Archive of Our Own

It's something like four months since the incident with the chandelier when Erik finds himself sprawled out on the Daroga's couch willing the painted wallpaper to come alive and eat him. Nadir is going on and on about all the comings and goings of the opera which he couldn't care less about now that Christine is lost to him.

“You know, the courteous friend would die at his own house.” The Persian sighs.

Erik snorts. “All my good liquor is here.”

“Yes, which I've told you repeatedly is not welcome. Don't you have an opera to write or something?”

“Burned It.”

The Daroga lets out a frustrated sigh. “Look, it's been four months. Maybe your visions of death were a bit premeditated. You can't spend the rest of your life rotting away on my couch.”

“Good thing it won't be your problem soon.” Erik groans. “Because I am most certainly dying.”

Nadir rolls his eyes, and Erik can tell he's about to embark on some kind of stupid lecture about the value of human life, when Darius interrupts the moment by bringing in the mail. The slight man makes a disgruntled face at Erik, who returns it with a scowl of his own.

“Is he dead yet?” Darius asks Nadir.

“Working on it. Thanks for asking.” Erik hisses.

“Tell him to hurry up.” Darius studiously replies to the Daroga, ignoring Erik entirely. “I'm sick of looking at him and cleaning up all his crap.”

“Now, now.” Nadir chides dryly. “That's no way to treat our guest. Even if it is Erik.”

Darius grumbles a curse under his breath that he can barely make out, before shooting one last venomous glare at the phantom as he leaves the room. Erik vows silently to live an extra day longer just to spite him.

“Ah, but what's this?” the Persian's voice interrupts his musings. 

“You are far too excited over mail.” Erik sighs, before getting up off of the couch to pour himself another drink. If he's going to listen to Nadir list off every piece of correspondence he receives, then he refuses to be sober. 

“What is it now? Coupons this time?”

“No, jackass.” The Persian retorts. “Something better.”

“By all means, do share.”

Nadir waits an infuriatingly long time to open the envelope, to the point where Erik has poured himself two overly generous fingers of scotch and resettled on the couch. 

“Oh! It's an invitation.”

Admittedly that does pique Erik's interest. As a foreigner, the Daroga never gets invited anywhere. 

“To what?”

“The masked ball at the opera.”

“Christ, is it January already?”

Nadir rolls his eyes. “Not for another month or so. Do you listen to anything that I say?”

“Not if I can help it.”

The Persian makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “Doubt I'll go anyways, the last thing I need is to witness the drunken debauchery of the Parisian elite. Although…” He pauses thoughtfully.

“Although what?”

“It could be a nice opportunity for you to get out of the house.”

“Pass.” Erik sighs, taking a sip of his drink. “I’ll hopefully be dead for three weeks by then.”

“If you're going to kill yourself, could you at least do it outside? Darius would certainly appreciate not having to clean up the mess.”

“Oh no.” Erik smirks. “For that fact alone I plan on going out in the most grotesque way possible. Entrails and blood everywhere. Make the guest room look like an explosion went off. He'll love it.

The Daroga makes a face. “You're a piece of work, you know that?”

Erik doesn't dignify that with a response, instead returning to his drink. The room falls into silence, which he's glad for. Nadir's voice is starting to give him a headache.

Eventually something seems to agitate the Persian, because he stands and starts pacing the room, muttering to himself. Erik does his best to ignore him, but by the tenth turn about the room, he's run out of scotch and so he folds.

“What are you muttering about?”

“I'm debating something.” Nadir rubs his beard thoughtfully. “Tell me, that night on the roof. You said Christine was crying?”

Erik winces. It's not the first time he's recalled the story to the Daroga, but that doesn't make it any less painful.

“Why does it matter?”

“It matters because you have the social sense of a goldfish. Now remind me, how did she look?”

“Beautiful.” Erik croaks.

“Aside from that. Did she look happy or distraught?”

He thinks back to that night. Christine with her hair whipped by the wind, her eyes filled with tears. She had clung desperately to the vicomte on the roof, her sobs muffled by his jacket.

“I don't know. Distraught perhaps. But who wouldn't be when marrying that fop?”

“Hm. Yes. Who would be? That's what I can't figure out. It doesn't make any damn sense.” Nadir returns to his muttering and pacing. 

“Unless…”

“Unless what?” Erik snaps, annoyed and far too sober for this conversation.

“Unless she married him for another reason.”

“I'm sure there are countless.”

“You miss my point, dear friend. What I'm saying is, perhaps mademoiselle Daae didn't marry for love.”

“And what does it matter?” Erik snarls. “What's done is done. She's wed already.”

“Ah, not exactly.”

At that he drops his glass, which hits the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

“What do you mean?”

“I've been looking,” Nadir begins, “in the paper for an ad which announces their engagement. But four months out and there's no sign of it. Don't you think that's strange?”

“Perhaps they eloped.”

“Not if that Vicomte has any sense. If he elopes he's out of the will. He'd have to marry her properly and follow all the precautions. Post bans. And yet, there's no sign that he's done any of that.”

“That's because the boy is a fool.”

“Or, he doesn't plan on actually marrying her.”

“So what, she's relegated to be his mistress?” Erik hisses. “I'll kill him for that!”

“Calm down, will you? What I'm saying is, I suspect they've come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Erik looks at him blankly. Nadir rolls his eyes before clearing his throat.

“What I mean is, despite everything, you might still have a chance with this girl.”

“What?” Erik says dumbly.

“It's a slim one, Allah knows that you've more than fucked it up already. But if you were to make a grand gesture, to show that you're somewhat reformed… perhaps she might be willing to listen.”

“And you inferred this all from the invitation?”

“No fool! The invitation is your opportunity! The Vicomte is sponsoring the ball. She has to be there.”

Erik shakes his head. “And what am I supposed to do, exactly? Get one last glimpse at her before they shoot me?”

“As If you'd let that happen.” The Daroga snorts. “What I'm saying is, you should take the chance to woo her.”

“With what?” He hisses. “I've tried everything, and she still doesn't love me!”

“That's just how women are. You think Rookheya accepted me on my first attempt? It wasn't until the fourth try that she actually agreed to talk to me.” Nadir lets out a dreamy sigh. “It was entirely worth it.”

Erik pinches the bridge of his mask’s nose. “Yes, yes we all know how you and Rookheya met. Please do not go into detail.”

Nadir gives him a sour look. “If I wasn't exiled, our love story would be an epic poem by now, no thanks to you.”

Erik makes a face. “Oh I'm sure.”

“Stop sulking,” the Daroga snaps, “and listen. You are going to go to get the fuck out of my house and go to this masque. You'll wear something fabulous because, well, you're you. And then, after making a grand entrance, you're going to apologize to Mademoiselle Daae profusely and offer her a gift.”

“Apologize for what?”

“I don't know, for whatever the Hell you did that drove her into the arms of another man. Do some self-reflection, will you?”

Erik scowls. Nadir has a point.

“What do you mean by a gift?”

“It has to be something grand.” The Daroga sighs. “Something she'll appreciate. Something that is genuine, thoughtful, and above all, honest.”

“Music.” Erik gasps. “She lives for music.”

“And what is the most grand form of music? An opera. Your opera. The one that you conveniently burned to pieces before coming here.”

“Fuck.” Erik hisses. “I knew that's what you were getting at.”

“So? Would it kill you to show some humility? Rewrite the damn thing.”

“It took me thirty years last time.” He moans.

“Yes, but that's because it was all sad incel shit that no one wanted to read.”

“Was not!”

“It absolutely was. If I have to listen to you sing it again I swear I'll call Darius for the pistols.”

Erik flashes him a bitter look which the Daroga ignores.

“Look. I hate to break it to you, but love, real actual love, is hard work my friend. If you won't do it, then you don't deserve it.”

Erik winces. Nadir is infuriatingly right. Fuck. He hates it when that happens.

“Fine.” He hisses. “Fine.” He sits up on the couch. “But I'm only leaving because I work best without you two bothering me. Do tell Darius that I'll get back to dying shortly thereafter.”

“You better fucking not!” Darius calls from the hallway.

Erik rolls his eyes and stalks over to the bar cart, liberating two bottles of scotch. Treasure in hand, he turns to exit the room, heading towards the coat rack in the foyer.

“I look forward to hearing your work!” Nadir calls cheerfully after him. 

—

Erik’s house is just as he left it, in a state of absolute disarray. In the hours following the scene on the roof, He had managed to smash a third of all his furniture to smithereens, and put serious dents in the survivors. Only Christine's room remains pristine and untouched. An eternal shrine to his angel of music.

He sighs and deposits the scotch in the kitchen, before pouring himself a fresh glass. Drink in hand, he wanders aimlessly amongst all the destruction, until he comes to rest at the door frame of Christine's room. He can still smell the lingering traces of her perfume in the air and it makes his chest hurt.

Fuck, this was such a bad idea. He shouldn't have come back. What he should have done is taken the first ship east and holed up in one of the imperial courts there. That would be the sensible, logical thing to do. Go far away and hope to God that he could somehow forget her. Hell, even Persia is starting to sound like a good idea at this point. Surely death would be preferable to this unending torment.

Erik drinks from the glass, relishing in the lingering burn. As if he could ever forget. Destiny or fate or something else stronger and intangible binds the two of them together tighter than any cord. He seriously doubts Nadir's advice that hard work is the key to making Christine his, but he'll be damned if he doesn't at least try.

And if this latest scheme doesn't work, well, there's always the gunpowder.

That morbid thought in mind, he retraces his steps throughout the house, assessing the damage. Damn his temper. He'll have to put a lot of work in if it's to be made presentable again anytime soon for Christine. Perhaps he'll order some new more fashionable furniture that'll be sure to please her. He makes a mental note to send word to the Daroga as soon as possible.

Scattered in between the pieces of glass and broken wood are the scraps of Don Juan Triumphant . He may have been exaggerating when he told Nadir that he burned it, but nonetheless in its current state there's not much that's salvageable. No matter. He'll make a new version, a better one, one that abandons the frustrations of his past work to fully embrace the love that he feels for Christine. This new iteration of Don Juan will be full of passion and burning, and God damn it, he will have Christine by the end of it. She has to see that. She has to.

—

It takes a full week to clean the house and another after that to select suitable replacement furnishings. Really, the whole business should have taken a normal person at least a full month, but Erik finds that without sleep he can work twice as fast.

When he's not busy cleaning, he's writing. With only four weeks left before the masque he's set up quite the challenge for himself. But Christine has always, always been his most generous muse, and even when present only in spirit, she still inspires him to create his best music.

Writing the first act of Don Juan is easy. He sprinkles in some disparaging of the nobles here (Fuck you, vicomte!) and some bullshit about sword fighting there. Largely though, act one is about Christine’s beauty and how it takes his breath away. He's no novice to this subject, author to a full seven tomes of compositions on the matter (tomes which, in all likelihood, she will never see). Nonetheless, he makes quick work of the section, writing it in a mere five days, which even for him is an impressively short amount of time. 

Act two provides more of a challenge. Here, the Don hatches a plan to meet Aminta, and swears off his life of crime and debauchery so that he may win her heart. Erik knows something about this, or at least he thinks he does. He'd sworn once to Christine that so long as she loved him he'd be gentle as a lamb. He meant it then, and he still means it now. Although admittedly he does have a hard time picturing what a life of lambdom might be. Paris after all is still a city, and more than likely there's some danger lurking about. Perhaps she might let him still kill so long as it was for her own safety? How much violence was appropriate when defending one's wife anyways?

When he asks Nadir about this, the Persian just rolls his eyes.

“The fact that you have to ask just proves that she’s way too good for you.”

“You think I don't know that?” Erik sighs. “Christine is an angel. No, wait… a goddess…”

“Yes, and that would make you a lowly sewer rat.”

“I live in a basement , not a sewer.”

“And yet, it’s a shithole all the same.”

“Will you just answer the question?” Erik snaps.

Nadir clicks his tongue, folding away the paper he was reading. “This may shock you, but it's entirely possible to exist in this city without murdering anyone.”

“Debatable.”

“What? Are you going to take her to some opium den full of bandits? Respectable folk mind their own business and, newsflash, we're perfectly safe because of it.”

“Easy for you to say.” Erik grumbles.

“My point is, if you do normal things like a normal person, not much dangerous happens.”

Erik doesn't have a clue as to what living like a normal person is like, which makes Nadir's advice unhelpful as per usual. He scowls and takes his leave from the little house on the Rue de Rivoli, making sure to liberate two ceramic dogs from their heads in Darius’ glass collection.

While act two is a slog, act three is anything but. In the culminating act, Don Juan finally gets to claim Aminta as his own in a fiery duet full of passion and unbridled lust. Erik has no illusions that Christine will ever want anything of that nature with him, but that doesn't mean he can't at least imagine it.

In each aria he dreams of touching her. They've only really touched a few times before and mostly by accident. Unless you counted the time that he first carried her down below which was absolutely a piece of heaven. Or the time that she tore off his mask, which was less so. He still bears the scars from that encounter, and it makes his heart flutter to think that his horrid visage holds some tangible proof that Christine Daae, angel of angels, actually touched him. Even if he did forcibly hold her hands to his face, but honestly, that's just details.

What he really wants is to touch her in a way where she expects it. Anticipates it. Wants it. The kind of touch that seems so trivial to people like Christine but would be earth-shattering for someone like him.

The brief image of the Vicomte holding her in his arms on the roof flashes through his mind and it's enough to make Erik almost smash his glass of scotch against the freshly painted wall. Almost. But like Nadir had said, he's reformed now, and a respectable suitor is one who is not susceptible to bouts of violent madness.

He takes a deep breath. Think. Think more about Christine.

He wants to tell her that he loves her in some grand fashion. After all, that's the entire point of this opera isn't it? He loves her with a ferocity that transcends the physical and merges their very souls. Their love is cosmic, eternal, forged in the heart of a star. She may choose the Vicomte, sure, but he'll be damned if Christine ever finds someone who loves her the way he does. They are kindred spirits, destined to be together, and he writes that in every note Don Juan sings To Aminta. He doesn't just crave her flesh, but the very essence of her being.

Erik pauses there. Flips back and forth between the acts. Back and forth. Something feels…wrong. Out of place. As if he were forgetting a large part of the story. He sighs, and finishes his glass of scotch. 

You must give her something genuine and thoughtful. Honest.

Easy for you to say Nadir, you fucking asshole . Erik’s never been honest for a second of his life. Not since his mother handed him a shitty scrap of a mask. Honesty doesn't feed you, and it sure as Hell doesn't pay. That was one of the first lessons he learned when he ran away from home. Better to be a liar and alive than honest and dead.

Honest. You must be honest .

Fuck you Nadir . You want honest? Here's honest:

He may love Christine's spirit, but goddamn does he want her flesh. Wants it to the point where it's driving him more than a little mad. It is taking all of his resolve not to be an absolute monster, because Lord in Heaven, the idea that she would do anything of a carnal nature with the Vicomte makes him want to rend the flesh from the boy's pretty bones. 

Except even that's not the truth, because at his core he truly is a monster. A monster that desires her, that covets her, that would do anything, anything to end up between her thighs. He would fuck her over and over again until her voice was hoarse from screaming his name, and even that wouldn’t be enough.

“Fuck.” Erik hisses, standing up and pacing the room. This is not the direction that he wanted this to go in. It's supposed to be romantic for God's sake, not an expose on all his horrific urges. Maybe he can just…write around it. Polish it up so that it looks presentable. After all, isn't that what he's been doing his entire life?

Yes, and look where that's gotten you.

The voice in his head sounds way too much like the Daroga for comfort. It's enough to make him actually slam his glass into the wall this time, because there is nothing, nothing, he wants less than to reveal to Christine how much of a monster he is.

Erik lets out a sigh as he watches the glass and scotch drip down the wall. So much for being reformed.

—-

The next two days are spent sulking in his coffin, drinking until he can come up with a solution for his creative block. By the third day, he's run out of booze, and so Erik's working up the resolve to go to Nadir's to fetch the rest when he realizes that the alarm bells from across the lake are going off. How long has that been happening for? He's going to have to sleep sometime soon because he can feel things starting to get fuzzy around the edges.

Sleep will have to wait though, because now is the time for murder. Erik has to admit, he's itching for a distraction, and strangeling the life out of this trespasser feels like the right move.

Wait, fuck. Wasn't he not supposed to kill people? Whatever, maybe he can skate by with severe maiming. He secretly hopes that it's the vicomte who's been stupid enough to trespass in his kingdom. God, he would really, really like to hurt him.

As he rows across the lake, Erik imagines various forms of torture for Christine's young paramour. He's waffling somewhere between vivisection and saying ‘Fuck it’ and blowing them all to pieces, both of which bring him a large amount of comfort. Unfortunately for Erik, neither is meant to be, for as he approaches the far side of the lake he can make out the form of Nadir waving at him. He lets out a groan.

“Fuck, what do you want?”

“Allah above, you look like shit.” The Daroga replies. “Don't tell me you’re dying again.”

Erik rolls his eyes and docks the boat.

“Why are you here?”

The Persian shrugs. “I was in the neighborhood. Wanted to see how the opera was coming. Also I regret to inform you that the mirror is broken.”

Erik looks at him blankly. “Which one?”

“What do you mean, which one? There's more than one?”

“My kingdom requires constant vigilance.” He shrugs. “Was it the one in the Foyer du Danse? Those little rats are always running into it.”

Nadir gives him a confused and vaguely disgusted look before clearing his throat. “No. It's the one in Mademoiselle Daae’s dressing room. You know, the one that you showed me for emergencies.”

“It's broken?”

“Smashed to pieces. As if someone were trying to get in. Don't worry though, the tunnel is secure. It looks just like a wall behind all the glass.”

Erik ponders that for a moment. The only ones who know about the mirror are he, the Daroga, and Christine. Nadir can't have broken it if he's bothering to report it, and besides he knows how to open the lock. But Christine…

Before the Persian can say another word, Erik stalks away from him, in the direction of the tunnels that lead to the soprano’s dressing room.

Nadir breathes a curse and Erik can hear him follow after, his slightly shorter legs working double time. 

“Wait up, will you?”

He ignores the Daroga’s plea and walks faster. If Christine broke the mirror then she's either A. Told the vicomte about him, and he's a wanted man (nothing new there). Or B. She's trying to get in herself. 

“When did you notice it was broken?” He barks back at the Persian.

Nadir shrugs. “Just today. But it can't have been done recently. Looks like the room’s been abandoned for at least a month.”

That makes Erik stop short. “What?”

“Can't have been done in the last month.” The Persian repeats. “There’s dust on the glass.”

“Are you implying that the mirror was broken and I somehow missed it?”

“I mean…didn't you?”

Erik pinches the bridge of his mask’s nose. 

“It's funny you say that, because that would mean that Christine, love of my life, came looking for me and I missed it.”

“Well it wouldn't be the first time you fucked up.” Nadir replies dryly.

“God fucking damn it!” Erik hisses before striking the wall of the tunnel with his fist.

“I am going to maim, no, murder that fucking Vicomte!”

“I believe Mademoiselle Daae was deeply against you murdering people.”

“Doesn't matter.” Erik spits. “I'm going to murder him, and then you're going to help me hide the body and then everything will be fine.”

Nadir gives him an incredulous look. “Allah above, when was the last time you slept?”

“I don't know, maybe a week? Time gets… weird when I'm writing. Look, there's a shovel near the Rue Scribe entrance. I want you to go get it.”

“Oh boy.” Nadir sighs. “How about this: we go back to my place and come up with a better plan. I'll even let you antagonize Darius a bit. You love threatening him.”

Erik looks at him with weary eyes.

“Fine. But only because I don't have a tarp handy. And we'll need one. For the body.”

“Sure, sure.” The Daroga says. “For the body, yes.”

—

Two days later, Erik wakes up unexpectedly in Nadir's guest room. He celebrates this fact by throwing the nearest lamp into the far wall.

There's pounding on the door as Erik watches the kerosene drip pleasantly onto the floor.

“Break any more shit and I'll shoot you myself, trap door lover!”

“Fuck you, Darius!” He calls back. Shit, how long was he asleep for? Last thing he remembers was some fever dream about Christine's broken mirror. He barely remembers coming back here.

Scowling, Erik gets out of bed and searches the room for his jacket and shoes. Both are fortunately within arms reach, and he dons them quickly. Stepping over the glass on the floor from the lamp, he exits the room to find Nadir.

The Persian is found comfortably situated In the parlor, drinking tea and reading the paper. Darius seems to have had the good sense to fuck off to God knows where, which is great because Erik is not in the mood to deal with him right now.

“Morning.” Nadir calls cheerfully. “Tea?”

Erik pours himself a cup before sinking into the couch.

“How did I get here?”

“You don't remember? I convinced you to come home so we could plan out your extravagant murder/suicide with the Vicomte.”

“Sounds about right.” Erik mutters. “How long have I been out for?”

“Two days. And before you ask; that leaves you approximately two-ish weeks to finish your opera in time for the masque.”

Erik groans and leans his head back against the sofa. “Fuck.”

“I take it that progress is slow?”

“Progress is going just fine thanks.” Erik hisses. “I love creating thirty years of work in a month, do it all the time, thanks for asking.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yes of course it's that bad! I am fucked , Nadir.”

The Persian takes a thoughtful sip of tea.

“Well, what is it you're stuck on?”

“Oh no.” Erik sighs. “I am not debating musical theory with you.”

“I wouldn't dream of it. But tell me, did you follow my advice?”

Erik takes a sip of tea and promptly spits it back out.

“Oh God, how much sugar did you put in this?”

“You can thank Darius for that. He was overjoyed to be awoken this morning by the sound of his family’s heirloom lamp being shattered.”

Erik shrugs. “I'm sure his ancestors are delighted that that abomination is no more. Really, you ought to give me a medal.”

“You're avoiding the question.”

“What do you want me to say? Help, Nadir, I can't write an opera for the woman of my dreams without sounding like an absolute monster?”

“Ah.” Nadir places his teacup back in its saucer and puts it down on the arm of his chair. “That would put a damper on things now wouldn't it?”

“No fucking shit.” Erik hisses. “Look, did my cape accompany me here the other night or was it just me?”

“Hat and cape.” The Daroga replies. “But you can't be leaving already, it's not even noon!”

“If I stay here, I'll end up either gnawing my leg off or getting drunk on your couch. Neither of which I'm particularly enthused about.”

“And they said hospitality was wasted on you.” Nadir sighs, waving a hand towards the door. “By all means, come and go as you please. It's not like we have lives of our own or anything.”

“I can believe that for you, but don't you dare tell me that Darius doesn't live for dusting.”

The Daroga cracks a smile. “Perish the thought.”

—

Erik makes it back to the opera in record time despite the early hour, and slides in just past the Rue Scribe gate undetected. He's about to head back down into the depths towards his house when he remembers Christine's mirror. If it truly is broken, he ought to inspect the damage now and arrange for a replacement to be installed. If she ever does come back, the least he can do is make sure there's no glass on the floor to slice her pretty little feet to ribbons.

Erik sighs and takes the left tunnel at the fork, following it until it leads him up and around in the direction of the dressing rooms. Christine's is easy enough to find, but he's surprised to note that when he arrives, the emergency wall panel has been deployed. This contraption ensures that anyone who breaks the glass of the mirror meets a fake wall, as opposed to finding the tunnel that's actually hiding behind it.

Hm. Most curious. He's never had need of this fail safe before, which is why it's not armed with an alarm. Erik vows silently to rectify the situation at once.

With some effort, he pushes the emergency panel open, just enough so that he can slip into Christine's dressing room. The room is dark, and the air has the lingering aroma of staleness that often penetrates rooms which are not frequented for long periods of time. Glass crushes under his shoes as he moves about the space aimlessly, hovering like a wraith over Christine's various belongings. 

Aside from the mirror, nothing else is amiss. None of her other possessions seem to have even been touched, which means that Christine came here with the sole intention to break the glass. But why? He turns back towards the mirror. The grand frame looks terribly sad without its innards. He traces a finger against the gilded wood, and is annoyed when it comes away streaked with dust.

Erik is about to move back through the emergency panel, mind buzzing with an already long list of tasks, when he stops short. He hadn't noticed before, distracted by all the glass, but there's strange markings on the fake wall. He pauses and looks more closely. The wallpaper is torn in parts, a myriad of long vertical lines etched into the underlying plaster.

The marks are oddly familiar, and Erik places his hand on top of them. They match the spacing between his fingers perfectly.

Nails. Someone has scratched this wall with their nails. Whoever did it has small hands, and they must have been incredibly desperate, because the marks criss-cross themselves in a wild, almost frustrated fashion. 

Christine. Christine has small hands. Christine not only broke the glass but tore at the wall trying to get back to him. To him! To her Erik!

Initially he thinks that perhaps it’s because she's in danger, but nothing in the room is amiss. Christine would have known to leave him a sign if something was truly wrong. That leaves only one logical answer. That Christine, entirely of her own volition, tried to open this door. Tried so hard that she scratched the panel like an animal. 

A ferocious Love. One forged in the stars.

Could it be that she misses him? That she too feels the strength of their unbreakable bond? He imagines her, wild and desperate, scratching at the wallpaper and his heart pounds hard in his chest.

Oh my God, Nadir was right. He really might actually still have a chance with her.

Music is exploding in his mind. Erik can see it now, the block he had before. He had been so afraid to reveal to her the monstrous parts of him, but what if that's what Christine craves? What if she too is a little bit of a monster?

Fuck. He'll have to make some major revisions in the light of this revelation. What Don Juan needs now is more heat, more desire, more assurance that he loves her with a ferocity beyond comprehension. Christine is his counterpart, his mate, his wife. He'll be damned if by the end of the opera that's not crystal clear to every member of the audience.

Humming, Erik passes through the panel and shuts it behind him. He has to get to work.

—

Two weeks later finds Erik standing in his bedroom, staring at his reflection. He despises mirrors, but unfortunately for him, one is absolutely necessary for this endeavor.

Scowling, the opera ghost tilts the full length glass so that it comes up just below his unmasked face. There. That's better. He shifts his weight awkwardly and takes another look.

Finding a disguise for the masque had been, like every other task in his miserable life, a fucking nightmare. He'd only remembered that he needed a costume to wear a week and a half out, and since his attendance is solely for the benefit of Christine it demanded to be something most impressive.

Fortunately for him, the costume archives boasts a wide variety of forgotten articles of clothing, and that, combined with a week's worth of sewing (sans sleep, but of course) has crafted something truly spectacular. As he gazes at his reflection, he can't help but feel a slight swell of pride in his chest. He's really outdone himself this time.

Every inch of his person is draped in bright blood red. From the hat atop his head with its sinister ostrich plumes, to the long cape that trails behind him. He'd embroidered the cloth with a quote from Poe because he's obviously a masochist: Do not touch! For I am Red Death stalking! The rest of his elaborate garments are impeccably cut and tailored to his tall form, making for a wholly impressive sight. And that's not even the most impressive part.

Grimacing, Erik tilts the mirror back up. The most magnificent part of this costume is that it doesn't need a mask at all. His face is so necrotic and rotten that it makes for a spectacular death’s head. The fact that he hasn't slept in a solid week only really adds to make him look even more like shit. Begrudgingly, Erik has to admit, it’s a compellingly horrific picture.

He takes advantage of the glass to adjust his costume and ensure that it fits in all the right places. He must look absolutely perfect for Christine. In retrospect, this is probably going to be the biggest night of his life. He can see it now. After making a spectacular entrance, and ensuring that all eyes are on him, he's going to present his completed Don Juan Triumphant to the managers and demand that they not only perform it as part of the season, but that Christine is cast as the lead. After that, he'll side step that obnoxious Vicomte and ask Christine for a dance. Inevitably they'll get to talking, and he'll apologize for whatever it is she's mad about and pour his guts out to her. Surely that must be enough to get him back into her good graces, right?

Oh my God, if he plays his cards right, maybe he can even ask her for a kiss. Not on the lips, he's not an animal, but maybe her hand? Holy shit, now that would make all of his suffering truly worth It. Perhaps after he asks her to marry him. Again. Second time's the charm, right? Or was It the third? Whatever. What matters is that this evening is going to be magnificent and perfect, and by the end of it Christine will surely come to her senses, break off her engagement with that insufferable boy, and bind herself to him instead.

Erik lets out a dreamy sigh at that thought and turns from the glass. As he reaches out for his completed manuscript on the organ, he can't help but notice that his hands are shaking. 

“Get yourself together.” He hisses, gathering up the pages. “You cannot fuck this up.”

Don Juan in hand, Erik pauses for only a moment to collect himself before striding out of the room, every inch the image of death.

—

The masque is loud and garish, and instinctively it makes Erik flinch. There's more people surrounding him now following his grand entrance than there has been in the last ten years, and that is a decidedly unpleasant thought.

Fortunately for him, years of stagecraft have helped forge an exterior that appears both aloof and threatening when cornered, and that keeps anyone from getting too close. 

“Mesdames and Messieurs,” He purrs in a dramatic fashion at the top of the stairs, “have you missed me?”

Down to his left he can see the managers huddled together. Andre looks white, and Firman doesn't seem to be faring much better. Good, serves those two assholes right.

“Oh don't be so shocked.” Erik clicks his tongue and starts descending the steps, “It'll take more than a new chandelier to get rid of a ghost.” 

He turns his head and scans the crowd. He can see the Vicomte surrounded by a throng of ballerinas down near the end of the stairs, but he's mysteriously without his betrothed. Curious.

“I've come to bring you a gift.” Erik hisses, making sure to level the boy with a stare of pure venom. “A peace offering, if you will.”

“A peace offering?” Firman asks nervously.

“Oh yes.” He preens, “So long as you perform it, I shall be a most benevolent spirit.”

At that, he tosses the massive tome of Don Juan at Andre, who catches it with his entire body. 

“It's an opera?” the manager asks, dumbfounded, as he flips through the pages.

“Indeed. Don Juan Triumphant! I think you'll find it a most appealing vehicle for our Swedish songbird.”

“Christine Daae is no longer in our employ.” Firman hisses.

“Oh dear.” Erik purrs. “How disappointing. A disappointed ghost is terribly bad for business, you know. Bad enough that you might have to replace that garish new chandelier. Or perhaps the roof. Would prefer I bring that down during a packed performance instead?”

There are gasps all around him, and he grins wickedly.

“Not another chandelier…” Andre moans to his counterpart. Firman is clenching his jaw so tight under his mask that Erik is almost certain that he's burst a blood vessel.

“We will…ensure…that your instructions are followed.” Firman grits out.

“To the letter.” Erik adds helpfully.

“Yes. To the letter.”

“Excellent.” The opera ghost replies. “Then, as your most benevolent friend, let me insist that you resume your merrymaking. I would hate for it to be spoiled on my account.”

The managers look at each other quizzically, and seem terribly shocked when Erik descends the last few steps separating them.

“Cross me again, and you're both dead. Understood?” He hisses just within earshot. Andre swallows, and Firman nods nervously.

“Good man.” Erik says, patting the latter on the shoulder. “But I think we should have music should we not?”

The phantom claps his hands commandingly, and the string quartet, who up until this point has been silent, takes the hint and springs back to life. Erik can sense the guests around him start to visibly relax at the sound of their playing, and he takes the opportunity to descend the rest of the steps into the crowd. The sea of bodies part as he walks through them, and Erik makes his way to the dance floor, looking for Christine. 

His initial search is unsuccessful, which is odd. He dares a glance back in the Vicomte’s direction, but the boy currently has his tongue down the throat of one of the members of the ballet corps. Fucking cur! He'll die for that!

Erik's about to take an angry step in the boy's direction, when unexpectedly, he collides with something small and soft.

“Ah fuck.” His assailant hisses. “Sorry.”

He looks up with blazing eyes, expecting a random drunken reveler, but instead he's surprised to see none other than Christine. God, She looks breathtakingly beautiful, her cheeks bright and rosy, her eyes hazy and unfocused.

Christine blinks blankly back at him and shakes her head, moving to walk around his person. Instinctively, Erik catches her by the arm.

“Christine."

She looks annoyed and jerks her arm a few times in his grasp.

“Yeah, if you could let go of me, that'd be great.” She slurs.

A few things come suddenly into sharp focus for Erik. He looks at her and sees the wobbliness to her step, the way she looks at him with absolutely no recognition. Her beautiful voice is far too loose and easy, and suddenly it all makes perfect sense.

“You're drunk?” He hisses. What in the devil has made her like this? He knows Christine enjoys spirits as much as anyone in the opera house, but he's never seen her drink to the point of blacking out. Dear Lord, has someone drugged her?

“Bingo.” She huffs, tugging her arm again. “And I have a hot date with my bed, if you’d be so kind?” 

He holds her fast. “Listen, Christine, I think it's best that I take you home.”

She sighs. “Look, my guy, I'd really prefer if this was a solo adventure.”

“You can barely stand.” He whispers back. “You've had way too much.”

She gives him a haughty look. “I swear to God, if you don’t let go of me, I’ll scream. My fiancée will kick the shit out of you. He’s a sailor. Totally took down a polar bear one time.”

Erik looks at her incredulously, and then because he doesn't know what else to do, he laughs. Christine smiles at that, and his laughter triggers her own, small hiccuping giggles that make his chest feel strangely tight. 

Lord, even drunk she's going to be the death of him.

Christine peers up at him with blurry eyes. “Where’d you get that mask?” She slurs. “Gotta get one for my friend.”

Erik frowns. What friend? Who the fuck does she know that wants to look like this?

“He's such an asshole.” She murmurs. “Stupid sexy asshole. Loves masks though." Christine smiles to herself for a moment, before looking up in panic. “Don't tell anyone!” She hisses.

Loves masks? Wait. Wait. Oh no no no. She can't be talking about him, can she? Erik's brain fully freezes.

Stupid sexy asshole . 

That has got to be ballet rat slang for something else because there is absolutely no way she can want anything of that sort with him. No fucking way. God, she's probably just confused and drunk, and he really really needs to get her somewhere safe before she pukes on him.

Christine interrupts his thoughts by choosing that moment to fall completely sideways. Erik moves rapidly, grabbing her by the waist to steady her.

“Christine.” He hisses. “You must stand up.”

She rolls her eyes. “Standing is for losers.”

“Then permit me to carry you?”

“Whatever floats your boat, my guy.”

Erik is quick to pick her up like a little bride. She weighs barely anything in his arms, and even more shockingly she snuggles into the velvet at his chest like a tiny kitten. Clearly she has no idea who’s holding her.

“You're like a carpet.” She sighs. “A big dumb red carpet.”

Oh Lord . He has to get out of here and fast before anyone gets the wrong idea. Moving swiftly, he exits the foyer with Christine in his arms, heading towards the side staircase that will take him to the level with the dressing rooms. The newly repaired mirror in her room is the fastest route down below from here, and probably the only door he can fit comfortably through with both his hat and incapacitated beloved in his arms.

But first, an indulgence for him. 

“Tell me more about your friend,” he whispers. “The one who loves masks.” 

Her earlier statement pricks annoyingly in his mind. He has to figure out what it means.

“Uh, he’s a fucking dick?” She slurs. “He threw a chandelier at me.” Christine snuggles deeper into his arms. “I’m not supposed to talk about him.”

Ah. That.

In all honesty, Erik doesn't remember much from the night of Il Muto. And his memory gets incredibly sketchy after the incident on the roof. All he remembers is red, blinding red rage. He wasn't even sure that he had been the one to bring down the chandelier until he woke up with rope burns on his hands the next day. 

Instead of admitting this however, he says instead: “Oh? And why is that?”

“Because he makes me cry. And drink. And, hey, you don’t sing do you?”

Erik raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to?”

“God no!” she gasps. “I’m never going to sing again! That’s okay though, that means you can stay with me tonight.”

He almost trips over himself. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that sounds an awful lot like a proposition. Christine grabs wildly at his arm for support.

“Hey, hey! Precious cargo.”

“Indeed.” He hums. “The most precious.”

She huffs. “Some carpet you are. Hey, can I tell you a secret?”

“If you wish it.”

“I miss my friend.” She sighs. “The one who loves masks. I miss him so much that I think it’s killing me. Raoul and Meg don’t know, but that’s only because I am a fantastic actress.”

Killing her? Erik frowns. She's the one who left him. Why on earth would it be killing her? He doesn't understand.

He’s about to ask her what that means when she kicks her foot up suddenly into the wall.

“Ow! Fuck!” She yelps.

“Can you please stay still?” He hisses.

“Fine.” She pouts, before rubbing her head against his chest again. He's never been touched like this before, and it's a peculiar sensation, but not at all unpleasant.

“Carpet,” She mutters, “do you think it's possible to die of a broken heart?”

Her question takes him by surprise. 

“Yes.” He rasps. Lord knows that's what he's been busy doing during their entire separation.

“I knew it. I fucking knew it.” Christine says, and she sounds close to tears. He tightens his hold on her in an attempt to be comforting. He's not sure if it's working, but then Christine sighs and lets her head slide forward to rest against his heart.

“I wish I had a heartbeat.” She mutters. “I miss the sound of my own beating heart.”

Erik frowns. “I can feel your heartbeat.”

She snorts in a very unladylike fashion. “You must be drunk! My heart is dead and gone. Down and buried under the lake with my maestro!” She laughs. “How positively morbid! Hey, do you think if I became a ghost, he would love me again?”

“I don't think he ever stopped.” He breathes, entirely in shock over her words.

She smiles against his chest. “That’s nice of you to say. You’re nice. I’m sorry I called you a big dumb carpet.”

He barely registers what she's saying. Fuck, She did miss him . That is an entirely unexpected turn of events. Erik's never been missed before and so he hardly knows what to do. He thinks of her nails raking down the plaster behind the mirror and it makes his heart beat faster. 

“Are we almost there?” Christine slurs. “I'm so tired, I think I drank too much.”

“Almost petite.” He says reflexively. They're just a few steps from her dressing room, and Erik is quick to adjust her weight in his arms so that he can push the door open.

The new mirror glints in the half light of Christine's room. Erik enters, careful not to jostle Christine, and kicks the door shut behind him. She groans and shifts in his arms.

“Almost there.” He says again, but Christine doesn't respond. A quick look down in her direction reveals the petite soprano to be utterly passed out. God, what the Hell was she drinking?

Triggering the mirror is slightly more complicated with one hand, but he manages it. A lantern is out of the question with Christine in his arms, and so Erik relies solely on his cat's eyes to navigate the tunnels below. Soon enough he's rowing her unconscious form across the lake, and then he's opening the door to his home.

“We're here, love.” He whispers. Christine says nothing in reply.

With a sigh, Erik takes her to her bedroom. He doesn't bother turning on the lights since she's already passed out, choosing instead to make a beeline for the bed. With infinite gentleness he places her on the mattress, ensuring that she's comfortably situated.

“Oh.” Christine slurs weakly. “Is this your bed?”

Erik's glad of the dark because he's certain his face has gone crimson. 

“It's your bed.” He manages to choke out.

“That's nice.” She sighs, rolling over to face Him. “You're nice.”

“So you've said.”

“Come here, I can't see you.” Her hands are grabbing for his lapels, and he gently catches them midair.

“I'm right here, dove.”

She rolls her eyes. “In the bed, I'm pretty sure you have to be in the bed anyways for this to work.”

Jesus Christ. Erik forces himself to not read any further into that for his own sanity.

“That would be entirely improper.”

“That's the whole idea!” She laughs, “Ha! Get it? Cause I want you to ravish me!”

God God God God God. Christine Daae, his one true love, has just invited him to her bed. He swallows a scream of frustration at his current predicament, cursing the fact that hard liquor even exists. Jesus Christ, he could probably get away with at least holding her for the night  which he has half a mind to do. But the annoying Nadir part of his mind is screaming that that would be a very dishonorable action, and Erik reluctantly agrees.

God, how he wants her though. He can feel his cock twitch in his trousers and Erik forces himself to think of literally anything else to preserve his sanity.

“Spoilsport. You may be nice but you’re a total square.” Christine cackles suddenly like a hyena and that returns his focus to the present.

She points wildly into the darkness. “Square! Square! Square like a carpet!” She’s laughing so hard now that tears are coming out of her eyes. “Oh, my God, are you getting this? Like seriously, this is peak humor.” 

Christine curls onto her side, her body shaking with laughter. “Oh man, it’s so true though!” 

Dear Lord, she's lost it. Erik gives a pained sigh. He might as well make himself useful and help get her more comfortable. “Give me your foot.”

“Oh my God,” she squeaks, “is this a sex thing?”

“No.” He grits out. “This is a ‘take off your shoes before you kick me in the face thing.’ Just… please don’t move.”

“Lame.” She sighs, sticking out her foot.

Erik catches her dainty appendage in his spindly hands, plucking at the laces of her boots with his fingers. She wiggles her foot as he works, and he's about to chastise her when he realizes its because she's humming.

“I thought you were never going to sing again.” He murmurs.

She stops abruptly. “I'm not singing.”

“You were humming.”

“Whatever.” She huffs. “I came up with a new song, you want to hear it?”

“Sure.” He replies without thinking.

The sound that emerges from her throat almost makes him jump. She's horribly flat, her pitch thrown entirely off by the alcohol.

“Ass-hole red carpet man! Ass-hole red carpet man! Really nice. Total squareeee. Likes my foot! Doot Doot Doot.”

“That's beautiful.” He says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I'm touched, truly.”

She scoffs. “You should be, do you even know who I am?”

“Considering that I’ve called you by your name several times now, I would say yes.”

Christine gasps. “Oh my God, you have? Do we know each other?”

He can't help but laugh at her confusion. It's strangely endearing.

“Yes, we know each other.”

“Oh thank God.”

Erik manages to get her left boot off and tosses it to the floor. Christine wiggles her stockinged foot appreciatively, and so he begins on the right.

Christine clears her throat. “And here I thought I would have to sleep with some guy I didn’t even know! This is great!”

Erik nearly slams his head into the bedpost in frustration.

“We are absolutely not sleeping together.” He grits out, ignoring how every inch of his body wants the exact opposite of that.

“What?” She pouts. “You don’t want to? I made up a song about you. That’s like flirting 101! We might as well get married at this point.”

“That would be exceedingly difficult seeing as you have a fiancée.” He growls, removing the shoe from her right foot.

Christine laughs in his face. “Oh no, no, no. You mean Raoul? No. Oh God no. I would never sleep with him! We’re only engaged so I can stay at his house and like drink all of his scotch. Speaking of, do you have any?”

“The last thing you need is more scotch. Go to sleep, Christine.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, my guy! God, this would be so much easier if you would just get in the bed.”

She sits up abruptly, trying to reach for him, but she's terribly off balance and teeters dangerously towards the edge of the mattress. Erik drops her right shoe and quickly eases her back into the bed.

“Go to sleep, Christine.”

“You have really large hands for a carpet.” She giggles. “Is it true what they say about carpets with big hands?” 

He looks down at her confused. “I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a square. God, everyone knows what they say about carpet hands. Even I know, and I’m Christine Daae!” She laughs. “Wait, fuck. How does it go, again?” 

“No idea. Go to sleep.”

“Something, something, hands having to do with height? No, that doesn’t make any sense.” 

She purses her lips in thought. “Or was it length? Yeah, I think it’s something about length. God, I wish I was good at math.”

“Please stop talking.” Erik whispers urgently, unsure of what else to do to get her to stop.

“No, no, wait. I’ve almost got it!”

“Go to sleep, Christine.”

“Look, if x is your hands, and y is…whatever. Actually, Fuck y, we don’t need y. Then that’s how we figure out the length. Am I right?”

“Close enough.” He sighs. Christine squeaks in glee. 

“Ah, I knew it! Erik taught me that one! He’s brilliant!”

Erik frowns. This doesn't sound anything like the algebra he's taught to her. “I never taught you that.”

“Well of course you didn’t.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re a carpet. Carpets don’t need math.”

“Go to sleep, Christine.”

She wiggles on the mattress uncomfortably.

“Can you at least help me with my dress? I can’t sleep in this.”

If Erik already did not believe in God, he would certainly look to this moment now as proof that the deity hates him. How in the fuck is he ever supposed to maintain his composure while undressing her?

“Hello? Are you still there?” Christine asks.

He doesn't even know what to say. Maybe he can flee the room and pretend that this never happened. Yes, that sounds like a good idea. He's just starting to back up when Christine interrupts him.

“Look, stop being weird and help me with these buttons, will you? I’d do it myself, but my fingers are all tingly.” She waves her hand in front of her face.  “Wait, can you even see anything? Because I can’t see shit.”

“I can see.” Erik chokes out.

“Well, that makes one of us. Come here.”

Erik is determined to go anywhere but there, when Christine rolls out of the bed with the gratefulness of a slug and tumbles towards the floor. He moves without thinking, stepping forward to catch her.

“Aw fuck.” Christine breathes.

“This is such a bad idea.” Erik says, trying to remind himself. “You are not going to be happy in the morning.”

“Hell yeah, I’ll be unhappy! Cause you keep refusing my advances!”

Jesus Christ . Erik takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking.

“Will you stop? Look, just hold onto the bedpost So you don't fall.” 

He carefully guides her left hand to the post while keeping his other one securely on her waist. “I'll help you so long as you keep still.”

“Doot Doot Doot.” She hums, horrifically off key, “You’re a super square. Doot Doot Doot.”

Erik's fingers feel like lead. Slowly, ever so slowly, he begins to flick open the line of buttons down her back. Christine's wiggling as she sings, and being able to see the sway of her hips is not helping things.

“Stop moving.” He growls.

She lets out a scoff and obeys for all of two seconds before she's stumbling to the left again. Erik speeds up his work, revealing the pale line of her chemise as the bodice falls away. Fuck, this is such a bad idea.

“Can you go any faster, my guy?” Christine huffs, tossing the open bodice to the floor.

He moves to the laces of her skirt. “I’m going as fast as I can. Your swaying is not helping things.”

Yes. It's totally the swaying. Totally that and not the fact that he has fantasized about this moment for months on end.

“It’s the floor’s fault, okay?” she slurs, blissfully unaware. “It’s rolling like a goddamn ship. Are we on a ship?”

“No.” He grits out, dropping her outermost skirts to the floor. She's down to her petticoats now.

“Lame. I like the sea. I think I’d be a sailor if I were a man. Meg would too, but that’s totally because she just wants to get with dudes." Christine snickers to herself. “Can you imagine? She’s incorrigible!”

“Sure.” He mutters, shamelessly admiring her form as the last of her skirts fall away. Fuck. Stop being a monster and help the poor girl!

He shakes his head trying to focus, but it's almost impossible. His mouth is suddenly very dry as he tugs at the laces of her corset.

“Ugh, yes, finally!” Christine exhales in relief. “Would you believe me if I said my maestro hates this thing?”

“I do hate it. It doesn’t let you breathe properly.” He replies absently.

“Wasn’t talking about you, carpet.” She releases one hand off the bedpost to fiddle with the front of the garment, and suddenly the corset gives way, falling open in his hands. He drops it to the floor as if scalded.

Christine turns her head to look back at him.

“So, what do you think?”

Erik lets out a shuddering breath. Dear God, why did she have to be drunk?

Christine seems frustrated by his lack of an answer, and she wiggles her hips teasingly. That has the unfortunate side effect of sending her grossly off balance, and Erik steps forward quickly to help steady her.

“You need to sleep.” He breathes. God, she never lets him this close to her. He could kiss the back of her neck if he wanted, and Lord does he want to.

“Sorry.” Erik mutters, releasing her suddenly. He needs to get out of this room.

Christine whirls around abruptly, which takes him completely by surprise.

“Look asshole, I am not leaving this house…boat…thing… a virgin. So could you please do me a solid here?”

She jabs a finger into his chest and he flinches.

 “I’m willing to overlook that you’re a carpet, okay? Your sick mask even looks kind of like my maestro if I squint, and that is doing some crazy shit to me.”

“What?” He chokes out.

“It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, I am really into it.” She punctuates that statement by falling forward, and Erik catches her in his arms.

“Kiss me, you insufferable carpet.”

Fuck it. He's going to Hell anyways. 

“If I kiss you, will you promise to go to sleep?”

“Ugh what is with you?” Christine groans, her bleary eyes darting over his face. “Fine. But You better take advantage of me in the morning.”

“If you still feel the same way then, I assure you that I will.” Erik purrs. God he'll do anything she wants him to do.

“Stop talking, time for smooching.” She whispers, and looks up at him expectedly.

Erik stares back at her. He’s not exactly sure how to kiss, but he'll be damned if he doesn't at least try. He's about to tilt his head down to her own, when Christine, impatient, yanks him roughly by the lapels and crushes his face against hers.

At first he's caught by complete surprise and he freezes. All he can hear is a ringing in his ears as if something nearby has exploded. Fuck, did the gunpowder go off? 

The ringing slowly subsides, and Erik realizes that Christine is moving her mouth eagerly against his. It strikes him as odd, but he does his best to mirror her movements, and to his surprise it feels really, really good.

She pulls back abruptly with a huff, her lips an appealing shade of red. God, he wants to lean in and kiss her again.

“Ha! How was that?”

“You taste like a liquor cabinet.” He lies.

“I taste like delicious scotch. You are so welcome.” She runs her small hands down his chest and abdomen, and now that makes his cock rear to life. He quickly stills her hands.

“Come to bed with me.” She whispers.

“Absolutely not.” He groans, his willpower rapidly fading. “Time to sleep, dove.”

Christine makes no motion to move, and so he picks her up quickly, placing her back on the mattress.

“Hm, I like it when you call me that.” She sighs.  “You promise to ravish me in the morning?”

“God, yes.” He chokes out.

She lets out a happy sigh and snuggles into the blankets. Erik pulls the duvet over her, tucking her in. Lord help him, but he wishes he were that fucking blanket.

“I'm going to get you some water,” He murmurs. “Don't move.”

“K.” She slurs.

He stalks out of the room to the kitchen. Quickly he grabs a glass and fills it to the brim with water. By the time he makes it back, Christine is already snoring softly. He shakes her gently by the shoulder.

“You need to drink this.” 

She makes a face. “Do I have to sit up?”

“Yes.”

“Ugh.” She scowls. Erik gently helps her to sit up, holding the water to her lips. She drinks the entire glass eagerly.

“Thanks my guy.” Christine purrs drunkenly, sliding bonelessly back down into the bed once finished. “You’ve been a real champ.”

He laughs. “Goodnight, my Christine. Go to sleep.”

She mutters something incomprehensible under her breath and snuggles deeper into the covers. Erik lets out a sigh of relief.

Thank God. He wasn't sure how much more of her advances he could take. Slinking out of the room, Erik shuts the door securely behind him. The more barriers between the two of them the better.

He crosses the hallway to his room and locks the door. Sighing, Erik divests himself of his hat and cape, tossing them on a nearby chair. 

Come to bed with me.

He shivers, visions of Christine in just her chemise dancing in his mind. Slowly he undoes his doublet and breeches, trading them for his Chinese robe. Once sufficiently unattired, He sinks into his coffin, wishing desperately that it was her bed instead.

—

He dreams of her, because of course he does. When he wakes, he's hard as steel, the ghost of Christine teasing him with her dark eyes and flushed skin.

You promise to ravish me in the morning?

Groaning, Erik unfastens his drawers and takes himself in hand. He thinks about how beautiful she had looked last night, the thin material of her chemise doing absolutely nothing to hide the curves of her slim figure. Lord, if only he were a weaker man, he would have torn the fabric in two and given her everything she had begged for.

Please God, let her still want me , he prays, stroking himself faster. Let her want me and I swear I'll be a lamb forever.

His mind wanders their kiss. He's certain that he was terrible at it, but how it set his blood aflame! Erik could have sworn he heard the softest moan fall from her lips as he kissed her, and the memory of that sound alone is enough to make him tighten his grip. He wants to make a symphony of such soft lovely sounds, to conduct the orchestra of her flesh. He may not be a handsome man, but he is a well read one – passages of filth fill his mind that he desperately hopes to use to bring her to pleasure. Christ, what would that even look like? 

Think of how She wanted you! You! How she begged for you to take her!

The mental image of a sober and coherent Christine uttering such words is enough to get him dangerously close. He imagines her hair splayed out on her pillow, her nude form moving desperately beneath him. Fuck, She must have perfect breasts. He'd caught a glimpse of them through the thin fabric of her chemise, and that was more than enough to confirm his suspicions. He wants to kiss her again. On the mouth, down her neck, all the way to her beautiful chest. Once there, he'd nip and suck her lovely breasts until she was calling his name over and over again…

He comes with a growl, his seed staining the lining of the coffin. He remains there for a long moment, panting, until he remembers that Christine is probably going to be brutally hungover this morning. The thought of his dove in any pain sends him into a fresh panic, and Erik quickly exits the coffin to clean and dress himself.

He’s just replaced his mask, smoothing his hair in place when he hears several banging sounds from Christine's side of the hall. It's as if someone were repeatedly slapping the wall. That's odd.

Frowning, Erik moves to the door.

“Christine?” He calls, “Are you alright?”

No answer. But he swears he can hear the flush of the toilet. She must be in a bad way then. Quickly, Erik stalks to the kitchen where he fetches a glass of water. Returning to her door, he knocks gently. 

“Christine, are you okay?”

There's a loud unintelligible groan in reply, which does not bode well. Softly he opens the door.

He can barely make Christine out amongst all the covers, the blankets thrown wildly above her head. Poor dove, she must be truly unwell.

“I know you're awake.” He says. “You should drink some water.”

Another groan. Slowly, Christine's face peers out from underneath the blankets. Her hair is a wild mess, and to Erik, she's never looked more beautiful.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, dove.”

Feels more like death.” She rasps. He laughs softly.

“I’m not surprised with the amount you drank. What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.” She grumbles. “That was the whole point.”

Erik frowns. “I see we’ve picked up new habits in my absence.”

“Don’t.” She grits out. “Seriously, not right now. I feel like I’ve been hit by a train, I’m not in the mood.”

Her harsh tone kills any of his naive hopes that she might remember anything from the night before. It's strangely painful, and with a sigh, Erik retreats back under his usual facade of cool indifference. 

Christine struggles to sit up, and he wants to help her, but he's terrified of touching her once more. She manages fine on her own though, and slowly he offers her the glass of water, making sure that their fingers don't touch. Christine swallows down the water mirthlessly, placing the empty glass back down on the nightstand. 

“How did I get here?” She murmurs.

You stumbled into me at the masque and begged me to make love to you. I would have done it too, if only you'd asked one more time.

Instead, Erik shakes his head and says: “You stumbled into me at the masque. You didn’t recognize me, which was…ironic to say the least. I took you down here so that I could make sure you didn’t asphyxiate on your own vomit.”

His words sound harsh even to him, and he flinches.

“How charming.” Christine grumbles.

“I assure you, it was not.”

She sighs and sinks back down into the covers. “Look, do you have some laudanum or something? I feel like my head is splitting.”

Erik nods. “Give me a moment.” He exits the room swiftly, returning quickly with the small vial and another glass of water. He places both on the nightstand

“Do you require anything else?”

She shakes her head and twists off the cap of the laudanum vial before dropping a few drops of the foul liquid on her tongue. Christine makes a face as she grabs the water and gulps it down.

“Nope. I’m golden.” She flops back down on the bed. “You can leave.”

Her abrupt dismissal wounds him to the core.

You're a fool to think she wanted anything to do with you. His mind hisses. She loves that boy, remember?

Erik clenches his hand into fists. He needs to get out of this room and smash something. The mirror in his chamber seems like a good start, and so he gives Christine a small bow and stalks towards the door, intent on destruction.

“Actually…you might get a chair.” Christine calls after him. Erik pauses in the doorway.

“A chair?”

“So that you can sit.”

“You want me to sit…with you?” He turns slowly to look at her, blinking. Is she still drunk? Christine answers with a nod.

Erik stands there awkwardly for a moment, weighing the ethical implications of his presence if she is in fact still intoxicated. She seems plenty sober though, and that's enough to give him pause.

“Very well then.” He murmurs, slowly moving back into the room. He stays close to the far wall by the door and sinks into the chair there, just in case he misunderstood her.

 “Do you want me to read to you?” He asks.

“No thank you. Move closer please.”

“Closer?”

“Yes. Closer.”

There’s really nowhere else to move, and so Erik stands again. He picks up the chair and hesitantly moves it to her bedside. “Here?”

She nods again. Gracefully he puts it down and takes a seat. “Give me your hands” She whispers

He holds his hands out to her obediently. She takes them in her own, and his breath stops. Slowly, Christine guides his fingers to her forehead, pressing his digits into her skin and letting out a sigh.

“Don't move,” She breathes. “This is perfect.”

“You just wanted me for my hands?” He asks, finally catching on.

“Mhmm. Don’t ruin the moment.”

“Insolent girl.” He grumbles, but there's no malice in it. He's happy for any opportunity to touch her, and if she needs cold hands on her head, then he's eager to be of service.

They sit together for a long moment, Erik enjoying the proximity.

“I'm still mad at you.” Christine says in a small voice.

“I know.” He replies. “You called me an asshole several times last night.”

She smirks. “That sounds about right. Did I say anything else illuminating?”

“No.” He lies. “Aside from some basic algebra, I’d have to say you’re a pretty happy drunk.”

“I did algebra? Seriously?”

“Not very well, but yes. I’m rather proud that you remembered any of my teachings at all in your state.”

“What on earth was I trying to calculate?” she asks, seemingly mystified. 

He shrugs. “I haven’t the foggiest clue. Something about hands. Did I mention that you thought I was a talking red carpet?”

That makes Christine laugh, and it's the most pleasant sound he's heard in a long time. She smiles at him, and his skin feels suddenly very hot. Frowning, he takes one of his hands away from her forehead and flexes his fingers, willing them to turn to ice once more.

“Sorry petite,” he murmurs. “Even I warm up eventually.”

“S’okay.” She lets out a sigh. “Was good while it lasted.”

“How’s the head?”

“Hurts, but not as bad. I think I’m more mortified of what I might have done last night than anything else.”

He laughs. “I assure you, you were a perfect lady…aside from the fact that you swear like a sailor.” At least that's not entirely untrue.

Christine smiles at him again, and he commits the sight to memory. God, how he's missed her.

“What were you even doing at the masque anyways? I thought you had disappeared forever.”

You broke my heart so I've been dying like a gutter rat.

“I've been… busy.” He says awkwardly.

Christine crinkles her nose, annoyed. “Busy? You vanished for six months and you’re telling me you were busy?”

Erik looks at her stunned. Is she trying to be cruel?

“Ah,” he says, slightly more bitterly than he intends. “Perhaps I should backtrack a bit. It might help explain things. You remember the night of Il Muto?”

“How could I forget? You threw a chandelier at me.”

He winces. “Yes. That night. And you went up to the roof.”

“Because you had just killed a man.” She replies defiantly.

Wait, what? “I didn’t—wait, you think I killed him?”

“What? Am I supposed to believe that he conveniently slipped and fell during the ballet? No one is that unlucky. Besides, you were laughing your head off like a maniac. I could hear you all the way in my dressing room.”

Ah. That. 

To be fair, he had only partially killed him. Earlier that day Joseph Buquet had fallen into the torture chamber, and it wasn't till hours later that Erik even noticed. The whole ordeal was profoundly irritating, and he had meant to use the body as a message to say: Stop fucking with my shit. To be fair though, he was already a little on edge that night with the presence of the vicomte. Maybe he took things slightly too far.

“Alright, yes, I did string him up, but he was dead when I found him.” Erik admits. “At the time, it seemed like a hilarious stroke of luck, but in hindsight I could see how that was perhaps… a lapse in judgment.”

Christine narrows her eyes. “You don’t say. How did he die?”

“What?”

“You said you found him. If you didn’t kill him, then how did he die?”

“He fell into one of the traps.”

“That’s not much better.” She sighs. “You do realize that’s not better right?”

Erik gives a weak shrug. “Traps are necessary for my survival. This particular one I took great pains to hide. He could not have found it unless he were specifically tracking my movements. But that’s not the point. The point is the roof.”

“Yes, yes,” Christine replies nonchalantly, “Tell me about the roof.”

“I had come to look for you in your dressing room.” He explains. “To tell you about the body. I knew you would probably be…displeased. But by the time I got to the mirror you were already leaving with that insufferable boy.”

Christine seems unfazed. “Raoul was trying to keep me safe during an emergency situation. No one knew what was going on.”

Fucking Raoul . Erik can feel his blood boil at the mention of the boy's name.

“Fine.” He grits out. “Fine, I can accept that. What I cannot accept is why in God’s name you thought it was a good idea to get engaged to that fop!”

Christine laughs flippantly. “Are you joking? Please tell me you're joking. That's what this is all about?”

“You promised me!” He snarls. “You promised me to forsake everything for music! No distractions! Marrying a vicomte is a fairly large distraction, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh my God.” Christine rubs at her eyes. “You’re such an idiot! I didn’t accept Raoul because I loved him, I accepted because I needed a place to stay!”

“And why on earth would you need that?”

“To get away from you!” She shrieks. “You were acting insane, literally unhinged! As far as I knew you had just killed a man, which, let me remind you, you had explicitly told me time and time again that you would not do. I was going to find you after the performance to tell you, but then…well!” She throws up her hands. “We all know how that turned out!”

Erik is seething. He rises abruptly from the chair to pace the room, his mind furiously going over Christine's words.

I didn’t accept Raoul because I loved him.

That can't be true. Because if that's true, then that means…

“So, you’re telling me, your engagement to the Vicomte is a farce?”

“Obviously! But what does that have to do with anything?”

Because!” He growls, “Because I just wasted the last six months of my life without you!”

Christine seems taken aback by that. “Oh. What?”

Not how he had planned to have this conversation go, but to Hell with it.

He turns to face her again. “I love you! Christine, surely you must know.”

“You threw a chandelier at me!”

“I was jealous! You consume me . The thought of being without you was unbearable. I admit…It was perhaps not my finest moment.”

“I’ll say.” She hisses. “So, what, if you couldn’t have me then no one else could? Were you trying to kill me?”

He can feel himself pale. “No, never! Christine, I have made many rash and foolish choices throughout my long life. The chandelier is probably the worst of it, but believe me, I never intended to hurt you!”

“Well, you did!” She scoffs. “God, I honestly can’t tell what’s worse, the chandelier or being abandoned immediately after it. I’ve been a mess these last few months. Did you even care?

He blinks. What?

Slowly he moves back to the chair and sinks into it.  “Of course, I care. Your Erik is sorry down to his bones Christine. I should have…I didn’t know.”

She lets out a huff of breath. “I know you didn’t. But you should have checked. I came looking for you, you know. I broke the mirror trying to get in.”

“Ah, so that was you.”

“I cried for weeks after that. Couldn’t get out of bed. I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”

Impossible .

“Christine.” His voice wavers. “Christine, I could never stop loving you. You are the very beat of my heart. I would sooner forget myself.”

She gives him a shy smile at that, and his heart thuds in his chest. Slowly, she holds out her hand. Erik stares at it blankly for a long moment like an idiot until he realizes she means for him to take it. Gently he entwines his fingers with her own.

“You never did tell me why you were at the masque.” She murmurs. 

I was going to propose to you.

“I had some haunting to do.” He says instead, “And, well, I had hoped that I would see you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Haunting?”

“Nothing that you wouldn’t approve of!” He’s quick to assure her. “I finished it, you see.”

“Finished what?”

“My opera.” He breathes. “My Don Juan Triumphant .”

Christine looks at him surprised. “That still doesn’t necessitate a visit above though.”

“Oh but it does! You’re to perform it.”

She seems taken aback. “Wait, what?”

He nods excitedly. “A little light blackmail and the managers were pleased to add it to the repertoire for the season. I expect they’ll announce it any day now.”

“You mean, I finally get to hear this mystery opera of yours?”

“Not just hear it, sing it! I can’t even begin to tell you how I’ve longed to hear your voice as the leading role. It will be very demanding of course, and I expect that you will resume training with me to ensure that it is perfect.” He pauses, recalling his current standing with her. “I mean…that is…if you wish it.”

She sighs. “I don’t know, Erik. I hadn’t even been back to the opera before last night. Frankly I’m not sure if I’m even still employed.”

“You are. It was one of the conditions of performing my work. I won’t have anyone sing Aminta but you.”

“Aminta, huh? Are you sure you weren’t thinking of casting a certain Spanish songstress instead?” She teases.

He frowns. “That’s not funny. I would sooner burn down the opera than have Carlotta sing it. Please Christine, you’re the only one who can bring my vision to life.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think about! I mean...yes…of course. Take your time.”

Christine blesses him with another smile and squeezes his hand.

“Well, aren’t you going to show me the music? I must admit, I’m dying of curiosity as to how it sounds.”

“You’re not too hungover?” He asks. “It’s ah…very experimental.”

“I’m not quite ready to sing if that’s what you’re asking. But I would so love to hear you play some of it for me.”

He nods. “Of course. Shall I await you in the music room?”

“Please. I’ll be there in a moment.”

He waits a beat longer than is necessary before releasing her hand and standing. Once the door is securely shut behind him, he leans against it. He can hear Christine get out of the bed and shuffle about the room. 

Okay. Okay. So far so good . Christine is in his house and in relatively good spirits. He cannot fuck this next part up.

Slowly Erik retreats into the music room and sits at the piano there. He decides to start with something more neutral rather than jumping right into Don Juan, and his fingers instinctively begin playing a piece by Mozart.

Some time later he can hear Christine's door open, followed by the soft padding of her footsteps. He's admittedly more than a little engrossed by the music at this point, so he barely thinks anything of it when Christine asks:

“Is this from your opera?”

“No, it’s–” 

The word ‘Mozart’ gets jammed in his throat, because he chances a glance at her and is entirely unprepared for the sight.

Christine is hardly dressed, her body wrapped in a sheer pink peignoir that he had admittedly bought in a fit of madness and stuffed into the back of her closet. This is something that he had dreamed of her wearing on their wedding night, not a piece for casual wear. The matching sash is bound snugly around her waist, and with only her chemise beneath it, it leaves scandalously little to the imagination. Dear God in Heaven.

Somewhere in his gawking he must have stopped playing, because silence fills the room until Erik's words catch up to him and he finally chokes out:

“Mozart.”

“Hm.” She smiles. “I do love Mozart. But you did promise me Don Juan.” She leans back on the chaise, lying on it, and puts her feet up. The peignoir shifts so that he can absolutely see her bare calf. 

“Yes. Of course.” He can hear how strained his own voice is. Lord above, what is she playing at?

“Then play, Maestro.” She purrs. 

Okay, yup. Fuck Mozart. If Christine wants to hear Don Juan, then by God he’ll give it to her. His fingers find the keys once more, but he pauses a moment before starting. 

Which act should he play?

The sensible and respectable option is to play the melody from act one where the Don sees Aminta for the first time. It's passionate without being too ribald, and more than enough to get the point across. 

He chances another look at Christine. Fuck that .

Instead he plays the duet from act three, the one where Don Juan makes sweet sweet love to Aminta. It is wildly scandalous and inappropriate, but hey, so is sitting on your tutor’s sofa in your under things. Christine is silent as he plays the opening measures, and he can feel the weight of her eyes on him. Swallowing, he begins to sing at the first cue.

Okay, so maybe this was a bad idea. He can hear her let out a soft gasp after the first stanza, and a quick glance in her direction reveals that she's gone entirely pink. Her blush spreads all the way down her chest, and Erik jerks his head back to the piano. Fuck, she looks entirely too good. He can feel his cock twitch in his trousers and it takes every last shred of his willpower not to let his mind wander in that direction.

He's managing shockingly well until Christine, that little vixen, stands abruptly from the sofa. He doesn't even realize that she’s moved until her fingers find his shoulder. Erik tenses instinctively.

“What has you so tense, Maestro?” she asks in a teasing voice.

He chokes at her proximity and his voice tapers off. By some miracle his fingers keep playing, controlled by a mind of their own.

“Nothing, dear one.” He says, hoping that it sounds passably normal.

She makes an amused hum. “Is that so? You feel like marble under my fingers.” Her treacherous hands slide down his shoulders to his chest, before looping her arms casually about his neck. Erik can feel his entire body shudder.

“How so unlike you.” She whispers.

Relax. Do not throw her onto the couch. You will not be a monster to this girl.

Erik forces his body to relax, and he thinks he's in the clear, until Christine shifts, pressing her breasts into his back.

Jesus fucking Christ. Is she trying to kill him? His breath hitches and he misplays two keys. She lets out a soft laugh. 

“Am I distracting you?” She purrs. 

“No, not at all.” he manages to choke out.

“I could, you know, if you wanted me to.”

Oh my God . “Christine…” His voice comes out as a pathetic whine.

“You should ask me to.” She whispers, “I’m sure I could come up with something.” She punctuates the point with the briefest brush of her lips to the skin under his ear.

“Christine…”

“Hm? No takers?”

She pulls away briefly, and Erik goes into panic mode. Fuck it. If she wants this beast she can have him.

“Christine…please.”

“Please what?”

“Distract…me.” 

He feels something press briefly against his masked cheek, but before he can react, Christine commands:

“Stop playing.”

Ever obedient to his goddess, Erik removes his hands from the keys to rest them on his knees. He clenches his fingers into the fabric of his trousers as Christine traces her hands with a feather light touch over his chest and shoulders before separating from him entirely.

“Go sit on the chaise.” She orders.

He swallows and stands, walking stiffly to the sofa and sinking into it. Christine follows some distance behind, until she's standing in front of his seated form. They look at each other for a long moment, and Erik’s about to open his mouth to say something to break the silence, when Christine quickly slides into his lap.

Oh. My. God. 

Erik is infinitely glad that he's already come once this morning, because dear God , The warmth of her pressing on his cock would have otherwise been more than enough to disgrace him. He lets out a shaky breath, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“Did I mention there are rules?” she purrs.

“Rules?” He asks, the blood quickly draining from his brain. Christine nods her pretty little head.

She runs her hands down his arms till they meet his own. Very gently she places his hands just to the side of her thighs, squarely on the fabric of the chaise. 

“Keep those there. If you move, I’ll stop.”

Ok. Yes. She is trying to kill him. This is a thousand percent the point where he dies. 

“Christine…I —” He chokes out, but she silences him with a finger to his lips. “You don’t want me to stop, do you?”

“No.” He breathes. “God, no.”

“Good.” Achingly slowly she leans in and kisses him.

Their second kiss is much like the first, in that Erik has no clue what he's doing. He does remember from the previous night that he's supposed to move his mouth though, and so he does, capturing her small breaths and moans with his lips. When Christine swipes her tongue against his mouth, he opens it without thinking. He's shocked when she pushes it inside, and dear God, that is just a whole other category of sensation, the feeling of their tongues dancing together. He groans, his hands gripping the fabric of the chaise until he's certain that his knuckles have gone white.

Christine breaks the kiss, and looks down at him. Fuck, she's so beautiful, her eyes dark and her skin flushed. She flashes him an impish grin, and before he can utter a sound, She rocks her hips boldly against his.

Any hope he had of remaining a gentleman is quickly dashed by the action, and his cock rears to life, entirely unable to resist the direct stimulation. He lets out a gasp, and she swallows it with another kiss. Christine plunders his mouth, rocking against him shamelessly, and he's about to say Fuck it and tear her clothes from her, when she pulls back.

Erik lets out a pathetic whine at the loss of contact. “Christine…please.”

“Please what?”

“Please…let me touch you.”

She taps her fingers against her lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps if you convince me, I might let you.”

“What must I do?” he gasps.

She slides from his lap to sit beside him. “Kneel.”

He scrambles off of the chaise, coming to kneel before her obediently. God, he'll do anything she asks so long as he can touch her properly. 

“Very good.” She purrs. “Now, apologize for the chandelier and I’ll think about letting you touch me.”

His brain is swimming in a haze of lust, so it takes a moment before he comprehends what she's asked of him.

“Ah, so that’s what this is all about.” He says, hoping that he sounds somewhat composed. Christine only rolls her eyes in response.

Erik's never had the pleasure of making love before, but he's fairly certain that Christine will not appreciate being man handled to the floor and fucked within an inch of her life. She requires something with far more finesse. 

Something like…Oh. Yes. That could work.

“Permit me to touch your clothes?” He asks slyly.

She hesitates for a moment before nodding. 

“You may.”

Fuck yes . He gets on his hands and knees before her, leaning down to kiss the hem of the peignoir.

“Christine, dove, allow me to express my deepest apologies.” 

His hands creep up to her ankles, and, making sure that there is a layer of gauzy silk between him and her skin, he slowly pushes them apart. He can smell the heat of her, and it makes his already hard cock ache.

Erik moves forward hesitantly, coming to kneel in between her legs. Dear Lord, this is a moment from his dreams. His long fingers move to the tie of her robe.

 “I apologize for scaring you.” He purrs, pulling the knot loose. “I should never have abandoned you.” The peignoir falls open, revealing her chemise. “I was an idiot.”

“You were.” She murmurs absently.

“I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, love.” Gathering his courage, he drags his hands up her legs to fiddle with the hem of her chemise. Fuck, how he’s imagined this. With infinite slowness, he pushes the garment up to her thighs.

“Starting now.” He breathes.

“Oh?” Christine gasps. “What did you have in mind?”

He bunches the fabric of her chemise around her waist, revealing her drawers. “Permit me to kiss you?”

She hesitates for a moment before nodding, and it's all the permission he needs. Very gently does he place a kiss to her inner thigh, his lips tracing her sweet flesh.

“Your Erik is sorry.” He whispers between kisses. “So incredibly sorry.”

She moans, and he takes that to be a good sign. Boldly, he moves his left hand up, finding the slit in her drawers and tracing her folds.

No book could have ever prepared him for the sensation of Christine under his fingers and he gasps, absolutely entranced by how hot and wet her flesh is. She seems similarly taken, her hips rocking minutely against his hand.

“I worship you, Christine.” He moans. “Let me show you, my love.”

Christine makes an absolutely sinful sound in the back of her throat and moves her hips faster against him. 

“That’s my girl,” he purrs, captivated. “Let your Erik take care of you.”

She moans, and suddenly, his fingers are not enough. He wants to taste her, to smell her, to bury his face into her sweet cunt. He pulls down her drawers urgently, before leaning back on his heels to remove his mask.

“Erik what–” He doesnt let her finish that thought, his mouth surging forward to caress her with his tongue.

Christine screams, actually screams, and for a brief moment, he thinks that he's harmed her in some way. His eyes flick up, worried, and the sight that greets him is one out of his deepest fantasies. Christine's eyes are screwed shut, her mouth a perfect “o”. She gasps his name, and Lord, that goes straight to his cock.

“I'm sorry.” He breathes against her folds. “Forgive me.” Christine responds by burying her fingers in his hair and pulling him forward urgently into her awaiting heat. He lets out a growl, his hands flying to her hips, pushing his face closer to her. She smells divine, and he wants to lap up every ounce of her arousal, already addicted to the taste of her.

He pushes his tongue inside of her, and her pleasure filled gasp is more than enough of a reward. She's crying his name over and over again, and he desperately wants to free himself and claim her properly. 

“Let me touch you.” He growls. “Christine, let me touch you.”

She nods, dazed. Fuck, She's probably a virgin , he realizes. Based on his readings, he'll have to prepare her first before she takes him.

He returns to lapping at her folds, but this time, instead of using his tongue inside of her, he uses his fingers.

Christine lets out a surprised gasp at the intrusion, her hips wiggling uncomfortably. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” He moans, moving his fingers in and out of her. “Breathe, my love.”

Christine obeys wordlessly, letting a breath in and out. In and out. He matches the pace of his fingers to the cadence of her breath. Slowly, her walls start to loosen, and he can tell she's beginning to relax.

That's it, love." He purrs. "You like that don't you?" 

She gasps and nods. 

"God, I could get lost in your cunt.” He moans. The sound of her is too much, her slickness coating his fingers, and he moves his head back down to lick at her, his mouth and hands moving in tandem.

“Oh my God! Erik! Yes!” She calls, her own hands clutching wildly at his hair. “Oh my God!”

She's close, he knows it deep down in his bones, their unbreakable bond whispering to him everything he needs to know to bring her to greater pleasure. Erik doubles down, moving his hands faster, his tongue finding the bundle of nerves at the top of her channel that has her crying out in sweet agony.

Christine snaps forward suddenly with a shriek, and he can feel her walls fluttering around his fingers. Success . He removes his hands from her, not wanting to over-stimulate, but he refuses to move his mouth, savoring the taste of her arousal.

She's sweeter than any nectar, and Erik is enjoying himself far too much when ChristIne lets out a small whimper, her hips twitching away from him. He sits back abruptly, his face damp with her essence, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Do you believe me now?” he pants.

“What?” She says, dazed.

“Do you believe that I'm sorry? For the chandelier?”

Christine blinks at him confused before nodding slowly.

“Good.” He breathes. He's harder than he's ever been in his entire life and it's making thinking challenging. Instinctively he palms his cock, which has the unfortunate effect of making his whole body shudder.

"Do you need help with that, Maestro?”

He shakes his head rapidly. It's one thing to touch Christine, an entirely other for her to touch him. He’s determined to not let her sully herself.

Such thoughts, while noble, are very short lived, because Christine chooses that moment to slide off of the sofa before him, her small hands reaching out to brush against his arousal. He can't help the groan it pulls out of him.

“Take off your jacket.” She commands.

He's about to ask why that of all things matters, when Christine surges forward, capturing his mouth in a deep kiss. Fuck it. If she wants his jacket off, she'll have it, and he shrugs out of the dark garment quickly, tossing it behind him.

Her fingers find the buttons of his waistcoat, undoing them deftly, and it's not until she's pushed it off his shoulders and let down his braces that his idiot mind comprehends what is happening.

Christine is undressing him! Christine Daae, his one true love, is trying to make love to him! Him!

He's far too aroused to follow through with any of his grand plans for this encounter, and so he pulls her roughly back into his lap, his mouth meeting hers in a searing kiss.

By God, If she wants him, she can have him. He tears the peignoir from her shoulders, and she responds in kind, working on the buttons of his shirt. Erik finds he has no patience at all for that sort of thing, and instead, he pulls roughly at the hem of her chemise, lifting it over her head.

She freezes suddenly, and that gives Erik pause. He thinks for a moment that he's hurt her, but she doesn't seem injured. Her eyes are avoiding him, and a bright blush covers her cheeks, running all the way down to her exposed breasts. God, she has never looked more beautiful.

“Goddess." He whispers, his voice full of reverence. "Christine…you are sublime." His fingers trail hesitantly over her neck, her breasts, taking in every detail. Her skin is warm and softer than any silk, and he longs to bury his face into her chest.

Christine has other ideas though, because she pushes him back roughly until his back hits the floor. Her mouth barely leaves his own, her tongue caressing him in a fiery kiss.

Fuck. Maybe she did want to be taken on the floor after all.

Christine’s little hands are pulling urgently at the fastenings of his trousers, and he helps her, rolling the garment down his hips.

“Are you sure you want this?” He manages to ask breathlessly. He can't believe this is happening.

Christine ignores the question entirely, taking him in her hand and rubbing him against her folds.

Jesus Fuck, that's almost enough to end him. If he wants to last he has to take control of the situation.

“Ah, you're so wet, my love." He groans, "You must be aching for your Erik… come here, dove.”

He seizes her by the hips and pulls her down onto his awaiting length. She gasps as he enters her, and he can feel the muscles of her core tense.

“Breathe, dove.” He commands. The last thing he wants is to hurt her, although it's taking a colossal amount of willpower on his part not to thrust up into her. Christine's breath starts to even out, and she rocks her hips, taking in more of him.

“Oh!” She gasps.

“That’s it dove,” Erik purrs, “Fuck…you feel so good… such a sweet, tight little cunt… Let me in, love.”

She nods and obeys, rocking her hips more, pushing him deeper inside of her. When he's in to the hilt, she lets out a moan and Erik’s entire body shudders at the sound. 

She shifts awkwardly, and he realizes that she's not quite certain what to do. Taking charge of the situation, he moves her hips slowly up and down his shaft. That earns him a pleased wail, and she leans her head back baring her perfect expanse of throat.

"Ah…Christine." He moans. "You love your Erik's cock inside of you, don't you?”

 She whimpers and nods eagerly. "I love it– ah! I love it!”

As delightful as it is having her ride him, he needs more. Curling an arm about her waist, he flips them so that she's the one on the floor. Christine screams at the new angle.

“Oh my God! Erik!”

“Christine!” He growls, “Fuck, you take me so well.” He leans down to press a kiss to her lips. “Can you feel how badly I want you?” He punctuates the point with a particularly deep thrust, and she groans. 

“Did you know that you begged me last night…begged me to fuck you?” He moans. “Do you have any idea…any idea… what that knowledge does to a man? I’ve been hard all fucking morning.

She gives him an impish smile and kisses him. Minx . He reaches down to stroke her swollen clit in retaliation, and that has her arching her back off the floor.

“That's it, my love," He rasps, "That's it. Fuck, you're such a good girl for your Erik.”

He can tell she's close, by the way the muscles of her core squeeze around his cock. Fuck , he has to last just a little bit longer.

“Ah, you’re close aren’t you, dove?”

“Erik! I can’t—ah! Please!”

“Come for me, dove.” He commands. “Come for your Erik!”

She groans and lets herself go, obeying his command. To feel her pleasure so intimately is intoxicating. He lets out a low groan.

“Fuck, you drive me mad! So goddamn beautiful…”

He chases his own release, thrusting into her hard and erratically. Dear Lord, this is everything he's ever wanted. He's teetering on the edge of climax when Christine pulls him down into a blazing kiss.

“Erik…” She pants once they part for air, “Erik…I love you.”

It's the most erotic thing anyone's ever said to him, and he lets himself go entirely, spilling deep inside of her. Panting, he collapses into her arms.

They lie on the floor for a long moment, a tangle of limbs, before Erik has some sort of coherence of mind again. Gently he kisses her, his fingers coming up to tangle in her hair.

“Did you mean that?” He whispers. He won't disparage her if she doesn't, he knows that people tend to be susceptible to illusions when on the precipice of pleasure. But still, he has to know.

She nods “I was going to tell you sooner, but then the whole thing with the chandelier…”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Never.” She brushes a kiss against his lips. “I’m honestly surprised I didn’t tell you last night. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for months.”

For months . Christine has loved him for months. He can hardly believe it.

“You were otherwise, ah, preoccupied.”

She blushes hard. “So, you mentioned... Did I really try to seduce you?”

He nods. “Yes. You have no idea how maddening it was, having to undress you and then leaving the room. I was dangerously close to not being a gentleman."

She groans and buries her face in her hands. He laughs and pulls them away gently. 

“Don’t be ashamed, dove. After all, it did work out in your favor.”

She looks up at him, her cheeks an alluring shade of pink. “I suppose. But half the fun of seducing you is remembering it.”

“Don’t worry,” he purrs. “You had me entirely in your thrall earlier. I really ought to fuck up more often just so you can make me beg for your forgiveness. I enjoyed it thoroughly."

“Hm, is that so?”

“Immensely.”

They kiss, long and slow, enjoying the feel of the other. When she breaks for air, Erik rests his forehead against hers. 

“There is one last thing, dove.”

“What?”

Gently he takes her left hand, kissing each one of her knuckles. “This isn’t an heirloom is it?”

She shakes her head rapidly, and Erik gleefully removes the Vicomte’s engagement ring from her finger before tossing it into the fireplace.

“I can’t stand to have another man stake a claim on you, even if it is a farce. You belong entirely to me.”

“Such a shame,” she purrs. “That ring was so expensive, and I must admit I’ve gotten used to having something on my finger...” She waves her bare hand at him teasingly.

Well. That won't do, now will it? He growls and pulls the gold band from his right hand.

“Will this suffice?”

She beams up at him. “I think it should.”

Very gently does he slide his ring onto her left hand. She lets out a contented sigh. 

“I think this suits me better, don’t you?”

“Much.” He kisses her. “So, you’ll end your exile at that insufferable boy’s house?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll sing Aminta in my opera?”

She laughs. “Of course. I’m dying to. I find it…rather moving.”

“And you’ll stop drinking so much scotch?”

Christine rolls her eyes. “Oh please, you’re the reason why I drink in the first place.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior, dove.” He vows. “Gentle as a lamb.”

“Good.” She purrs. “Although, not too gentle, I hope? I do enjoy it when you’re a bit aggressive.”

“Is that so?” He raises an eyebrow. 

She only responds by laughing and kissing him.