paris at last.”

Meg opened a little paper bag and held it out. “Macarons. We got too many, of course. Here.”

Christine took one with a grateful smile, and the three strolled along the river’s edge, the occasional laughter from riverboats drifting across the water.

Then Raoul turned to her, his tone teasing and his grin just a touch too knowing.

“Meg told me you were very naughty last night.”

Christine immediately flushed, nearly choking on her bite of macaron. “Nothing happened!” she insisted, eyes darting between them.

“Lotte,” Raoul said, “just tell us the truth. We won’t tell a soul. Look, I'll tell you about one of my... encounters in return.”

Christine groaned, covering her face with one hand as she chewed and swallowed hurriedly. “Raoul, please don’t.”

Meg giggled beside her. “Oh no, I want to hear this now. What scandal have you been hiding, Vicomte?”

Raoul gave a mock bow. “It was Marseille. 1880. I  had just turned 18. There was a masquerade, a violinist, and an extremely unfortunate incident with a balcony and a very jealous husband.”

Christine laughed despite herself, her cheeks still pink. “You’re incorrigible.”

Raoul grinned. “Which is why you can trust me. So. Did something happen or not?”

Christine lifted her chin, trying for dignity. “We stayed up talking. That’s all.”

Meg raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Talking. All night.”

“Yes!” Christine said, flustered. “We… had a lot to say.”

Raoul offered her another macaron with a cheeky smile. “You’re glowing, Lotte. Just saying.”

Christine gave him a flat look, reaching out to smack his arm — gently, but with great intention.

Raoul yelped dramatically. “Ow! I’m trying to educate you!”

Meg snorted with laughter. “Oh please, spare her your wisdom.”

Raoul rubbed his arm, grinning like a schoolboy. “So the most important thing is,” he said, leaning in mock-conspiratorially, “that you always put the man’s pleasure first, of course.”

Christine gaped at him in mock horror. “You’re unbelievable!”

“I’m joking ,” he said, laughing as he raised his hands defensively. “Honestly, Lotte. You think I’m that much of a scoundrel?”

“Yes,” Meg and Christine said in perfect unison.

Raoul straightened slightly, though the glint of amusement hadn’t entirely left his eyes. “Alright,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve with exaggerated ceremony. “As your stand-in older brother, I suppose I still have a duty to educate you before you’re getting married. Properly, this time.”

Christine groaned softly, covering her face with one hand. “Raoul, please—”

“No, no. Listen,” he said, suddenly gentler. “You’re not a child anymore, Lotte. And you’re about to marry someone... unusual.”

She dropped her hand slowly, her expression softening.

“In the last weeks I got to know your Maestro a little bit,” Raoul continued. “As patron and manager of the Opera Garnier we had to have a few meetings. He seems intense— and from everything Madame Giry told me I’m sure he would burn the world down for you. But it seems to me that men like him don’t always know how to be... soft. Gentle. And he hurt you before.”

Christine nodded, quietly, a small shadow in her eyes.

“So you have to remember that it’s not just about learning each other’s bodies,” Raoul said, serious now. “It’s about trust. About saying no if something hurts. About speaking up, always.”

Meg reached out and gave Christine’s hand a light squeeze.

“And about joy,” Raoul added. “Don’t forget that part. It’s meant to be good. For both of you.”

Christine smiled then, a little shy, but grateful. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Raoul glanced at her kindly. “Do you have any questions, Lotte? Really. You can ask anything.”

Christine hesitated, eyes flicking between the two of them. Her voice was quiet when she spoke. “I know that when a man and a woman marry, they… have babies. And I know about what happens between them in a marriage bed. But… what exactly causes the baby? And how do the other ballet girls avoid that happening to them?”

Meg blinked, then leaned forward a bit. “I think… I think I heard Sorelli say once that she counts the days. Something about how long it’s been since her bleeding stopped. She said if you’re careful with the timing, you won’t get pregnant.”

Raoul nodded thoughtfully, then added, “There are ways to… do things together, to enjoy each other, without making a baby. I’m sure your Maestro knows them — you should talk to him about it. But the important part is that his… seed doesn’t go into your womb. That’s what could make you pregnant.”

Christine’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh…” she murmured.

Suddenly, many of the hushed conversations she’d overheard made more sense. The way the ballet girls spoke of hands and mouths and kisses — the longing without the consequences Madame Giry warned of. It all clicked into place.

Raoul broke the short silence with a grin. “You look like someone just handed you a sheet of forbidden music.”

Christine laughed, a bit breathless. “It does feel a bit like that.”

Meg nudged her playfully. “We all learned the same way — asking awkward questions in gardens and stairwells.”

“I just never… talked about it like this.” Christine glanced at both of them, her voice softer. “It’s good. Strange, but good.”

Raoul slung an arm loosely over both their shoulders as they walked along the Seine, the breeze tugging gently at their coats. “That’s how you know we’re your family,” he said lightly. “We’ll be here for every question — even the awkward ones.”

Christine smiled, warmth blooming in her chest. “I missed you.”

“I missed you two too,” Raoul said. “Paris wasn’t the same.”

Christine looked out at the water, the afternoon sun shimmering over the slow current. “Italy changed me. I remembered how to feel light again. But I think… coming back reminded me why I want to stay.”

There was a gentle silence between them, broken only by the sound of their steps and the distant murmur of the city.

“You’ll be alright,” Raoul said finally, voice low and certain. “Even if we all think you’re mad.”

Meg grinned. “Which you absolutely are.”

Christine laughed, and this time it didn’t feel hesitant or uncertain.

Chapter Text

The morning air still held the coolness of late spring as Christine climbed the wide marble steps of the Opéra Garnier. The grand doors stood open, swallowing her into the familiar hush of the entryway. Though she'd only been gone six weeks, the gilded halls felt distant — like the remnants of a dream she had left behind.

She made her way toward the administrative wing. Early summer silence echoed in the building even though it was only May, the usual bustle of rehearsals and crew replaced by the sleep of the off-season. At the end of the corridor, the office door stood ajar. She knocked once, then stepped in.

Four heads turned toward her — André and Firmin rose at once, their faces brightening.

“Mademoiselle Daaé!” André exclaimed. “You’ve returned to us!”

Firmin moved forward, extending both hands in welcome. “The very image of the south herself. You’ve been missed.”

Christine smiled and shook their hands. “It’s good to be back.”

Madame Giry gave her a small nod of approval from where she stood by the window. Then her eyes flicked, just briefly, toward the far side of the room — where Erik sat, composed and silent behind the desk. He inclined his head in professional acknowledgment, his mask as immaculate as his posture.

“Please,” Firmin gestured. “Sit down, my dear. We’ve something important to discuss.”

Christine took the seat across from them, folding her hands neatly in her lap, though her heart quickened slightly at the way Erik’s eyes briefly lingered on her before looking away again.

André clasped his hands together with an almost theatrical flourish. “As you may or may not have heard, Mademoiselle Carlotta Giudicelli has informed us she will not return for the new season.”

Christine’s eyes widened. “She’s left the Opéra?”

“She received an offer from La Scala,” Firmin explained. “And decided to... pursue broader horizons.”

“Which,” André cut in, “leaves us with an important vacancy.”

There was a beat of stillness. Christine’s gaze flicked from one face to the next — and landed, for a moment, on Erik. His expression gave nothing away.

Firmin leaned forward. “We would like to offer you the position of Prima Donna for the upcoming season.”

Christine blinked. “You would…?”

“You have the talent,” André said. “The discipline. And, more importantly, the public adores you.”

“It would mean lead roles in the major productions,” Firmin added. “And a salary to reflect your station, of course.”

Christine’s breath caught. Her mind reeled, not just from the offer — but from the fact that Erik sat so still and unreadable while the world around her shifted.

“I…” she began softly, “I don’t know what to say.”

“You’ll have time to think on it,” Madame Giry said from behind her. “But not too long. The planning for next season begins within the month.”

Christine nodded, heart pounding. “Thank you. Truly.”

Erik’s voice came then, even and smooth. “We will await your answer, Mademoiselle Daaé.”

She turned to look at him — something tender and knowing passing behind her eyes — but she only offered him a polite nod.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Christine wandered down the long corridor of the opera house, her footsteps echoing softly against the marble. The offer still rang in her ears — Prima Donna. It hardly felt real. She touched the cool banister as she descended one of the side staircases, her mind swimming.

At a bend where the light from the high windows didn’t quite reach, she paused. The old habits of the building — its mystery, its shadows — still had the power to stop her breath for just a second.

And then—

A hand slipped around her waist, pulling her gently back into a shadow. She gasped, startled — but the familiar scent of sandalwood hit her a heartbeat later.

“Erik!” she hissed in surprise.

He laughed low into her ear, already pressing a warm kiss to the hollow of her neck as he held her against him from behind. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Well, you did,” she said, breathless but grinning.

His arms wrapped more securely around her middle, his masked face nuzzled into her neck. She let her hands fall over his, her fingers curling around his wrists, grounding him to her. They stood like that for a moment — hidden in the shadows, their laughter quiet and full of light.

He spoke softly. “Congratulations, my love.”

Christine turned in his arms, her skirts rustling as she looked up at him, her eyes full of the joy she had barely let herself feel before. “It’s only an offer.”

“It’s your future,” he said. “And it’s glorious.”

She kissed him then — quick and full of joy — and he leaned into her, catching her waist again as if he couldn’t help it.

When they parted, he brushed a knuckle down her cheek. “Come to dinner with me tonight. To celebrate. Anywhere you like.”

She smiled slowly, eyes bright. “I want you to cook for me. At your home.”

He raised a brow behind the mask, amused by her insistence. Then nodded once, solemn and full of fondness.
“Very well.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The Rue Auber apartment glowed with soft amber light when Christine arrived that evening. Erik had opened the windows to let in the late-summer breeze, and the air inside smelled of lemon and rosemary. A candle burned low on the small dining table, which was set neatly near the window, two plates already waiting.

She smiled as she stepped in, closing the door behind her. “Something smells wonderful.”

From the kitchen, Erik glanced up, wearing a linen apron. “It’s edible, I guess.”

Christine laughed, shrugging off her light coat. “I’m sure it’s perfect.”

He gave her a quiet smile, then returned to the pan he was tending. “Roasted chicken. With lemon and rosemary.”

She wandered closer, watching him with warmth. “You’re rather domestic, you know.”

Erik gave a low chuckle. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”

A few minutes later, they sat across from each other, the plates warm between them, the candle flickering softly. For a while, they ate in companionable silence. Christine let out a quiet sigh of satisfaction after the first few bites.

After a while, he broke the silence. “I wanted to say something.”

She looked up at him, curious. He set down his fork and folded his hands in front of him, his voice low but clear.

“The offer you received today,” he said, “to become prima donna… it wasn’t my doing.”

Christine blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t ask them. I didn’t pressure them. I didn’t use any influence. That was all André and Firmin. They saw your talent — they couldn’t not see it. I just… I didn’t want you to think I interfered.”

She stared at him for a moment, then softened. “You thought I might think that?”

He tensed a little. “I didn’t want you to think that I broke my promise. Christine, this was yours. Completely.”

She smiled, heart swelling, and reached across the table for his hand.

“I know that,” she said. “I do. But thank you… for saying it.”

He gave a curt nod. 

________________________________________________________________________

After they cleared the dishes, Erik led her down the hall to the music room — the soft clink of plates replaced now by the hush of carpeted steps and the faint scent of polish and parchment.

He crossed to the piano immediately, running his fingers gently over the keys, almost absentmindedly.

“Would you like to sing?” he asked, glancing at her.

Christine, instead of replying, crossed to the window and settled into the tufted sofa with a sigh. The evening light played gently on her face. “No,” she said with a soft smile. “Not tonight.”

He turned, brows slightly raised. “No?”

She shook her head and patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit with me.”

For a moment, he hesitated — but then he moved away from the piano and sat down next to her, careful, quiet. His hands rested loosely in his lap.

She studied him for a moment, then said lightly, “Will you help me take off my dress?”

Erik blinked, clearly taken off guard. “Christine…”

She tilted her head in mock innocence. “It’s uncomfortable,” she said. “Try relaxing in a gown like this sometime. And you took off your jacket and waistcoat halfway through dinner. Besides, I slept in your shirt, you already saw me without all those layers.”

“I—” He looked slightly flustered, which only made her smile more. “I thought you didn’t mind corsets.”

“I don’t,” she replied. “Until I’ve eaten too much lemon chicken and chocolate mousse.” She leaned a little closer and added, “I only want to take off the overdress and the corset. I’m still wearing a full underdress beneath, I promise.”

He gave her a long look. Then, almost grudgingly he said, “Antoinette is right. We’re not married.”

“And yet…” she said sweetly, turning her back to him and lifting her hair.

He hesitated one more moment — then reached, fingers careful at the laces of her bodice.

Once her corset and overdress were loosened and shrugged off, Christine turned back to face him — eyes soft, hands settling lightly on his chest as she leaned forward, lips brushing his cheek, then lower.

He caught her wrists gently, stilling her.
“Please, Christine,” he murmured, his voice low, almost hoarse. “Don’t tempt me.”

She blinked, then smiled, a little sad, a little bold. “It’s all right, Erik.”

But he didn’t let go. His eyes searched hers — still steady, full of longing, but laced with restraint.

The moment stretched, quiet and delicate. Then her voice broke the stillness.

“Raoul and Meg said… there are ways. To prevent consequences.”

Something in his expression shifted. Not anger — but something taut, alert.

“You spoke to the Vicomte about such things?” he asked, very quietly.

She nodded. “I had questions. He and Meg… they were kind. He’s like a brother to me.”

Erik’s jaw moved, but no words came immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was clipped and quiet.
“I don’t want you speaking to other men about such things.”

“But I had questions,” she said defensively. “Things I didn’t understand.”

His eyes flicked away for a moment — then back to hers.
“Then next time… come to me.”

Christine held his gaze, her breath slightly quickened.

“All right,” she said softly. “Then show me. Show me what can be done. I know you know.”

He drew back just a little, as if her words physically pushed him away.
“I’ll show you… when we’re married.”

“Please, Erik,” she whispered. “I’ve spent weeks sharing a room with Meg. No privacy. We’re getting married anyway — why wait?”

“Because it’s a sin.”

She gave a soft, breathy laugh — not mocking, but surprised. “This is where you draw the line? Seriously?”

“Not for my sake,” he said, almost instantly. “For yours.”

She tilted her head, watching him. “So you believe in God?”

“Not really...” He hesitated, voice lower now, more distant. “I grew up... very religiously. Until I was about five. There was a priest who looked after me in the early years. My mother didn’t really… address me. But he did. He saw I was clever — gave me books, taught me things. But then one day he told me my dog didn’t have a soul. That he wouldn’t go to heaven, because he was just an animal.”

Christine frowned gently. Erik’s voice was steady, but quiet.

“I got angry,” he continued. “I didn’t want a god like that. One who made cruel distinctions. I refused to believe in him after that. And now... I don’t think there is a god. But for the slim chance there might be one...”
He looked at her, something fragile in his eyes.
“I don’t want to spoil you.”

She stared at him for a beat. Then she said, very softly:

“My father taught me not to believe in a god who would condemn something done out of love. And if that’s the case, then I’m already spoiled, anyway.”

He looked startled — just faintly — unsure whether he’d heard her right.

“I’ve touched myself,” she said, quieter still, “thinking of you.”

Erik stared at her.

Then he breathed, almost like he’d forgotten how.
“I can’t believe you could ever feel that way… about me.”

Christine gave a small smile, her answer always the same. “Then you really don’t see yourself the way I do.”

A moment passed — quiet, charged — and then he asked, softly,
“What exactly were your questions?”

She flushed faintly, but lifted her chin. “How to prevent... things. Meg said Sorelli counts the days of her bleeding, and Raoul said the most important thing is to not get in touch with your... seed.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose and stood, re-centering himself.
“Wait here,” he said, and left the room.

Christine sat still, curious.

When he returned, he was carrying a worn hardcover volume. He handed it to her without ceremony.
“This has everything. Strictly biological. What Sorelli does is in there — the counting of days, temperature tracking… It’s all explained.”

She took it reverently, her fingers brushing the edges of the leather cover. “Thank you.”

Then, after a pause, she looked up again, a little hesitantly.
“Do you have books about... other things? Pleasure?”

His mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite surprise.
“Yes,” he said, voice low. “But I’ll give them to you after you’ve had your own experiences. So you don’t… stifle your instincts. Or your creativity.”

She considered that, biting back a more impish remark, and then smiled. “Alright.”

A few peaceful seconds passed as she traced the spine of the book, then looked at the clock on the mantel. Her eyes widened.
“Madame Giry will skin me alive if I don’t come home tonight either.”

Erik laughed softly, nodding. “Then you’d better go.”
_________________________________________________________________________

The air inside Montreuil was still, touched with the faint chill of a reluctant spring. Outside, the light held a pale clarity, more silver than gold, and the breeze carried the bite of early May. It was quiet in the café-bar—too early for the evening crowd, too late for the lunchtime bustle.

Christine sat by the window, hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate, drawing warmth from it as much as comfort. Across from her, Meg was stirring her coffee absentmindedly, the steam rising in delicate tendrils.

On the walls, opera posters from seasons long gone stared down in faded grandeur. Their colors had dulled, but their titles still held weight: Tosca, Manon, Thaïs.

“I can’t believe they’ve asked me to take Carlotta’s place,” Christine said quietly. 

Meg smiled, excitedly. “Ugh, that’s so incredible.”

“I suppose,” she murmured. “But it doesn’t feel that way.”

She looked down at her drink. “I can’t help but wonder if they only asked because they had no one else. Carlotta’s left, the new season’s close… Perhaps they simply needed a name.”

“Christine, this is the Opéra Populaire,” Meg said gently. “There are dozens of sopranos who’d be desperate for a chance like this. If André and Firmin didn’t believe in you, they would have found someone else.”

Christine didn’t answer at once. She watched a pair of pigeons flutter awkwardly past the window, then turned back to Meg.

“I still feel like I’m not ready. I’ve performed, yes—but never carried a full season. Never stood at the center for so long.”

Meg reached across the table, her hand warm against Christine’s chilled fingers. “My mother always says—you grow into the roles you’re meant for. And life doesn’t hand you more than you’re capable of handling.”

Christine’s gaze lifted, her lips curving in a soft, tentative smile. “Thank you.”

Meg squeezed her hand. “So… will you do it?”

A beat passed, then Christine’s smile widened. “Yes… I think, I’ll do it.”

Chapter Text

A few days had passed since Christine accepted the offer — and though the new opera season was still months away, the news had already started to stir excitement in the company. Carlotta’s departure, Christine’s sudden rise — it was all anyone in the artistic quarters could talk about.

Meg insisted they celebrate. “You have to come out. Everyone will be there. It’s practically a civic duty.”

So they did.

It was a Friday evening in mid-May, and Paris buzzed with late springtime energy. The streets still held a lingering chill, but it was the kind that sharpened your cheeks and made laughter ring brighter in the air. The café-bar Montreuil near the theater — their regular haunt — was overflowing. Doors were thrown open, spilling yellow light and music onto the sidewalk. Inside, the place pulsed with movement and voices, as cast and crew, ballet girls, stagehands, and a few eager outsiders jostled for space and shouted greetings over the clink of glasses.

The smell of cigarette smoke and sweet alcohol mingled with something fried and unidentifiable, and in the back corner, a small quartet was already deep into their second set — the trumpet cutting clean through the warm, boozy hum. The eyes of old opera stars stared down silently from faded posters, the hustle and bustle of the current crowd at their feet. 

Christine arrived with Meg and a few other girls, tucked into shawls and short jackets. Her hair had curled more than normally in the night air, her cheeks pink from the walk, and though she wasn’t drinking — she was already beginning to guard her voice — she looked almost intoxicated with the heated feelings of the evening.

Darius spotted them first. He visited the bar more often lately. He seemed to enjoy the hustle and bustle of the opera folk. Now he was posted up by the bar, one elbow slung over the counter, deep in a dramatic retelling of one of his street adventures. When he saw Christine, he broke off mid-sentence.

“Our new prima donna!” he called out, raising his glass with theatrical flourish.

A chorus of cheers followed, laughter spilling over the din. Christine ducked her head, smiling shyly — but she was glowing.

They squeezed into a table by the window, Meg immediately flagging down drinks for everyone. The place was packed — shoulders brushing, heat rising, music pulsing just loud enough to make conversation a lively sport. Christine sipped gingerly from a glass of non-alcoholic citron pressé, already dizzy from the congratulations, from the lights, from how good it felt to be back .

And then the band shifted — something playful, something fast — and Christine couldn’t help it. Her foot tapped, her shoulders swayed, and suddenly she was rising from the table, laughing as she moved toward the music.

She danced.

Her skirts swirled around her knees, hair loosening as she spun gently between the tables, weaving past a waiter and slipping into the rhythm like she’d been born in it. Meg whistled and jumped up to follow, catching her around the waist as they moved together, laughing like children on a dare.

People cheered, clapped, someone banged their glass on the table. Summer had returned to Paris, and with it, a sense of possibility.

_________________________________________________________________________

Later that night, the carriage pulled to a halt in front of the quiet houses of the Rue Auber. The lanterns had long since been doused, and the street was wrapped in the hush of deep night — save for the giggling and shuffling of its passengers.

Raoul, thoroughly tipsy and flushed with laughter, nearly toppled out of the carriage in his attempt to help Christine down with mock chivalry.

“Your stop, mademoiselle,” he slurred, performing an exaggerated bow and extending a shaky hand.

Christine grinned and took it with grace, stepping lightly down onto the cobblestone. The street around them was still — no footsteps, no carriages, only the distant hush of wind through the leaves.

From inside the carriage, Jammes giggled, her voice muffled by Eloise’s laughter.

Meg leaned out the window and called after Christine in a half-whisper, half-laugh:
“Christine! Are you sure ? My mama’s going to kill you!”

But Christine was already walking toward the door of number 8, already lifting her hand to knock. Her shawl clutched close around her shoulders, her cheeks still warm from dancing, she barely looked back.

A faint light stirred behind the glass. Curtains shifted.

Raoul lingered on the step of the carriage, peering after her with a crooked smile. “Just making sure Lotte gets home safe,” he mumbled.

“Raoul, come on ,” Jammes groaned. “Because of you we’ll be here till sunrise!”

“Alright, alright,” he relented, climbing back into the carriage with exaggerated clumsiness. “Drive on.”

As the wheels rumbled away down the darkened street, the front door of number 8 opened with a quiet click.

Erik stood in the doorway.

Christine’s mind drifted back a few days, to a moment etched clearly in her memory: Erik lifting a small but heavy side table in the Rue Auber apartment. His sleeves were rolled up neatly past his elbows, revealing lean, taut forearms. Beads of perspiration stood out on his pale forehead, dampening a few stray strands of hair that clung to his temples, loosened from his wig. He had been sorting furniture all day, moving heavy pieces from room to room in a relentless effort to bring order to the chaos.

The muscles beneath his skin flexed with controlled strength as he shifted the weight, every movement precise and deliberate, betraying both exhaustion and determination. Despite the obvious strain, there was a quiet grace to the way he moved—a tension held. Christine watched him with a breath caught in her throat, unable to tear her eyes away. His slender yet strong arms, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint sheen of sweat tracing the lines of his collarbone—all of it struck her deeply. There was something painfully beautiful in his effort, something that made him, in that moment, utterly captivating.

Now he was barefoot, standing in front of her, dressed simply — a loose white shirt, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled halfway, tucked into black suit trousers. The dim hallway light caught at the sharp edge of his collarbone, his white mask, the stillness in his face.

Christine smiled.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Then, without hesitation, she closed the space between them and kissed him with a rush of heat and longing that had been building for too long.

He made a small, startled sound in his throat, but his arms came around her immediately. One hand at her back, the other cradling the side of her head as if afraid she’d vanish. She pressed into him, her hands tangled in his shirt, the kiss deepening with urgency.

Erik backed them into the flat without breaking contact, guiding her inside by instinct alone. The door swung shut behind them with a low, decisive thud .

Inside, Erik moved with unthinking urgency — her back met the wall in the dim hallway, and his hands were already in her hair, at her waist, pulling her closer, as if he could never get close enough. Her shawl had fallen to the floor, forgotten.

Christine tilted her head and bit softly at his lower lip, teasing, tasting. He drew in a sharp breath, his fingers flexing against her hips. Then she traced his lip with her tongue — slow, deliberate.

He exhaled shakily and let her in, their mouths meeting again, deeper now, hungrier, the kiss slipping into something more consuming.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, both of them breathing hard, his chest rising against hers.

“Are you sure?” His voice was low, rough. “What if Madame Giry finds out you’re out again?”

Christine shook her head. “I’m old enough. She doesn’t get to decide this.”

He studied her, searching. “Christine… have you been drinking?”

“No.” Her gaze held his, clear and steady — her voice calm. “I haven’t had a drop.”

He hesitated, torn — and she felt it.

“Erik,” she whispered. “If you don’t want this, we’ll stop. But if you do… and you’re just thinking too much—then stop thinking. And take me.”

Something shifted in his face. The tension didn’t vanish, but transformed — into something fierce, resolved, inevitable. His mouth parted slightly, and for a heartbeat he still wavered.

Then: To hell with restraint.

Their mouths met again with a slow, deliberate hunger that built between them like heat rising. Christine lifted onto her toes, her hands cradling his jaw, her thumb brushing just beneath the edge of his mask. Her lips moved with urgency.

Erik responded in kind, one hand pressed firmly at the small of her back, drawing her against him, the other tangled in the fabric of her dress near her waist. His mouth was warm, surprisingly gentle despite the intensity in his grasp. He kissed her like he was learning her—memorizing the curve of her lips, the taste of her breath, the way she gave that barely-there sigh when he tilted his head and drew her lower lip between his.

When her fingers slid around his neck, his resolve faltered further. His hand came up to cup her cheek, steadying her as their kiss grew messier, deeper with need. Her mouth parted for him again, her tongue brushing his in a rhythm that was both tentative and bold. He shivered against her as they lost themselves in the growing fire between them.

Christine pulled back just slightly, her breath brushing his lips, and touched her forehead to his.

“I read the book,” she whispered. “The one you gave me.”

His hand, fumbling at her waist, stilled. He looked at her closely—something flickering behind his eyes.

“I counted the days,” she continued. “And I took my temperature.”

A pause. Then, softly, he asked, “And?”

A smile began to bloom across her face, warm and certain. She kissed him—slow, tender, full of quiet joy—and murmured against his mouth,

“We’re safe tonight; Take me to bed, Erik.”

For a heartbeat, he only looked at her, as though trying to be sure she was real, that this moment was.

Then, without a word, he bent slightly and slid one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back. Christine let out a soft, surprised laugh as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he carried her through the quiet flat. The lamplight cast soft gold against the walls, their shadows moving gently beside them.

Erik said nothing, but his hold on her was steady, reverent—like he was carrying something precious.

When they reached his bedroom, he nudged the door open with his foot and stepped inside.

He set her down gently on the edge of the bed, kneeling before her, his hands lingering at her waist, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Help me out of my dress?”

A breath passed between them—quiet, charged.

Erik’s hands flexed slightly at her waist, then moved around her, as if embracing, with aching care to the row of buttons along her back. His fingers trembled at first from the weight of the moment. He looked into her eyes as he undid each one without seeing them, just feeling, slowly, reverently, the soft rustle of fabric loud in the stillness.

Christine’s eyes watched his face, the way concentration softened his features, the quiet awe beneath his touch. As the dress loosened around her shoulders, slipping just slightly, she inhaled—light, steady.

He paused when the last button gave, his hands resting lightly on the fabric. He looked at her again, as though asking a final time for permission without saying a word.

She nodded—just once.

With that small nod, Erik let the dress slide gently down her arms. The fabric whispered against her skin as it fell, pooling around her waist before she eased it the rest of the way off.

As the dress pooled around her feet, Christine stepped out of it, leaving her in her corset and chemise. She rose slowly, and Erik stood with her, breath quiet but uneven.

Without a word, she turned, offering him her back.

His fingers moved with care again—almost too gently—as he loosened the ties of her corset. He worked slowly, reverently, the garment slackening with each motion until it gave way and she stepped out of it. She slipped the straps of her chemise off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a hush of linen.

When she turned to face him again, she wore only her stockings and a single pair of delicate drawers—soft cotton and lace, barely a whisper against her skin.

Erik didn’t move. His breath caught as his eyes traced her, unable to look away. Then, slowly, almost involuntarily, he sank to his knees before her.

His hands hovered just above her hips, trembling, not quite touching. His voice, when it came, was barely audible.

“You are… breathtaking.”

Christine reached out, gently touching the edge of his mask, eyes soft and steady.

“I’m yours,” she whispered.

And still, he stared—as if trying to memorize every inch, every curve, every breath.

Still kneeling before her, Erik lifted one of her legs with careful hands, guiding her foot to rest gently on his thigh. His touch was featherlight as he began to roll the stocking down—inch by inch—his fingertips brushing against her calf, her ankle.

As the fabric slipped past her knee, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the curve just beneath it. Another followed at her shin. Then raising her foot, he kissed her ankle.

He looked up at her once—eyes dark, unreadable, full of something vast—and then lowered his gaze again, letting the stocking slide the rest of the way off.

He repeated the gesture with the second, no faster than before. Another kiss at the knee, then one to the inside of her thigh, gentle, lingering. His breath was warm against her skin, his hands steady and sure.

When both stockings lay forgotten on the floor, he remained kneeling, face close to her belly, hands resting lightly at her hips. His thumbs brushed the edge of her drawers, but he didn’t move further—waiting for her signal.

She reached down, her fingers sliding beneath his jaw to draw him upward. He rose slowly from his knees, eyes still locked on hers, and she kissed him — deep and unhurried, her hands already moving to the buttons of his shirt.

One by one, she undid them, her knuckles brushing lightly against the skin beneath. His breath caught as the fabric parted. She eased the shirt off his shoulders, and he let it fall, forgotten, to the floor.

Then, without a word, Christine moved with quiet certainty — turning him with both hands until his back faced the bed. He looked at her, startled for only a heartbeat, before she gave him a gentle but firm push.

He landed with a soft thump, seated now at the edge of the mattress, his eyes wide and dark with wonder. Christine stood above him, breath shallow, every inch of her alight with anticipation.

She climbed onto his lap with elegant ease, her knees settling on either side of him, her body pressed close. Their mouths met again — a kiss deep and searching, his hands instinctively resting at her hips as though afraid to grip her too tightly.

When she finally pulled back, just slightly, her breath mingling with his, she whispered,
“Erik?”

His eyes flicked up to hers, pupils blown wide. “Yes?”

Her voice was soft, curious but careful. “Are you… experienced?”

He froze for a moment. Then, after a beat, he gave a small, honest shake of his head. His breath hitched, almost like an apology forming, but he didn’t speak it.

“So we explore this together?” 

His heart seemed to pause in his chest, a mix of relief and nervous anticipation flooding through him. Her words were gentle, and there was something in the way she spoke, in the way she looked at him, that made him feel seen. Not with judgment or expectations, but with the kind of understanding that invited him to be himself fully, without pretenses.

He nodded slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yes."

She smiled, a soft, reassuring smile that reached her eyes, and her hand gently cupped his cheek, as though grounding him in the moment. With that, she leaned in again, her lips brushing his in a kiss that was equal parts tender and promising.

As their kiss deepened, Christine slowly pulled back, her gaze shifting down to the exposed skin of Erik’s chest. The dim light cast soft shadows over his body, highlighting the scars that crisscrossed his skin—each mark a story.

Her fingers gently traced one of the scars, as though she were memorizing its path across his skin. She looked up at him, her eyes soft with something unspoken, something deeper than curiosity.

Then, without a word, she lowered her lips to his chest, kissing the scar she had just traced. The kiss was tender, full of reverence, as though she was honoring the past, the pain, and the strength it took for him to endure it all. She kissed each scar she could reach, her touch gentle, almost as if trying to heal the wounds that time had left behind.

Erik’s breath caught, and for a moment, he thought he might say something, but the sensation of her lips against his skin silenced him. It was different than anything he’d felt before—different than the shame he had once carried, different than the loneliness that had defined so much of his life. In her touch, there was no judgment, no fear. Just a quiet, beautiful acceptance that made his heart ache.

Elegantly Christine slid off his lap to kneel in front of him. She didn’t quite know what to do next but her curiosity got the better of her as she started to unbutton his trousers to find what was causing the bulk in his pants. 

Erik watched her in awe, barely breathing now, as if terrified that he could scare her off. When her eyes found his, he gently cupped her cheek with his right hand. She leaned into him before gently kissing his palm. 

Then her eyes lowered to his lap again and she reached to pull his trousers down. Erik helped her by lifting his hips and freeing himself from the fabric. Blushing Christine slid his trousers and undergarments off all the way, helping him out of it and dropping them on the floor. 

She looked up at his body, now completely naked before her and she felt the heat in her abdomen turn into an urgent ache. She had never seen a man naked before and seeing his member erect before her made her lick her lips involuntarily. 

He inhaled sharply when she slid her hands up his thighs, gently. When she carefully started to explore his manhood with her hands, touching and teasing slowly, he let out a small groan and buried his hand in her hair. At the thought that he could push her head down onto him, Christine felt even more at fire. For a short moment she considered asking him to do it. 

Instead she grabbed him firmer and whispered, “Show me. What you do, when you…” She trailed off. 

Holding her gaze steady he untangled his hand from her hair and reached down to put it over hers. Then he slowly started moving them both up and down. 

Christine was fascinated by the velvety skin that moved so easily along his shaft, the veins along it and the small bead of wetness forming at the tip. She stared, unashamed, eyes fixed on the movement of their hands.

After a few strokes he stopped abruptly, swallowing hard. Christine looked up at him, a little startled. “Get on the bed,” he instructed, voice low and hoarse, “please.”

Gracefully she got up and climbed onto the bed, his eyes and body following her. When she was finally settled on her back on the bed, he leaned over her - just as she had imagined so many times before - and began to explore her body with his lips. He started at her collarbone and soon his lips caught one of her nipples. A sensation she never felt before rushed through her, right to her core. She had never felt something so intense and good before in her life and a soft moan escaped her, as if she held her breath for too long. 

“Erik?” She muttered, breathless, when his mask brushed over her left breast uncomfortably. 

He stopped his attention to her breasts momentarily to look up at her, his eyes black with lust. “Yes?” 

“Can you take off your mask?” She asked gently.

She saw something flicker behind his eyes and he shifted uncomfortably. 

“Do I have to?” He asked pleadingly. Gently she stroked his unmasked cheek, smiling down at him. 

“You don’t have to be ashamed in front of me. Besides, your mask scratches my skin and I’m sure you would also feel more comfortable.”

“I’m certain that I wouldn’t,” he leaned into her hand. 

Then, after a pause: “But I will do anything you ask of me.”

With that, he slowly took off his mask, making a point of not looking up at her again.

“Can I please keep my wig?”

Something sad flickered behind Christine’s eyes. “Yes… yes, if it makes you feel safer.”

“Thank you,” he breathed into her chest, burying his face into it. 

Then he took her right nipple into his mouth again. When the warm wetness engulfed her again, Christine let out a small moan and lifted her hand onto her mouth to gently bite down on it. 

Spurred on by her sounds, Erik started sucking a little harder, then alternating between that and tracing circles with his strong tongue. 

When he gently started to bite down with his teeth in between circles, Christine let out a gasped “Erik,” and started twitching under him, arching her back. 

He stopped momentarily to look up at her, seemingly forgotten that he wasn’t wearing his mask.

“Please,” she breathed, “I’m so hungry for you, it hurts.” There was an aching deep between her legs that she didn’t experience before. Whenever she pleasured herself, it had never been such a deep longing and over far too soon for her to get to the urge she was feeling now. 

“Do something,” she pleaded. 

A small smirk formed on his lips. “But I am doing something, my little dove.”

“You know what I mean… please, Erik.” 

Without breaking her gaze, he slowly and deliberately moved his hand between her legs under her drawers. When he reached her folds and gently stroked her, he felt the slickness that had already accumulated there. 

He helped her out of her drawers, gently pulling them down while she wiggled her hips to get free. Without looking he threw them across the room before pressing his fingers between her legs again. Gently, he stroked the nerve-bundle he found between her folds, his fingers still wet from before. Christine moaned a little louder, arching her back and pressing against his body. He didn’t hover over her as before but was tucked flush beside her with her lying flat on her back so he could access the space between her legs easily with his left hand. 

When she let out another moan he caught her mouth with his own, brushing his lips against hers eagerly while she rocked against his hand. 

“Is this what you did to yourself?” He asked against her lips, breathless. “When you thought of me?”

Not being able to speak, she just nodded her head hungrily.

“And this?” Slowly he pushed a finger inside her. “Did you do this?”

Her breath hitched and breathlessly she shook her head. 

“No, I… oh,” she inhaled sharply as a second finger joined the first. “I didn’t think of it.”

She started to rock against his hand again as he slowly began to move his fingers inside her. 

For a while she worked herself up that way. One hand grabbing his shoulder for support, the other clasping the bedsheets beside her. Erik pushed his tongue inside her mouth again, coaxing more and higher moans from her with each thrust of his hand. The sensation was almost overwhelming. With every stroke she saw fireworks behind her eyes, blood rushed through her ears and the ache in her abdomen had turned into a delicious fire that consumed her. Still, she longed for more. 

“Erik,” she parted her lips from his just slightly to plead again. “I need you inside me.”

His breath hitched and she saw his pupils dilate even further. “Are you sure?” He asked gently, his voice trembling slightly.

“Please,” she breathed into his lips, hips still rocking against his hand, “please, Erik… I’m aching for you.”

Without breaking eye contact, he removed his hand from her. Slowly, deliberately he moved above her, gently pushing her legs a little wider to settle between them.

He placed a loving kiss onto her forehead, then to each of her flushed cheeks. 

“Tell me if it hurts.”

She nodded breathlessly.

Then he moved his hand between them to slowly guide himself into her. When he finally pressed inside her, he let out a stifled breath, his eyelids fluttering shut. He never felt so good before. Pressing inside her wet warmth felt like heaven and it cost him all his restraint to not push inside her faster. When Christine’s nails dug into his shoulders he opened his eyes again, alarmed. He couldn’t make out if her face showed pain or pleasure.

“Does it hurt?”

“A little,” she admitted, her voice now hoarse, “but not in a bad way.” She felt a light sting where he stretched her inside. It felt different than she imagined and even though it was slightly uncomfortable, she still wanted more. 

“Relax your body. Breathe into it, the way I taught you when singing,” he whispered, “if you want to go on. I can stop as well.” It was the last thing he wanted to do.

She seemed to think the same, because she clutched his shoulders tighter, pulling him even closer. “No, please, just go on.”

Slowly, he pushed inside her more, now watching her intently. She did as he said, her eyes closed, breathing deeply, relaxing into the sensations of her body. When he was nestled inside her completely, he paused.

“Again.” She pulled his face down to her and he rested his head in the crook of her neck. 

He did as she instructed and began moving his hips slowly. Her body seemed to adjust to his and soon she let out little moans again and moved her hips to meet his, trying to accelerate the tempo. With every thrust he moved his hips faster. 

When he felt himself approaching his release, he pushed his hand between their bodies to find her nerve-bundle again. Christine let out a high-pitched moan.

“Right there. Faster.”

She wrapped an arm around his shoulder along his back and pressed him against her chest, while the other hand rested on his scarred cheek, her eyes fixed on his.

“How I love you, my angel.”

With that she came undone, a shudder rippling through her whole body.

“Don’t stop, please, don’t -” She couldn’t form any other words than just her pleading for him to not stop what he was doing to her. Nothing in her life up to this point compared to this and she had to drag it out until there was nothing left in her body. No attention from herself, no applause, no aria sung, nothing compared to the fire that broke through her body like a wave in this moment.

Set off by her contracting and fluttering around him, he followed her moments later, his hand wandering to her chin, gripping it firmly to hold her gaze.

“Look at me.” 

She held his gaze without wavering, her eyes boring into his, as he finally let out a low groan, feeling the satisfying firework rippling through his whole body. 

Panting and covered in a thin layer of sweat, he let go of her chin and lowered his head into the crook of her neck again.

Breathlessly, she stroked the back of his neck. “Erik, you are trembling.” His whole body was shaking violently as he propped himself up on his forearms again to look at her. 

“I’m sorry,” his voice was barely more than a whisper.

She let out a breathless laugh, startled and soft. “What for?”

“For… for making you look at me,” he said, eyes dropping in shame, unable to meet hers.

That made her laugh again — fuller this time, unguarded and bright. Her eyes sparkled.

“Oh no,” she said, brushing his cheek. “I enjoyed that. You can definitely do that again next time.”

“I just wanted to see you… you’re so beautiful.” Exhausted, he let his head fall into the curve of her neck, still trembling.

“Erik?” she asked softly. “Can I take off your wig now?”

“Please,” he murmured, voice rough. “It’s unbearably warm.”

She reached up gently, fingers threading through the base of the wig, and eased it off with care. Erik stayed still, his breath warm against her skin.

She set the wig down softly on the nightstand, then ran her hand through the flattened, damp hair that remained. Her touch lingered tenderly.

For a long moment he remained nestled into her, basking in the feeling of her soft skin under him and the rare silence in himself.

Then, reluctantly, he stirred — pressing a final kiss to her shoulder before carefully shifting away. For a long moment, he lingered beside the bed, drinking her in with a kind of awe, as though committing every inch of her to memory.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured, and crossed the room quietly to fetch a towel for each of them.

As they each tended to themselves in the soft quiet of the room, Erik glanced at her, his voice cautious but laced with genuine concern.
“You’re sure you counted correctly?”

Christine looked up, a teasing light in her eyes.
“Well, even if I hadn’t… it’d be a bit late now, wouldn’t it?”

“Christine!” he said, half horrified.

She laughed — light and warm and utterly unconcerned.
“Yes, I’m absolutely sure.”

She tossed the towel from the bed with a lazy flick of her wrist, then stretched both arms out toward him, her eyes soft, her voice full of tender affection.

“Come here, my darling.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The first light of dawn pressed faintly at the edges of the curtains, a pale blue stillness hanging in the room. Christine stirred in the bed, the warm sheets tangled around her legs, her body sore and sated. At first, she wasn’t sure what had pulled her from sleep—but then she heard it.

Soft piano notes, barely more than a whisper, drifted through the room like breath on glass.

She blinked slowly, turning her head toward the sound.

Erik sat at the small upright piano across the room, barefoot, clothed only in his white shirt and underclothes. The sleeves were rolled, the shirt loose over his slender frame. His back was to her, hunched slightly as he played, fingers moving in tender arcs over the keys. The music was gentle, intimate—a quiet reverie still heavy with the night before.

“Erik…” she said softly, her voice husky from sleep.

He startled, just a little, and turned halfway toward her. “I’m sorry,” he said at once, his voice low. “I didn’t mean to wake you. You were sleeping so soundly. I only—” He paused, gesturing lightly to the keys. “I couldn’t help it. I needed to… capture something. From last night. I thought I could play softly enough.”

She smiled, slow and warm. “It wasn’t the music that woke me.”

He tilted his head, puzzled. “No?”

“It was the space beside me,” she murmured. “It was empty.”

Then, Christine stretched a hand toward him from the bed. “Come back.”

He rose silently, closing the piano lid with care. The floor was cool beneath his feet as he crossed the room, the early light brushing against the sharp lines of his face and the soft fabric of his shirt. When he slipped beneath the covers beside her, Christine immediately curled into him, her cheek finding its place against his chest, her fingers splaying gently over his ribs.

Then she whispered, barely more than a breath against his skin, “I want more.”

He leaned in and kissed her—slowly at first, reverently, as if still surprised he was allowed to. His lips brushed over hers with aching tenderness, a soft hum of breath between them. One hand cradled her cheek, the other slipped around her naked waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. She answered his kiss with quiet urgency.

Then, she tugged gently at his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric just above his waist. Her eyes met his with quiet insistence, and she gave the slightest upward pull.

“Off,” she whispered.

He sat back and pulled the shirt over his head in one smooth motion. The fabric slipped away, revealing the pale lines of his chest, the scars she already knew, already kissed. He dropped the shirt to the floor without a sound.

Christine reached for him again, her hands warm against his bare skin as she pulled him back down to her.

She kissed him again—slow and full, her lips searching his with urgency. Her hands slid up his back, pulling him closer as she pressed herself against him, all softness and heat. Their bodies fit together perfectly.

A low sound escaped him, almost reverent, as he gathered her in his arms. Pressed against him, she could feel his hardness through his undergarments. Gently she slid her hand inside his pants, feeling the warm, velvety skin and the hard shaft. He let out a small moan and bucked his hips against her hand involuntarily.

She gently slipped from his embrace, her movements unhurried, almost tender. The sheet rustled softly as she sat up, her hair tousled from sleep and kisses, her bare back catching the faint, early light creeping in through the curtains. She looked down at him with a quiet, lingering smile. Then she tugged at his pants and he moved his hips to assist her with taking them off. 

Looking down at his manhood she gently wrapped her hand around him again, making him groan. She marvelled at the smoothness as she moved her hand up and down as he showed her earlier. Then she leaned down. With a soft, reverent touch, she pressed a kiss just over his heart—gentle, unhurried—letting it linger there like a promise. He shivered and pressed his eyes shut. 

She let her mouth move south while still moving her hand around his manhood, peppering kisses over his chest, his stomach, his abdomen. When her chin gently grazed the tip of his shaft while placing a tender, tingling kiss on his abdomen, he inhaled sharply and opened his eyes to look down on her.

“Christine…,” he breathed shakily. “What are you doing?”

She looked up at him through her lashes, coyly. “Just… following my instincts… exploring my creativity.”

She looked down on his lap now as he shifted beneath her with pleasure. She could feel the urge to put her mouth around him again. Her free hand found his, his fingers tightened around the bedsheets. He was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. When she reached out and placed his hand gently in her hair, he wasted no time—he buried his fingers deep in her curls, holding on.

She looked up again. Eyes now fixed on him, she whispered, “Pull.”

Hesitantly, gently, he tugged at her hair a little, eyes boring into hers.

“Harder.” She instructed hoarsely, closing her eyes now in pleasure.

He did as he was told, marvelling a the sight of her, down on his abdomen, her hand still firmly moving up and down his length, her eyes closed, mouth slightly apart and head tilted backwards a little, his hand in her hair, pulling it back, exposing a part of her neck. 

She felt the gentle tugging on her scalp, a delicate ache that sent shivers cascading down her spine, straight to her core. The slight sting was strangely comforting—sweet even—an intimate reminder of the raw power he held in his hands. It was a thrilling vulnerability, knowing he could hurt her with ease, yet wouldn’t.

When he loosened his grip a little, she turned her head towards his manhood. The urge to take him into her mouth was overwhelming now and she desperately needed to know how his hardness felt, how the little bead of wetness tasted that had formed at the tip.

So she dropped down even further and cautiously wrapped her lips around him. A shiver went through his whole body as he breathed out shakily. 

“Christine… ”

The hand in her hair curled into a fist, but he resisted the urge to press down.

Still a little too cautiously and unsure, she tried to take as much of him into her mouth as she could. When his tip brushed the top of her mouth, he whimpered quietly. Spurred on by this she started moving slowly up and down, falling into a rhythm. 

Feeling him becoming so undone by her actions, smelling his earthy scent and tasting his hardness made her whole body feel on fire. She felt the aching from before in her core again.

His eyes were locked onto her, unable to look away, pupils dilated and dark with intensity. His chest rose and fell rapidly, small moans slipping uncontrollably from his lips. One hand remained tangled in her hair, fingers stiff and curled into a fist, frozen as if afraid the slightest movement would make her pull away. The other hand gripped the bed sheets tightly, the only anchor keeping him tethered to this moment, to this world.

He felt her warmth all around him—her mouth, her breath, even her heartbeat syncing with her movements—and it was as if the world had narrowed to just this: her tongue against him, her warmth giving him pleasure. A deep, overwhelming bliss settled into his bones, dazzling and tender, like starlight bursting behind his eyes. The closeness was almost too much to bear.

When she looked up at him through her lashes without stopping her ministrations, he held her gaze for a moment before squeezing his eyes shut again and turning his head away, pressing his deformed side into the pillow beneath his head, as if overwhelmed by the sight. 

After a while he shifted beneath her.

“ Christine … if you don’t stop… I…,” he breathed out, chest still heaving.

She slowed down and let her tongue slide up his length one last time before letting him pull her up to him. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before climbing on top of him, one leg at each side of his hips, positioning him between her thighs. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” he choked out. “I still don’t understand how you can love me that way.”

She leaned down slowly, her lips brushing his forehead, his cheek, then hovering just above his mouth.

“You are who you are,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “And I wouldn’t want to change anything about you. And in spite of all the pain that love can bring—there’s really nothing I can do about it. I’m just so in love with you.”

Her fingers threaded into his hair, guiding his face to hers as she murmured, “You thrill me… and you put me in a trance.”

He let out a soft, choked breath as her body pressed against his, her voice barely a breath:
“Surround me. Fill me… take me.”

He looked at her for a moment, pupils blown wide and then pulled her down to crash his mouth to hers. They kissed fervently until Christine pulled back gasping for air. She felt her wetness warm on the inside of her thighs, her chore aching for him. Without hesitating she reached between their legs, gently taking him into her hand and guiding him inside as she slowly lowered herself. This time there was no pain, only the delicious stretch that made her insides hum. She led out a stifled moan. When she had lowered herself completely onto him she leaned forward over his chest, brushing her lips to his again, placing her hands into his at each side of his head. Then she started moving her hips in rolling movements. His eyes fell shut again, as if completely surrendering to her. 

Soon, she had worked him up again, his whole body shivering.

“ Christine…” he breathed into her mouth, “ Christine… ”

“Let go,” she murmured against his lips. “Take what you need, my love.”

He answered with a shudder, fireworks going off behind his eyes, a delicious fire running through his whole body. He groaned into her mouth and she felt his seed spill into her warmly. 

When he had calmed, she slowed down, gently peppering kisses to his cheeks, lips and forehead.

Then she moved from him, letting him slip out and nestling herself next to him. He didn’t move, still lying on his back, his eyes shut, breathing heavily. 

She looked up at him from her place on his shoulder and saw a tear running down his cheek. 

“Erik,” she whispered, sitting up a little alarmed. “Are you alright? Was this too much?”

He gave a small shake of his head, eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed into a tight line. His whole body was taut with emotion. Silent tears slipped down his cheeks, each one catching the light as it fell.

She leaned in without a word, her lips brushing softly against each tear as it traced its way down his cheek. One by one, she kissed them away, slowly, until his breath no longer caught in his chest. Her hands cradled his face as if he might shatter, and still she stayed close, lips and skin and quiet presence, until calm returned.

He turned toward her, slow and instinctive, as if drawn by something deeper than thought. Burying his face in the warm curve of her neck, he let out a shaky breath. His arms wrapped around her with aching tenderness, and in a voice rough with emotion, he whispered into her skin, “Thank you.”

She held him close, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other stroking gently down his spine. His breath slowed, matching the calm rhythm of her own. She said nothing. Just the quiet warmth of her body around his, the rise and fall of her chest, the steady heartbeat beneath her skin. 

After a long while, he stirred in her arms. His eyes, still glassy but steadier now, found hers with a searching, reverent gaze.

“I want to do the same for you,” he said quietly, his voice low. “Will you let me?”

She hummed, a soft, curious sound—half question, half invitation.

In response, he leaned in and kissed her neck, tender and slow. Then lower, to the delicate slope of her collarbone, to the soft curve of her chest. Each kiss was unhurried, reverent, as though he were learning a new language by heart. He continued downward, brushing his lips over her stomach, her abdomen—his breath warm, his hands gentle, and his silence filled with devotion.

When he arrived between her legs, she shifted uncomfortably.

“Erik,” she breathed, pressing her legs together.

“Mh?” He murmured, looking up at her.

“I’m still all wet… from before…” She felt his seed mixed with her own fluids dripping out of her uncomfortably.

“I don’t care…” he whispered, focusing his attention between her legs again.

“Just… let me clean up a little, Erik.” She said, wiggling beneath him. “I’ll feel more comfortable.” 

Without a word, he sat up, picked one of the towels from the nightstand and gently ran it between her legs.

Then he threw it away carelessly and lowered his head between her legs again without hesitation. This time, she spread her legs, giving him space.

When he put his mouth onto her and let his tongue slip out, brushing against her sensitive nerve bundle, she gasped and let her eyes flutter shut. 

Gently, he started moving his tongue over her, alternating with soft kisses. A low gasp escaped her again as she felt him more intensely and a wave of pleasure rippled down her spine like warm lightning. It coiled low in her belly, heat blooming in her chest and curling through her limbs like fire. Her fingers tightened gently in the sheets, her breath catching as her body answered his touch, his closeness, his warm tongue and mouth against her.

Soon, he had worked her up and just as she thought she was about to burst, he slipped a finger inside her, then another. She whimpered and shifted beneath him but his free hand wandered under her thigh up to her abdomen, holding her in place.

When his fingers curled up, brushing the sensitive spot inside while his mouth was still working fervently at her, stars erupted behind her eyes and she arched her back from the bed trying to press into him.

“Don’t stop…” was, again, all she managed to say and then,

“ Erik …”

He let her rock against his mouth, her whole body taut and trembling. When she was done and relaxed into him, he slowly stopped, slipping his tongue between her folds one last time and slid his fingers out of her. 

“God,” she breathed, a thin layer of sweat on her body. “That was… beyond.”

Then she pulled him up to her, placing a chaste kiss onto his wet lips, holding his face between her hands. 

After gazing into his golden eyes for a moment, she guided him gently back into the curve of her body, her arms wrapping around him as he nestled once more into the warm hollow of her neck. His breath brushed against her skin, slow and steady now, and she closed her eyes, savoring the quiet weight of him, the soft press of bare skin against bare skin. There were no words—just the hush of their heartbeats, the stillness of early morning, and the simple, perfect warmth of being held.

Chapter Text

The midday light filtered softly through the tall curtains, muted by the thick fabric Erik had kept drawn. Christine stirred beneath the heavy covers, her limbs slow with sleep. When she opened her eyes, it took her a moment to realize what felt different.

His side of the bed was empty again.

The sheets were still warm, but cooling fast. She rolled over into the space he had left and buried her face in the pillow, breathing in the scent of him. Something about it made her sigh without meaning to.

Just then, the door creaked softly open.

She looked up.

Erik stood there, mask and wig set in place again, with a silver tray in his hands—a cup with juice, a small pot of cocoa, fruit, cheese, marmalade, and a plate of warm croissants, carefully arranged. He didn’t speak as he walked in, only nodded slightly and set the tray down across her lap, precise as ever.

Christine blinked at the spread, then up at him. “You made breakfast?”

“You need to eat,” he said simply, adjusting the tray so it balanced evenly. “And I... had the time.”

Her lips twitched into the beginning of a smile, though her fingers hesitated over the cup. She glanced toward the door, suddenly uneasy. “Has Madame Giry been by? Asking after me?”

He shook his head. “No one’s come.”

Relief softened her posture immediately. She leaned back into the pillows, letting the cocoa warm her hands.

“Good,” she murmured. “The courage I had last night seems to have deserted me with the sunrise.”

Erik tilted his head slightly, watching her.

“I understand that her reaction concerns you. To be perfectly honest, she scares me as well.” he said.

Christine looked up at him, startled—then laughed, loud and free. “The Opera Ghost is afraid of Madame Giry?”

A genuine smile touched his lips. “She is a very intimidating woman.”

Then he sat on the edge of the bed beside her, careful not to shift the tray. She began to eat—small bites at first, watching him out of the corner of her eye. 

Christine set the cocoa cup back on the tray, her eyes thoughtful. Then, with a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, she said, “So I suppose I’ll be Christine Renaudin soon?”

Erik glanced at her, something flickering behind his expression—amusement, perhaps, but also a quiet shadow.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “that you’ll have to trade your father’s name for some meaningless one.”

She tilted her head, brow furrowing. “What do you mean? Isn’t it your name?”

He hesitated. Then, with a low breath, he said, “I wasn’t born a Renaudin… Before I ran away, my mother made me swear never to reveal my real surname. She was afraid someone might connect me to her. So I chose a new one.”

Christine slowly brought her hand to her mouth, eyes wide. “That’s… cruel.”

Erik didn’t answer. He looked down at the tray instead, fingers absently straightening a spoon that didn’t need adjusting.

“But she named you Erik? Your mother. That’s your real name?” Christine asked, her voice soft.

He shook his head. “No. She didn’t name me at all. But yes, it is my real name.” He glanced toward the window, where the light spilled through the curtains in narrow golden lines. “I was named after the priest who baptized me. My mother told him to name me whatever he wanted. She didn’t care. So he gave me his own.”

Christine's brow knit gently. “Was that the same priest who looked after you when you were young? The one who told you your dog didn’t have a soul?”

Erik gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

She looked at him for a long moment, then reached out and placed her hand over his.

“Erik… if Renaudin is the name you chose, then it is your name. And if it’s your name, then it’s not meaningless to me. I’ll wear it with pride.”

Erik looked at her gently. “What do you want for your wedding? Whatever it is, I promise I’ll make it happen.”

Christine was quiet for a moment, searching his eyes. Then she spoke softly, “I never thought I could wish for anything at all. The people I knew… they didn’t have fancy dresses or big celebrations.”

He smiled gently. “So, you want something small?”

She nodded, a small hopeful smile on her lips. “Yes. But I’d like a little gathering afterward, with just a few people. I want the people we know to see our happiness.”

Erik’s tone turned a little more serious as he spoke, “There are some formalities we have to take care of first. We need to register the marriage and announce it publicly—there’s a waiting period. And since you’re not yet of legal age, we’ll also need permission from your guardian.”

Christine nodded confidently. “Madame Giry is my guardian. She will give us the permission we need.”

A soft smile touched her lips as she added, “And I want Meg to be my maid of honor.”

Erik raised an eyebrow. “How old is Meg?”

“Twenty,” Christine answered without hesitation.

He frowned slightly, running a hand through his hair. “She has to be twenty-one to be your maid of honor.”

“No problem,” Christine said with a small smile. “She’ll be twenty-one in three weeks. Then she can be my maid of honor.”

Erik’s expression softened at her smile. He leaned back slightly, his fingers absently brushing hers.

“Then I’ll begin the preparations,” he said quietly, almost to himself. There was a note of wonder in his voice, as if the reality of it—of her, of them—was still sinking in. “Announcing the banns, securing the date… all of it. It should all be done before the rehearsals for the new season starts at the end of August.”

“Will the ceremony be held in a chapel?” Christine asked, almost shyly.

Erik looked at her surprised. “I thought you were not religious.”

She bit her lip. “I’m not… I just imagine it’d be beautiful… I mean if it’s too much to arrange then…”

“No! No… whatever you want, I will arrange it.”

Then he turned towards his piano in the corner. He moved toward it without a word, his steps quiet, purposeful.

He sat down on the worn bench, his back straightening as his fingers settled on the keys. Something shifted in him the moment he touched the instrument. The softness of earlier gave way to something older and sharper. That strange, magnetic authority he carried like a second skin. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and low, but absolute.

“Sing for me, Christine.”

The words hung in the air like a spell.

Christine, still sitting by the edge of the bed, blinked slowly, startled at first by the command—but not unpleasantly so. She felt a flush bloom across her chest. Then, without taking her eyes off him, she reached for the white shirt he’d left discarded nearby. It smelled like him—like paper and sandalwood. She slipped it over her naked body, buttoning only one button at the center before moving toward him, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs.

She crossed the room in silence, bare feet on the floorboards, until she came to stand beside the piano. Erik didn’t look at her right away. He played a single, deliberate chord—rich, resonant, like the echo of a memory.

Then he turned his head just slightly, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said, the authority still there, threaded beneath the gentleness.

Christine placed her hand lightly on the piano’s edge. She took a breath, let it settle deep in her chest, and began to sing.

_________________________________________________________________________

The same day the afternoon sun moved slowly over Christine’s floor. The room was quiet—until the door creaked open just a little, followed by the softest of giggles.

“Christine?” Meg’s whisper was barely contained excitement.

Christine looked up from where she was folding a shawl by the window. “Meg?”

The door opened wider, and Meg Giry slipped in, grinning like a child sneaking sweets. She pushed it shut behind her and rushed across the room in a swish of skirts, her blonde curls bouncing.

“You have to tell me everything,” she whispered, eyes wide with mischief.

Christine’s cheeks flushed instantly, and she turned away, pretending to smooth the fabric on her dressing table. “Meg—”

Meg let out a delighted squeal and flopped onto the bed, hugging a pillow to her chest. “Was it wonderful? Did he sing to you? Was he gentle? Was he—”

Christine spun around, laughing and flustered. “Meg! I’m not telling you anything.”

“Oh, come on!” Meg sat up on her knees, practically bouncing. “You’re glowing. You’re practically floating. You have to tell me something.”

Christine bit her lip, smiling down at her hands. A soft sigh escaped her before she looked back at her friend.

“It was… beautiful,” she said simply. “That’s all I’ll say.”

Meg squealed again and reached for her, pulling her onto the bed in a tangle of laughter. The two girls collapsed into giggles, clutching each other like they were sixteen again, hearts full of secrets, dreams, and the golden weight of happiness.

The door creaked open again, this time with a sharper, more deliberate sound.

Both girls turned their heads instantly—Meg froze mid-giggle as Madame Giry stepped into the room, her expression unreadable, her eyes cool and assessing.

“Meg,” she said curtly. “You should not be here. Your practice starts in 10 minutes. Do not think just because the other girls do nothing during summer break that you are exempt from excellence.”

Meg shifted guiltily, glancing at Christine before standing up. “I was just—”

“I know exactly what you were ‘just’,” Madame Giry cut in, her voice low and laced with disapproval. Her eyes moved to Christine. “And you—don’t think I don’t know what your absence last night meant.”

Christine stood, suddenly feeling very small beneath that gaze, her hands twisting nervously in the folds of her skirt.

“This is not the example I raised you to set. You are to carry yourself with dignity,” Madame Giry continued. Then, she turned her attention to Meg. ”Do not mistake Christine’s choices for something to admire.”

The shame hit Christine like a slap at first—but only for a second. Then something hot and sharp rose inside her, burning away the guilt, replacing it with clarity. She took a breath and stepped forward, her chin lifting.

“No,” she said firmly. “You don’t get to say that.”

Madame Giry blinked once, startled by the tone.

Christine’s voice was steady, clear. “Love is not something to be ashamed of. I won’t apologize for sharing something beautiful with someone I trust and care for. And I certainly won’t be shamed for it just because I’m a woman.”

She took another step closer. “Men do as they please every day. They take lovers. They speak freely. They live their lives without being told to be quiet or small or ‘dignified.’ But the moment a woman wants the same freedom, she’s labeled improper. Ruined.”

Meg stared at her, wide-eyed.

“The rules of society are built to confine us, not protect us,” Christine went on, fire in her voice now. “And I’m done pretending I don’t see that. I will not be less just so others can feel more comfortable.”

A silence stretched through the room like a drawn breath. Madame Giry said nothing—her expression remained unreadable, but her mouth had drawn into a tight line.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked out, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Christine stood still, her breath shaking slightly.

Meg was the first to move. “That was…” she whispered, eyes full of awe. “Incredible.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Erik’s music room was still only half-furnished—an armchair here, a music stand there, a single covered mirror, and his piano. Stacks of sheet music were piled in neat but untouched columns along the walls, like ghosts of order not yet restored.

Nadir stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, observing the chaos with mild amusement.

“She was here last night,” he said after a long silence.

Erik didn’t look up from the cluttered sheet he was pretending to organize. “Yes.”

“And this morning?”

A pause. “Yes.”

Nadir turned slightly, his voice quiet. “You love her. I know that. But you must also protect her from the parts of yourself that you spent so many years sharpening. You know what I mean, Erik.”

Erik finally glanced over. “You think I will hurt her again.”

“I think you’re capable of it, yes.” Nadir’s tone was not cruel—just truthful. “But I also think you don’t want to. So don’t.” He took a breath. “‘Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.’ You’ve started doing that. Keep doing it.”

Erik’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “Rumi.” He said. His hands fidgeted at his sides, uncertain.

“Nadir—” He hesitated. “I have to ask you something. It’s… It’s a small thing, really.”

Nadir turned fully toward him, one brow raised. “Go on.”

Another beat passed, then Erik blurted it all at once, his gaze fixed somewhere just past Nadir’s shoulder. “Would you be my best man? At the wedding.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Nadir laughed—a warm, unguarded sound that filled the half-empty room. “A small thing?” he said with a grin.

Before Erik could retreat into defensiveness, Nadir stepped forward and pulled him into a firm, brotherly embrace. Erik stood frozen for a moment, arms stiff at his sides, eyes wide.

Then slowly—awkwardly, almost like learning a foreign language—he returned the hug. His hands came to rest on Nadir’s back, and he exhaled, the tension in his frame melting, just slightly.

“You old fool,” Nadir murmured. “Of course I will.”

Erik didn’t speak. But the grip of his hands tightened, just for a moment.

Nadir eased back slightly from the embrace, one hand rising to rest gently against Erik’s unmasked cheek. For a moment, their foreheads were nearly touching.

Erik’s hands still lingered on Nadir’s back, uncertain.

“Erik,” Nadir said, his voice low but clear. “Believe it or not, you are my dearest friend. And you have a woman by your side that most men only dream of.”

His dark eyes searched Erik’s. “Don’t fuck this up.”

Erik gave a small, solemn nod, his throat tightening. No words, just a flicker of something soft behind his eyes.

Nadir gave Erik’s cheek a brief, affectionate pat—more rough than tender, but full of warmth. 

Then he let go, stepping back, his hand falling to his side.

“Now - did you set a date already?”

________________________________________________________________________

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the boulevard, and the air was laced with the sharp tang of smoke. Raoul had just stepped out of his carriage, when he spotted a familiar face near the corner café.

Darius was leaning against a lamppost, one boot propped casually behind him, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His fingers moved with quick precision, rolling a cigarette between ink-stained thumbs. Raoul recognized him—he'd seen him in passing at the Café Montreuil , always surrounded by the same bohemian swarm of artists and opera folk, and at Nadir’s house when he accompanied Christine to see Erik that one time. So Raoul knew he was a friend of Christine’s maestro. 

That alone made Darius vaguely disagreeable to Raoul. Even though Raoul had to regularly meet Erik, he still didn’t trust him fully and he never really forgiven him for hurting his best friend. However, for her sake he didn’t question their newly blooming relationship. At the end, it was her decision. Nonetheless, he didn’t have to approve. Maybe that was the reason he never once exchanged a word with Darius.

Darius looked up, catching Raoul’s eye with the faintest smirk.

“Heading to the temple of song, Vicomte?”

Raoul blinked, slowing just slightly. “Yes. Meeting.”

Darius nodded, licking the edge of the paper to seal it. “Smoke before your battle?”

Raoul hesitated. “I really should—”

“Come on,” Darius said, pushing himself off the post. “One won’t kill you.”

He held out the slim cigarette with two fingers, the gesture oddly gracious. Raoul looked at it, then at the man offering it, and sighed.

“All right.”

He took it, and Darius immediately began rolling a new one, deft and smooth, the movement practiced and thoughtless. Raoul struck a match against the base of the lamppost. It flared to life with a brief, golden hiss.

Darius paused, watching as Raoul brought the flame to the cigarette. Raoul took a slow drag, the smoke curling from his lips.

“You don’t look like a man who smokes,” Darius remarked, mouth quirking.

“I don’t,” Raoul said, exhaling.

Darius laughed softly. Then lit his own cigarette, cupping the flame with a hand as the wind picked up slightly. He took a drag, then glanced sideways at Raoul.

“So,” he said, smoke curling from his lips, “Christine and Erik are getting married.”

Raoul’s brows furrowed, just slightly.

Darius let out a quiet chuckle. “You disapprove.”

Raoul didn’t answer at first. His eyes were fixed on some distant point beyond the rooftops.

“That obvious?” he said at last.

“Crystal,” Darius said with a grin, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. “So I suppose we’re in different camps, then.”

Raoul turned to look at him, one brow raised. “And which camp are you in?”

“Well, now that I think about it - the universe is my home and the human family is my tribe.” Darius grinned.

Raoul huffed a quiet breath through his nose. “That sounds suspiciously like something someone says when they don’t want to pick a side.”

“Maybe,” Darius said, eyes glinting. “Or maybe I just don’t see the point in pretending we aren’t all a little bit tangled in each other’s stories.”

“What do you do with your life, anyway?” Raoul asked, watching Darius with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

Darius shrugged lazily, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. “Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. I enjoy things. People. Nights that go on too long and mornings that come too soon.”

Raoul’s brow lifted, unimpressed. “So... nothing.”

Darius chuckled. “Depends on your definition. I call it living.” He took a step closer. “You should join me sometime.”

Raoul narrowed his eyes. “I’ve got responsibilities.”

“So I’ve heard,” Darius murmured, the corner of his mouth curling. “But I’ve also heard the Vicomte de Chagny has a taste for... pleasure.”

Raoul met his gaze then, eyes glittering with something half-playful, half-wary. “What can I say? Some reputations are well-earned.”

Their eyes lingered just a beat too long.

Darius smiled, slow and sure. “So then it’s settled — join me tonight at Montreuil . I’ll even buy your first drink.”

Raoul let out a soft snort of amusement, brushing ash from his sleeve. “That’s hardly an offer, considering that patrons drink for free in that bar.”

“Then you can put it on your tab,” Darius said, flicking the last of his cigarette to the ground and crushing it underfoot. “Or let me owe you something more interesting.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The bar was already half-full by the time Raoul arrived that evening—smoke curling toward the amber sconces, a piano tinkling somewhere in the back, and low laughter humming through the haze. Familiar faces nodded to him as he passed, but he barely registered them.

Darius was at the end of the bar, one elbow propped, nursing a drink with the sort of lazy elegance that made it look like he belonged to the place more than the furniture did. He saw Raoul before Raoul reached him and didn’t move, just smiled.

“You’re late,” he said, handing Raoul a fresh glass. “So I drank your first one for you.”

Raoul accepted it with a smirk, settling onto the barstool beside him. “Then I suppose this one’s technically your second drink. And my first.”

“Don’t worry,” Darius said smoothly, “I’m a generous man. I’ll let you catch up.”

They drank in companionable silence for a moment, the din of the room offering a strange kind of privacy. Smoke curled lazily between them. Raoul leaned back, his gaze flicking sideways.

“So…” he said casually, “what’s under the mask?”

Darius stilled.

For the first time since Raoul had seen him weeks ago, the easy charm in Darius’s posture seemed to falter. Not break—but pause. Like a bowstring drawn tight.

He didn’t look at Raoul when he spoke. “I don’t know.”

Raoul raised a brow. “I don’t believe you.”

Darius finally turned his head, his smile returning—softer now, but not quite amused. “Until a few weeks ago, I hadn’t seen it either. And I’ve known Erik for years.”

“And?”

“And,” Darius said, setting his drink down, “it’s not important.”

Raoul frowned. “Isn’t it?”

“No.” Darius’s voice was quiet now, final.

Raoul considered pressing the question. Then he shrugged slightly. “I just don’t understand him.”

“Good,” Darius said, tipping his glass toward him. “Don’t try to. The day you think you do is the day he’ll surprise you.”

Raoul chuckled faintly, then looked away. “You sound like you admire him.”

“I admire a lot of dangerous things,” Darius murmured, grinning. 

There was a pause, filled only by the clinking of glass and the hush of low conversation around them.

Then Darius’s voice cut through again, calm but pointed. “Are you in love with Christine?”

Raoul blinked at him, surprised. And then, he laughed—a full, boyish sound that turned heads a few stools down.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “God, no. She’s my little sister, my Little Lotte.”

Darius smiled. “Little Lotte,” he repeated, as if tasting the name.

Raoul nodded, finishing the last of his drink. “She’s always been that. Since we were children.”

Darius was quiet for a moment, watching him. Then he leaned a fraction closer, a shadow of something playful curling at the edge of his smile.

“Tell me, Vicomte…” he said slowly, “do you like to fight?”

Raoul turned his head, brows lifting. “What?”

Darius’s smile deepened, but his tone remained light.

“Do you enjoy it?” he asked, almost lazily. “Getting in close. Feeling the tension rise. The hit. The heat of it.”

Raoul didn’t answer right away. Their eyes held for a moment too long, something silent passing between them.

_________________________________________________________________________

The air inside the club was thick with smoke and sweat, dimly lit by overhead gas lamps that flickered like impatient stars. The floor beneath Raoul’s polished boots was sticky, and the din of shouted bets and breaking glass reverberated off the low ceiling. The underground fight club in Pigalle was nothing like anything he’d ever experienced. This was a place of heat and hunger, of spectacle and desperation.

Darius walked ahead of him with familiar ease, ducking under a set of frayed red velvet curtains that divided the narrow stairwell from the main room. Raoul followed, instinctively pulling his coat tighter around himself, though he wasn’t cold.

Gloria Fleck spotted them instantly. She was dressed in a long burgundy corset that glittered under the lights, her dark hair piled high, a cigarette holder balanced lazily in one hand. Her voice was smoky too, rich with amusement and sharp as glass.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the pretty boy,” she purred, stepping up to them. “Here to throw a punch or take one? And you brought a handsome friend?”

Darius gave a lopsided grin. “Hi Gloria.. we’re just watching tonight.”

Gloria gave a shrug that did interesting things to her neckline. “Suit yourselves. If you change your mind: first drink’s on the house if you make it through a full round.”

She sauntered off with a laugh, leaving them in the midst of it all.

They made their way to the bar, a curved stretch of chipped mahogany manned by a wiry man with one eye and a spectacular mustache. Darius ordered whiskey for both of them. Raoul took his glass and leaned on the counter, staring out at the chaos.

The ring in the center of the room was roped, surrounded by a shouting, stomping crowd. Two men circled each other, stripped to the waist, bodies slick with sweat and bruises, teeth bared. One swung; the other ducked. The crowd roared like animals.

Raoul couldn’t look away.

He took a sip of the whiskey—it burned on the way down—and said quietly to Darius, “I’ve never been somewhere like this.”

Darius glanced at him sideways. “What, no underground brawls in the salons of Versailles?”

Raoul gave a dry laugh. “Wealth makes the world very quiet. It’s all mirrors and lace and pretending no one bleeds.”

He turned back toward the ring, eyes scanning the ragged faces in the crowd—men with sunken cheeks and rotting teeth, women with painted eyes and tired smiles, lives lived in narrow alleys and shadowed corners.

And then he saw her.

She burst into view with a kind of reckless energy—laughing too loudly at something the bartender said, her voice husky with smoke and wine. Her coat, though expensive, was worn open and careless, revealing a blood-red bodice laced too tight over her ribs. Her jewelry didn’t match. Her gloves were mismatched entirely—one velvet, one lace. But her eyes... her eyes didn’t match any of it. They were dark, restless, ringed with sleeplessness, and distant in a way that had nothing to do with the room around her.

She lit a cigarette with a silver lighter and exhaled smoke.

Raoul stared.

She didn’t belong here. And yet, she was of this place.

“Who is she?” he asked Darius, not looking away.

Darius shrugged. “She comes here often. Never bets. Just watches. Drinks.”

Raoul watched her laugh again—too bright, too brief. Then her face fell quiet as soon as she turned away. No lingering joy.

Raoul tossed back the rest of his whiskey in a single motion. It burned all the way down, sharp and warm, but it was the kind of pain that made things clearer. He set the glass on the bar with a quiet clink and stepped away before he could talk himself out of it.

Darius opened his mouth to say something, but Raoul was already gone—crossing the room with a purposeful stride, dodging bodies and cigarette smoke and the dull roar of the crowd.

She was leaning against a support pillar, half-turned toward the ring, her eyes unfocused, watching the fighters move like ghosts in the red haze of light. Her cigarette had burned nearly to the filter, ash clinging stubbornly to the tip.

Raoul came to stand beside her, not too close.

She didn’t look at him right away. She took one last drag and flicked the butt to the floor, crushing it beneath the toe of a scuffed but beautiful boot.

“I thought you looked lost,” she said without turning. Then, after a pause, her voice dropped into something drier, more amused. “And too well-dressed for this place.”

Raoul gave a quiet huff of laughter. “Takes one to know one.”

That made her glance at him, arching an eyebrow, her mouth twisting faintly in a not-quite-smile. “I blend in better than you think.”

He nodded slowly, then gestured toward her hand. “Maybe to them. But I see it anyway.”

She followed his gaze.

“That’s not cheap fabric,” he added, tilting his chin toward her glove. “You can scuff the boots, hide in the dark corners, light your cigarettes with attitude… but someone taught you what quality feels like. And you didn’t forget.”

She smirked at his words, finally turning to look at him. Her eyes were sharp under painted lids—dark, clever, and tired in a way that made her feel decades older than him, though her face was still striking. There was laughter there too, but it was the kind that never quite reached the surface.

“You’ve got a pretty mouth for someone so green behind the ears,” she said, lips quirking. “Let me guess—first time slumming?”

Raoul flushed, but held her gaze. “First time seeing something real.”

That caught her off guard. For the briefest moment, her brow twitched—surprise or maybe something closer to pain—but it vanished as fast as it came.

“You say that now,” she murmured, her voice low and dry. “Give it time. Most men like you go crawling back to the chandeliers and lace soon enough. You’re not built for smoke and blood and bodies that don’t matter in the daylight.”

He took a small step closer, emboldened. “You don’t know what I’m built for.”

Geneviève gave a slow, almost lazy laugh. It was rich and warm, but tinged with something hollow. She tilted her head, examining him like one might a lovely, breakable vase.

“You’re charming,” she said at last. “Sweet, even. But you still smell like cologne and good intentions. I don’t make a habit of ruining boys who haven’t figured out yet whether they want to be ruined.”

Raoul looked at her like he couldn’t quite breathe.

She held his gaze for a moment longer—just long enough to let the words settle like ash.

Then, without another word, she turned.

The hem of her coat flared slightly as she walked away, boots thudding softly against the cracked floorboards. She didn’t look back. The smoke from her last cigarette still hung in the air between them.

Chapter Text

The days that followed passed in a strange silence.

Madame Giry didn’t speak to Christine. Not a word over breakfast, not a glance when passing her in the hallways. Her presence remained, as constant and cold as ever, but her silence was deliberate—a quiet punishment. Christine bore it with dignity, though it stung deeper than she would admit.

Each afternoon, without fail, Erik came to walk with her.

At first, it had been a suggestion—tentative, even awkward. Now it was habit, a ritual. He said he wanted to grow used to the daylight, to test the boundaries of the world outside the opera house, one he had avoided for so long. He felt more comfortable testing his limits with Christine at his side.

They walked through the Parc Monceau or along the edges of the Seine, where sunlight danced on the ripples like small, scattered diamonds. Erik wore gloves and his white mask, his black walking coat buttoned neatly. Sometimes, children stared. Occasionally, adults did too. But no one said anything.

Christine would talk to distract him—about music, the strange things ballet dancers said in the wings, the smell of wet leaves or roasted chestnuts from nearby vendors. Erik listened with quiet attention, sometimes smiling, sometimes making dry observations that made her laugh out loud.

But still, something had shifted since their night together.

He no longer let her stay overnight. Now, they just walked and then he would escort her back to her home, kiss her hand, and vanish into the dark, alone. He claimed managing the opera demanded more and more of his time, and Christine believed him. She wanted to believe him. Still, the change unsettled her in quiet moments. There was a coolness now—not unkind, but careful. As though he were drawing lines again where none had been.

However, always, before they parted, he asked the same thing.

“Has she given her permission yet?”

Christine’s smile would falter, just slightly. “Not yet. She’s… still not speaking to me.”

His brow would furrow, and he’d nod tightly, as if bracing himself.

He never pushed. But he always asked.

And still, every day, they walked together—through pale golden afternoons and under soft, early evening skies. Though the world looked at him like a strange thing, Christine looked at him like he was simply hers. And for Erik, that was enough to step into the light again.

Days later Erik stood before Madame Giry’s apartment door, the collar of his coat turned up, the letter of intent tucked in the inner pocket. His gloved hand hovered in the air for a second before he knocked—three firm, deliberate raps.

He heard the muffled footsteps within. A moment later, the door opened with a slow creak.

Madame Giry appeared in the narrow frame. Her expression was as unreadable as ever, her lips a thin line, her eyes calculating.

“Erik.”

“Antoinette.” His voice was low and steady.

For a brief instant, her sternness cracked. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. The apartment was sparse, neat, shaded against the early June sun. The heavy velvet curtains allowed only a sliver of light in, casting long shadows over the modest furnishings. A vase of dried lavender stood on the mantle, faintly scenting the room with a dusty calm.

He did not sit. He stood in the center of the parlor, his presence oddly fragile and imposing at once. “I’ve come to ask for your permission. The official kind. Written.”

She did not reply immediately. Instead, she walked slowly to her writing desk, opened a drawer, and took out a single sheet of cream-colored paper. It was already folded.

“You’re late,” she said coolly, holding it out. “I wrote it three days ago.”

Erik blinked once in surprise, then reached out and took it with quiet reverence. His fingers touched the edge like it might dissolve at his touch. He opened it, scanned the neat, practiced handwriting. Her name was signed at the bottom in deliberate strokes.

He exhaled. “Thank you.”

There was a long silence. Madame Giry watched him closely, her arms folded across her chest.

“I want her to be safe,” she said at last, her voice low and hard. “That has always been my only goal. I know Christine better than she knows herself sometimes. She loves deeply, recklessly. If she were to end up… compromised before the ceremony…”

Erik’s jaw tensed beneath the mask. “I would never—”

“I’m not accusing you,” she cut in, sharper now. “I’m telling you what the world will do to her if you are careless. A woman, unmarried and pregnant—do you understand how fast the doors close for her? How quickly reputations are ruined? Men recover. Women do not.”

Her voice cracked just slightly on the last word. She turned her back to him, as if to hide it.

Erik’s fingers clenched around the letter.

“I know,” he said quietly. “And you have my word, Antoinette. I will take care of her.”

He hesitated. Then added, more softly, “Even if one day she no longer wants me. Even if I lose her. It will not change my promise.”

That made her turn. She stared at him, something unreadable tightening around her eyes. Then, slowly, she stepped toward him.

“You may not be what I once hoped for her,” she said, quieter now. “But she seems to be happy. She chose you.”

Erik didn’t move. His gloved hand tightened once more around the folded paper, then relaxed.

With a tired sigh, Madame Giry reached up and briefly touched his shoulder. Not affectionately, but with a kind of resigned solidarity. Then she let go, turned away once more, and busied herself with straightening a candlestick that didn’t need straightening.

“Good day, Erik.”

He bowed his head slightly. “Good day, Antoinette.”

He stepped back into the sunlit hallway, the door clicking closed behind him. The noise of Paris returned like distant music—wheels clattering, voices drifting in from open windows, bells somewhere on the river ringing the hour.

But Erik barely noticed. In his coat, warm against his chest, was her permission—Christine’s future with him now within reach.

_________________________________________________________________________

The café was unusually quiet. Sunlight spilled through the lace curtains and pooled on the tiled floor, catching on dust motes that danced lazily in the still air. The clatter of cups from the back room echoed faintly, but the usual crowd of dancers, singers, and stagehands was gone—scattered for the summer season.

Meg sat perched on the edge of her chair, stirring her coffee without drinking it. Across from her, Christine stared out the window, her gloved fingers resting idly on the porcelain rim of her cup.

“You’ve hardly said a word,” Meg said at last, glancing over the rim of her coffeecup. “If you’re going to be boring, I’ll have to go find someone scandalous to talk to.”

Christine smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve just been thinking.”

Meg leaned in. “About Erik?”

Christine hesitated, then nodded. “Something’s changed, Meg. Since… since that night.”

Meg’s eyes lit with mischief, but the look faded quickly when she saw Christine’s expression.

“He won’t let me stay over anymore,” Christine said quietly. “Not even when I ask. He just… avoids it. And every time I try to get close to him, to touch him, he pulls away.”

Meg frowned.

Christine shook her head slowly. “And that’s not all. He says he’s busy—meetings, arrangements, planning for the new season. But Raoul told me he hasn’t been showing up at the managers’ meetings. He sends instructions, notes, floor plans… but no one’s seen him.”

The clink of a spoon against porcelain filled the silence between them.

“I don’t understand,” Christine murmured. “Was it something I did? Or is he just… scared?”

Meg reached across the table and touched her friend’s hand.

“Christine, I’m sure he loves you. That much is obvious. He’s probably just overwhelmed. He’s never… had something like this before, right?”

“I know,” Christine whispered. “But it feels like he’s vanishing. Like he gave me everything for one night, and now he’s folding himself back into the shadows again. I don’t know how to bring him back.”

The late sun caught in her hair as she turned her face away, blinking back tears she didn’t want Meg to see.

Meg squeezed her hand gently.

“You’ll figure it out. I think it’s best if you just went and talked to him about it.”

Christine nodded slowly, but her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of her cup, as if anchoring herself to something solid.

Outside, the bells of Notre-Dame chimed the hour, and the quiet hum of summer drifted through the city.

_________________________________________________________________________

The sun was already setting, the street lit only by the flickering wall sconce beside the heavy wooden door. Christine knocked, firmly. No answer. She waited, lips pressed tight, her gloved hand clenched at her side.

Then finally—footsteps. Slow, reluctant.

The door opened just a crack.

“Christine,” Erik said, his voice low, cautious. His eyes darted behind her as if checking to make sure she was alone.

“I need to speak with you,” she said firmly.

“It’s late.”

“Let me in, Erik.”

A pause. He looked at her for a long moment, jaw tense beneath the edge of his mask.

Then he began to close the door. “Not tonight—”

She pushed against it before he could shut it fully, slipping past him into the hallway beyond. The lamp in the entryway cast her in warm gold as she turned back to face him, standing in the middle of the room like she belonged there.

“Christine—” he started, voice tight with warning.

“No,” she said sharply. “Don’t shut me out again.”

He closed the door behind him with a quiet thud and leaned against it, hands pressed to the wood. For a long second, he didn’t speak.

“I don’t understand,” Christine said, her voice breaking at the edge of frustration and hurt. “You don’t let me stay over anymore. You flinch when I try to touch you. You won’t even kiss me anymore. After everything… why?”

He turned his head slightly, but didn’t look at her. “Because I want our wedding night to mean something.”

She blinked, momentarily thrown. “What?”

“I want it to be special,” he said, finally facing her. His voice was quieter now, but firm. “I’ve already taken too much. You deserve… more than that. More than stolen nights. I want our first night as husband and wife to be just that—as husband and wife.”

Christine stared at him, breathing unevenly. “So you decided that all on your own? Without even telling me?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“You can’t just shut down and expect me to read your mind, Erik,” she said, stepping closer. “This isn’t just your decision. We’re in this together. You don’t get to make those choices for both of us and then leave me wondering what I did wrong.”

A silence settled between them. Something heavy, tangled between guilt and tenderness.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I thought I was protecting you.”

She softened just slightly, but her eyes didn’t waver. “Next time, try trusting me instead. Also… where have you been, Erik? You’re always vanishing lately.”

He blinked at her, caught off guard. “At the opera. Meetings. There are always matters to attend to.”

She studied him carefully. “Funny. Raoul says you haven’t shown up to a single manager’s meeting in two weeks.”

At the mention of Raoul’s name, his jaw clenched. His shoulders tightened, and the temperature in the room seemed to shift.

“The Vicomte should mind his own affairs,” he muttered.

Christine took a step back, not in fear, but out of something else—calculation. Her eyes flicked toward the closed door at the end of the hall, from which a strip of soft yellow light spilled beneath.

She moved toward it.

“Christine—” His voice snapped to life, alarmed.

But she was already several steps ahead. When he lunged to block her path, it was too late—his movement was too sudden, too desperate, and it only deepened her suspicion.

She ducked past him with surprising ease and threw the door open.

What she saw made her freeze in the doorway.

The room was flooded in warm lamplight. Bolts of ivory silk lay draped over a dress form. A delicate bodice, hand-stitched with silver thread and tiny pearls, sat nearly finished atop it. There were lace-edged sleeves, a veil resting carefully over a nearby chair, and chalk lines marked with precision on the train. Scissors, pins, measuring tape, sketches—dozens of them—were scattered neatly across the table.

It was a wedding dress.

Her wedding dress.

Christine stepped inside slowly, breath caught in her throat. She turned to him, wide-eyed, something soft and stunned blooming in her chest.

“You’ve been… making this?” she whispered.

Erik stood in the doorway, breathing hard, mask shadowed in the low light. He didn’t answer right away—just nodded once, a reluctant, vulnerable thing.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “I didn’t want you to know until it was done.”

Christine looked back at the gown, then again at him. Something in her face melted—frustration giving way to something impossibly tender.

Before she could say another word, Erik spoke quickly, almost tripping over himself.

“If—if it’s not to your liking, I’ll buy you another. A proper one. From a real modiste.”
He stood stiffly in the doorway, one hand clutching the edge of the frame like he might bolt. “I just— I thought—”

Christine didn’t answer right away. She stepped closer to the dress, her eyes scanning every inch of it.

The fabric was a soft ivory satin, its surface catching the warm lamplight like water catching fire. The bodice had been shaped with precision, cinching gracefully at the waist, embroidered with delicate silver thread in a pattern that mimicked climbing ivy. Tiny pearls had been stitched along the neckline—subtle, not ostentatious, but luminous.

The sleeves were sheer tulle, long and close-fitting, their cuffs edged with hand-tatted lace. The skirt flowed in gentle layers, not too heavy, not too grand—but full enough to move with quiet elegance. On the train, faint chalk marks still guided his design, and there, barely noticeable, was a single stitched rose near the hem. She imagined his long fingers working late into the night, sewing in silence, drafting and redrafting until it felt like her.

Her voice, when it came, was low and awed.

“Erik… this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He said nothing, not trusting himself to speak. His hands hung loosely at his sides now, his posture a quiet collapse of tension.

Christine stepped toward him then, one hand brushing gently against the fabric of the veil as she passed. When she reached him, she placed her palm over his chest, just above his heart.

“You don’t have to buy me anything,” she said softly. “This is more than I ever dreamed.”

For a long moment, they just stood like that, the light pooling around them in the little room that smelled faintly of chalk dust and satin.

Then he said, “Come on, let me bring you home. We don’t want to upset Antoinette further.” 

_________________________________________________________________________

The haze of smoke curled lazily under the high ceiling, glowing in the gaslight like mist. The ring was a mess of blood and sweat and noise, but the corners of the club were quieter tonight.

Darius leaned with one elbow against the bar, sipping his whiskey slowly, though his eyes rarely left Raoul.

Raoul sat across from him, but his gaze wandered—toward the far edge of the room, toward the pillar where she had once stood like a siren in mourning.

The woman wasn’t there tonight.

She hadn’t been there the last three times either.
Still, Raoul came.

He tried not to look disappointed when the curtain lifted and she didn’t appear. He tried not to check the crowd. But Darius noticed.

"You always look like you're expecting someone," Darius said, casually, almost teasing.

Raoul gave a short, self-conscious laugh. “Maybe I am.”

Darius took another sip of his whiskey, eyes narrowing slightly.

“She’s not coming,” he said after a moment, more bluntly than he meant to. “You’re not her type.”

Raoul arched a brow. “And what is her type?”

“People who already know what pain is,” Darius said flatly. “You still think everything can be fixed with a bouquet of flowers.”

That stung more than Raoul wanted to admit.
He looked down, turning the whiskey glass in his hands.

Darius regretted it immediately. He exhaled and softened his tone. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

Raoul shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. “Maybe it was.”

They sat in silence for a beat—long enough to feel the noise of the club swell around them again. A fighter crashed to the mat. Cheers. A bottle shattered near the stairs.

Darius leaned in a little, just enough for his voice to drop into the intimate register of truth.

“She’s not what you think she is. But I get it,” he said, quieter now. “You look at her like she’s a story you want to be written into.”

Raoul looked up. Their eyes met.
It hung between them like smoke—unspoken, almost dangerous.

Darius’s gaze held his, steady but unreadable.
He wanted to say “You don’t see who’s standing right in front of you.” But he didn’t.

Instead, he knocked back the rest of his whiskey and stood.

“Come on. There’s a guy from Belleville fighting in the next round. You’ll like him—he’s quick.”

Raoul hesitated, then stood too, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve.
He smiled faintly, distracted.

But Darius saw it again—that glance toward the pillar. That hope.

And he followed Raoul into the noise, his own longing carefully folded and hidden.

They didn’t make it to the ring.

She was already there.

She stood at the far end of the room, where the shadows softened the edges of everything. She wasn’t leaning this time—she stood tall, spine straight, posture regal in that careless way only the truly untouchable mastered. Her hair was pulled back tonight, high at the crown, and she wore a deep burgundy dress with sleeves like smoke and a hem that just brushed the tops of polished boots.

Raoul stopped walking.

Darius halted beside him and followed his gaze—then quietly looked away.

She saw them.

She didn’t smile. She simply tilted her head slightly, acknowledging him like a queen acknowledging a favored guest.

Raoul crossed the room.

She let him come.

When he reached her, she looked at him for a long moment, as if deciding what version of herself to give him tonight.
Then, finally—

“I knew you’d come back.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Raoul said, voice low. “I kept hoping you’d be here.”

“I’m not always here,” she said. “But when I am, I don’t waste my time.”

She reached into her coat and pulled out a small gray envelope, sealed in red wax.

“This is my name,” she said, placing the envelope in his hand, “and an invitation.”

He looked down, breath hitching slightly.
“Geneviève,” he read quietly. “Geneviève… what?”

“Marechal,” she said, voice like silk slipping through fingers. “But no one calls me that unless they want something.”

He looked up, meeting her gaze. “And what do I want?”

“That,” she said, tapping his chest lightly over the envelope, “depends on what you’re willing to lose.”

Then she leaned in—closer than necessary, close enough to smell the ghost of roses and tobacco on her skin—and whispered:

“Tomorrow. Midnight. 43 Rue Saint-Roch. Wear something nice.” Then her eyes wandered to Darius. “And bring friends.”

And then she was gone again, melting into the crowd before he could ask anything else.

Across the room, Darius watched it all.
He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

His face was unreadable to anyone but himself—except for the slight tightening of his jaw, the faint shadow that passed behind his eyes. He saw the envelope. Saw the way Raoul held it like it was something precious.

And he knew.

Knew that whatever space could have been there between them—unspoken, impossible, aching—was now closing behind someone else’s silhouette.

_________________________________________________________________________

The light outside was growing gold with early evening. Inside Christine’s dressing room, the air smelled faintly of lavender powder and sweat. Christine decided to join Meg’s private rehearsals, her nerves catching up with her with every day her wedding drew closer. Ballet rehearsals were just the right thing to calm her fluttering heart. She sat at her vanity, hair half-pinned, while Meg perched on the arm of the chaise longue, swinging her legs idly.

A knock came—sharp, impatient.

Raoul let himself in without waiting for a reply. He was flushed with excitement, a folded card in his hand.

“You’ll never believe what I have,” he announced.

Christine turned, lifting an eyebrow at his dramatics. “Something scandalous, no doubt.”

Raoul grinned. “Very. A private party. Tonight. Exclusive. Hosted by a woman named Geneviève Marechal.”

Meg’s eyes lit up. “That sounds very scandalous.”

Christine stood, smoothing the front of her rehearsal gown. “I’ve never heard of her.”

“That’s the point,” Raoul said. “You don’t hear about her. She finds you. And she gave me an invitation.”

He held it up triumphantly. The envelope gleamed faintly in the fading light.

“I want you both to come.”

Meg gasped. “ Both of us?”

Raoul nodded. “Come on, it’ll be like old times. Something completely unlike opera galas and chaperones. And Darius is coming too. She said midnight. Rue Saint-Roch.”

Christine’s smile faded slightly. “Raoul… I can’t.”

Raoul blinked. “Why not?”

“I’ve made plans with Erik,” she said softly. “He submitted the papers for our marriage today. It’s official now— so our wedding can be announced on Sunday.”

Her eyes softened. “We’re having dinner together to celebrate. Just the two of us. I… I want to be present for this part of it, too.”

Raoul’s face fell—just a flicker—but he recovered quickly. “Of course. That’s fair.”

Meg, however, was still watching him with curiosity—and no small amount of longing for adventure.

“Is it really that exclusive?” she asked, her voice lower now, conspiratorial.

Raoul turned to her, seizing his chance. “Extremely. There’ll be music, and drinks, and people unlike anyone you’ve met before. Think of it as… research. For your stage career.”

Christine gave her a warning look. “Meg…”

Meg wrinkled her nose. “I never get to go anywhere fun, we can’t just be hanging out at the Montreuil all the time. Just once I want to go somewhere adventurous. Please?”

“You’ll need a cloak,” Christine said with a sigh. “And don’t tell your mother. She’d chain you to the ballet barre.”

Meg giggled. “I was going to sneak out through the window anyway.”

Christine rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re hopelessly in love,” Meg teased.

Christine flushed and turned away, smiling.

Raoul tucked the invitation into Meg’s palm with a wink. “Midnight,” he said. “I’ll pick you up. Wear something daring.”

As he turned to leave, he gave Christine one last look, something unreadable in his eyes—something just a little too quiet.

“I hope he knows what he has,” he said softly.

She looked back at him, lips parting to reply—but the words stayed in her throat.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Chapter Text

When they arrived, the house in the Rue Saint-Roch pulsed with life, spilling light and laughter into the narrow street outside. It was past midnight, but inside, the party had only just started. Smoke curled toward the high ceiling, mingling with the heavy scent of perfume, wine, sweat, and oil paint.

Raoul had been to his share of salons, soirées, and masquerades—but never anything like this.

People were everywhere: standing in doorways, lounging across divans, draped over stair railings. The parlor was a crush of silk and skin, where a string quartet—half-undressed, half-drunk—played a wild, reeling tango. Someone had abandoned a violin case on the floor, now filled with cigarette butts and a scattering of coins.

In the dining room, the table had been pushed aside to make room for dancers—young men and women moving with a kind of reckless freedom, arms lifted, skirts flying. Laughter burst out in waves, and champagne was poured into tea cups, bowls, bare hands.

The kitchen smelled of garlic, coffee, and absinthe. A poet stood on the countertop reciting something feverish and obscene while a sculptor tried to sketch him between shots of brandy. Someone else was weeping softly into a potted plant.

And in the far room—what might have once been a study—an artist’s circle had gathered. The curtains were drawn, the lamps dimmed. In the center stood a nude model, lit by a single oil lamp, her skin glowing like marble. Around her, painters leaned over their canvases, murmuring in Russian, French, and German. Brushes danced. The air smelled of turpentine and smoke.

Meg clung to Raoul’s arm, her eyes wide. “Is this real?” she whispered.

He gave a breathless laugh. “I think so.”

She giggled, but there was nervousness in her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many… bare people in one place.”

Darius, trailing just behind, exhaled slowly. “You haven’t spent enough time with sculptors,” he muttered, eyes already scanning the room—not for the art, but for the one woman Raoul was clearly hoping to find.

And then there she was.

Geneviève Maréchal.

She stood at the top of the staircase, drink in hand, her head tilted back in laughter. Her gown was emerald green and draped like something from a myth, her hair pinned high with loose curls spilling down. She wasn’t trying to command the room. She simply did .

She saw Raoul and raised a brow, as if amused he had actually come.

Then, smiling slowly, she descended.

Raoul stepped forward, leaving Meg and Darius behind in the sea of chaos.

“You came,” she said. Her voice was low, honeyed, and strangely distant.

He nodded, a little breathless. “You invited me.”

“True.” She looked him over. “And you brought your own little audience. Very good.”

She looked Raoul over with a small, amused smirk—then stepped past him without another word.

Her eyes landed on Darius.

“ Ah. ” Her voice warmed, her gaze sharpening with curiosity. “Now you—we weren’t properly introduced yet.”
She held out her hand as if offering a challenge rather than a greeting. “Geneviève Maréchal.”

Darius took her hand briefly, his grip firm but cautious. “Darius Fournier.”

Her lips quirked. “Of course you are.”

Then she turned, her eyes catching Meg’s with sudden delight. “ Mon Dieu , what a beauty,” she murmured, taking in Meg’s flushed cheeks and golden curls with genuine appreciation. “You have the grace of a dancer.”

Meg blushed furiously, surprised and flattered. “Yes. I mean, I am.”

“Well,” Geneviève said, linking her arm with Meg’s as if they were old companions, “you’ll meet everyone tonight. Come, I want to show you the garden—there’s a man out there who loves painting ballet dancers. He’ll love you.”

And just like that, she swept Meg away into the crowd, the hem of her emerald gown trailing like smoke behind them.

The garden behind the house was a quiet breath compared to the chaos inside—only the faint strains of the string quartet carried on the summer air, mingling with the scent of roses and pipe smoke. Oil lamps hung from wrought-iron hooks along the paths, casting golden halos across hedges and gravel. The moon was rising behind the sycamores.

Meg followed Geneviève out into the calm, her shoes crunching softly on the stones. Laughter and footsteps echoed behind them, but out here it felt distant, like a world seen through glass.

“There,” Geneviève said, voice low, gesturing toward a man seated near a marble bench beneath a pergola half-wrapped in ivy. He was older—mid-forties at least—with sharp cheekbones and thinning dark hair brushed back from a high brow. He sat in stillness, sketchbook balanced on his knees, pipe clenched between his teeth. He barely looked up when they approached.

“Edgar,” Geneviève said, smiling faintly, “I’ve brought you something better than twilight.”

He glanced up, and his eyes landed on Meg—not with hunger, not even with admiration exactly, but with a kind of assessment, like he was deciding which light would fall best across her face. His gaze flicked to her hands, her posture, her stance.

“You dance,” he said simply, not a question.

“Yes,” Meg said, startled. “At the Opéra.”

“I thought so.” He nodded once. “Your shoulders carry memory.”

Meg blinked. “Memory?”

“Muscle remembers. It tightens where it’s been told to.”

Geneviève gave a low chuckle. “He only talks like that when he’s inspired.”

“Stand there,” Degas murmured, gesturing to the edge of the path where moonlight spilled through the vines. “Don’t smile. Just… be.”

Meg glanced at Geneviève, uncertain. But the older woman gave a small, encouraging nod.

So Meg stepped into the light.

Degas’s pencil scratched lightly over the page. She felt his eyes tracing her—not her curves or her prettiness, but her bones, her breath. It wasn’t like being looked at by a man. It was like being translated.

He paused only once to mutter, “You hold your weight like you expect to be dismissed. Don’t.”

Meg straightened instinctively.

He drew faster after that.

_________________________________________________________________________

The bar was cluttered with mismatched glasses and empty bottles, and the air smelled of citrus and smoke. Darius leaned against the counter, swirling the last of his drink, when a tall, finely dressed man with a shock of dark hair and intense eyes approached and set down a glass of clear liquor.

He looked Raoul up and down. “You don’t look like you’ve ever missed a meal.”

Raoul, caught mid-sip, blinked. “I—pardon?”

The man smiled faintly. “Only a man well-fed and well-groomed would try to hide his discomfort this politely.” He extended a hand. “Georges Seurat.”

Raoul took it, bemused. “Raoul de Chagny.”

“Ah,” Seurat said knowingly. “The name fits. You look like someone who once thought philosophy was a hobby, but not a necessity.”

Raoul laughed. “You’re not entirely wrong.”

Darius watched them with amusement. “And what about you, Monsieur Seurat? Philosopher or necessity?”

Seurat took a slow sip, eyes half-lidded. “I paint in dots. I think in curves. I believe in silence more than noise, and that most people fear stillness because it forces them to feel.”

Raoul raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like the beginning of a manifesto.”

“It’s actually something I told a laundress once,” Seurat replied dryly. “She said I was full of nonsense and kissed me anyway.”

Darius chuckled. “So you are full of nonsense.”

“Of course,” Seurat agreed with a twinkle. “But elegant nonsense. And I suspect our high-society friend here is just beginning to unlearn his.”

Raoul leaned in, warming to the game. “Tell me, then—what do you think is more dangerous: too much structure or too much freedom?”

Seurat looked momentarily delighted. “Ah! Finally, someone asks something interesting. Both are equally dangerous—structure numbs, freedom burns. But art,” he gestured with his glass, “art is the controlled fire. You shape it, or it devours you.”

Raoul looked genuinely impressed. “You’re very convincing.”

“I have to be,” Seurat said, amused. “Have you ever tried to get people to fund paintings made entirely of tiny dots?”

They all laughed.

Darius raised his glass. “To elegant nonsense.”

Seurat clinked it. “To unlearning.”

Raoul hesitated, then clinked his as well. “And to parties like this. God help us all.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The garden doors swung open, spilling warm summer air and the hum of distant laughter into the house. Darius looked up from the hallway where he stood, searching for Raoul in the sea of bodies—but instead, he saw Meg, cheeks flushed, her hand hooked casually into the crook of Geneviève Maréchal’s arm as the two women slipped back inside.

Geneviève glanced around, then leaned toward Meg with a conspiratorial smile. “Come with me.”

Darius, drawn by instinct, followed quietly as they made their way toward the kitchen.

Inside, the space was strangely quiet—dimly lit, filled with the faint sound of ice clinking in glasses. A group of four sat around the table. In front of them: a small mirror, a thin metal tube, and lines of white powder laid out like something ritualistic.

Geneviève greeted them with a nod, then sauntered forward, taking the tube without hesitation. She bent forward and inhaled in a sharp, practiced breath. Her head tilted back, eyes fluttering closed for a beat. When she looked at Meg again, her pupils were wider, her smile looser.

“Your turn,” she said, offering the tube.

Meg blinked. “What is it?”

Geneviève smiled languidly. “Cocaïne. It’s like coffee—caffeine, just… stronger. More elegant. Faster.”

Meg hesitated, eyes flicking between the mirror and Geneviève’s calm expression. “I’ve heard of it… Some of the ballet girls whisper about it. But I’ve never…”

Darius stepped into the light, his voice a little tense. “Meg,” he said, “I don’t think you—”

He didn’t get to finish.

From the doorway behind them, a voice rang out—sharper than it needed to be, slicing through the room like a blade.
“What are you doing?”

They all turned.

Raoul.
He stood framed in the doorway, flushed from wine and dancing, shirt open at the collar, his smile somewhere between wild and boyish.

His eyes dropped immediately to the mirror and the neat white lines gleaming under the low golden kitchen light.

He gave a short laugh. “God, Geneviève. You don’t waste time, do you?”

Geneviève shrugged elegantly. “Time is a luxury, Vicomte.”

Raoul strode in, brushing past Darius with a wink, and crouched beside the table. “You know,” he said, lifting the silver tube between two fingers, “if someone had told me this is how aristocrats would die out, I’d have signed up much sooner.”

Then he dipped low and took a line in one clean, practiced motion.

He exhaled with a shudder and grinned up at them all. “Oh, that hits like a cavalry charge.”

Meg looked startled, half-fascinated, half-nervous. “You’ve done this before?”

Raoul leaned back, eyes bright. “What haven’t I done, Mademoiselle Giry?”

Geneviève was already preparing the next line. “Your turn,” she said sweetly, offering the tube to Meg.

Meg looked unsure, glancing quickly at Darius—who leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, head tilted, watching.

“Don’t look at me now,” Darius said with a lopsided grin, eased and infected by Raoul’s fun demeanor. “I’ve done worse in darker basements.”

That got a small laugh out of Meg, which was all it took to loosen the edge of fear. Still, she hesitated.

Raoul stepped in beside her, lowering his voice. “Just one taste. I swear you’ll still be you—just... faster.”

Meg blinked, heart thudding. Then she reached for the tube. Geneviève laughed as Meg bent over the mirror.

A moment later, the white powder was gone, and Meg straightened up with a gasp—eyes wide, blinking, and then: a grin spreading slowly across her face.

Raoul whooped softly. “That’s my girl.”

Darius set down his glass, the clink of it against the counter just audible over the soft music and distant hum of voices.

He rolled his neck once, then pushed off the counter and sauntered over.
“Well,” he said, eyeing the last remaining line. “Can’t let the aristocracy have all the fun.”

Geneviève tilted her head, pleased. “You’re full of surprises.”

Raoul stepped back to give him space, still grinning, flushed and exhilarated.

Darius took the silver tube from Meg’s hand—his fingers brushing hers briefly, and something electric passed between them, too quick to name. She was still beaming, caught in the dizzy shimmer of it all.

He crouched low, one hand steady on the table’s edge. For a moment, he simply stared at the mirror.
Then he inhaled sharply—fast, clean—and sat back on his heels, blinking.

“…Fuck,” he murmured, voice low.

The sensation hit fast, blooming through his chest like fire and silk. He laughed—really laughed, eyes bright with something unguarded.

Geneviève raised a glass. “To sin, then.”

Raoul clinked it with his own. “And to never doing anything halfway.”

Meg giggled, clinging lightly to Raoul’s arm, flushed and glowing. Darius stood, swaying just a little, but steady.
His smile was different now—wide, unfiltered, alive.

He looked at Meg, and for a split second, it was just the two of them in the room.
Then the music from the next salon swelled, and someone called Geneviève’s name from down the hall.

She tossed her hair over one shoulder. “Let’s dance,” she said, grabbing Darius’ hand and already gliding toward the noise.

Raoul followed immediately, Meg on his heels. Before she could vanish into the crowd she turned around to Darius to grab his hand, laughing.

And Darius—buzzing, heart pounding, skin tingling—let himself be pulled into the chaos after them.

_________________________________________________________________________

The party blurred into something wild and golden and endless.

At some point, shoes came off—kicked into corners, abandoned on staircases. The music shifted to rowdy street waltzes, then to someone pounding out chords on a piano in the main salon, all wrong but full of heart.

Raoul danced with three women at once, his shirt halfway unbuttoned, hair a mess, grinning like he’d never learned the word “responsibility.” Meg danced too—wildly, spinning through strangers’ arms like she was born to live in the center of a storm. A young poet recited Baudelaire while standing on a kitchen table. Someone else was juggling bottles in the hallway. There were cigars and absinthe, fruit cut open with pocketknives, paint-smeared fingers, kisses stolen in half-lit corners.

Geneviève reigned over it all like a queen of velvet and danger, her laugh bright. She let Meg wear her earrings—long and silver and ridiculous. Raoul lost his jacket. Darius kissed someone, maybe more than one someone. He didn’t remember, but it didn’t matter.

They ended up in the garden at dawn, sprawled out on benches and steps and blankets someone had dragged outside. The early sun burned soft through the morning mist, touching the chaos with gold.

Meg rested her head on Darius’s shoulder, eyes closed, hair tousled, still wearing Geneviève’s earrings. Raoul lay on the grass, arms spread wide like he could hold the sky. Geneviève lit another cigarette with a match struck against her boot and looked completely untouched by the night, though her lipstick was gone and there was a faint scratch on her collarbone.

Darius tilted his head back to look at the lightening sky. “What time is it?”
Geneviève exhaled smoke, slow and unbothered. “Early.”

“Shit.”

Meg suddenly jolted upright, nearly tripping over the blanket tangled around her legs. “If my maman realizes I’m gone—”

Raoul sat up, brushing grass from his shirt. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

Meg was already stumbling to find her shoes, her hair a wild halo, lipstick faded to a soft blur. She looked back at the house, at the chaos behind its walls, then back to Raoul. “Do I look—?”

“Like a girl who had a very long, very good night,” Raoul said with a crooked grin. “But I’ll find you a hat.”

Geneviève watched them with a faint smirk, lazily tapping ash from her cigarette.

“My maman is going to be furious,” Meg muttered, pulling on one shoe and then the other. “God, I mean, if she finds out—”

“She won’t,” Raoul said quickly, already offering her his arm. “We’ll sneak in the back. I’m very experienced in sibling-related covert operations.”

Chapter Text

The sun had dipped fully behind the rooftops by the time Christine arrived. Erik’s apartment was already aglow in lamplight, softened by gauze curtains and the gold sheen of polished wood. 

She stepped inside, drawing off her gloves and brushing the chill from her sleeves.
He stood near the window, one hand on the frame, his back half-turned to her.

“Something happened,” he said, not looking at her yet.

She stilled. “Is something wrong?”

He turned then, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his mask.
“No. Not wrong. Just… bureaucratic.”

Christine raised a brow, her gloves forgotten in her hand.
“What do you mean?”

Erik walked to the table, where he’d already set two places, the silver gleaming.

“I went to the civil office today,” he said. “To submit the final documents for the marriage registration.”

Her face lit with a smile, but he didn’t return it.
“They wouldn’t accept it.”

“What?” She stepped closer.

“They said,” he began, with the careful patience of a man reciting something that had already tested his temper, “that because you were born in Sweden, you must present written proof that you are not, in fact, already married there.”

Christine blinked, then laughed — short and incredulous.
“I was eight years old when I left Sweden.”

“I told them that.”

She sat down and folded her hands in her lap, staring at the flicker of the candle between them. “So…?”

“So,” he sighed, “they offered me a list of registries and parish offices in Stockholm that we can contact. If we request the certificate, it may arrive—eventually. In a few weeks. Or months. The clerk didn’t sound particularly concerned.”

Christine sat very still, letting the information settle. The room went quiet again, save for the ticking of the ornate wall clock.

Then, finally, she looked up at him.
“You have contacts,” she said slowly. “With… forgers?”

He stilled. Their eyes met across the table.
She tilted her head. “It’s only documents. Why don’t we just forge them?”

For a beat, he stared at her. Then—
He laughed. A low, warm laugh, like steam escaping from a too-full kettle. Relief and delight mingled.

“That,” he said, moving toward her, “was exactly my thought.”

She smiled up at him as he reached her, his hands already seeking the curve of her waist, pulling her gently to her feet and into his arms.

“And here I thought I was marrying the embodiment of innocence,” he murmured, resting his chin lightly on her hair. “Then you tell me you would have wished Buquet dead, and now this.”

Christine laughed softly against his shoulder.
“I also slapped Piangi across the face.”

He drew back just enough to look down at her, eyebrows raised, a smile pulling at the edge of his mouth.
“Really?”

She nodded, unrepentant. “When he tried to come onto me in rehearsals.”

That did it—Erik laughed properly this time, the kind of laugh that curled from the belly and shook his chest. She laughed with him, full of joy at the sounds coming from his mouth.Then he wrapped his arms tightly around her, kissed her hair, and held her like he didn’t know where he ended and she began.

In that moment, the world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of them—her laughter like a melody only he could hear, lighting a fire deep within him. The way her eyes sparkled with mischief and strength made his heart ache with a fierce, tender joy. He loved everything about her: her courage, her spirit, the way she carried herself with a fierce kindness that touched even the darkest corners of his soul.

She wasn’t just a woman he admired—she was the one who stirred every part of him, who softened his edges and made him believe in something more than order and control. To love her was to worship the very essence of life itself, in all its messy, beautiful complexity.

“Well then,” he finally whispered into her hair, his voice close and warm in the hush of the room, “remind me never to get on your bad side again. It seems I got off lightly last time.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The apartment was quiet in the heavy afternoon light, the lace curtains casting long, drowsy shadows on the floor. Christine was rinsing tea cups when she heard the firm steps behind her—measured, unmistakable.

She turned, drying her hands on a linen towel.

Mme Giry stood in the doorway, arms folded, gaze sharp beneath the brim of her small black hat.

“Is Meg home?” she asked, her voice calm but clipped.

Christine nodded. “She’s sleeping.”

Mme Giry’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Why? Did she leave last night?”

Christine didn’t hesitate. “No.”

Mme Giry tilted her head. “You’re certain.”

“Yes.” Christine held her gaze, steady and unflinching, though her pulse fluttered in her throat like a trapped bird. “She was tired after rehearsal. It’s quite a lot for her sometimes.”

A pause. The older woman’s expression didn’t shift, but Christine could see her weighing the answer, tasting the edges of it.

Finally, Mme Giry gave a small nod. “Hm.”

She turned as if to leave, her dark silhouette poised in the doorway.

“Madame Giry,” Christine called softly.

The older woman stopped, looking back over her shoulder.

“Thank you for the permission,” Christine said. Her voice was warm, quiet, but certain. “Truly.”

Mme Giry nodded once. “You’re welcome.”

Christine took a step closer, her hands folded in front of her.
“I know it isn’t customary,” she said, almost shyly now. “But… would you walk me down the aisle? At the wedding?”

Mme Giry blinked. Her mouth parted slightly, and she looked away, as though Christine's question had knocked the air out of her.

“You want me to walk you down the aisle?”

Christine nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “You and Meg have been the closest thing I’ve had to family since my father died. You’ve watched over me, guided me, protected me—even when I didn’t understand why. I can’t think of anyone more fitting.”

Madame Giry stood still for a moment, as if Christine’s words had rooted her to the spot. Then her hand—hesitant but deliberate—rose to Christine’s shoulder.

“I know I may seem harsh and strict sometimes, but all I ever wanted was to protect you,” she said quietly. Her voice held no edge this time, no steely command.

Christine’s eyes softened. “I know that,” she whispered. “I really do. Thank you.”

Mme Giry gave a small, shaky nod. Then, with no ceremony, they stepped into each other’s  arms.

_________________________________________________________________________

The week stretched on, slow and golden with the early summer heat, thick with anticipation. One afternoon, they celebrated Meg's birthday with quiet joy—just a small group of friends gathered at Montreuil , where the air smelled of coffee and warm sugar. There was cake, melting ice cream in glass dishes, and laughter that never rose too loud. It felt like something gently held, a pause before the next breath.

Erik wasn’t there—of course he wasn’t. Christine didn’t expect him to come. But he had given her something wrapped in soft velvet, and told her, almost brusquely, to pass it on to Meg. Inside were a pair of delicate earrings, pale blue stones set in silver, cool and luminous like water. “She has taste,” he’d said simply, but Christine knew better. There was a gentle spot in him for Meg—quiet, unspoken. She suspected he’d never forgotten the moment Meg had stepped forward, all those months ago, and said the words that changed everything: “Christine Daaé could sing it, sir.” That had been the beginning. 

Later that week, Erik, ever discreet, received a small envelope from a silent man in a dark coat—sealed with a red wax stamp and smelling faintly of fresh ink. Two days later, the papers were filed. On Sunday morning, the banns were officially announced.

Now, just past noon, she lay curled against Erik on the narrow velvet sofa in the music room on Rue Auber. The windows were open; a breeze stirred the edge of the curtain. Their earlier singing lesson had dwindled into silence, replaced by the hum of the city and the lazy tick of the wall clock. Erik’s arm was wrapped around her shoulders, his fingers idly tracing the edge of her sleeve.

Christine let her cheek rest against his chest, listening to the slow rhythm of his breath.

“They’re not telling me something,” she murmured.

Erik tilted his head slightly, his eyes half-lidded. “Who?”

“Raoul. And Meg.” Her voice was thoughtful now. “Ever since that night at the party… they’ve been different. She’s distracted. And he—he looks like he’s watching something I can’t see. As if they have a secret that they don’t share with me. It’s odd.”

He didn’t respond right away. His hand paused in its movement. She could feel him thinking, cataloguing.

Christine turned to look up at him, her brow furrowed. “Do you think they’re hiding something?”

Erik’s gaze dropped to hers. “Yes,” he said simply. “But whether it concerns you… that’s another question.”

Christine sighed, nestling back into him. “I don’t like being left out.”

He changed the subject trying to comfort her. “Where would you like to go for the honeymoon?”

Christine tilted her head to look up at him. “You once said you were from the north… near Rouen, by the sea. I’d like to go there. I want to see what you saw. What surrounded you in those early years.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, voice low, he said, “If that’s what you want, we can spend two weeks in a sealed room with the curtains drawn over the windows at all times. That would be a more accurate pilgrimage.”

Christine blinked. “What?”

Erik’s eyes didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. “That’s what I saw. That’s what surrounded me. I wasn’t allowed outside until I sneaked out and eventually fled…”

Her smile had vanished. She sat up slightly, her hand resting against his chest as if to anchor him—to keep him here, with her, in the light.

“Erik…” she said gently. 

Then, after a beat: “Then maybe the south? Light and warmth and air?”

He smiled down at her. “If that’s what you wish, I’d be delighted.”

For a while, they sat in a hush, the faint city sounds drifting in from the Rue Auber—horses in the distance, a fruit seller’s bell. Christine’s fingers brushed against the embroidery on his sleeve.

Then softly, almost casually, she asked, “Why haven’t you been going to the managers’ meetings?”

She felt him tense, almost imperceptibly. After a second, he shifted and sat up, the warmth between them breaking. Christine straightened too, watching him carefully.

“I’ve been thinking of stepping down,” he said, not quite meeting her gaze. “From the position.”

She said nothing, waiting.

“I hate it,” he continued. “Endless meetings, signatures, bureaucratic nonsense. It’s nothing. It feels like nothing. When I was the Opera Ghost… I moved the pieces from the shadows. But this—” he gave a short breath of laughter, hollow, “—this is a farce. And I only kept doing it to show you I could be… stable. Serious. Worthy.”

Her brow furrowed. “You don’t need to prove anything to me.”

“I know,” he said. “Now I know. But there’s more.”

He finally looked at her, searching her face. “If I remain one of the managers when our engagement becomes public today—if people learn you're marrying someone in charge—they’ll say you only got your roles because of me. That it was favoritism. They’ll take it out on you, not me.”

Christine’s breath caught.

“I won’t let them stain you with that. Better I vanish from the public role before the new season starts. Let them say I was a ghost again, gone like smoke.” He smiled faintly. “That’s truer to who I am anyway.”

Christine reached out, gently covering his hand with both of hers. 

Behind her brow, thoughts were already spinning—quick, practical, anxious.

After a pause, she said, “I could probably pay for all this… with a prima donna’s salary.”

He blinked. “What?”

“If you give up your position—your salary…”

Erik let out a short, incredulous breath and shook his head. “I’ve told you before—money is of no concern.”

Then something clicked in his expression. His features stilled, sharpened with sudden clarity.

“You think I’m marrying you without means?” His voice was soft but startled. “Christine… I’m your husband. I will provide for you. Your salary is yours. Yours to spend, to save, to burn—whatever you like. But it is not what we will ever have to live on.”

“Oh,” she murmured, caught off guard. “It’s just… I grew up poor. I always think about money. Where it comes from next. It’s a habit, I guess.”

He stood, then, and reached out a hand to her.

“Come with me.”

He led her down a narrow hallway she had never noticed before—discreet, hidden behind a curtain of velvet. At the end, he unlocked a low, iron-bound door with a key she’d never seen him use. The lock clicked, then slid back with the groan of old mechanics. He turned a small lever beside it—one she hadn’t even noticed—and there was a second click, a hiss like a breath being released.

Christine stepped inside after him.

It was a small chamber—windowless, but not cold. At the center stood a massive chest, dark wood reinforced with bands of wrought iron, the surface etched with strange, intricate symbols.

Erik knelt and worked the lock with a sequence of movements she couldn’t begin to follow. A twist here, a press of something hidden under the clasp—then a soft whirring, and the lid rose with a deep, ancient creak.

Christine leaned forward, breath held.

Her eyes widened.

Inside the chest lay treasure—real treasure, the kind children dreamed of and pirates killed for. Stacks of gold bars gleamed dully under the oil-lamp light. Velvet pouches spilled rubies, emeralds, sapphires like seeds from a broken pomegranate. Strings of pearls and diamond earrings tangled beside fat rolls of francs, meticulously bundled.

Christine stared.

“Where did you get this?” she asked, her voice small, stunned.

Erik smiled faintly. “A ‘gift’,” he said. “From the Shah of Persia.”

She looked at him, sharply. “Did you steal it?”

“No.” His smile didn’t falter. “I simply took what was rightfully mine. Payment. Of sorts.”

She looked back at the chest—at the impossible, glittering mass of it—and then at him.

Finally, she let out a light, breathless laughter.

It bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest—half disbelief, half sheer release. She turned away from the trunk, her hand covering her mouth as if to muffle it, but the sound slipped out anyway: warm and astonished.

Her laughter faded slowly, like a candle flickering low. The sound still echoed faintly in the dim room. She stepped back from the open chest, one hand still half-lifted in disbelief, but her eyes had changed—clearer now, and thoughtful.

“Erik,” she said, after a pause, “why does Darius still live like that? On the streets, more or less. You have all of this.” She gestured to the treasure-filled trunk between them. “Why don’t you help him?”

He didn’t answer at once. He closed the lid of the trunk halfway, his hand lingering on the ornate brass edge. “I tried,” he said eventually. “When he was thirteen. I offered him a princely sum.” A pause. Then, almost fondly: “He spat at my feet.”

Christine’s brow lifted. Erik’s mouth twitched faintly at the memory.

“He’s too proud,” he went on, his voice low in the confined air. “So I started carrying loose francs in my coat. Just enough to tempt him. And Darius—well, he stole them. Or I’d leave something small, something valuable, in Nadir’s rooms. Things I ‘forgot.’ He took those too.”

A beat.

“But I had to be careful. When I left out things that were too fine, too obvious, he got suspicious. Nearly called my bluff once.” Erik smiled, the corner of his mouth curling like smoke. “He’s quick. Smart. And still too proud for charity. But now and then, when I’m careless enough—he still steals from me. Just enough to pretend it was never given.”

Christine didn’t speak. Her fingers brushed the worn leather of the trunk’s edge, thoughtful, lingering. Then she looked at him—not with judgment, but something quieter. Something sad and tender and complicated.

Erik watched her for a long moment, then said, voice low and careful,
“Perhaps… you might consider offering some of this to Darius someday. I feel that people are more receptive to you—” he hesitated, choosing his words, “I always hoped that someday, when he finds the right woman and he wants to marry, that he will take the money then. To support a wife and children… But—” He stopped, considering if he should go on. 

But Christine only nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the trunk. “Yes,” she murmured. “I think… that might be possible.”

Erik let the silence settle and decided to postpone this conversation. Then, he gently closed the lid with both hands. The lock clicked softly into place.

“I’ll show you how the mechanism works.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The final weeks slipped by like water through cupped hands.

With the wedding officially announced, Christine and Erik found themselves swept into a quiet flurry of preparations—quiet by design. No grand cathedral, no endless guest list. Just a simple ceremony, a few witnesses, and afterward a modest celebration at Café Montreuil, the usual haunt of the opera ensemble. Erik, ever uncomfortable in the presence of crowds, had agreed to make an appearance, but only briefly. They would slip away early, long before the wine ran out and the laughter grew too loud, to begin their journey south at first light. Their honeymoon would be one of warmth, of sea air and sun and distance—a world away.

The publication of the banns passed without incident. The first Sunday, then the second. No objections. No delays.
It was happening.

Erik informed André and Firmin of his departure from the management position at the opera. He delivered the news plainly, seated across from them in the small administrative office that always smelled faintly of ink.

Even though André was genuinely delighted to hear that Christine Daaé was to be married, it was he who voiced the inevitable concern, fingers steepled under his chin as he regarded Erik from across the desk.

“You will allow her to continue performing?”

Erik inclined his head. “Of course.”

“And you are stepping down… to avoid harming her reputation.”

“Exactly.”

André exhaled, tapping a pen idly against the blotter. “The opera house has finally found structure again. For the first time since we arrived, things are running smoothly— even the Opera Ghost vanished suddenly- ”

“I understand,” Erik interrupted gently. “And I won’t abandon you completely. If questions arise, I’m still available for counsel.”

There was a pause. Then Firmin—silent until now—nodded slowly. “Then we have no objection.”

André added, with a somewhat resigned sigh, “Congratulations, Monsieur Renaudin. Truly.”

And so, the matter was settled.

_________________________________________________________________________

The night before the wedding arrived wrapped in soft air and amber light.

Upstairs, in Christine’s room at the Girys’ apartment, Meg knelt beside her on the carpeted floor, lacing up the final fastening at the back of the wedding gown. The mirror caught them both—Christine’s pale reflection in silk and pearl, Meg’s steady hands, her smile tugged by nerves and awe.

Christine smoothed the fabric down over her hips, her expression unreadable. Then she stepped back from the mirror, eyes shining.

“Well?” she asked.

Meg stared at her. “You look like you stepped out of a painting. Like a princess. I’m sure no other ballet girl had such a dress, ever!”

Christine laughed softly, turning slowly in a circle. The gown shimmered faintly in the lamplight—a fall of soft tulle trailing behind her like a whisper. Erik’s work, every stitch of it. She had never worn anything so fine. She doubted she ever would again.

“It’s perfect,” Meg said, standing. “I mean… really perfect. He did this for you?”

Christine nodded. “He wanted to surprise me.”

Meg’s face softened. “He really loves you, doesn’t he?”

Christine met her gaze in the mirror. “Yes,” she said. “He really does.”
Then she turned, reaching for Meg’s hands. “And you will be right beside me tomorrow.”

Meg nodded, her eyes wet. “Of course. I’ll always be.”

Outside, the bells of Saint-Augustin began to ring the hour.
One more night. One last sleep.
And then the rest of her life.

Chapter Text

The sky was the pale, translucent blue that only dawn could manage, the air still cool enough to carry a faint shiver through Christine’s white gloves as she stepped between the old headstones. Birds were only just beginning to chatter in the lime trees overhead, and far below, Paris still slumbered. It felt as though the whole city had paused, holding its breath for her.

She found her father’s grave easily—a modest stone, ivy curling soft green along its edge. The inscription was simple:

Gustave Daaé
1833 – 1873
Beloved Father, Beloved Violinist

She knelt, arranging the small bouquet of lily-of-the-valley she’d brought, and let her fingertips brush the cool marble.

“Papa,” she whispered, half-smiling even as her eyes stung. “I’m getting married today.”

The words hung in the stillness, as if waiting for an echo that could never come.

She exhaled and smoothed her skirt over her knees. “To my Angel of Music, you remember? You promised. And I talked about him endlessly for the last two years, you must be so annoyed.” She smiled a little, sniffling. 

“His name is Erik. You would like him—I hope—though I think he’d never believe it. He’s brilliant, and stubborn, and he loves music the way we did… the way you taught me to.” She laughed softly again, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Oh God, we had our ups and downs, but— I’m happy, Papa. Truly happy. But I wish—” Her voice caught. “I wish you were here to walk me down the aisle.”

A breeze stirred, lifting a curl of ivy and pressing it against the stone. Christine blinked away quick tears.

“Madame Giry will do it,” she went on, her voice steadier. “She’s been so kind. She understands the Opera, understands me. She’ll take your place for those few steps. But I will also be thinking of you, the whole time.” Her gloved hand swept the inscription once more. “I hope that’s enough. I hope you know how much I love you.”

The sun crept a little higher, tipping the edges of the graveyard in gold. Voices drifted faintly from the street beyond—the city waking at last.

Christine rose, dusting off her skirts. “I have to go—there’s hair to pin and a dress to wrangle,” she said, trying for lightness. She pressed one final kiss to her fingertips and laid it against the marble. “Wish me courage.”

Then she turned and walked back through the narrow rows, the lilies’ fragrance following her like a quiet blessing, toward the life—and the love—waiting just beyond the cemetery gates.

_________________________________________________________________________

The church was small— a quiet stone chapel tucked between gardens and iron gates in the 9th arrondissement.

Outside, the early afternoon sun filtered through stained glass, casting fractured light across worn pews and tiled floor. White flowers stood in vases at the altar—modest, but fragrant. Candles burned low and steady.

Christine waited with Madame Giry just outside the entrance. A faint breeze played with her veil. Her hands were cold.

“You’re ready,” Madame Giry murmured. She adjusted a loose strand of hair with a gentleness she rarely allowed herself. Christine nodded. Her throat was too tight to speak.

Inside, Erik stood at the front of the chapel—tall, still, composed in black, tailored, clean, stark against the golds and whites of the sanctuary. He looked less like a groom than like a man about to make a sacred bargain with God Himself.

Nadir stood beside him in a dark grey suit, composed and proud, his expression unreadable.

Raoul sat with Darius in the front pew, Darius’s eyes shining with joy, Raoul’s with pride.

Meg stood near the altar in soft sky-blue silk. She shifted nervously, but when she caught Christine’s eye as the doors opened, her smile was luminous.

Then the bells tolled once.

The hush was immediate. The hush of reverence. Christine stepped forward.

She didn’t walk in silence.

From the front of the chapel, a pianist had begun to play—soft, deliberate chords, echoing gently off the stone walls. It wasn’t Wagner or any grand march, but something simpler. Intimate. A piece by Erik, quiet and melancholic, its notes floating like petals on water.

The music wrapped around her as she entered, her veil trailing behind her, footsteps in time with the melody. A private song for a private vow.

Madame Giry walked at her side, solemn and proud.

As they reached the altar, the music faded, just enough for the words of the officiant to rise like a steady flame.

The officiant—an older man with a calm voice and ink-stained cuffs—opened his register and began the formal rites. Though it was a civil union, held in a religious place, he read the words with measured grace. The vows came in soft French: Voulez-vous prendre cette femme… Souhaitez-vous être son époux devant Dieu et devant les hommes…

Erik answered without hesitation: “Yes.”

Christine’s voice was smaller, but steady. “Yes.”

They exchanged the rings that Erik had made beforehand. The moment Erik slid hers onto her finger, his hand trembled—but only slightly.

And then, after signatures written carefully on the official registry, it was done.

The officiant nodded solemnly. “Vous êtes maintenant mari et femme.”

A stillness. A breath. And then soft applause—polite, warm. Meg blinked quickly, brushing at her cheek. Nadir bowed his head slightly. 

Christine turned to Erik. For a moment, the world fell away.

He reached for her hands—still gloved in lace, trembling slightly in his own—and held them as though they were something sacred. Erik’s fingers traced along the fragile bones of her wrist before he brought her hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to each covered knuckle. A slow breath left him, uneven at the edges.

They stood so close their shadows had merged into one.

Christine looked up at him, eyes bright, the veil swept back like a curtain. Her lips were soft with the ghost of a smile, her cheeks flushed with something that wasn't only nerves.

He leaned in, their foreheads meeting gently, and closed his eyes. For a moment, it was as if the world had quieted just for them.

“I will love you until the end,” he whispered, his voice rough with feeling, more breath than sound.

Her breath hitched, memory cresting in her like a tide.

She remembered that night—months ago now, yet still vivid in her bones. The mirror opening, the gliding gondola, the vast candlelit lake like a world spun entirely from dreams. His hand taking hers, that first trembling touch. The music—his music—rising around her like silk, like a net, like a spell. His voice. The way he had watched her when she sang as though she had conjured stars. The fragile, terrifying beauty of it all.

But now—this moment—it was real in a way that first one had been as well. No illusions. No Angels. Only him. And her. And a vow spoken not in shadows, but in light.

“I know,” she whispered back, her voice barely more than a thread. “That’s why I’m not afraid. I’ll follow you… wherever you lead. I love you, Erik.”

“Christine, I love you.”

His breath shuddered against her cheek, and she felt it—the weight of everything they had come through. The pain, the silence, the longing. The impossible grace of this moment.

Their lips met—soft, slow, reverent. Not with the wild hunger of longing, but with something deeper. Steadier. Like the folding of two melodies into harmony.

When they parted, Christine reached up to cup his face, her thumb brushing just below the edge of the mask. He leaned into it instinctively.

“We’ve come so far,” she said quietly.

“We’re just beginning,” he replied.

And in the stillness, the bells began to ring.

And then, the spell was broken by that sound—Christine laughed.

It wasn’t poised, or demure, or rehearsed. It bubbled out of her like champagne—pure, bright, full of delight. That clear, unguarded laughter he had only ever heard from her.

A flush bloomed in her cheeks as she glanced at him, eyes dancing, her hand still clasped tightly in his.

“I’m married,” she whispered, then laughed again, her voice lifting like birdsong. “I’m your wife.”

A small, stunned smile crept across Erik’s face—his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. He looked almost disbelieving.

Christine turned then, still smiling as she faced the small gathering who had stood and sat, quietly and respectfully, through the simple ceremony.

There were gasps, then laughter and warm embraces waiting—arms outstretched to catch her as she stepped into them, Erik’s hand never quite leaving hers.

As congratulations flowed, she turned once to look back at him—still standing where they’d spoken their vows. And for just a second, everything else fell away again.

He was watching her.

And she—glowing, laughing, beloved—was his.

_________________________________________________________________________

The Café Montreuil was already glowing warm and golden when they arrived. Lamps flickered above every table, laughter spilled from open windows, and music—loud, fast, full of brass and joy—carried into the evening air. Even though Christine and Erik planned a small gathering, it seemed that half of Paris crammed into the small Café, celebrating the marriage of Christine Daaé - now Renaudin, with all expenses, drinks and food going onto her new, mysterious husband’s tab.

Raoul stood on a table, toasting with a champagne bottle in one hand and the other arm flung around Darius, who looked both amused and slightly resigned. Meg had her shoes off already, twirling with a group of ballet girls to the rhythm of the music with her hair falling wild around her face. Nadir was deep in discussion with the barman, gesturing in time with the beat of the music.

When Christine and Erik stepped inside, the room shifted into something like attention. Heads turned. Glasses were raised. A small, affectionate cheer went up.

Christine smiled and lifted her hand in a little wave. She looked radiant, even now—especially now. The intricate gown Erik had made for her still clung to her frame, though she’d removed the veil and unpinned the layers of tulle, leaving only the elegant silhouette beneath. Simpler, yes—but somehow more breathtaking for it. And Erik— still in black, still in gloves, still half-shadowed by his mask—stood tall beside her, composed as ever.

They stayed no more than twenty minutes. Christine was pulled into a hug again by Raoul, another congratulatory kiss from Meg, and a joking, whispered blessing from Darius. Erik exchanged a wordless nod with Nadir across the room.

Then, without fanfare, they slipped out again—hand in hand—into the cool Paris night.
No carriage. Just the two of them walking home through the cobbled streets, the stars above them, the party slowly fading behind.

Chapter Text

The street was quiet when they reached the house, save for the soft clatter of Christine’s heels on the cobblestones and the distant echo of laughter still trailing from the café.

It was nearly eleven. The stars hung low and sharp above them, and the wind had picked up—cool against Christine’s bare arms. She gave a little shiver.

Erik noticed. “You’re cold,” he murmured, and turned the key in the lock.

The door creaked open.

Warmth greeted them from within—soft lamplight spilling onto the doorstep. He didn’t step inside.

Instead, he turned back to her, one gloved hand finding the small of her back, the other under her knees before she could even protest.

Christine gave a startled little gasp—and then a laugh as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms.

“What are you doing?” she giggled.

“Carrying my wife across the threshold,” he said simply.

She looped her arms around his neck and let her head fall against his shoulder.
“Very traditional of you.”

He didn’t say anything but there was a small smile on his lips as he stepped through the doorway, the door swinging shut behind them.

Erik glanced down at her in his arms, his voice low and warm.

“Straight to bed?”

Christine nodded, barely able to speak—breathless not from the cold anymore, but from the gravity of the moment. From the way his eyes looked at her like she was something sacred.

He carried her upstairs, through the hallway, into the bedroom.

And there—

The room was bathed in soft shadow, but even in the dim she saw it: roses, dozens of them, in vases and scattered petals; candles, unlit for now, waiting on every surface.

He lowered her carefully onto the bed, her skirts rustling softly against the coverlet. She reached for his hand, but he stepped back just slightly, just enough to shrug out of his jacket and drape it neatly over a chair.

Then he began lighting the candles—one by one.

Christine said nothing. She only watched. Every movement, every shift of his silhouette in the flickering light. The way his hands moved—deft, precise, but unhurried—like a ritual, like each gesture meant something. There was reverence in the way he lit the candles, as though he were preparing not a bedroom, but a sacred space.

Her gaze followed the roll of muscle beneath his shirt as he reached forward, the quiet strength in his shoulders and back. In the warm, amber glow of the candles, he looked both otherworldly and achingly human.

She swallowed. Her heart beat faster.

It had been four weeks—four weeks since they’d last touched with trembling hands and whispered breath. Four weeks since that night when their desire for each other consumed them.

And now—married. Now, she could reach for him without second thoughts.

But still she held still, the weight of the moment settling over her like silk. It was longing, heavy and bright in her chest. A kind of awe.

She loved him. She wanted him. She wanted the press of his body and the strength of those arms around her again. She wanted his voice in her ear and the warmth of his breath against her skin.

Her fingers curled into the bedspread. All the candles were lit now. 

He turned—and the sight of her sitting there nearly brought him to his knees.

Christine, in the wedding dress he had sewn with his own hands. The dress that had consumed hours, days, weeks of his life. Every stitch held a memory: of her laugh echoing down the hall, of the curve of her spine as she leaned over a piano, of the sound of her voice when she called his name softly in the dark.

Now, with the veil gone and the layers of tulle undone, she looked simple—bare, somehow—but impossibly radiant. The candlelight kissed the fabric perfectly. No opera spotlight could have made her more luminous.

And it hit him—again, like it always did—how beautiful she was. Not just in face, not just in form. But in being. In breath.

So many nights, working alone by lamplight, he’d run his fingers across the finished seams and thought only of peeling it away again. Not in hunger—though there was that, too—but in longing. To see her. To touch her. To hear the breath catch in her throat again.
To make her his, again.

And her voice. God, her voice. It lived in his mind like a cathedral bell—clear, resonant, unforgettable. He’d stitched her music into the hem without realizing it.

And now she was here. On their wedding night. Waiting. In the dress he’d made for her. Looking at him like she was the one who was overwhelmed. And maybe she was.

But so was he.

He crossed the room slowly—deliberately—not wanting to rush, not wanting to break the fragile tension between them. His hand fidgeted beside him as he moved. The soft light flickered across the planes of his face, catching the sharp lines of cheek and jaw, the dark gleam of his eyes as they locked onto hers.

Christine sat perfectly still, her lips parted, her breath shallow. Her fingers still curled into the bedspread, but her eyes never left his.

When he reached the edge of the bed, he stopped. For a moment, he simply looked down at her.

Then, softly, he lifted a hand and let his fingers trail along her jaw. She leaned into his touch with a sigh, her eyes fluttering shut.

He bent down and kissed her—gently at first. But it deepened quickly, the kind of kiss that tasted like four weeks of restraint and a lifetime of longing. Her hands rose, tangled into his shirt, pulling him closer with quiet urgency. She gently drew his lower lip between her teeth pulling slightly and he let out a shuddering breath at the sensation. It fueled his desire and when she let go he crushed his lips against hers even more intensely, opening his mouth to hers. She let his tongue slide into her and a warm desire started to fill her abdomen.

Erik broke the kiss just long enough to help her lie back against the pillows. He stood again only to shrug off his waistcoat, then his shirt, his movements graceful, almost ceremonial. He had gained some muscles since she last saw him without his shirt, mostly from eating again and moving furniture from room to room.

Christine watched him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling with anticipation.

He returned to her and, with a touch that was both sure and tender, began to undo the dress—the one he had crafted so carefully. Now, it came undone with ease, as if it had always known it would end this way.

As the fabric slipped from her shoulders, revealing the warm glow of her skin in the candlelight, Erik’s breath caught. Even though only her shoulders were revealed now, he still felt himself harden in his trousers at the sight of her soft skin. 

He paused, cupped her cheek again. “You’re more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen in my life.”

She smiled softly, and reached for him. “Then come here.”

He lowered himself to her slowly, as if afraid too sudden a movement might wake him from a dream. Christine lay beneath him, her chest rising and falling with shallow, trembling breaths, eyes locked to his.

He kissed her again, but softer this time, slower, his lips grazing hers. Her hands slid up the bare planes of his chest, fingers splayed over his heart. It thundered under her touch. She felt it and she knew hers matched it beat for beat. His whole body was already on fire as he kissed her over and over again, gentle, chaste kisses that still seemed to ignite a fire in her.

“Erik…” she whispered between kisses, barely a sound.

He moved to her neck, pressing a kiss just below her ear, then along her collarbone. Her skin was warm and delicate beneath his mouth, like the finest silk.

Her hands trembled as they moved down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, the careful restraint in every inch of him. His control was unraveling by the second.

When he drew back just enough to look at her again, her bodice loosened and barely fallen away, the candlelight kissed the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her breast, the gentle line of her neck. She looked ethereal, like a painting come to life.

“I dreamed of this,” he said hoarsely, his voice a low rasp. “All those nights… sewing that dress, I’d lie awake and picture you like this. How I would take it off again. After that first night it was even more torture to be physically apart from you than before. Every inch of my body longed for you.”

Her hand came up to his face, gentle and sure. She traced the line of his jaw, the edge of the mask, then pressed her lips softly to where the scarred skin met smooth.

“You are mine,” she said. “And I am yours.”

With a soft exhale, he slipped the rest of the gown from her, letting it fall away completely. Then, he started unlacing her corset, taking it off gently. When finally her body stretched naked beneath him, elegant and glowing in the flickering candlelight, he moved his hands over her, down her neck, her collarbone to her breasts, caressing. Then he leaned down and gently took her right nipple into his mouth. He started moving his tongue softly over it, tasting her skin.

She shivered under him, throwing her head back against the soft pillows. A soft moan escaped her lips. As an answer he moved to her other breast, administering the same attention. Pleasure shot through her core like lightning. 

He stopped and he looked up at her with dark eyes. “What do you want?”

“You will have to decide,” she breathed. “I- I can’t think.”

“I want to taste you again,” he whispered into her chest, already starting to move downwards. Her legs started trembling in anticipation, this time already knowing what pleasures awaited her with that proposal.

Still- “Wait, Erik,” she managed to say. “Take off your mask.”
He did as he was told, this time without hesitation. Then he continued to let his mouth and tongue move downward.

When he arrived at her drawers, he slipped them off of her with ease, breathing in her scent as soon as he completely removed it. Only her stockings remained now.

Then, he lowered his tongue to her nerve-bundle and started moving up and down. Soon, Christine found herself moaning in a high-pitched voice matching his rhythm.