Erik banged his fist on the piano keys, his pulse rising in frustration as seconds passed. He had tried playing the score in D major - perhaps that was what was wrong with the piece - but no. It still sounded like cats clawing on stained glass. Cats clawing on stained glass in D major.

Long past midnight, Erik knew Christine to be asleep in her room. Well, perhaps not anymore, now that he had thrown a fit on his poor piano. Ah well. If she awoke, he would apologize later. For now he needed to calm down, to take his mind off of his music. Was he really getting so old that he was losing his touch, needed breaks from creating art? The thought was terrifying.

All the more reason for a small recess.

He got up from his bench and made his way into the kitchen, where a full pot of tea was still waiting for him from earlier that day. He had spent the past few months teaching Christine how to throw her voice, and that day, she had finally gotten it. Incredibly proud of her - as he always was - they celebrated by making crepes and tea. Too much tea, it seemed. Hours later and Erik still had enough to make at least three more cups.

He began pouring the pot's contents into one of the cups when, to his surprise, the cup decided that a chat was necessary.

"You know," it said in an effeminate voice, "normal people sleep at one in the morning. It seems that you like abusing musical instruments."

Erik blinked a few moments, sure that he was losing his touch, in every mental capacity. Was he going mad? Quickly, however, he managed to identify the voice as Christine's. Just as quickly, he remembered her newfound abilities, and grinned.

He turned to the doorway and found her standing barefoot in her nightgown, her hand covering her mouth, concealing her smile and the true source of the talking teacup.

"Why, my dear!" Erik exclaimed in mock surprise. "It seems that this teacup has gained sentience, and is now conversing with me!"

He saw her smile grow wider beneath her hand, and so, naturally, his grew as well.

"Yes," the teacup said, "I have gained sentience. And I very much do need to have a word with you, Monsieur!"

"Ah," Erik said, "I see, Mademoiselle...or Monsieur...very sorry, my good teacup, which pronoun do you prefer exactly?"

"I am a Mademoiselle, obviously," the teacup said, a good deal of impertinence in its voice.

Erik leaned against the kitchen counter, holding the teacup up to his face. He stole a glance at Christine, who was raising an eyebrow at him, before he continued his very important conversation.

"You must forgive me, Mademoiselle, it's just that I have never had the pleasure of gendering a cup before. Besides, your voice is so incredibly bland and sexless, that I could not help but wonder..."

Christine gave a gasp of indignation, and Erik saw her move her hand from her mouth in order to gape at him, and he was subsequently treated to the sight of her huge round blue eyes and now-rounded mouth.

"If you wish to learn how to possess a beautiful voice, however," he continued to the cup, "I would suggest taking notes from Christine Daaé. She is quite talented, you know."

Christine's indignation turned into a timid smile and a blush, and she put her hand once more up to her mouth.

"I have heard her sing. She is only talented because you taught her. Otherwise she would sound like a dying lamb."

"Yes, but a very beautiful, musically gifted dying lamb."

He heard a small giggle, not from the cup, but from Christine. He looked up at her, and when he did, he saw she had gone a little pink in the cheeks, and once again she raised her eyebrows.

"I would not say she is very beautiful," the cup continued. "Merely average, if that."

Erik felt a momentary flare of frustration at her words. Of course she was beautiful! How could she ever believe otherwise? However, a quick look at her expression told him that she was not saying these words out of self-dislike, but rather in order to coax him into more compliments.

And compliment he would.

"Oh, she is very beautiful!" he said to the cup. "How dare you say such things of Christine. Why, she is possibly the most angelic and wonderful human being to ever grace this Earth. Clearly you must be thinking of a different Christine."

"Oh, no, Monsieur!" the cup said, its voice a bit higher than before, "those traits which you speak of...angelic...wonderful...those traits belong to yourself, not Christine!"

Erik froze in place for a moment as Christine's face went beat red. Her eyes left Erik's and went straight to the floor. Although shocked, he felt the need to immediately relieve her of her embarrassment - not that she had any need to feel that way.

He chucked shortly at the cup. "How fitting it is that a cup should decide to romance me!"

For a moment he wondered if this would only cause her further humiliation, but her face grew into one that he did not immediately understand - concern.

"Why should that be fitting, Monsieur?" the cup asked.

"Well, you see, I have always wanted a someone to flirt willingly with me. It seems to be a practical joke that someone should, but that it should be a cup! No woman has ever loved me, you see, and I find it laughable that a piece of china should be the first. Very sorry, Mademoiselle, but I simply cannot form a love with an inanimate object."

He didn't mean to let the sadness slip through. Truly he didn't. He wished he could have taken it back. The damage, however, was done, for Christine's expression turned to pure sympathy.

After a few moments of this awkward silence, the cup said, very softly, "That is not true, Monsieur."

"Oh no?" he said, glad to have rid of the quietness, "and why not? You mean to tell me that you do not care to flirt? Well, I must say that I do understand. I would not wish to flirt with me, either! I - "

"No, Monsieur, I mean it is not true that no woman has ever loved you."

Once again there was silence. Erik had to have heard wrong. That, or he was, truly, losing his mind.

"Really..." Erik said, and his voice was hoarse, "and who exactly is this woman that looks upon me with love?"

There was no answer. Christine's face was so flushed, that he believed he could have baked a pastry upon it. After a few seconds, she put down her hand and bit her lip, looking away.

Still, the seconds passed, and there was no answer. Erik's heart sank.

Oh, how he wished she could simply say it! Why this embarrassment? Hadn't it been clear, since the moment she had met him, that he loved her beyond all reason? What did she fear? Was she honestly afraid of rejection or derision if she professed her feelings for him? As if he would not react in ecstasy?

Or perhaps...perhaps she did not feel it. Perhaps she had only said it in order to make him happy. Perhaps the "woman" who loved him was nonexistent, only a reassuring figurehead Christine had made up. Perhaps she had meant that "surely some woman must have loved you at some point".

"My apologies, Mademoiselle Teacup, but I poured a hot beverage into you and must now take advantage of it," he said, trying to make his voice sound in its usual even elegance. He pulled the cup up to his lips and sipped, turning away from Christine and back toward the counter. His expression, though covered in a mask, was full of sadness and longing, and he did not want Christine to see the reflection of his emotions in his mismatched eyes.

Perhaps a minute passed this way as he finished off the remnants of the tea. He was sure Christine had gone to bed by now. When he turned around, however, he was forced to let out a gasp of surprise.

He had not heard or seen her sneak up behind him - perhaps staying with him for so long had taught her more ghostly tricks than throwing her voice. She looked up at him with so much fear, timidity, and vulnerability, that it made him want to throw his arms around her and tell her that whatever made her feel unsafe would be quenched by him without hesitation.

"I am a bit jealous of that teacup," she whispered suddenly.

His breath hitched. "Why is that, my dear?"

She pursed her lips and looked down. Erik put a finger under her chin and lifted it, so that her gaze once again met hers. He studied her then. The way her eyes shimmered in the candlelight. Her pale skin contrasted perfectly by her dark, thick hair. Her slow breathing which made her shoulders rise gently up and down.

God, how he wanted her. How he loved her.

"Why are you jealous?" he asked softly, the gentleness in his voice making a bit of her fear dissipate. Good. "Is it because I was speaking to the cup and not you? If that is the case, I shall be sure to tell all other kitchenware that my time is occupied in the future."

She smiled ever so slightly and shook her head. "No, that's not why," she said, and a gentle flush once again met her cheeks. "It is because that cup touched your lips."

A few moments of silence.

Neither one breathed.

Neither one's eyes left the other's.

Neither one made any motion at all.

And then, he kissed her.