I was feeling a little disconnected from writing SCI and needed a break. I've had this short story in my head for a while and wanted to write it out. I gave it a slight holiday theme.

PLEASE READ FOR CONTEXT: So this phic takes place after a modern (unwritten) POTO AU. I'll give hints to some of the events and you can fill in the blanks in your own mind, but imagine it as your typical modern POTO story with the major plot points left intact. At the end, Erik let Christine go, and she leaves with Raoul. This is my little take on a "Christine comes back" phic. Just some good old-fashioned angsty fluffy E/C goodness. Enjoy! Happy Holidays!

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It had been three months. Four?

Five?

Since he had seen her.

He thought. He was not sure, as time was no longer linear nor relevant.

He did not know why he was still alive. He did not attempt to actively remain that way. Eventually, his body always went on autopilot and kept itself alive. He would find a stale piece of bread in his hand or a lukewarm glass of water on the table beside him. He did not remember retrieving them. His body was very cruel.

Admittedly, he had not taken direct action to end his life either. The thought stayed at the back of his mind, an emergency escape plan if the endless days became too much. For now, he drifted in and out of consciousness and dreams. Occasionally, he would find the energy to glance at an old composition. All of the recent ones had been about her, though. He quickly tossed them aside. Memories of fearful blue eyes, long dark lashes, and a gentle smile tortured him in the most agonizing of ways.

He did not know what time of day it was when he stumbled out of his sheet-draped coffin, wandering out of the dark back room. Judging by the sounds of the subways that rumbled above, it was likely early evening. After glancing at his phone, he noted that it was mid-April. Foul sunny April. And four months since he had last seen her. Four months since he had placed an iron device with sharp spikes around Chagny's neck, complete with a digital countdown device.

He had told her that she had ten minutes to make her decision before the homemade contraption would snap that handsome blonde head right off. "Look, Christine. For Christmas, I have made you a nutcracker!"

That had not gone well. Or entirely made sense, in retrospect. Utter madness had obviously turned him into a terrible comedian.

Her face had collapsed with horror upon seeing Chagny in the device. Then her expression had strengthened with resolve. As he had stared at her with simultaneous fury and terror, she had kissed him. Twice.

And that had been the end of it all. Four months ago.

That April evening, he was not wearing his mask. Why would he? No one would ever come down here again. Perhaps some city maintenance worker would eventually come across his skeleton.

He walked forward, feet dragging against the cold floors, shoulders slouched.

"Achoo!"

Someone, who was not him, sneezed.

In his living room.

He had thought that he heard the bell minutes earlier, signaling someone coming inside his home. He had told himself that he was hallucinating.

Apparently, he did have some sense of self-preservation.

He snatched the deadly piece of catgut from his pocket and approached the intruder. Had an old adversary finally found him? It has been over ten years since he had worked for anyone. Who would be idiotic enough to stand in his living room, sneeze, and wait to die?

He nearly leapt forward for the kill. Then his mouth fell open, and his heart plunged. A skinny leg in jeans. A strand of blonde hair. She held one of his books in her hands and was looking from side to side. She had not seen him yet.

He had never expected to see her again. He had vowed never to stalk or track her, never to check upon her or to try to catch a glimpse of her. That was not only for her clear benefit. There were certain events that he did not want to see or know about, for his own sanity. Her wedding, for one. She had been engaged to the boy, and he suspected that they were married by now. Indeed, he could see a gold wedding band on her finger, a simpler one than he had expected Chagny to purchase. He felt both physically ill and ecstatic.

He grabbed his mask and hid the noose. He rounded his shoulders, attempting to keep at least a shred of dignity. He kept his gaze slightly to the side of her as he entered. She stared up at him and took a step backward. He kept his distance. He curled his hands into fists so that they did not tremble.

"Erik," she said, a quiver in her voice.

"Christine." He felt as though this were a dream. Perhaps he had finally lost his mind - or rather, lost his mind a second time - and was imagining this encounter.

"I still had the key," she quickly explained. "And you had that book down here with all the composers and their works. And I wanted it for a class. Could…could I borrow it?" She blinked up at him.

His sick, starved brain had only one train of thought. If she borrowed it, then she would have to return it.

"Of course," he replied. "Of course you may borrow it. You may borrow anything you like."

"Thank you." She tucked the book under her arm. She swallowed and softly asked, "How are you?"

"Fine," he easily lied. "The same as always. Nothing has changed."

"Oh." She looked him up and down. "I hope you're eating." He did not respond. His nutrition was not her concern. "Well, I guess I'd better go. Thank you so much for the book."

"Of course."

He was hypnotized as he watched her leave. She wore a lavender sweater and jeans with black boots that came up to the middle of her calves. Her hair was in a neat ponytail. Silver hoops hung from her ears, likely gifts from the boy. She walked away at a fast pace, only glancing once behind her, probably to see if he was following. He wasn't. She shut the door behind her.

Silence.

It was as though she had never been there at all.

Had that been real? He looked at his bookshelves and saw a large gap.

Why?

It did not matter. All that mattered was that he had seen her once more. And perhaps he would see her again.

After that, he did what any obsessive nightmare of a man would have done. He refused to leave the living area so that he did not miss her returning the book. If this was the last time that he would ever see her, at least he would have that memory.

The days crept by, and he feared she would never come back. Which meant she had stolen his book – but he certainly did not give a damn about that. Still, he did not leave his living area, save for physiologically necessary reasons. If he died here waiting for her, that was perfectly fine. An excellent way to die, actually.

But, in a week, he heard the door softly close and open. The little bell jingled. He abruptly stood. And there she was, holding the book.

"Hi," she said, stopping in her tracks, obviously surprised to see him so suddenly. "Sorry it took so long. That paper was crazy. I stayed up two nights writing it."

"That is unhealthy," replied the freak who had stayed up seven nights in a row dare he sleep through her arrival.

"I know." She slowly held the book out to him. He took it, staring at her fingers, at that damned ring. He looked away from it, back at her face, trying to memorize her.

She slowly turned away and looked back at his library.

"Do you wish to borrow something else?" he asked. He couldn't even contain the pathetic hopefulness in his voice.

"Hm." She stood there, gazing over each book. "Not right now, I guess."

"Oh. That is fine."

Each second that passed was another that he had her there. He clung to them, one by one.

Finally, she turned to face him again. She glanced down at her boots, the same ones she had worn last time, and then back up. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

Her next question was horrible and wonderful. "Could we be friends again?"

He did not think that he had heard her correctly. "Pardon?"

She inhaled and said more loudly, "Can we be friends again? I m-miss…all our interesting conversations. You always knew so much about everything. More than anyone else. Other people can be kind of boring. And music, I miss that. Would you be my friend? Could you…" Her eyes held sadness. "Actually, would you even want that? It's up to you. I know…" Her voice trailed off. "Well, it's up to you."

He stood there like a moron for another five seconds.

Of course he did not want to be her friend. He never had and never would.

And yet – perhaps it was better than never seeing her again. Of course it was. It was a reason to live, if she remained in his life. It was something. It was not nothing.

"Yes." His voice was nearly a whisper. "If you like."

She nodded. Her shoulders had been tense, and now they slouched. "Good." She backed up a step. Was she afraid that he was going to keep her here? He wanted to, of course. But then he would never see her again. He sensed her judging him, studying his movements, trying to read his thoughts. She would certainly run if he could see how infatuated with her he still was. But he was talented at maintaining an outward appearance of control. He was not the complete madman that he had been in December, his thoughts a racing, raging mess. "Well, I guess I'd better go. I'll see you soon."

He let her leave without a word. He managed not to humiliate himself. Yet he did feel brief anger. Was she merely using him to make up for whatever she lacked in her new glamorous suburban life, lack of intellectual stimulation or artistic expression? What game was she playing?

And yet there was a part of him that that did not care if she was using him. Let her visit for whatever reason she wanted. Let her make a fool of him. At least she was also making a fool of Chagny. The boy certainly would not approve of these visits.

He fell back into the armchair. Every thought soon faded except for -

Come back.