Waking Dream by ryanalicia

CHAPTER ONE

He could bear it no longer – standing behind that wretched mirror – yet to leave its protective boundary risked everything he had built with Christine. He was her Angel. How could he risk showing her that he was also a man? But for so long he'd waited for her to go from the girl he nurtured – and who nurtured him – into the woman who could perhaps love him despite his deformity, his sins.

He pressed the button at the top of the mirror's gilt frame and watched as a crystal clear vision of the sleeping Christine came into view. He adored her. Would she accept adoration from her Angel, her teacher?

Slowly, hesitantly, he approached her bedside, kneeling to get as close to her as possible. It wasn't close enough. He had to touch her. He had never touched another human being in the way he was about to touch his Christine. The prospect made his hand tremble as he lightly cupped her face in his large hand. She seemed so fragile. Could this woman-child summon the courage it would take to love him?

His heart lurched as Christine smiled beneath his touch. Could she know it was him? Her Angel?

Against his better judgment, he began to sing. It was a lullaby of sorts, but one that spoke of love as a barrier against all troubles.

When she stirred, he leaned down and whispered to her. "Don't open your eyes, Christine. Don't open your eyes or your Angel must disappear."

She was still for a long moment, but did not look at him. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand to put it atop his own. The willing touch enflamed both his love and his desire for her, and he took in a shuddering breath.

"How is it that you are here with me?" she asked. "And why can I not look at you?"

"I am many things, Christine. Please don't question me. In time, you will know me."

"I feel so safe with you, Angel."

He moved his hand against her face, sending his fingers into her silky hair – another new sensation to buffet his senses.

"Christine, would you let me give you a gift?"

She was silent longer than he would have liked. Finally, she spoke. "You already give me more than you know. I would ask nothing else from you, but neither would I refuse anything you wish to offer. You know I am your obedient student."

"Then obey me by not opening your eyes, and receive the gift I have come to give you."

He closed his own eyes, said a silent prayer to he knew not which god, and bent his head to feather his lips against hers.

To his surprise, she didn't flinch. He took the opportunity to kiss her properly. It was chaste, but it was a real kiss, and she didn't move away. Neither did he, and he gasped when her fingers left his to circle around his neck.

"Might I give you a gift in return?" she asked.

He hated himself for his moment of speechlessness. "I could never refuse any gift from you," he said, echoing her earlier words.

She pulled him closer to her and pressed her mouth against his. When she opened her lips, he didn't know what to do, so he just let love and instinct guide him – the instinct to be as close to her as possible, to experience as much of her as she would give him.

When the first wave of desire flooded him, it was such a shock that he pulled away. "I must leave you now, my sweet Christine. Your gift overwhelms me."

She nodded, and he noticed her skin was flushed – as flushed as he felt his own must be.

"Will you sing to me again?" she asked.

He closed his eyes, reveling in the chance to stay close to her. "Anything you wish."

He sat on the edge of her bed and resumed the lullaby. She turned on her side and took his hand between hers. He closed his eyes and sang until he knew she was asleep, and then he took his leave back through the mirror into the darkness.

With Meg's help, Christine struggled into the lovely dress that was her costume for the aria scene of Hannibal. Nerves were making her stomach flutter, and she thought she could feel her throat closing. Never more had she wished for the soothing presence of her tutor, but he had been curiously absent the last few days – ever since she'd auditioned for the opera house's new owners. His nightly visits had ceased, and she missed him terribly. She missed his teaching and his new presence by her bedside at night. She felt the blood rush to her face as she thought of the other things she missed – his touch, his kiss. She was a child no longer, and she could no longer deceive herself that her mysterious teacher was merely an angel. If he was an angel, he had taken form as a human man. She had felt the fine hair on the back of his hand, the quiver in his touch, the warmth of his lips on hers. She knew that his pulse raced when she opened to him and returned his kiss. She'd come to live for that moment, that knowledge that she could affect him so. It put her on more even footing with him. Even their tutoring sessions had taken on a different quality; he was less high-handed with her, even as he continued to push her to ever greater heights. It was as if now, when they lost themselves in the music, they were lost together.

That night on stage, she sang for him, and it was so bittersweet it almost moved her to tears. Something told her there was no future for her and her Angel. Whatever he was, he was a creature of night who refused to let her see his face. For the first time, it occurred to her that he might be some other kind of being – the kind used to scare children in fairy stories. Without much examination, she brushed the thought aside. Her Angel was beautiful and gentle.

When Raoul appeared at her door after the performance, she was stunned beyond belief. Her childhood friend had grown into a handsome young nobleman. She accepted his dinner invitation, swept along by the tide of his apparent enthusiasm at seeing her again. With a smile she watched him leave to fetch his carriage, finding it flattering that he kept turning back as if he just had to get another look at her.

But then her Angel called to her, and all thoughts of Raoul and his promised supper left her. She watched as the mirror slid silently open to reveal a man wearing a mask that hid half his face. He was tall and broad shouldered, and she recognized the hands she had held in the night. This was her Angel. And this was a man.

She took his proffered hand, never more unsure of anything, but he treated her only as a treasured student as they made their way ever downward, coming to a halt at the edge of a misty lake.

When they'd crossed the brief expanse of water and his home came into view, she began to understand. Her Angel and the opera ghost were one and the same. But then he began to sing to her, and all her doubts fled. She was in his arms, and she had never felt so wonderful, so complete. His voice brought her ecstasy, and his tentative touch promised even more.

"You will stay here tonight," he said when his song was at an end.

He took her hand and guided her to an ornate bed behind a sheer curtain.

"And will you stay with me?" she asked, surprising herself with her boldness, but she had missed him, his touch.

He spun his head to look at her and then shook it in the negative. "It would not be appropriate, Christine."

She nodded because she thought it was the reaction he expected of her. It was not what she wanted.

She took his hand as she stepped up onto the raised dais of the bed; he released his grip as she sank down. He rapidly turned away.

"Have I done something?" she asked, suddenly uncertain. "Have I displeased you?"

She saw his back stiffen. "You could never displease me, Christine." He turned slightly back toward her. "It's just that the sight of you here, in my home, moves me greatly."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she just sat there and watched him leave. Then she lay down, acknowledging what the night had taken out of her and that she was indeed tired.

But then the haunting notes of an organ reached her, and she felt overcome by the sadness of the piece. She got up and went to him.

For some reason, it surprised her that he had removed his jacket. She could see the muscles of his back moving as his hands traversed the keys. He played with his whole body, his whole soul.

She came to stand behind him and put her hands lightly on his shoulders. He stopped playing and sat bolt upright.

Not sure where the impulse came from, she began to move her hands, running them across his shoulders, letting her fingers slide in and out of the lovely muscular indentations there. Then she ran her hands slowly down his arms to his bent elbows and then back up again.

When her hands reached their starting place, he brought his larger ones up to grab her. "Christine," he whispered.

"Shh," she said. "Let me make my own gift. I want to see you."

His hand flew to his mask. "No."

She shook her head though he couldn't see her. "Not that."

He lowered his hand. "Then?" His voice trailed off, and she slid her hands down the front of his shirt.

First she touched the heated skin revealed by the top two open buttons. She heard him gasp and felt his chest rise and fall beneath her touch. Then she moved her hands to the next button and worked it loose.

"What are you doing?"

She opened the next button and pushed the two halves of his shirt further aside. It frustrated her that she couldn't see more of her handiwork. Before she got to the next button, she gave a tug on the fabric and pulled it free of his pants.

"Christine, what are you doing?" His voice reverberated with alarm, but she didn't care. She no longer felt like the student, and she wanted to revel in that feeling. For once, she was the one with power over him.

She pulled the blasted shirt down his arms and threw it on the floor behind her. For a moment, she did nothing – merely looked at the lovely way his muscles bunched as he sat up even straighter, at the beautiful taper of his form from his shoulders to his waist.

She stepped closer to him and trailed one finger across his back. Then she turned her hand over and lightly skimmed two of her fingernails down his spine.

He made a noise that was something between a groan and a whimper, and she came around to stand in front of him, one of her legs on either side of his.

He slowly raised his gaze from her breasts to her face.

"I always thought I was yours," she said. "But, in fact, it's you that are mine, isn't it?"

He looked down. "For ever and always, Christine."

His admission was so simple, so complete that it caused her to lose her nerve. She was playing with forces and emotions she didn't fully understand, and she stepped over to one side of the bench to put some distance between them.

"Will you take me back?" she asked.

This surprised him and he turned quickly to look at her. "You won't stay?"

She shook her head. "You don't really want me here."

His brow furrowed. "How can you say that? I'd die to keep you close to me."

"Not close enough." She looked at his mask. "I know now that you are a man – my teacher, my comforter, my Angel – but still a man. And you hide who you are behind a mask and behind your lovely music."

"My music is who I am."

"It is not all of who you are. And there are things you won't show me."

He turned to face the piano and slumped his shoulders. "There are many things you don't know about me, but can't you accept that you know all that there is of importance? You know my music; you know my heart."

"But not your soul. That you keep hidden."

"Like my face, you would not find it a pretty thing."

"Then we are at an impasse, my Angel. And you must take me back."

He stood, made his way to his crumpled shirt and pulled it quickly back into some semblance of order. Then he escorted her back into the boat, back onto the horse, and then back through the mirror.