Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera characters do not belong to me. Thank goodness.

A/N: Written as a mental exercise, after a conversation on the subject of what Christine and Raoul's wedding night would be like. Not a very happy story. You have been warned. (Those of you reading "A Solo For The Living" may have some idea of what to expect. For the rest of you -- what are you doing reading this instead of "Solo"? Go read something with a bit of substance!)

Rating: M for adult themes and sexual situations.

THE EDGE OF SOMETHING

In all the months of preparation, in the weeks preceding the wedding, in the hours before the glorious white-veil ceremony, in the minutes before they finally became husband and wife in the eyes of the law – in all that time, Christine had not allowed herself to worry about this night.

It had seemed so obvious, and natural, and simple. After everything she and Raoul had been through, there was little she could not share with him, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to spend evenings talking in a café or sitting quietly together in Raoul's parlour, sharing a smile here, an embrace, a kiss. He never took it beyond that, and so she had never had to wonder, or fear.

She feared now.

She feared the bed. She feared the whole idea of shedding her clothing in front of this man who was her closest friend – and who loved her with all his heart. Most of all, she feared that she might not be able to love him as she should. Her husband.

They turned away from one another in the dark room, undressing. Christine felt instinctively that this was somehow not the right start, that they had missed a vital turning point somewhere and what they were about to do could not be done if they feared the sight of one another with no clothing between them. Yet, she slipped the linen nightgown over her head and slid quietly under the blankets, never looking in Raoul's direction. She chided herself for this cowardice, for the way everything shook inside her. What next? Would she lie there quivering like the idiotic heroine of a cheap novel, with the blankets pulled up to her chin, eyes screwed tight, waiting for something to happen?

"Christine?" he said, from the darkness beyond, and Christine heard her voice catch: "Here."

They lay in bed together, side-by-side, not touching. Christine felt the warmth of his body on one side of her, from her shoulder to her toes.

Raoul's hand reached for hers under the covers and squeezed her fingers, but she could not draw comfort from the touch, only worry.

"Are you frightened?" he asked in a whisper, and Christine had no choice but to say, "No, of course not... Perhaps a little. It will pass."

He tried to kiss her; she almost turned her head away and only changed her mind in the last moment, enough to return his kiss, slowly. She could do this. She could.

Raoul kissed her lips, gently; she felt his fingertips glide over the lines of her face – every touch saying, I am here. His fingers rested over the corner of her mouth, and she smiled for him a little, wanting him to know. He deepened the kiss, and she found herself allowing him to part her lips with his tongue, to trace the inside of her mouth. She was not prepared for the shock it would give her to feel his tongue against her own; once again she was in the cold lake with her mouth and her hands pressed against the body of another man...

"Raoul," she whispered, wanting to speak his name. He broke the kiss, and she knew that was why she had done it. "I love you..."

He took her face in his hands, but Christine pre-empted the kiss. Fear had made her bold; she ducked to plant a kiss on his neck instead, feeling the pulse of his blood racing, hearing his heart. It was strange to think she was the one to do this, to make him gasp the way he did, to press his hips against her in need.

She did not protest when he slid the gown over her body, and wriggled out of it herself. He was naked, she was naked; surely there was little difference now whether there was a scrap of linen to disguise them. Yet she trembled violently when he ran his hand along the length of her thigh, until her teeth chattered in her head and Raoul pulled back, worried.

She shook her head before he could ask the question. She was fine. Everything was fine.

He tried again, she trembled, he left her.

Humiliated, Christine felt tears singe her eyes. "It's all right," she said aloud. "It – probably happens like this." She was almost certain that was not true.

Raoul reached to touch her and she let him, closing her eyes. That was a mistake; once again the hands belonged to another. She shuddered when he cupped her breast, flicking his thumb over the tip, but this time it was not fear... The pleasure was a guilty, secret thing inside her. She had felt that caress before, only once and through layers of garments – but once had been enough. She felt her spine arch, catlike, and this time she did not mind at all when his fingertips grazed the inside of her thigh, trailing higher.

He would never know, Christine thought, eyes shut against the sensation, like the edge of a knife held very lightly to her skin, the promise of pain curiously welcome. He would never know if she imagined it – differently.

She bit back a cry when he touched her, the shock making her eyes fly open. Raoul moved over her, she sensed the pressure of his body atop hers and the touch that bade her open to him, tender but insistent now, and she could not deny it.

She tried not to panic, but she was afraid of that weight crushing her; she had never before realised how much bigger Raoul was, physically how much stronger. He would never overpower her, she knew, she knew – but she could not keep the fear at bay.

"No, no, no," she almost begged, pushing at him, wanting to breathe. "Please, Raoul, please..."

He stopped, confused and short of breath. "What's wrong?"

Christine held her hands to his chest, to where his heart was. His skin was like silk stretched over stone, she traced it out to where the two dark circles were. He bit his lip, and she felt a strange elation at that, at his reaction. On an impulse, she raised herself off the bed and kissed him there.

"Christine!" he gasped, and caught her back before they could both fall. Christine felt her head touch the pillow and in the next moment she felt her legs parted, felt herself opened and touched inside, so fast she could only scream – first in fear then in searing, blinding pain.

She choked on her breath, scrambling away from him quickly, drawing her knees up as though Raoul would turn suddenly into a monster. She opened her eyes; he was kneeling a long way back from her, in the centre of the rumpled bed, with the covers behind him. Between them there was a darker stain on the sheets, a few droplets of blood.

"I hurt you," he kept saying, "I'm sorry – Christine – I didn't know... I'm sorry..."

Christine felt foolish, somehow broken inside. She did not hurt anymore; the pain had been only brief and she could hardly believe now that it had been enough for such a panic.

"I – don't know what came over me," she muttered. "I'm sorry. Do you want to...?"

But they both knew it could not be like this, not now. Christine took Raoul's hand, and laid her head against his shoulder, sighing as he pulled the covers over the two of them, settling down. She closed her eyes, fitting herself to his warmth, breathing in the scent of his skin, his hair – so familiar, so comforting. He stroked her curls away from her face and kissed her temple, lightly.

"Raoul," she whispered, "It will not hurt tomorrow..."

"Shh," he replied, as though he believed it.

But of course it did.