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Chapter Text

Courtship of the Sun and Moon  

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L'éclipse du soleil en pleine lune

New York, Coney Island, September 1907.

It had been seven months since the gunshot shattered on the pier and rewrote the course of all their lives.

Christine Daaé, or rather de Chagny (and after the divorce Daaé again), lived — though the bullet had come close enough to death that, for weeks, the doctors spoke in silences and half-sentences. The wound in her chest healed slowly, a quiet defiance against the performance’s brutal ending. For a time, she had been too fragile to move, too breathless to speak more than a few words. In that time, it was Erik who stayed.

Not the ghost of the Opera House. Not the phantom of myth. Just Erik — careful, composed, a little distant, always present.

She had awoken in a strange room with cream-colored walls and silk curtains that diffused the New York light into something soft. The scent of clean linen and rose water lingered faintly in the air. Erik had arranged for the best doctors, the best care. Her bed was positioned to catch the warmth of morning sun, and at night, he would sit beside her — reading aloud, bringing her books, odd little puzzle games, music boxes from Coney Island. Sometimes he played the piano in the corner of her room, quietly, as if composing lullabies for her bones to mend by.

He had not kissed her since the pier.

Not once.

His hands, which once trembled at the hem of her sleeve, now poured her tea with courtly precision. When she laughed, he smiled. When she winced, he noticed before she spoke. But he kept a distance — tender, gentle, and politely unmovable. And that, more than anything, began to unravel her.

Christine had expected fervor. Passion. Fire barely restrained. After all, she had kissed him — chosen him — right after her performance. And yet, in the months that followed, Erik became something else entirely: a caretaker, a guardian, a kind of silent monk in black. He never alluded to their past. He never pressed.

And so, Christine began to wonder.

Was it guilt that made him stay? Guilt over the pier, over the child, over their shared and shattered past? Did he still love her at all — or had he only ever loved the voice? The promise of her?

She couldn’t sing. Not yet. Maybe never again. Her breath remained shallow, her range clipped. The doctors didn’t know if it would return in full, and they were careful not to promise anything.

Still, he stayed.

She would wake to find a novel placed on her nightstand. A new scarf. A little note in Erik’s sharp, slanted hand reminding her to take her tonic. Small things. Meaningless things — except they weren’t. They were quiet love letters disguised as errands. Or were they?

Somewhere between the errands and her recovery, Christine realized: she loved him.

Not because he overwhelmed her, or haunted her, or made her feel like a girl again on the edge of something frightening and vast. But because he brought her soup and soft slippers and read her stories when she couldn’t sleep. Because he smiled at Gustave — truly smiled — and let the boy pull him toward the carousel when no one was looking. Because he made himself smaller now, so she had space to grow.

He had changed.

And she had too.

Gustave loved New York. He adored Coney Island — the bright chaos, the smoke and lights, the sense of magic humming just beneath the surface. He spent more and more time with Erik: building strange mechanical creatures, watching rehearsals, even composing little songs together. They never spoke of fathers or blood. But there was an ease between them now, a shared language of invention and curiosity.

And yet…

The question hung over all of it like a held breath: What were they now?

Christine stood at the edge of her recovery, halfway back into life. The divorce from Raoul had become a public scandal — inked across society pages with lurid words like infidelity and abandonment right next to her name . Legally, the divorce was her fault — she had been unfaithful. The child was not the Vicomte’s, but a bastard from an American businessman. How the press came to know this, she never found out. She suspected Raoul’s lawyers. But she stopped wondering and no longer flinched when she saw her name in print. What frightened her more was the quiet, dignified distance of the man who once shook with longing for her.

Did he still want her? Or had she become another wound he tended, a responsibility he could not escape?

For the first time, Christine wasn’t being pulled in anyone’s direction. And for the first time, her love for Erik felt wholly hers. And that was the moment she wondered if he ever truly loved her, if he would love her, even though she may have lost her voice. His distanced behaviour hurt more than she would have ever expected.

September had come to New York with its strange blend of warmth and warning. The days were still golden, but the light faded earlier now, slipping off the skyline like silk. That particular Saturday had been bright, cloudless — the kind of day where everything looked like it had been dusted in amber. But now, evening crept in with its long shadows and bruised lavender skies.

Christine sat by the window of her suite, barefoot, legs tucked beneath her. A book lay open and forgotten in her lap, one hand still resting gently on the pages. She hadn’t turned a single one in nearly twenty minutes. Instead, she watched the sunlight spill slowly down the stonework of the opposite buildings, watched the lines of fire on the water far beyond, watched the world fall into hush.

Her body, once a battlefield of pain and fever, had almost entirely recovered. The scar across her chest no longer throbbed; her strength had returned. She could walk for hours now, hold Gustave’s hand down the avenues, even dance a little with him when music drifted from the carousel. But her voice… her voice remained a question.

She could hum. Sometimes sing a few lines. But the clarity, the force, the ease — it was gone. Perhaps only resting. Perhaps lost.

Gustave was already asleep in the adjoining room, curled up in a tangle of limbs and cotton sheets. He’d started school earlier that week — a private academy uptown, one of Erik’s choosing. Christine had agreed, reluctantly, wanting some sense of normalcy for him, even as she worried.

English was still a hurdle, and being Gustave de Chagny (now Daaé) — a name now dragged through newspapers with the word illegitimate like a curse — had made him a target. Tuesday, she noticed a darkening bruise on his chin. Friday, she spotted blood dried into his knuckles. Her reaction had been instant, furious. She was ready to march to the school and pull him out by Monday.

But Gustave had surprised her.

He had stood tall, chin high, and told her he wouldn’t leave. He would not run. He would learn the language, and he would fight — “not with fists,” he’d added quickly, “only if I have to.” And then, more quietly: “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

It reminded her so much of him. Erik.

And still she had made him swear not to tell him.

Christine wasn’t sure what Erik might do — if it would awaken that unnameable fire still buried in him. Gustave had agreed, solemnly, but when he’d lied and told Erik he “just fell,” Christine had seen the flicker of disbelief in Erik’s eyes. But after all, Gustave had inherited his mothers acting-skills.

And Erik hadn’t pressed. Not then.

And so Gustave, small and stubborn, had gone to bed early that Saturday — exhausted but proud, a trace of a smile still on his face.

The silence in the suite now felt almost too large, too still. Christine stared at the skyline a while longer, until dusk blurred the edges. She closed her book but didn’t move.

Then — a knock.

She turned her head, heart skipping slightly. Not housekeeping. Too late. Too soft for the concierge.

She rose, walked gracefully and quietly across the carpet, and opened the door.

It was Erik.

He stood as he always did — precise, poised, dressed in black. His white mask a contrast to his black clothing. The wig was slightly windswept, as if he’d walked rather than taken a car, a very new invention he grew fond of rather quickly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The hallway light gilded the edge of his face, and she was struck, absurdly, by how different he looked in these quiet months. Less shadow. Less ghost. More man.

“Good evening,” he said, voice low, careful.

“Good evening.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. She hadn’t needed to use it much today.

His eyes flicked past her shoulder — toward the open suite, the quiet inside. “I trust I’m not disturbing your peace.”

She shook her head. “Gustave is asleep.”

A pause.

Erik stood very still, his hands fidgeting at his sides. Then — as if the words had formed all at once and refused to be swallowed — he spoke.

“I wondered…” He faltered, then steadied his voice. Softer now — almost unsure. “Would you do me the honor of joining me this evening?”

Christine blinked.

“Just a little while,” he said, as if afraid she might refuse. “There’s something I’d like to show you — if you’ll allow it.”

Something in his tone — not urgent, but hopeful — stirred her curiosity.

He hesitated, then looked directly at her. “A motion picture. Have you ever had the chance to see one?”

She couldn’t help the breath of a laugh that escaped her — not unkind, just surprised.

“No,” she said, smiling. “No, I never have.”

Raoul, in one of his many offhand declarations, had once dismissed them entirely. “Silly little attractions for circus freaks. No real art in them,” he had muttered, waving away the thought with a brandy glass in hand. He’d never let her go, as if it were beneath them — or beneath her.

And now Erik, of all people, was asking.

She tilted her head, still smiling. “I’d like that. Very much.”

Relief passed across his face so quickly she might’ve missed it — but it was there.

“Come in,” she said gently, stepping aside. “Wait just a moment while I change. I’ll let the maid know to keep an ear out for Gustave.”

He nodded once and stepped inside, careful as always, the door closing quietly behind him.

Christine moved down the hallway toward her dressing room, her hand grazing the wall for balance — not because she needed it, but because her heart had started to flutter in that nervous, reckless way it sometimes did around him now. She wasn’t sure when the sight of him — the quiet elegance, the new softness in his eyes — had begun to do that to her again. Or maybe it always had, and only now was she allowing herself to feel it.

She called for the maid softly, gave her instructions in French, and disappeared behind the folding screen that partially divided her bedroom.

Erik stood in the parlor, where the gaslight flickered gently against the brass edges of the mirror and the pale walls glowed warm with dusk. He took off his gloves slowly, one finger at a time, and stared at the green-wrapped book still lying on the table. But his ears betrayed him.

The soft rustle of silk. The whisper of stockings sliding down bare legs. The subtle clink of a corset unlaced and falling away.

He shut his eyes. Tight.

God, no.

It wasn’t new — hearing her like this, breathing her presence in from across rooms or behind walls — but now, without the enforced barrier of her illness, the reality of her recovering body, of her being , overwhelmed him.

He imagined the slope of her back, the pale line of her scar, the loosened hair falling over one shoulder. Her breath. Her mouth.

He turned his face away violently, jaw clenched so hard it ached. Tried to count backwards from one hundred in Italian, then German. Then Russian. Then Latin. Anything to distract himself.

Christine, meanwhile, stood barefoot in the low light behind the screen, her fingers fumbling slightly as she fastened the clasps of a modest walking dress — midnight blue, with a soft lace neckline. She caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror beside the wardrobe and paused.

The scar. It was still there, just above the line of the bodice. Pale, pink, raised. A stark reminder of that night. She reached for a shawl, then stopped, staring at her reflection.

She had caught his eyes on her once — weeks ago, when she'd laughed at something and leaned a little too close. But instead of hunger, there had been a kind of panic. He’d looked away immediately, color draining from his already pale face.

And just now — she had seen it again. That sudden stillness in him. The way he wouldn’t meet her eyes when she said she’d change. As if something had caught in his throat.

Was he disgusted by the scar? Did he not desire her anymore? Has it always only been about her voice?

The thought settled sharp in her chest.

She stepped out a few minutes later, her dress fastened, hair gathered loosely in an elegant updo, a touch of powder dusted across her cheeks. She looked, she hoped, like herself again. But when she entered the room, Erik didn’t turn around immediately. His back was to her, one hand braced against the mantle, knuckles white.

“Erik?”

He straightened quickly, controlled, and turned. But she saw it — the faint flush in his cheek, the tightness at the corners of his mouth, the slight tremor in his hand as he reached for his gloves.

“You look…” His voice cracked. He cleared it. “You look lovely.”

She held his gaze, trying to read what flickered behind it. But whatever she was searching for — admiration, desire, reassurance — she could not see in his face. All she could see was a tight stillness. Lovely was such a small word for him. He had called her beautiful, radiant, enchanting, his angel, his muse once. Lovely seemed... too tame. Too polite.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

The ache inside her grew sharper.

She didn’t know what she’d expected — a glance, a stammer, a blush that meant he still saw her that way. 

Instead, he held her chair politely while she fetched her gloves. Silent. Distant.

Christine felt the air cool between them again — that space he seemed determined to maintain, no matter how often she tried to step across it.

They walked the twenty minutes to Phantasma as the last of the September sun sank behind the rooftops. The streets had that hushed, golden-hour hush to them — the moment when day breathes its final warmth and night begins to stir at the edges.

Christine had wrapped her shawl loosely around her shoulders, the lace catching little embers of light. Erik, as always, walked half a pace ahead, never quite beside her, but close enough that she could hear the soft rhythm of his steps. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly — but it was careful, like something waiting not to be broken.

Phantasma rose in the distance like a dream barely touching the water. Lanterns glowed along the boardwalk, and the scent of salt and popcorn drifted lazily through the air. Coney Island had its noise and garishness, but this part — Erik’s part — was quieter, more curated, like a magician’s private corner.

They turned onto a wooden pier that jutted just slightly out into the bay. At its end, a wide, open canopy had been set up — a kind of sunshade, stretched elegantly between tall poles. It was light and airy, almost like a tent but without walls, made of pale fabric that billowed faintly with the breeze. The canvas above had been dyed a soft ochre hue, filtering the dusk light into warm, golden tones. Beneath it, the shadows felt soft and intimate.

In front of the canopy stood a large white screen — framed in brass and held taut like a sail waiting for wind. Just before it, a small tribune had been constructed: tiered wooden benches for a few dozen people. The audience, already gathered, murmured quietly as they waited. The distant clatter of carousels and laughter filtered in from elsewhere in the park, but here it felt muted, almost sacred.

At the far back of the viewing space, behind the last row of benches, stood a projector, its gears already humming softly in anticipation. A man in a flat cap stood beside it — lean, ruddy-faced, Irish by his voice and manner with a deep scar stretched diagonally across his face.

As they approached, Erik gave the man a short nod.

“Evenin’, boss,” the man said, tilting his cap in greeting.

Erik returned the gesture with a quiet, “Hugh,” and turned toward Christine.

“I thought this might be a pleasant place to sit,” he said, indicating the back row — just beneath the projector’s shadow, near the edge of the sunshade, where the breeze still reached them and the view was unobstructed.

Christine nodded, still taking in the scene. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he replied, a little tightly. “I thought it might suit your first experience.”

She smiled. “It suits me perfectly.”

Just then, a soft flurry of notes drifted from the far corner — a pianist seated beside the screen, testing keys and warming his hands. Christine noticed the sheet music balanced on the stand, handwritten and flickering with the movement of the lantern light. Likely Erik’s composition.

They sat — their shoulders close but not touching. Christine adjusted her skirt as she settled in, her fingers grazing the side of the bench. She glanced at him, wanting to say something — to thank him, perhaps, or ask why he had chosen this — but something in his profile, the quiet focus in it, stopped her.

So instead, she looked forward, where the screen waited to come alive.

And behind them, the gears began to turn.

Erik leaned ever so slightly toward her. His voice was low, more breath than sound, meant for her alone.
“Méliès. A magician in his own right — he sends them from Paris. He thought Phantasma might… appreciate them. They are beautiful. Strange, wondrous things. This one is his newest”

She turned her head, her brow lifting, and he saw that flicker of surprise and delight. But before she could reply, the piano began in earnest — a sprightly, mischievous melody — and the screen bloomed with light.

A flash of white. Shapes. Movement.

Then color — painted directly onto the film, vibrant and impossible. A magician in a tall hat stepped forward, cape swirling like a comet’s tail. He coaxed the Moon from behind a curtain of clouds, painted sunbeams across the sky with a sweep of his wand. Stars blinked to life in his hands. The Sun and the Moon met in a kiss, and the heavens blushed into gold. The logic of dream. A theatre of wonder.

Christine inhaled sharply. Her eyes widened, glimmering.

And then — she forgot to breathe.

Her lips parted, soft and unconsciously sensual, as she leaned forward just slightly, completely entranced. The flickering reel lit her face in flashes — pale blue, warm gold, deep crimson — and with every shifting frame, Erik watched the color move across her skin like a silent tide.

She didn’t speak, didn’t blink much, only watched — her gaze hungry in a way he hadn’t seen in months. It was the look she used to wear in the wings of the Opera Garnier, watching someone else rehearse a role she would one day sing. That shimmer of awe and quiet yearning. That ache for beauty.

To Erik, she was more captivating than the reel.

The projector buzzed and spun just behind them, its steady rhythm like a pulse in the air, but all he could hear was the whisper of her breath and the way the music wrapped around her, cradled her. The light traced the fine bones of her cheek, caught in the soft curl of hair behind her ear. Her throat moved slightly when she swallowed — and the lace edge of her shawl dipped just enough to reveal the scar again, pale against her skin like a healed whisper.

He stared.

And with every flicker of light on her skin, the ache inside him grew sharper. It wasn’t desire that undid him — not completely — it was reverence. As if the woman beside him had never once belonged to a world as dull as that of a Vicomtess. She was meant for wonder. For creation. For light.

She turned her head slightly, smiling as something on the screen made her laugh — a sound so soft and unguarded he nearly forgot how to breathe.

She was alive. Fully, completely alive in this moment. He was so grateful.

And he loved her.

God help him, he had never stopped.

Maybe it was that thought — unspoken but too loud to contain — or maybe it was the way his gaze lingered just a second too long. But something shifted.

Christine’s eyes, still shining from the dreamlike spell of the picture, slowly turned toward him.

She met his gaze.

And held it.

For a heartbeat, nothing else moved. The film still played behind her, the piano lilting on, shadows dancing across her skin — but Erik barely noticed. All he could see were her eyes. Clear. Quiet. Searching.

She tilted her head ever so slightly, and her gaze flickered down — just for a moment — to his mouth.

A subtle intake of breath. Then back to his eyes.

It was as if something slid into place for her then. A realization. As if his gaze, how he looked at her, had answered all her silent questions, swiped away her doubts.

He didn’t move. He hardly dared to breathe.

But she leaned in, just slightly — not bold, not brazen — simply close. Closer than she had in months.

He saw her lips part, the faintest tremble in her breath.

And that was when something in him broke — or perhaps healed.

Erik leaned forward, slowly, cautiously, as though approaching a fragile thing, or a dream. She didn’t pull away. Her eyes dropped to his mouth.

And then —
Their lips met.

Soft. Hesitant at first. A kiss shaped by reverence, by months of longing held too tightly in the dark. His hand lifted but didn’t touch her — hovered just near her cheek, unsure if he was allowed.

Christine made a sound then — something small, like relief or wonder — and leaned in further, letting her hand rest lightly against his shoulder.

That was when he deepened the kiss, still tender, but no longer afraid.

The piano swelled. The projector whirred. The world around them continued its quiet spinning.

After a long moment, they parted, barely. Her forehead rested against his for a breath, their noses brushing. Her eyes were closed now, her lips curved faintly.

He whispered, “Christine…”

But she only smiled.

As if she had heard everything she needed.

—

The car — a sleek, black Panhard with lacquered wood paneling and silver trim — waited just beyond the entrance to Phantasma. Erik gave the driver a silent nod, and the man tipped his cap without a word, used to the rhythm of his employer’s silences.

They rode in near-darkness. The streetlamps passed like quiet sentinels outside the window, painting shifting shadows across Christine’s face. Neither spoke. The space between them was no longer cold — only charged, like the silence before a song begins.

When they reached her building, the doorman greeted her stiffly — recognition mixed with scandal always made for strange manners — but held the door as they stepped inside. Erik followed at a respectful distance, hands clasped behind his back. Always behind her. Always cautious.

The elevator groaned to life and carried them to her floor, where her suite overlooked the park. She had kept it elegant but modest, decorated mostly in books and the quiet clutter of a life slowly stitching itself back together.

They reached the door. She fumbled with the key.

The latch resisted for a moment, clicking without turning — her hands weren’t steady. She laughed softly under her breath, a nervous sound. Erik stepped closer without thinking.

“Here,” he murmured, reaching as if to help.

Their hands met on the key.

She froze. So did he.

The door still didn’t open. The hallway was still. The city, for once, had nothing to say.

She looked up at him then — slowly — and the question that neither of them had dared ask was suddenly heavy in the air.

Will you stay?

Will you let me stay?

The key turned. The lock clicked open. The door creaked slightly as it gave way.

She didn’t move.

For a moment, she just stood there, the door half-opened before her, the warm interior light spilling into the hall. Her back was to him, but he saw her breathing — a little faster now.

Then, without turning around, Christine spoke. Quiet. Steady.

“Would you… like to come in?”

Not hesitant. Not performative.

Only true.

Erik was very still behind her. Then —

“Yes.”

A single word. Barely audible.

She didn’t move.

The door stood open before them, her silhouette framed in the soft light spilling from within — hair pulled up into a beautiful updo to expose her neck and shoulders, breath unsteady. She remained facing away, as if waiting. Or perhaps daring him.

He stepped forward. Just one step.

Then another.

And before he could think — before he could summon the careful restraint he’d clung to for months — he reached out.

His arms came around her waist from behind, certain, and he bent his head to her shoulder, pressing his lips — bloated on one side — to the soft, exposed skin of her neck.

She gasped. Not in surprise — but in surrender.

He felt her melt into him, her back against his chest, her hands catching his at her waist, holding them there as though anchoring herself to him.

And then — she turned.

Suddenly. Fiercely.

Her hands rose to his collar, her eyes bright with something unspoken, something that had waited far too long. And before he could ask, before he could think —

She kissed him.

Not tentative this time. Not gentle.

She kissed him like a storm, like a woman reclaiming her voice through the shape of his half-deformed mouth. Her hands tangled in his coat, pulling him closer, closer still, as if she couldn’t bear the space between them a second longer. He responded with a groan low in his throat, and she swallowed it like a vow.

Then, without breaking the kiss, she pulled him with her — backward into the hallway of her hotel suite, breathless, urgent, unwilling to let him go.

The door fell shut behind them with a soft thud.

And the world — at last — fell away again.

Chapter Text

It was dark in the narrow hallway of Christine’s apartment when they half-stumbled through the threshold, breathless, lips seeking.

The door clicked shut behind them — a final sound that sealed the world away. Christine barely managed to drop her keys before Erik’s arm slid tighter around her waist, pulling her closer still.

Her back met the wall with a gentle thud, the plaster cool against her shoulders, his warmth pressing against her. Their kiss deepened, years of longing spilling out in one beautiful, reckless moment.

Christine’s fingers tangled in his hair, feeling the tremor in him, the way he shuddered as though every touch burned. He kissed her like a man starved and there was the passion she had so desperately missed the last few months.

Moonlight spilled through the tall window at the end of the hallway, catching a flash of pale skin beneath Erik’s mask, a glimmer of silver in her hair, the curve of their shadows merging against the wall.

The kiss seared through her — heat rising from somewhere deep within, spreading until every inch of her seemed alive and trembling. Her heart pounded hard enough that she could feel it against his chest, a wild rhythm she couldn’t contain. There was ache in it, the sweet, aching relief of something long denied. His touch, the brush of his breath, the warmth of his body close to hers. Love pulsed through her veins, fierce and full, until she could no longer tell where the longing ended and the joy began.

His lips were so soft against her mouth, his breath hot. They were so close, but she needed more. Much more. Her hands slid from his hair to his collar, still trying to pull him closer while slipping her tongue inside his mouth, then pulling his lower lip between her teeth. It earned her a low growl from him and his hands on her hips tightened. 

Her lips wandered to the corner of his mouth not concealed by the mask, then to his unmarred cheek, brushing the high cheekbone there. She remembered every detail he had seemed to like in their first night together, ten years ago. Had replayed it night after night in her mind, over and over again when he was long gone, feeling left and forgotten and full of longing. Now he was here with her again and she could put to the test if she could still make him melt with these things. So she let her mouth wander to his earlobe, just to find the soft spot right underneath it. 

It had the effect she remembered, when she brushed gentle kisses to the spot, then tracing it with her tongue. His knees buckled under him and he seemed to melt under her touch. 

“Wait,” he gasped before she could do anything more and he caught her hands where they clung to his collar and held them there between them, while pulling away. His breath was unsteady, his eyes searching hers in the dim light.

“What of Gustave? And the maid entrusted with his care?” He whispered, the words barely finding space between their breaths.

A faint smile touched her lips as the world beyond the hallway began to creep back in. The boy asleep down the hall, the quiet rustle of the maid’s watchful presence.

“You’re right,” she whispered, her voice gentling. “I’ll look in on Gustave and send Mary home.”
She hesitated, her hand still caught lightly in his. “Do you want to wait in the salon?”

Erik nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing, though the air between them still hummed with everything left unsaid. He stepped back, the dim light tracing the sharp lines of his profile as he turned toward the living room. The quiet sound of his footsteps faded into the stillness, leaving her alone in the hallway — breathless, aware of every beat of her heart.

The salon was quiet, wrapped in the faint glow of the fire the maid had tended earlier. Only a few embers remained — a slow pulse of orange light that breathed and dimmed, casting his shadow long across the floor.

Erik placed himself at the fireplace, motionless. Only his hands fidgeted, resting on the mantle. The air felt thick, the silence now pressing close.

His breath came shallow and uneven, his mind racing. But before he could calm himself or settle the storm of thoughts raging inside him, a hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

He turned — and there was Christine, smiling softly. To him it had only seemed like ten seconds, but it must have been much longer, because she had changed her evening dress to a flowy, white robe quite similar to the one she had worn all those nights ago, when he stole her away after her first performance. A lifetime away.

“Gustave is fast asleep, and I sent Mary home.”

She leaned forward, brushing her lips against his in a brief, tender kiss. Then her eyes roamed over his face, lingering in the shadowed curves of his hair, the sharp line of his jaw.

“Let’s go to my bedroom,” she murmured.

For a moment, he simply stared. Then, almost without thinking, he allowed himself to be guided by her hand, letting her lead him down the hall. The door closed behind them.

He had never been in her room before. The air smelled faintly of her — warm, soft, and familiar in a way that made his chest tighten. It was dark but the moon cast bright, silvery streaks through the room. He stayed near the door, letting her hand slip from his.

Christine paused and turned, surprised for a moment, then stepped closer again, closing the distance between them. Her eyes searched his, steady and unflinching.

“Erik, tell me…” Her voice was soft, intimate, trembling just slightly as she leaned close, her lips brushing near his. “…do you still desire me?”

He met her gaze, and in that instant all pretense fell away. He breathed out a single, quiet “yes…” , and the weight of it — the longing, the need, the truth — carried through every word. It was as if a man dying of thirst had finally been offered water, and the sincerity of it left no room for doubt.

“I… I wasn’t sure if you still did,” she murmured, a shadow of doubt in her eyes. “Now that my voice… maybe it’s lost…”

Erik stared at her, utterly bewildered. “…Excuse me?”

“I… I suspected that maybe, now that it’s gone, you might not be… interested anymore,” she admitted, her words fragile in the quiet, dark room.

For a moment, he could only stare. Then, a breathless laugh escaped him — disbelief, relief, and something warmer all tangled together. He was too stunned by the assumption to speak at first, the sound echoing softly between them.

“That could never be,” he finally whispered, his voice low but firm. “There exists no conceivable circumstance in which I would cease to love or desire you.”

Without hesitation, Christine took a determined step forward, closing the last of the distance between them. She threw her arms around his neck, drawing him into a fevered kiss that burned with longing.

Erik could feel the heat of her body beneath the flowing fabric of her robe, soft and warm against him. Instinctively, his arms went around her waist, pulling her impossibly close, as if he could never hold enough. Every brush of skin, every tremor in her movement, sent a surge through him.

Then she shifted, her bare leg finding its way from under the robe to slide up his side and hook around his hip. By instinct he caught it by the thigh, his fingers making contact with her stocking. He felt lightheaded with the touch, his fingers pressing into her warm, soft flesh and his mind marvelling absently with how flexible she still seemed to be after all those years without dance practice. 

Without breaking their fevered kiss, she began grinding into him gently, rolling her hips into his. There was the friction she had needed, the hard, hot proof of his arousal and he moaned into her mouth as an answer.

This time she pulled away, just by a fraction to whisper: “Take me to bed,” her eyes searching his face. His throat worked but then he pulled her up and close, his hands wandering under her legs to pick her up from the floor. Instinctively, her second leg wrapped around him and she pulled herself closer to his chest, letting him carry her to the bed. 

He moved forward, strong but graceful until his shins met the bed. Then he bent down to lay her down gently, but before he could pull away, she started to open his collar with deft, quick fingers, holding him between her legs, still. Before he knew it, his cravat was gone, discarded on the floor, together with his vest and jacket, his shirtsleeves opened. His shoes he kicked off himself before kneeling between her legs, hooked around his waist, on the bed.

Now she looked like a woman dying of thirst, her hands roaming hotly over him, her eyes hooded and fixed on his chest, biting down on her lower lips. Her robe had opened almost completely, exposing her stockinged legs and part of her corset already.

Erik’s hand slid gently under her chin, tilting her face upward so their eyes met. The intensity of his gaze held her for a heartbeat, warm and commanding, before he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers again. Then, he shrugged off his shirtsleeves in a few smooth motions, his muscles working, without breaking the kiss. 

When he moved down to her neck to nib and suck on the soft spots he remembered, his mask brushed against her skin coolly.

“Erik,” she gasped, breathless, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Please… take the mask off.”

For a moment, he hesitated, the weight of the request holding him frozen. His gaze found hers. But she didn’t press any further, only shifted under him to open her robe completely and let her arms slide out. 

“Please…”

She reached for him, her fingers trembling as they tried to lift the mask from his face. But before she could, he caught her wrists midair, his grip firm yet careful, and pushed both her hands above her head onto the mattress.

Christine gasped, caught between surprise and the thrill of surrender, her pulse racing as she met his unwavering gaze. Erik leaned closer, his breath warm against her skin, and for a heartbeat, neither moved. She pinned beneath him, her legs wrapped around him, his bare chest moving dramatically with every deep breath, holding her hands above her head in an iron grip.

Very, very slowly, he released one of her hands, but kept the other firmly pinned above her head, his grip firm yet gentle. With his now-free hand, he moved with painstaking care to cover the edge of the mask. The motion was deliberate, as he lifted it away from his face and laid it gently beside him on the bed.

The pale moonlight spilling through the window fell across him, tracing the sharp lines of his features, illuminating eyes that held both intensity and vulnerability. Christine’s breath caught in her throat as she took in the full sight of him, every shadow and contour made sharper.

“Thank you,” she breathed out. “Now help me with this corset.”

Without hesitation, he started to pull free the strings and buttons of her corset, working deftly and quickly. Before long, it slipped open and she shifted under him to get it off. To grant her more space, he eased back onto his heels. 

The corset found its way to the rest of their clothes on the floor, but he didn’t register it. He could do nothing but stare. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, her breasts almost appearing silver. He traced her collarbone with his fingers, gently brushing over the deep scar. Then moved to her breasts. They seemed softer than all those years before, when she had been a young woman. Fascinated he touched them, traced their outlines, brushed over the peaks. 

Then he moved lower, his gaze falling upon the gentle curve of her belly. It was soft now, not the tautness he had felt years ago, and faint lines traced delicate patterns across her skin — like lightning captured in stillness. In that instant, he realized: this was the place where Gustave had once grown. And he had never seen it.

The realization struck him like a wave, a mixture of awe, love, and sorrow so powerful he could do nothing but bow his head, pressing his lips lightly against her, letting quiet tears fall.

And still, she remained gentle and patient, cradling his head in her hands. Her fingers traced soothing patterns through his hair, soft and unhurried, until his tears quieted and his breathing eased.

“Forgive me,” he murmured softly, his lips resting lightly against her belly, the words carried on a breath of regret and longing.

She said nothing, simply lifting him gently, guiding him so that his eyes met hers. Her lips brushed his in a soft kiss.

When she pulled back just enough to speak, her voice was quiet but steady.
“I have to confess something,” she said, her gaze searching his. 

His throat tightened, a sudden lump rising as if something lodged there, catching him off guard. He had never liked confessions — not those he was forced to make himself, nor the ones that other people had to make to him. They always brought pain.

Her words came slowly, each one trembling as if they cost her. “I… I was never… with Raoul.”

A heavy silence followed, hanging between them like a held breath.

Erik’s gaze sharpened, his voice low, deliberate, and tinged with disbelief. “What… do you mean?”

Christine swallowed, her fingers finding and twisting the edge of the robe she was still laying on, eyes darting away for a heartbeat before meeting his again.
“I… I mean, we have never… it simply never happened,” she admitted, her voice fragile, almost a whisper.

For a moment, Erik could do nothing but stare, stunned, the words settling around him like a sudden revelation. 

Then he breathed out, almost in disbelief, “But… how?”

Christine shifted onto her elbows, closing the small distance between them so that their gazes could meet more easily. Her voice was soft, tentative, yet urgent, as if each word cost her courage.

“On our wedding night… he drank far too much, and… and we couldn’t… I think he sensed that something was wrong, that I was… gone the night before, you know?” Her hands twisted nervously on the mattress, and she took a shallow breath before continuing.

“And then, in the morning… he was convinced that we did — I mean, it was our wedding night, after all — and I simply didn’t find it in me to correct him. But… it never happened. We grew apart so quickly after our wedding. At first, I often told him that I didn’t feel well, and he was so sweet, so patient… and then, he simply stopped trying.”

Her lips trembled, and her eyes shone with unspoken sorrow. “But then I realized that I was pregnant… and I was terrified and relieved all at once. And after Gustave was born… we simply never spoke of it again. That’s also why… he never suspected anything. He believed we conceived Gustave on our wedding night and… then just… stopped.”

She looked up at him, vulnerable and raw. Erik’s gaze remained fixed on her, stunned, words failing him as the weight of her confession settled between them.

“So… you were aware all along that Gustave was mine…,” he whispered slowly, as if only realizing it while he spoke. 

“Even throughout the entirety of your pregnancy?”

She nodded, her eyes flickering away from his.

“You must have been terrified,” he murmured, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears, “that he would… resemble me.”

“No!” she exclaimed, her voice fierce now, meeting his gaze head-on. “I swore to myself that whatever happened, I would love him, and I would make it work!”

Erik’s hand rose to her cheek.
“My Christine… forgive me. All the things I put you through…”

She pressed her palm lightly against his, searching his face with a slight frown.

“Yes… you did,” she whispered, her voice steady, “but you may… make them up to me now.”

Without breaking his gaze he entwined their hands, pulling hers towards him to kiss it tenderly.

“I shall endeavor to make myself worthy of your forgiveness,” he whispered, his voice vibrating through her hand, his lips brushing over the soft skin. “And strive to make amends to you each and every day, for the remainder of my life.”

He leaned forward to kiss her lips again. And she let him.

Quickly, the kiss became heated again. Christine let herself fall onto her back again, reaching for his belt while trying to not break their kisses. She could feel his hardness under her hands again, pulsating hot through the fabric.

She needed him. She had waited long enough.

Deftly, she worked the belt and buttons open. With a swift motion she pulled the fabric off of his hips and he sprang free. For a moment she only looked at him, her gaze hungry again.

Then, she let his length glide into her hand and gently gave him an experimental stroke. He let out a hiss and let his eyes fall shut. She drew his lower lip between her teeth and gave him another stroke.

Then, barely pulling away she murmured: “Off… take everything off.”

He obeyed in an instant, scrambling up from the bed to stand right at the end of it, pushing off his fine trousers and underpants as fast as he could, also losing his socks in the process. 

She followed suit, shedding herself off the thin fabric of her own pants and stockings. When he was done and looked back at her, his knees almost gave in.

She was a vision. 

The moonlight illuminated parts of her skin in silver streaks. She was completely bare to him now, her legs spread in a relaxed way, so that he could see everything. Her hooded eyes looked up at him through long lashes, her updo rustled and spread out on the mattress. 

His eyes roamed over her beautiful face, her elegant neck, her silvery breasts and soft belly, down to the locks between her legs and further down along her long legs.

Suddenly his mouth was dry.

“Come here,” she whispered when he didn’t move, only stared. He looked up at her face again, already halfway into the movement before she thought of something else.

“Or.. no, don’t,” she said quickly, “just… stay there and turn around.”

He looked at her a little stunned, but then obeyed.

He felt her eyes following him when he slowly turned around, completely unclothed and unmasked. It felt… vulnerable. Exposed.

Still, he did it. For her. When he had his back to her she said, “stop.” And he stopped.

He actually felt a little more comfortable this way. He knew with his wig on, he must look like any other man from this perspective. Sure, he had some scars but they never really bothered him that much. 

He had seen many men bare-chested since coming to America. Here, it seemed, the moment a man began to work and sweat, his shirt was the first thing to go. Watching them, Erik had come to a curious realization — he did not look so very different from them in that way. In fact, he had to admit, he was rather well-formed. Years spent climbing the endless staircases beneath the opera house, hauling ropes, and moving silently through the rafters had left their mark on him. His muscles had been shaped by necessity. And even now, at Phantasma, he often scaled the attractions himself to build or repair them — especially those that no one else knew how to mend.

Christine found herself unable to look away. In the silver wash of moonlight, his back seemed carved from shadow and light. The muscles beneath his skin moved with quiet power as he shifted. Yet what held her most were the scars — pale threads that traced their way across his shoulders and spine like ghostly echoes of pain long endured. They should have marred him, but to her, they only deepened the beauty of what she saw. Under them, she traced his muscles with her eyes, defined curves and lines and she couldn’t help but bite down on her lip to stifle a small sound. She imagined those muscles working as he moved above her, around her, inside her, his shoulders tensing and relaxing just as his hips would move. She remembered how the rolling motions had felt all those years ago, his tempo just right.

She couldn’t wait any longer.

“Come here,” she whispered finally and he turned around to her, sprawled out on the bed, her head on a soft pillow, taking up space.

He moved over her in an instant, propping himself up on one arm, while catching her chin into his other hand to kiss her once again. He then let the hand move down to her breast, caressing, twisting gently, while she moaned into his mouth. Then, he moved down over her belly until he felt the soft locks.

Gently, he let his fingers slide between her legs, feeling the dampness that had formed there. First, he tried to find the small nub again, the one that had brought her so much pleasure all those years before, when he had found it with his mouth and tongue.

Now his index finger found it and before he started to trace small circles, he wetted it between her folds, which earned him a louder moan into his mouth from Christine. 

Then, he finally explored what sounds he could elicit with small strokes and languid circles around her bud of pleasure. First, he started slowly, carefully, but the more sounds she made and the more she rocked into his hand, searching for more friction the bolder he got until he finally slipped his index finger inside of her and continued small circles with his thumb. 

He pulled away from their kisses shortly and he realized how much he had missed out all those years ago by not being able to see her.

Her face showed a pleasure that filled him with a strange satisfaction. He had done that to her. She was on the edge and she couldn’t hide it.

He crashed his lips back to hers and with one deep stroke inside of her and a low moan, she clenched around his finger. 

Pleasure rippled through her in waves that made her toes curl. She rocked her hips into his hand to chase every last bit of it and he let her, kissing her, slipping his tongue inside, coaxing out little sounds and whimpers. 

When she came down from her high again, he slipped his finger out of her and gave her one last, chaste kiss on the lips.

But before he could roll down from her to end their endeavour, she pulled him into a heated kiss again.

“We are not done, Maestro,” she panted out between kisses she planted all over his face.

He couldn’t hide his surprise but relented. After all, he was still rock hard and leaking and he had no objection to some relief, so he rocked his hips against hers to chase that friction.

And it worked. He slid between her folds with his length, coating him but not pushing in. He simply stayed there, rubbing against her curls and folds, relishing in the sensations it brought.

He was weirdly apprehensive of going all the way. After all, he was not a man who was fond of making the same mistake twice.

However, in the end, it was Christine again who decided for them both.

“Erik…” she panted, “please, stop teasing and… take me.”

 He still hesitated. 

“What of… what if…” He couldn’t say it out loud.

“It’s fine…” she reassured him. “I promise. I’m not twenty anymore, I know in which part of my cycle I am.”

“Are you certain?” He searched her face, gently brushing his lips to hers. His golden eyes met her blue ones.

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes full of love. 

So he positioned himself at her entrance and with one hand as a help guided himself inside. 

Being so close to her again, inside her, almost overwhelmed him. And he loved every second of it. 

At first he moved slowly, letting her adjust. But then he started to chase that pleasure, that little death that only ever had felt whole with her. 

And she could finally enjoy his rolling hips again, his tensing shoulders and hot kisses. She let herself fall into it, relishing in it, feeling that pressure rise again inside her.

And before she knew it, she tumbled over the edge again, clenching around him and he followed suit, burying his head in the crook of her neck,  breathing in as much of her scent as he could, letting her curls tickle his ear. 

The sensation was perfect. 

He felt her tighten around him and she felt his hot seed spurting inside her deliciously.

Trembling, he gently laid down on top of her, careful not to hurt her with his weight. But she simply started cradling his head in her hands, caressing his cheek, forehead and nose until his breathing slowed and his trembling subsided.

Finally he looked up at her, then propped himself up once again and gave her a kiss.

One on the left cheek, one on the right.

Then her forehead. Her nose. Then each cheek again. She started giggling when he peppered her forehead once again, then her eyebrows and eyelids. 

Finally, he gave her one last kiss on the lips, full of love.

Then he pulled himself out of her and rolled next to her on his back.

“Erik?” She asked quietly. 

“Yes, my love?” His eyes were closed, a satisfactory humming sensation beneath his skin.

“Can you get me a towel? There is one in the adjoining bathroom.”

She hadn’t even finished the question before he was out of the bed, eager to carry out her wish.

When he returned, he carried two towels, their fabric still warm and damp from the water. Without a word, he knelt beside her and began to tend to her with quiet care. When he had finished, he took a towel for himself, moving with the same unhurried grace, the soft, silvery moonlight tracing the calm that had settled between them.

When he had finished, he set the towels aside and returned to her. The quiet of the room wrapped around them like a sigh. He slipped beneath the covers and drew the sheet gently over them both, his arm settling around her. Christine shifted closer, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath against her shoulder.

And for the first time in years, peace felt possible.

Chapter Text

Christine sat curled on the living room sofa, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket, a cup of steaming tea warming her fingers. It was a little past four in the morning — that suspended hour when the night still clung stubbornly to the sky.

The only illumination came from the moon and the quiet glow of New York City: gas lamps lining the streets below, the soft flicker of electric lights in a few daring buildings, and the faint shimmer of the harbor far in the distance. Through her large windows, the city looked hushed and almost delicate, its usual clatter quieted into a low, distant murmur.

She let her gaze drift over the skyline — the outlines of rooftops, the occasional carriage passing below, the slow blink of a steamer on the river. The world felt still, wrapped in a gentle silence that seeped into her bones.

She heard soft sounds in the room behind her — the faint rustle of movement, the pause of someone standing in the doorway. Christine turned, and a smile warmed her face.

Erik stood there, still a little disheveled from sleep, eyes alert despite the hour, mask in place again. He wore only his underpants, pale in the moonlight, and there was something endearingly vulnerable about him in that moment — the great, formidable Erik, rumpled and barefoot in the quiet of her home.

She set her teacup on the small table in front of her, then lifted the edge of her blanket in silent invitation.

Relief softened his visible features, and with a quiet exhale he crossed the room and climbed onto the sofa beside her. He settled close, almost cautiously at first, then with growing ease as she shifted to make space for him beneath the blanket’s warm fold.

“I… I feared you were gone,” he murmured, his voice low but earnest.

“Mm? Gone?” she asked softly, surprised.

“When I woke and found the space beside me empty,” he continued, “for the briefest, most wretched moment, I believed you had taken Gustave and fled.”

Christine looked at him, the silence stretching between them like a held breath. Then she said quietly, her voice steady,
“Like you did.”

His gaze did not falter. He held her eyes with a calm, almost solemn honesty.
“Yes,” he said, the single word weighted with memory. “Precisely as I once did.”

He studied her for a long moment, the moonlight catching the sharp lines of his face. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper,
“Shall this stand between us forever?”

Christine drew in a quiet breath, her gaze drifting to the window as though weighing the city’s distant lights with his question. She seemed to ponder, her fingers absently tightening the blanket around them.

At last, she spoke — slowly, honestly.
“Yes… I think so.”

She turned back to him, her eyes soft yet unwavering.
“I do not believe I will ever forget that you broke my heart — so many, many times.”
Her voice trembled, not with accusation, but with truth long held.

“But I cannot stay away from you,” she continued, her tone deepening with emotion, “and I have loved no other man the way I love you.”

Christine’s eyes softened as she studied his face.
“I can see that you’ve changed… grown… or at least I hope that’s what I’m seeing.”

A small, breathy laugh escaped her.
“Otherwise I’m doomed once again, and you’ll break my heart all over.”

She nestled against him, her cheek brushing his shoulder as though she needed to feel he was truly there.
“I can forgive you,” she murmured, her voice warm against his skin, “even though I might never forget.”

Erik released a long, unsteady breath — part relief, part something deeper.
“You possess more forgiveness in your heart than any soul I have ever known.”

Christine laughed softly.

“Oh, I’m certain some would say I’m the most naïve, foolish woman alive if they knew everything I’ve forgiven you.”

He shook his head at once, his voice low and certain as he answered,
“You could never be.”

He shifted, gently turning her in his arms so that she faced him fully. The blanket slid softly with the movement, cocooning them together in the pale glow of moon and city light.

When their eyes met, his voice dropped to a trembling whisper, earnest and solemn.
“I swear to you… I shall never break your heart again. And I will never leave you — nor Gustave. The two of you shall never know loneliness again, not while I draw breath. You will be cherished, protected, and cared for in all things.”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching hers, the vow forming like a prayer on his lips.
“That, I vow.”

Christine’s breath trembled as his vow settled between them, warm and steady as the blanket around their shoulders. For a heartbeat she simply looked at him, taking in the sincerity in his eyes, the quiet fear, the hope, the devotion.

Then she whispered, barely audible,
“Thank you.”

__________________________________________________________________________

They had drifted into a light sleep on the sofa, wrapped in the warmth of the blanket. Morning light now spilled through the tall windows, soft and pale, turning Christine’s forgotten tea cold on the little table.

Erik startled awake first — his sharp ear catching the faintest sound. Small, quick footsteps in the hallway. His entire body tensed.

He touched Christine’s shoulder with careful urgency.
“Christine—” he whispered, “it seems… Gustave is making his way down the hallway at this very moment..”

Still half-drowsy, she blinked awake, sitting up as the blanket slipped from her shoulders.
“You can hear that?” she murmured, astonished.

Erik only nodded, already straightening himself.

And a moment later, Gustave appeared in the doorway.

Christine rose to her feet, drawing her flowing nightgown closer around her as she smiled warmly at him. For an instant she paused — struck by the uncanny familiarity of the sight.

Gustave stood in the doorway in much the same way Erik had only hours earlier: the quiet, poised stillness; the subtle precision in the way he held himself; that curious, unmistakable aura that clung to him even when he didn’t mean it to. The delicate sharpness of his features, the attentive way he took in the room — all of it so very familiar.

And he was already so tall for his ten years, nearly level with Christine’s shoulder now, growing into the elegance and presence that marked him as unmistakably Erik’s son.

Christine’s expression softened at the thought as she moved toward him.

“You’re awake early,” Christine remarked softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face as she regarded him.

Gustave’s eyes flickered to Erik, who had turned on the sofa to look at him — now slightly self-conscious, aware of his bare chest in the morning light.

Gustave looked back at his mother, his expression thoughtful.
“I was asleep early yesterday,” he said quietly, almost matter-of-factly.

Then his gaze returned to Erik. Erik cleared his throat, regaining some composure, and inclined his head with quiet formality.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice low, carefully measured, yet carrying that unmistakable warmth.

At last, a small smile curved Gustave’s lips.
“And how fares the… fish tank?” he asked, curiosity sparkling in his eyes.

Erik’s gaze lifted instantly, the earlier self-consciousness of his bare chest fading entirely as his attention turned to the boy completey. His features lit with quiet exhilaration.

“It progresses most splendidly!” he declared, his voice rich with warmth and precise inflection. “The mechanisms have been carefully adjusted, the currents orchestrated with the utmost care, and the lights… They dance as though each drop of water itself were a living thing. Soon, you shall see the very illusion of an ocean come to life before your eyes.”

Gustave’s eyes widened, fully caught up in Erik’s enthusiasm.

Christine hesitated, her gaze flicking between Erik and Gustave as she spoke softly,
“Shall we… eat breakfast?”

A flicker of uncertainty tugged at her. She had hoped that Gustave would not see Erik here this morning — not until she herself had some notion of how to proceed, of how to navigate this new closeness. The events of the night had changed everything, yet she still needed to understand the rhythm of their lives, the boundaries that must be respected.

Before she could ponder further, Gustave gently shook his head.
“I would like… to go see Uncle Nadir.” he said a little impatiently.

“Now?” Christine asked, surprised. “It is only seven in the morning.”

“I know,” he replied stubbornly, “but I must speak to him.”

"It shall pose no difficulty," Erik interjected from his place upon the sofa, his voice calm and deliberate. "Nadir rises at four, to devote two hours to meditation. Rest assured, he shall be awake and most ready to attend to your inquiries."

Gustave’s gaze shifted to his mother, hopeful and insistent.
“Please?”

Christine exhaled softly, a mixture of amusement and resignation in her expression.
“Very well,” she said. “But you take exactly the route we showed you. It is only two streets away, so you should be fine. Dress properly, and do not stay away longer than two hours. And you will eat something as soon as you return.”

“I will, Maman,” he said earnestly, before turning on his heels and hurrying to his room to change.

_____________________________________________________________________

Half an hour later, Gustave’s small hand lifted and rapped gently on Nadir’s door. He waited, then tapping again, slightly more insistently.

Finally, the door opened, and Nadir stood there, serene and composed, as though the early hour and the small visitor were perfectly in order.

“Gustave,” Nadir said, surprised, though not displeased. His eyes flicked behind the boy, searching the street.
“Are you… alone, at this hour?”

“Yes,” Gustave replied simply, then, after a pause, added bluntly, “I have a question.”

“Then come in,” Nadir said, inclining his head with quiet grace and stepping aside to allow him entry.

Nadir led Gustave down the quiet hallway, the boy trailing a step behind him.

“Would you like some tea?” Nadir asked, his voice calm and inviting. “Or perhaps coffee? You are old enough now, I suppose. I hear you attend a school for young gentlemen now.”

Gustave’s chest swelled a little at the mention of his age, a subtle pride stirring within him. Yet the reference to school made his chest tighten slightly — he had already been in two fistfights in the first week alone, a small part of why he had come here this morning.

“Tea would be great,” he said politely as they arrived in the kitchen.

“I can do it,” he added eagerly when Nadir placed two cups on the counter.

Nadir shook his head gently.
“That is very kind, Gustave, but you are my guest. In my culture, guests do not work in the kitchen.”

So Gustave stood back, watching quietly as Nadir prepared the tea, careful not to be in the way. He studied the movements, the deliberate care in every pour, and tried to commit the ritual to memory.

When the tea was ready, they settled in the living room, sinking onto small, colorful cushions arranged on the floor around a low table. Gustave’s eyes wandered the familiar room. Nadir’s living room was unlike anything he had ever seen — bright, playful, and welcoming. Tiny tables, cushions and blankets scattered invitingly, a space that felt both intimate and expansive. He loved that he could sit on the floor, close to everything, surrounded by color and comfort. It was a small world all his own, a place where he felt he could breathe.

They settled onto the cushions, Gustave tugging his long legs beneath him just as he had seen Nadir do before. Nadir, this time, crossed his own legs in quiet repose, the room enveloped in a soft, morning stillness.

He lifted the cup to his lips, taking a small, deliberate sip of the hot, sweet tea. Then, setting it down carefully, he regarded Gustave with calm, steady eyes.
“And what questions bring you to me this morning, Gustave?”

Gustave shifted in his place, squirming slightly, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of a cushion. Suddenly, he seemed fascinated by the décor of the room — the colorful cushions, the tiny low tables, the careful arrangement of books and objects on the shelves. It was easier to focus on the world around him than on the weight of the words he had come to speak.

“…There are… weird things happening,” he murmured finally, his voice hesitant, “…at home… and at school.”

Nadir’s gaze remained steady, patient, encouraging without pressing, giving Gustave the space to speak, while the quiet warmth of the room seemed to shield him from judgment.

Gustave’s words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“How… how is a bastard made?”

Nadir’s face remained calm, composed, his voice gentle when he spoke.
“Did you read it in the paper, Gustave?”

“Yes,” the boy admitted, shifting uncomfortably. “But I never paid it much attention. Maman tried to hide the papers from me, and it never really affected my daily life. But now…” His voice faltered, the next words heavy on his tongue. “…the boys at school… they only call me ‘The French Bastard.’ And they make crude comments…”

He paused, shifting again on the cushion, squirming as though the weight of his next confession pressed against his chest. “Sometimes… sometimes I don’t even know what those comments mean. I don’t understand them… not really.”

A sudden wave of vulnerability washed over him. He felt very young, very small, suddenly. Foolish, for not even knowing what everything that had happened in the last months meant. Not even understanding why his father, no, the Vicomte, was not his real father.

He had never bothered to ask, being too preoccupied with the health of his mother, maybe even not really wanting to know.

But now the questions pressed. Especially, after finding Erik in the living room this morning, very close to his mother and too undressed for it to be proper. 

Nadir’s voice remained calm, gentle as he asked,
“What crude comments are we talking about, Gustave?”

Gustave swallowed, fidgeting with the edge of a cushion.

"They call my mother a 'whore'... and other words." He said in a small voice, flinching at the crude word.

“But they also say things like… ‘Did your mother sleep with a hundred men?’ or… ‘Did your mother lay with that business man for money?’” His small voice trembled, the words tasting strange in his mouth.

“I… I don’t know what any of that means!” he burst out, his lanky fists clenching the cushion. “What does it mean to ‘sleep with’? People sleep next to each other all the time!”

Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it in exasperation.

“But I’m not stupid either!” he insisted, his voice rising slightly. “I know… I know that there are women who do things for men for money. I know… I know that women can have children without being married. But I don’t… I don’t know how! No one… no one explains anything to me!”

He sank back onto the cushion, breathing fast, his eyes wide and earnest, feeling suddenly very small and bewildered in the quiet, incense-scented room.

It was true — he had seen such women in the streets of Paris. Women whom people whispered about, frowned at, or hurried past. Fallen women. Raoul had explained to him once that they had lived in sin. 

They were nothing like his mother, nothing at all.

Yet… people said the same things about her. Gustave frowned, the confusion knotting in his chest. He knew what he had seen with his own eyes, the woman who had loved and cared for him tirelessly. And yet the words from school and the cruel articles in the papers pressed in, confusing him. How could his mother be like one of those women in the dirty streets of Paris?

Nadir set his tea gently on the low table beside them, the warm aroma mingling with the quiet of the morning.

“Did you know,” he began, his voice calm and deliberate, “that Erik and the Vicomte were… in conflict over your mother even before you were born? That they knew one another in Paris?”

Gustave frowned, his brow furrowing.
“No one ever told me… but I supposed as much, from all the little things I picked up.”

Nadir inclined his head thoughtfully, then continued.
“Erik taught your mother to sing. He was the first to recognize her talent, at the very beginning. And as soon as he began her training, others began to notice as well. One of them was the Vicomte de Chagny.”

Gustave leaned forward, listening intently now, every word sharpening his curiosity.

“When the Vicomte began to court your mother,” Nadir continued, his tone measured, “Erik became… furious. He loved her, Gustave. He felt they shared a bond unlike any other. He wanted to marry her himself. In the end… he pressed her so intensely, so insistently, that she chose the Vicomte instead.”

Gustave sat very still, absorbing the weight of the revelation, the quiet gravity of the morning pressing around them.

“You are old enough to understand, Gustave,” Nadir said gently, setting his hands on his knees. “That is why I am telling you this. I am certain your parents would not be angry with me for speaking the truth.”

He took a quiet sip of his tea, then continued, his voice steady.
“Because the story… it did not end there.”

“In time, your mother felt remorse for leaving Erik behind. She felt that same… special bond to him. But she was afraid — afraid of Erik’s intensity, afraid to allow herself to fully feel it. At least, that is what she told me.”

Gustave’s eyes widened.

“So… she went to see him.” Nadir continued. “He had vanished, you see. His pain was such that he faked his death, leaving no trace behind. But she found him.”

Gustave stared at Nadir, a question forming in the pit of his stomach.
“And… that’s when they… made me?” he asked, his voice small and hesitant.

Nadir’s expression remained calm, patient.
“But how…?” Gustave added, his confusion and embarrassment clear.

Nadir took another measured breath, choosing his words with care, aware of how delicate the explanation must be for the boy.

“People can express their love for each other in a physical way,” Nadir began, his voice calm, measured. “And… it can give them pleasure — the sort of pleasure that some men pay for and, as you said before, some women sell. But when two people give it freely, from the heart, it has a very different atmosphere. It's something entirely different.”

He paused, letting the words settle, then continued gently.
“And in this physical expression, a child can be made. But it does not always happen. In your case… it did.”

A flush rose to Gustave’s cheeks. “A-and… the people… they have to undress for that?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his young mind piecing together the crude comments he had heard at school with Erik’s bare chest from this morning.

Nadir remained patient, leaning slightly closer, his gaze steady but kind.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Generally, they do. But it is not something shameful when it happens between two people who love one another. It is part of life — a natural thing — and it is nothing to fear or be ashamed of. It is through love, trust, and care that it becomes something beautiful.”

“Normally…” Gustave began hesitantly, “normally, this process is only for married people? So… when two unmarried people do it… a bastard is made?”

A faint, sad smile touched Nadir’s face at that word.
“It is always a child that is made,” he said softly, his eyes steady on the boy. “I suspect that perhaps more children are made with love outside of marriage than inside. You were made because your mother and your father — Erik — loved each other so deeply that they could not not make you.”

Gustave’s brow furrowed, his young mind turning over the revelation.
“Then… why didn’t they marry?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost a whisper.

“Erik thought that your mother would have a better life with the Vicomte,” Nadir said gently, his eyes steady on Gustave. “You have seen his face, Gustave, and I think you understand how people might have treated him.”

Gustave’s cheeks flamed at a memory — how he had screamed and run away when he first saw Erik without his mask, shame crawling through him like ice. He wished he could undo it. Slowly, he nodded.

“So,” Nadir continued, “Erik believed your mother could have a much better life with the Vicomte. A safer life. So he left her to marry another man. For him, at that time, it seemed a selfless act — an act of kindness. And he did not know… that you had been made that night. But he did make one mistake while doing all this… he never spoke to your mother about leaving her. He simply vanished.”

Gustave frowned, letting it all sink in.

“Your mother,” Nadir said softly, “had decided that night she wanted to spend her life with Erik. But when she awoke… he was gone. So she did what Erik had wished — she married the Vicomte, built a stable, safe life.”

Gustave’s voice rose slightly, the stubborn truth spilling out. “But it wasn’t safe or stable! He gambled away all our money — and sometimes… sometimes when he was drunk, he was cruel.”

Nadir exhaled, calm but weighed by the story. “They could not have known that beforehand.”

“It’s also not right,” Gustave said firmly, “to leave someone you love without speaking to them about it.”

Nadir nodded slowly. “You are right, Gustave. You are very right.”

For a while, the room held only quiet. The soft light of the morning spilling across the cushions, the faint scent of tea lingering. Finally, Gustave picked up his now-lukewarm cup and took a careful sip, letting the words and the history settle around him.

Gustave set his cup down on the table, fidgeting with it nervously. After a pause, he asked in a small voice,
“How… how does this act… play out?”

For the first time, Nadir hesitated. “Perhaps… you should ask your mother,” he suggested gently.

“Please,” Gustave pleaded. “The boys at school… they all seem to know. And I… I don’t. They already think I’m beneath them.”

Nadir’s expression softened. “It is simply a matter for older young men,” he said carefully, trying to frame it in a way a ten-year-old could understand.

“How old?” Gustave asked, his voice small but insistent.

“Old enough… to fall in love and marry,” Nadir replied, calm and measured.

Gustave’s eyes widened. “But… but that’s ages away!” he exclaimed. “And until then… I should stay in the dark and just bear the comments? Everybody else knows…”

Nadir sighed, the weight of the explanation heavy in his tone. “Fine… but I will not tell you details.”

Gustave nodded eagerly, desperate for even a small understanding.

Nadir continued carefully, “In this act… at some point, the bodies of the two people can connect. Even more than simply touching or kissing. And when that happens, the man can transfer his seed to the woman. Then… a child may begin to grow inside her.”

“Oh…” Gustave murmured, his eyes widening as the realization sank in. Finally, he understood why babies grew in their mothers’ bellies.

Then another, sharper realization struck him — the reason why men looked different than women in certain areas. Because at some point… they had to connect… somewhere.

He blinked rapidly, his cheeks flushing crimson. Perhaps Nadir had been right — perhaps he really was too young for this knowledge. A sudden wave of nausea swept over him.

Nadir seemed to notice the flush on Gustave’s face, a small, knowing smile touching his lips.

“When you are old enough,” he said gently, “you will understand it all. Don’t preoccupy yourself with this now. Just… grow into it. There is time for all of it.”

Gustave nodded, absorbing the reassurance, but then another thought flickered through his mind, tentative and shy.

“A woman… can have several babies,” he said softly. “But… only when this act is… repeated?”

A wave of dizziness swept over him as memories of the morning — Erik bare-chested, so close to his mother in only her nightgown — collided in his mind.

Nadir noticed again, his calm gaze unwavering. Nothing, it seemed, escaped his perception.

“Yes,” he said carefully, curiosity coloring his voice for the first time in their conversation. “Why do you ask, Gustave?”

“J-just… just because…” Gustave stammered, his small hands twisting in his lap. “Erik… he was in our living room this morning. And Maman… and him… they were close, and…”

He turned a deep, furious red, his words tumbling out before he could stop them.
“He… he didn’t wear a shirt!”

Nadir’s lips pressed together tightly, his brow furrowed. A silent curse flickered through his mind at Erik and Christine for their thoughtlessness, confusing Gustave even more than necessary.

Nadir’s frown softened, though his lips remained pressed together for a moment longer, the silent irritation at Erik and Christine still flickering behind his eyes. Then he spoke, his voice calm and measured.

“Gustave… everything is fine. You need not worry about all of this.” He leaned slightly closer, his gaze steady and kind. “These matters are for your parents to manage. It is not your burden to bear.”

He paused, letting the words sink in, then continued with a small, reassuring smile.
“Your concern is admirable, but your mind should be occupied with the things you learn in school. Learn well, grow strong, and when others speak cruelly, you can meet them now with knowledge. You know as much as they do now — perhaps even more. You know that your mother didn’t do anything wrong. That she acted out of love and did the best she could with the things she knew at the time. Know that and stand tall when someone attacks you.”

Gustave felt the tension in his shoulders ease, his cheeks still warm but his mind calmer. For the first time since the morning’s revelations, he felt a measure of control. He nodded slowly.

“Thank you,” he murmured softly, a small smile creeping onto his face.

Nadir inclined his head gently, as if to say that was all the thanks needed.

Then abruptly, he straightened on his cushion. 

“Now, do you want to learn some new Persian words?”

Chapter Text

They lingered in the doorway far longer than any two people merely parting should. For a moment they stood pressed close, sharing a kiss that looked almost reluctant, as though neither wished to be the first to break away. Then Christine somehow managed to coax him a step back, her hands braced lightly against his chest.

She was laughing—soft, breathless, girlish—while he made another playful attempt to capture her hands again. He caught only her fingertips, tugging gently, refusing to let her slip free. She wriggled away with another quiet peal of laughter, shaking her head at him.

“Go,” she said, finally reclaiming her hands and smoothing her skirts as if to hide her smile. “You’ll be late for your meeting.”

“I don’t care,” he murmured, leaning in again, “you’re much more important.”

She laughed lightly, brushing at his sleeve as though trying to shoo away the very idea. “Just go.”

But he caught her before she could retreat, tugging her into one last kiss—quick, sweet, unwilling to end. She gave a small protesting sound that dissolved into a smile, then pushed at his chest with both hands.

“Go,” she repeated, firmer this time, still smiling.

He let himself be ushered out at last, though not without a lingering glance back at her. Christine closed the door before that look could weaken her resolve and pressed her back against it, breath unsteady, a smile blooming across her face. Her fingers drifted to her lips—still warm from his kiss—and she let her eyes fall shut, savoring the moment in the quiet of the room.

From the sitting room, the quiet clink of crockery reminded her she was not alone. Marie, her maid, was moving about, gathering the remnants of the breakfast she and Erik had shared only minutes before. The silver coffee pot, still faintly warm; the plates with half-finished pastries; the neatly folded napkin Erik had set aside with a care that always made her heart ache a little.

“Madame?” the maid asked gently, when Christine entered the sitting room. “Shall I ring for fresh linens?”

“In a moment,” Christine murmured. “Thank you.”

Christine had meant to go sit on the couch to continue her book, but the suite felt unusually quiet without him. Gustave was still at Nadir’s. Christine crossed to the window almost without thinking, drawn by some instinct she couldn’t name.

The city unfurled below her in a patchwork of motion and a golden september glow.

And there—down at the hotel entrance—she spotted him.

Erik, unmistakable even from this height, stepping out into the street from the restaurant on the ground floor of her hotel. And beside him… a woman. Her coat bright against the glow of the morning, her posture close to his. Christine froze, one hand resting lightly against the window frame as the woman leaned toward him, speaking, her hand brushing his sleeve.

Did he lean closer—or was her mind playing tricks on her?

“Madame?” Marie asked again from behind her.

When Christine didn’t answer, the maid approached, a fresh teacup still balanced neatly in her hand. She glanced at Christine first, puzzled by her stillness, then followed her gaze down to the sidewalk below.

“Who’s that woman?” Christine whispered. Her voice was steady, but only just. She had known Marie long enough to trust her—trusted her discretion, her honesty, and her quiet loyalty.

Marie narrowed her eyes slightly, studying the pair below. “Ah,” she murmured after a moment, “I recognize her. That’s Mrs. Kensington. One of the wealthy ladies who adores Phantasma. She was among the first to invest in it, if I recall.”

Christine’s chest tightened. Of course. A patron. A supporter. A woman with influence and money—things Erik had needed desperately in those early days.

She didn’t answer.

Marie waited, watching her mistress’s face rather than the scene below. When Christine still said nothing, she spoke gently.

“I don’t think you have to worry about that, Madame,” she said, choosing each word with care.

Down below, the woman’s laugh floated up faintly through the morning bustle, bright and too easily imagined. Christine pressed her fingertips to the glass, unsure whether the cold she felt belonged to the window or to the sudden ache settling in her chest.

“I know,” Christine murmured at last—but she wasn’t certain at all.

She had always believed she was the only woman in Erik’s life. And in a way, she was certain she was. But when he had taught her to sing all those years ago, she had truly been the only person in his world. The only one he allowed close. The only one who knew him. Yes, he had been obsessed with her then—and she had been afraid—but there had simply been no one else. No friends. No casual acquaintances — except for Nadir but he hadn’t been around at that time in his life and she hadn’t known. But there were certainly no other women.

Seeing him now—friendly, even lighthearted, with another woman—felt strange in a way she could not quite reason through. Intimate, even if it wasn’t. Familiar, even if she knew it was only politeness.

She pressed her hand more firmly to the glass. She knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she had no real cause for jealousy. She should be glad that he had learned to speak to people, to stand in daylight without shrinking, to socialize without that brittle edge of discomfort. She should be relieved that New York had opened his world wider than every other place he had ever been to. The New World, where tradition no longer ruled and a masked man was simply another man—unusual, yes, but not impossible. 

But instead, the sight stirred an unwelcome, gnawing question: just how much contact had he really had in those ten years apart?

Had he seemed… more experienced… last night? More certain?

Or was that simply her mind, weaving doubts where none belonged?

Her breath clouded faintly against the window as she leaned closer, trying to convince herself she was imagining everything.

“Do you know…” she began softly, “do you know if this woman…”
But the question tangled in her throat. She couldn’t finish it.

Marie glanced down at the street again, where Erik and the woman were still speaking in that too-familiar proximity.

“I don’t know, Madame,” she said gently. “But Monsieur de Renier has always been known to be… reserved in certain aspects of his life. Many women tried to get close to him over the years, but it was no use.”

Christine turned toward her, startled. “Many women?”

Marie gave a small, almost apologetic shrug. “Well, he is a very rich man. One of the few who can stand even somewhat equal to Mr. Rockefeller.”

“So they wanted him for his money?”

“I suppose not all of them,” Marie replied thoughtfully. “He is known to treat his staff well—good conditions, fair pay, days off. Perhaps some believed he would be a kind man in more private areas as well. And…” she paused, choosing the word delicately, “he is known to be charismatic… in an enigmatic way.”

Christine felt her heart skip, a cold ripple moving through her when the two figures below stepped toward Erik’s black Panhard—his chauffeur already waiting behind the wheel. The very same car that had brought her here only last night.

So Meg had not been the only young woman who had hoped.

The memory of Meg struck her with unexpected force, and she pushed it aside quickly, unwilling to feel its ache on top of everything else.

It was no use, Marie had said. Still, she felt the sudden urge to be completely sure.

“Do you know if he ever… gave in to those advances?” Christine asked quietly.

Marie shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable. “That is very private, Madame.”

Christine closed her eyes briefly, mortified. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. You’re right, Marie. Forget I asked.”

There was a pause—long enough that Christine nearly turned away—before Marie spoke again, her voice softer.

“…But I was his maid for a few years.”
Christine looked at her, surprised.

“As far as I know… there was no one,” Marie continued. “No woman he favored. No affairs. Nothing of that sort.” She hesitated, then added, “But I did hear he used to dance with a few women—very early on, when Phantasma was still small. When the staff would gather in a bar after a long workday. Some of the older staff told me. I was too young then, and I didn’t work here yet.”

“Dance?” Christine breathed, utterly caught off guard.

The word felt strange on her tongue—an image she had never once associated with him. Erik… dancing. With women. The idea was so foreign, so impossible, it left her momentarily speechless.

“Maybe… maybe you should speak to Monsieur de Renier about all of that,” Marie said gently. “I don’t think I can give you satisfactory answers.”

Christine nodded slowly, still staring down at the street where the black Panhard had already pulled away. “You’re right,” she murmured. Then she turned to Marie, her expression softening. “Thank you for your honesty, Marie.”

__________________________________________________________________________

It was evening now. Christine had spent the afternoon with Gustave, answering some of his more pressing questions. But he was in his room now, bent over a small diorama he had begun building. He hated interruptions when he worked like that, so completely absorbed that he sometimes forgot to eat, to look up, to breathe. She smiled at the thought and let him be.

The afternoon with him had been pleasant, grounding… or it should have been. Yet all day her mind kept circling back to Erik—and to the conversation she’d had with Marie that morning.

Against all her better judgment, against every sensible thought she possessed, she had managed to think herself into a quiet, simmering jealous fit. The more she tried not to think about it, the worse it became. Marie’s words repeated themselves in her mind in fragments:

Many women tried to get close to him…
He danced with women…
He is charismatic…

They echoed until they twisted into something sharp:
Had he done something while she was gone?
Had he changed that much in ten years?
Had he chased after other women in New York—women bold enough, worldly enough, unafraid of him?

It was ridiculous. Irrational. Beneath her, she told herself again and again.

And yet, jealousy had a way of making a fool of even the most reasonable heart.

By the time the bell of her hotel suite rang, she had already decided—quite indignantly—that she was angry with him. Unfairly angry, a small voice insisted from deep inside her. But it didn’t matter. She felt it anyway.

She crossed the room with far more determination than the situation warranted, lifted her chin, and prepared herself to greet him with all the chilly composure of a woman who absolutely, resolutely refused to admit she’d spent an entire day imagining things.

She schooled her expression into something neutral—at least she hoped it was neutral—and opened the door.

Erik stood there with the faintest, hopeful smile, the kind he reserved only for her and only when he was certain no one else could see. In his gloved hands he held a small bouquet of roses—deep red, their scent already curling softly into the warm air of the suite.

“For you,” he said simply, offering them to her with a quiet sort of pride, as though he’d traversed half of Manhattan to find the perfect ones.

Christine blinked, momentarily disarmed. She forced herself not to soften—not yet—and accepted the flowers with polite restraint, her fingers brushing his gloves only briefly.

“They’re lovely,” she said, her voice steady but distant, the way one might speak to a polite stranger. “Thank you.”

“I thought they might please you. I passed a florist on my way here and…”—a faint smile touched his voice—“I found myself quite unable to resist.”

His tone was warm. Open. Entirely guileless.

Christine swallowed. It made her irritation—her jealousy—feel even more foolish.

She stepped aside to let him in, lifting the roses to her face so he wouldn’t see the war happening in her eyes. Their scent was rich, comforting, heartbreakingly familiar.

Without another word, she led him into the sitting room. Her movements were graceful, practiced, almost too controlled. She set the roses into a waiting vase on the mantelpiece, arranging them with slow, deliberate care—as though giving herself a moment to breathe, to gather what little composure she still possessed.

Only when the flowers stood perfectly in place did she turn back to him.

“How was your meeting this morning?” she asked.

The coldness in her voice startled even her. It slipped out like a blade she hadn’t meant to draw. She heard it, felt it, and for a heartbeat her own reaction frightened her—how sharp she suddenly sounded, how unlike herself.

Erik blinked, the softness in his expression faltering ever so slightly as he took in her tone. He opened his mouth—slowly, cautiously—as if unsure whether some unseen danger had just entered the room.

“My meeting?” he echoed softly, as though turning the words over in his mind. “It was… uneventful, I assure you. Rather dull, in truth.”

His brow furrowed, only slightly, the way it did when he sensed a note out of key.
“Christine… is something amiss?”

He tilted his head in that subtle, feline way he had, studying her with a gentleness that made the distance she held feel suddenly unbearable.

“You sound,” he ventured, each word chosen delicately, “as though something has troubled you. If I have given you offense in some way, I beg you to tell me.”

He didn’t reach for her yet—he seemed almost afraid to—but every line of his body radiated quiet concern, a desire to understand, to mend whatever invisible rift he felt opening.

Christine felt heat prick at the back of her neck—foolishness, embarrassment, and that lingering echo of jealousy she hated to acknowledge. She turned back to the mantelpiece, pretending to adjust the angle of the vase though it needed no adjusting. Anything to avoid meeting his eyes, those eyes that always saw too much.

“I saw you with Mrs. Kensington this morning,” she said at last.

The words slipped out more quickly than she intended, too tight, too brittle. As soon as they were spoken, she wished she could gather them back again, smooth them into something calmer, more reasonable. But they hung in the air between them, fragile and accusing, like a note struck slightly off-key.

She heard the quiet sound of leather as he set his gloves upon the little table near the door. Then the faintest shift of movement—soft footsteps crossing the carpet, deliberate, hesitant. He approached her slowly, the way one might approach a frightened bird, every motion weighted with care.

When he finally reached her, he paused just behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, but not touching—waiting, asking without words. Only after a long heartbeat did he lift his arms and ease them around her, careful, almost tentative, as though giving her every opportunity to step away.

Christine didn’t move.
Her body stayed stiff, her gaze fixed firmly on the roses before her—roses she could barely see now, blurred by too many tangled feelings.

“Christine…”

His whisper brushed against her ear, warm and fragile. He dipped his head slightly, just enough that his breath stirred a strand of her hair.

“You need not worry.”

She felt the words more than heard them—the softness of them, the uncertainty, the quiet plea woven through them. But still she remained still, torn between the instinct to lean into him and the ache of all the questions she had held back for years.

“Tell me,” he whispered into her ear, the words so soft they seemed woven from breath alone. His voice dipped, tender, coaxing. “Tell me everything that troubles your heart, my dear… everything that weighs upon you.”

The cadence of his speech wrapped around her like velvet. Inviting, pleading in the quietest way a man like him could plead.

“You need not guard yourself from me,” he whispered.

Finally, Christine turned to face him. Her eyes lifted to meet his, searching, wary, yet unable to hide the vulnerability there.

“We… we didn’t see each other for ten years,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “were there… other women?”

She saw the flash of surprise cross his face, quickly masked by the faintest lift of a corner of his mouth, as if the very question were so absurd it amused him. He even tried—just barely—to suppress a laugh.

Christine felt a warmth of her own rise unbidden. She gave a small, self-conscious smile, feeling a little foolish. Even if there had been… he had been a free man, unpromised, unwed.

“Christine…” His voice was soft, intimate, deliberate. He lowered his head and pressed a tender kiss to her lips. Then he drew back just slightly, still close enough that she could feel the heat of him.

“There was no one… but you. However—my dear—how is it that you allow such notions to take hold in your mind?”

“It’s just…” Christine began, her voice small, hesitant, “I saw you with Mrs. Kensington today, and you seemed so… familiar. And then I asked Marie, and she said many women tried to… get close to you. So… I started to wonder.”

Erik looked at her for a long moment, his hand rising to cradle her cheek, warm and slightly trembling with some unspoken nervousness.

“Marie is… right,” he said at last, his voice soft, measured, each word deliberate, almost like music. “There had been women who tried. But I… I never could—”

Christine’s breath caught, and in the faintest whisper she said, “But you danced with them.” Her eyes barely met his.

He blinked, slightly caught off guard. “Yes… yes, at the beginning, I did.” He drew back a little, retreating to the sofa and sat down quietly.

“I thought… I thought I must begin anew. I endeavored to be… more social, as one must. I believed my life ended the very moment I lost you. And yet… I lived. I found myself in New York, a strange city, at the start believing all would remain unchanged. That I must dwell in shadow, scheming, deceiving to acquire money. But…” he paused, lifting his hand slightly as though gesturing to the city beyond the walls, “people regarded me differently here. They… they were not so put off by my mask. And in that, I found hope. I began Phantasma, and in those early days I assembled a team—close, loyal. I took pride in that… as I do still.”

His voice softened, almost confiding, almost tender. “And in the evenings, when our work was done, they would sometimes go to a bar. At first I did not join them, but Nadir—he insisted that connection was important. And so I went. I discovered… I was capable of socializing, very capable, so long as I could forget the mask. And they… they did not care. They did not mind, and in their regard, I was merely… a man.”

He looked down, a faint shadow across his features, then lifted his gaze to hers. “I desired to start anew. To reinvent myself… and, frankly… to forget you. I ventured to try new things. One of them… was to dance with women. But… beyond that, nothing transpired. No more than the dance. And even then, it… it did little to erase you from my thoughts.”

“God…” she breathed, barely audible, staring down at her hands as though they alone could anchor her. “I feel like a fool.”

He was on his feet in an instant, crossing the room with a speed that startled her.

“No.” His voice was soft but urgent as he cupped her cheek, guiding her to look at him. “No—do not ever say such a thing.” The words flowed from him like music. “You have every right to ask. You saw me with a strange woman this morning, entering my car with her. Believe me, my dear—if anyone possesses unmatched expertise in the domain of jealousy…” A faint, rueful smile tugged at his lips. “It is I.”

He brushed a thumb along her cheekbone, almost chastening in its tenderness.
“And I do understand. So—permit me to explain.”

He drew a small breath before continuing, his tone warm and sincere.

“Mrs. Kensington was one of the earliest investors in Phantasma. In those perilous beginning days, she was invaluable—regularly persuading her husband to invest considerable sums. I owe her much. Her share was returned years ago, yet we have maintained the acquaintance. She remains an ardent admirer of Phantasma… a loyal patron. I respect her, and—yes—I am fond of her.” He lifted a hand lightly, forestalling the flicker of hurt in Christine’s eyes. “Fond, Christine, nothing more.”

His voice dropped.
“She is married… and I—” he paused, the truth catching in his throat, “I was never unbound myself. My heart was… is… and has always been bound to you.”

Christine closed her eyes, a long breath escaping her chest at last. She leaned into him, her forehead brushing his collarbone, feeling the weight lift from her like a mist dissolving in light.

“Forgive me,” she whispered into his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. “First I tell you this morning that your leaving will stand forever between us… and now I question your loyalty. I don’t know what has gotten into me.”

He held her a little tighter, one hand stroking gently through her hair.
“It is quite all right, Christine,” he murmured, warm, soothing. “Do not distress yourself. And do not talk down on yourself. You are—quite perfect.”

“No, I’m not,” she said quickly, shaking her head against him. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes bright with apology. “I don’t think it will stand between us forever. I only meant… it will always be part of our story. And then I saw you with a random woman and talked myself into a rage the entire day.” She let out a breath, shaking her head with a bitter half-laugh. “You have every right to speak to whomever you like. And to have… to have been with whomever you wished in those ten years apart.”

Erik drew in a soft, steadying breath, his gaze warm but unwavering.
“But I did not.”

He lifted her chin with a single finger, guiding her eyes to his.

“In all those years,” he said quietly, “I never gave myself to another.”

His voice softened to a confessional murmur, every word deliberate and honest.
“My heart was fixed—hopelessly—irrevocably. There was never room for anyone else.”

“I know…” she whispered, and when she felt the prick of tears against her eyes, she closed them tightly, as though shutting the world out might steady her heart.

Then, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion, she asked, “Why didn’t you call me sooner, Erik? I waited for you… every single day of those ten years.”

She had never even confessed it to herself, let alone out loud. 

“Oh, Christine…” he whispered, leaning closer. His fingers brushed lightly against her cheek, catching a single tear that had escaped, tracing it away with delicate care. “Please… forgive me.”

She opened her eyes just enough to see him, the depth of regret and longing in his gaze cutting straight to her heart.

“I thought… I thought you had a happy life with your Vicomte,” he said softly.

“I feel like you won everything in those ten years,” Christine admitted at last, her voice trembling but steady, the words spilling out like a confession she had carried too long. “You gained—money, friends, a successful life. While you left me in the old world, a world destined to crumble. A Vicomtesse title meaning nothing, a husband incapable of care, and a child to raise… that is yours. And you… the moment you left, your life flourished, as if I were a weight you shook off in order to fly. And I… I was left to rot on the ground.”

Erik’s hands rose, gentle but insistent, cupping her face. “Forgive me,” he whispered again. “Without you, I would never have any of this. Every thought of you alone… it drove me to become the man I am. I tried, each day, to be better. Always, I felt your gaze upon me, in some quiet way, and I chose, in all things, to act as I imagined you would wish. In the end… all of this was your doing. And for you.”

He lowered his head closer, eyes shining with earnest, unsparing honesty. “I did not call you sooner because I did not fully understand the gravity of your situation until I read how that foolish fop had squandered all his fortune in the papers. How your singing—your beautiful, wondrous singing—had to cover his debts. Christine… I am so sorry that I did not realize it sooner. I believed I was doing the right thing by trying to forget you, to guard my heart. But know this—it pained me… immensely. Every day without you was a torment I could not name.”

Silent tears slid down Christine’s cheeks as she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, “Let’s forget all of this… I just want to forget, to be free of these heavy feelings.”

Without another word, she closed the small distance between them, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was trembling, desperate, and full of release.

“Tell me,” he murmured, his words brushing against her mouth as he kissed her again and again, tender, insistent, almost pleading. “Tell me what I must do… and I will do it. I will gladly do anything, Christine… anything at all.”

But she did not answer at first. She pressed herself closer to him, letting herself dissolve in a kiss, letting her tears mingle with the warmth of him.

Finally, Christine drew back from him. Her breath trembled as she steadied herself, her hands still resting against his chest. Then, in a whisper soft as silk, she said:

“I want you to stay here.”

He froze. Truly froze—his eyes widening, breath catching, as though the world had abruptly tilted beneath him.

“I spoke to Gustave today,” she went on, voice steadier now. “He is… he is fine with it. And if you want to bed me”—she swallowed, cheeks warming—“you will have to live with me. Like… husband and wife.”

For a heartbeat, he only stared. Stared as though she had just laid the entire universe into his hands. His lips parted soundlessly; his eyes widened.

“Husband and wife…” he echoed, breath barely forming the words. “I—”

His hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to the inner pocket of his jacket.

But before he could draw out whatever lay within, she caught his hand—gently but firmly—pressing her fingers over his.

“No,” she said quickly. “Don’t… not yet.” Her voice wavered, thick with emotion. “I need some time—time to be Christine Daaé again. To breathe. To simply be. I don’t want to promise again… not yet.” She looked up into his eyes, her own wide and pleading. “But I do want your promises. To be your wife in your mind. I will gladly take your vows, even if I don’t return them right now. I know it seems unfair, but… that is what I want.”

“It is not unfair,” he said at once, fervently, almost tripping over the words. “Nothing you ask could ever be unfair to me. I will grant you any wish.” His voice dipped. “And if you cast me out tomorrow, Christine—I would kneel at your feet and thank you for the time you granted me.”

“I will not cast you out,” she breathed, her lips brushing his in the faintest ghost of a kiss.

She lingered there, close enough to feel his shaky exhale. “So will you?” she whispered again. “Will you live with us?”

A heartbeat.
Another.
Then—

“Yes…” he whispered, the word breaking out of him like prayer.

And he closed the small space between them, gathering her into his arms, holding her as tightly as humanly possible—as if afraid she might dissolve, vanish, or simply turn out to be a dream.