It was uncanny to be carried by him now, through the tunnels of the Opera House. They had stumbled out of the carriage together flushed and giggling, running away holding hands after Erik tossed their cabbie a bag of coins. It was snowing lightly as they approached Rue Scribe door, and Christine shivered as she caught the damp flakes on her tongue. Watched them swirl in tiny cyclones from the heavens. The night seemed incandescent in the glow of the streetlamps, and she watched Erik's slender back as he unlocked the door.
If anyone had told her how her life was to turn out, an orphaned soprano protected by a tangible angel, she would have laughed. But now, she couldn't imagine a greater felicity than she now experienced. The streets were empty, the lamps glowing, illuminating the white of the snow. Paris was a miracle tonight.
"Erik, come here with me." He awkwardly complied, seeming strangely disoriented in the open air even after the intimacy of the enclosed carriage. They stood together.
"Look up." She said, "Now listen."
"I hear nothing."
"Paris is asleep. Right now, like this…" She took his arm. "The world is ours."
"You are a marvel. Where do you get such lovely notions? You are light incarnate."
"My mother. One night she woke me to see the snow. It's one of the only things I remember. It was so quiet, like the world was a pillow."
Erik brushed a snowflake from her cheek. "What a pleasure to share such a memory." He could almost see it, the idyllic cottage in the snow. Trees surrounding it like an embrace, and Christine standing on the stoop, with a graceful woman with Christine's smile gesturing to the wideness of the world.
"I feel closest to her when it snows. She would have loved you. She used to sing for me, sometimes. She and my father both would have sold their souls for the perfect melody."
He squeezed her hand. "Oh Christine, you are the only melody worth the loss of a soul."
That was when she should have said that she loved him, for any doubt in her heart was thrown from her with his words. But her mind would not let her speak. Of course, she knew that Erik loved her. She knew that deep in her soul, the way she knew the notes of the scale. The problem was; he had never spoken his love. She really was as careful as he; perhaps even more so. It was only that she had lost so much, and had only recently gotten her Erik back. Her Erik! She had always been possessive in love, a trait she saw mirrored in Erik; one of the things that had both frightened and allured her. They were the same. Two sides of the same soul.
Before she had time to decide one way or the other about speaking the three words that would shape their futures, he had swept her into his arms, and carried her into the dark. He cited the darkness in the tunnels as his impetuous for such behavior, but she had no objection to an activity that allowed her to hear his heart beat a little faster at their proximity.
They were silent in the tunnels. Erik was focused and careful. She remembered full well the amount of traps that he had set on the way to his home. He had tried to explain the way to her once, but she had given up understanding. Instead he had escorted her, walking beside her each way.
Oh, how he had kissed her! She smiled into his chest, thinking of the way that he had captured her lips, his hands in her hair. He had remained a gentleman, declining to let his hands slip either above or below her waist, unless it be to caress her hair. She felt that it was merely the knowledge of the cabbie coupled with respect for her that had kept him from crushing her to him. He was so careful, so tender. Polite, but the way he had begun to kiss her before they had been interrupted: that told a different story. She was no innocent, she had seen lovers in the dark; in moments of weakness she had learned the curves of her body. Thinking of the angel voice in the dark. He wanted her. And she wanted…
Erik and his beautiful hands caressing her. How forward she had been! She wondered if he knew how he affected her. What he would think of her inclination to mount him, legs astride. It seemed like something that Sorelli would do with one of her many patrons. She pushed her wanton thoughts aside. In the distance she could see the faint glow of the lake.
When they reached the lake he set her down gently, arms lingering longer than they should. She boarded the vessel, reclining at the prow amidst the many cushions. He maneuvered the boat so smoothly that the glassiness of the water was almost unbroken. He was so majestic, so very tall. So impeccably well-dressed and mysterious. She thought of all the novels she had read, full of scandal and possession. Imagined Erik, masked and imposing within the pages of a gothic romance. She would be waiting for him in his chambers, pale and dressed in the lightest of cloths. He'd seize her in his arms and—
"You look flushed, ma petite."
"What? Oh. I'm fine. Really, Erik." She blinked away the image of Erik ravishing her upon a chaise. No wonder that the joys of the flesh were regarded as sinful; a single taste of his lips, a few moments of his touch and she was effectively rendered incapable of rational thoughts!
"When we get home I'm getting you out of those wet clothes." Seemingly hearing the implications of his innocent statement, he flushed. Christine was powerless to resist the temptation to half-quip.
"I am quite willing." Erik nearly dropped the pole, but steadied himself.
"Christine, I would never intimate such a thing. Regardless of our relationship, that sort of intimacy with one of my formation can be seen as nothing more than abhorrent." He stated it in such a matter-of-fact manner that her heart broke a little. A man like Erik, a man who held such passions. Who felt so deeply that it spilled out in melodies that made her ache.
"Then we are at an impasse. Because I strongly disagree." Christine blinked, surprised by the vehemence of her opinions once again. But she had done a lot of growing up over the past few years. She certainly would not be denied Erik.
"To enjoy the company of a monster is different than bedding one." Erik said conversationally. "You have seen my face, and turned away. I would not force the horrors of my body upon you as well."
"That's not fair. I would gladly look upon your face again. Your mask rather gets in the way." She gestured to the swollen redness above her lip. His lips twitched, but the penitence in his voice was audible.
"Forgive me. I was overcome."
"You weren't the only one—gosh, if you knew some of the dreadful things I was thinking." There it was, the unfamiliar nerves, the need to chatter to fill the silence. But she was being indelicate, and they still had so much to discuss. And she loved him.
"I would very much like to hear sometimes." He whispered in his mellifluous voice, startling her. She could imagine his reaction, the way his skin would flush, the convulsive grip of his hands upon his knees.
The boat reached the opposite shore, and he tied it to the dock. Gathering the ounce of courage that remained within her, Christine blurted, "I must be frank, Erik. Women desire physical intimacy as well."
"There is a difference between intimacy and—"
"Denying the pleasure of a lover is not love at all." She took his offered hand, and stepped from the boat.
"Is that what we are? Lovers?" He regarded her with a calculated vagueness, but she felt his hand trembling.
She was unused to seeing him like this, but knowing that any hesitation on her part would be misinterpreted as doubt looked him squarely in the eyes. "It would be founded on genuine affection. Love. But I refuse to continue this relationship any further should you intend to…keep us apart." His eyes flashed. They were standing very close.
"Could you love such a creature?"
"I could love a man." Both his hands in her own, those long and beautiful hands. They were warmer than hers. Unusual. "You are a man, Erik. A wonderful—albeit temperamental—man." She searched her mind for more, but the final concession of her new-discovered love stayed jammed in her throat.
"Christine, you never cease to surprise me."
They had been milling by the shore, but now he tugged her towards the house, gently. Although the walk was not far, a hundred feet at most, he slipped out of his overcoat and laid it around her shoulders. His warmth encased her.
His house was bright. He had explained to her that first night its many innovations: electric light; running bath water; a water closet. Each room was different and spectacular, the whole house shouting Erik's genius and style. The strange mix of east and west, the flavor of the orient from those unspoken years in Persia. He would not tell her, but she suspected he had killed from the tension in his body, the sudden edge that took hold of his usually graceful physicality. But tonight was not the night to speak of such things.
He had left her to stoke the fires. She slipped out of her shoes. It would not do to track sand and mud all over his glorious carpets. She felt mildly wanton as she pattered down the hall to the living room her silk stockings peeping past her hem with every step. His overcoat was still wrapped around her shoulders when she leant against the doorway watching as her maestro poked at the embers, fanning them gently.
He was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Tailcoat carefully laid over the very chaise that had featured in her fantasies. He reached for some firewood. For the first time she saw his forearms, crisscrossed with scars. She knew what that meant. A girl in the corps had once been beaten by a patron, and when she sobbed out her story it had been her arms that had been sacrificed in the pursuit of protecting her face. A cry was torn from her lips. Erik tugged his sleeves down hurriedly.
"Forgive me, I did not mean to distress you." He said formally. "Should you wish to return, or retire I will not chastise you." He seemed confused when instead of running, she stepped closer.
"Christine, those scars are merely the beginning of the horror." Closer yet.
"I would never insist that you view them, or any others. I assure you I am not searching for pity."
She sank to her knees. "May I?"
He nodded his assent, appraising her. Christine pushed the sleeve up his arm, and trailed her fingertips over the healed wounds. Twisted and thick, some upraised burn marks like strawberries amidst a garden of silver scars. Poor Erik. But no. She pushed her empathy away, lest it bring tears, and focused on him. He twitched beneath her fingers, and she could not resist the addition of lips to her ministrations, dragging them down his scars until he shuddered. She didn't ask how he had gotten his scars. All that mattered was that he was beside her now, that he had survived.
She cupped his face in her hands, stroking the coolness of his mask and his skin with equal care. He covered her hands with his.
"I don't pity you. Let me prove it." He knew what she was asking of him.
"One last kiss." He begged.
"After." She promised. He abruptly gathered her up so that they were flush together. He hugged her fiercely, like a leaving soldier afraid to die with things unsaid. She clutched him with equal fervor, relishing the planes of his body. Breath shaking.
"You must know. Christine, you must know. I love you." He released her quickly, and with a shudder, he undid the ribbon that held his mask in place. He held it there, until she replaced his hand with her own. She looked directly into his eyes, waiting for the stillness to leave him. Waiting for a breath. At last he seemed to relax, and it was only then that she reached to remove his mask. He closed his eyes, pressing desperate kisses to her lips. Waiting for a scream, the clatter of his mask upon the floor. "Can I touch you?" She whispered. His face was exactly as she had recalled it. Marred and misshapen, but not a corpse. Erik was undeniably alive, and the ruin of half his face could not change the fact that she loved him.
"You need never ask. I am yours, Christine."
"Then please, look at me."
His opening eyes were the rising sun. She cupped his cheek, exploring the texture. Brushing her thumb over the curve of his lip. He moaned. That long body of his shaking with emotion.
"No one has ever touched my face with kindness."
"My Erik shall never be mistreated again." And she pressed a kiss to his marred cheek, marveling at the softness of the twisted flesh. She could feel his desire to join their mouths, and eagerly hung upon him with upturned lips. But he did not kiss her. Only regarded her curiously.
"You claim me?" He wrapped his arms around her. "You desire to keep this aberration? To let this body worship you?"
"I desire you. I desire that we are not parted, and I desire that you kiss me. I desire that we make music together, and I desire that you take me as your true wife; most of all I desire you to be my first and last sight every day." She responded, flushing. Erik growled deep in his chest "Tomorrow is the feast of St. Valentine. I would like to spend it with you."
"That is a day to spend with those you love."
"Yes," Christine leveled her gaze, "It is. I love you, Erik. Now please, kiss me."
He kissed her, and felt her smile on his lips. She claimed him unmasked, and Erik decided that the future held in this kiss was the greatest gift a man could receive. Christine had her angel in her arms, the fairytale she could have never predicted. As they kissed, Erik read the melodies to come in her quickening heart. A lifetime of music. A very happy valentine's indeed.
A/N: And that is that. Unless the reviewers desire another chapter with a little more love and a lot more Valentine's fun... Let me know, either way!