Christine Daaé was trapped.

Okay, perhaps that was a rather melodramatic statement. Christine was not trapped, trapped would insinuate she was stuck somewhere against her will, and while the thick tension in the air wasn't ideal, she could not deny that there was no place she'd rather be than her vocal instructor's apartment on this freezing December night in Manhattan.

The trouble was that she was not so sure he shared that sentiment.

Erik had been instructing Christine for three months now, and though his initial harshness as her teacher should have deterred her, it only made her strive to be better, strive to make him proud, strive to prove everyone in her past wrong by proving him right when he said that he believed her capable of "reaching the stars, no - becoming one." It was what he had rather dramatically declared when he offered her lessons, and she had been hesitant to accept at first, of course - her strength as a performer had always been in her dance skills and she was perfectly content to remain in the ensemble of a show for several years at a time before moving to the next one. She liked the security it allowed and the opportunity it provided for her to be on stage without the pressure to be perfect; the other dancers would support her, and the spotlight would not be entirely on her.

When she explained this to him, he told her she should not fear the light, that she is the light. Such profound statements from a stranger made her wonder if he was drunk, but he seemed too stiff, too unnerved, to have any trace of alcohol in his system. Why would he speak such poetry, then, to a stranger?

She found that he was quite in love with her voice. He saw so much capability, so much power in it, more than anyone had ever found in it, found in her before. Perhaps that was why when she sang, his amber eyes had a glistening sheen to them, the exposed corner of his lip turning up in a stupified smile.

She foolishly found herself giving him that same look when he simply spoke, simply met her eyes with his - he loved her voice, she knew that. She was not sure if he loved her.

Why would that matter? She would constantly ask herself in the earlier days of their relationship. "Because you're falling in love with this man," her heart would always reply. At this, she would always allow the sound of his lithe fingers moving across the piano to flood her ears, drowning out the noise of those thoughts, flooding her with his music as she straightened her back, breathed it in and gave it all back to him through her voice.

At this point, both Erik and Christine shared the unspoken understanding that she no longer required frequent lessons. Her voice had reached a point where they could meet a two or three times a week, practicing songs in her rep book as Christine searched for open auditions in the city. Her voice had reached a point of stability and strength that she hardly needed to rush to his apartment in the Upper East Side every afternoon in between rehearsals and the evening performance of the musical she was in, and still, she did. He did not object, and she wondered again if he wanted her near for reasons other than ensuring the perfection of her voice, of his product, the instrument which they had both created.

Tonight, that seemed like wishful thinking, as she sat on his couch awkwardly while he attempted to call a taxi. A blizzard had moved over the city just as she got out of rehearsals four hours earlier, and in that short time a foot of snow had accumulated on the streets of New York City, bringing the seemingly endless hustle of Manhattan to a halt. The evening performances of most Broadway shows - Christine's included - had been cancelled, and most taxis had parked their vehicles and retired for the night. There was too much ice, too much wind, for anyone to see where they were going, and after quickly stepping outside and witnessing it for himself, Erik declared that she would be staying with him until the roads and sidewalks were safe. His voice seemed strained as he stated this, and she worried that she burdening him. She objected immediately, assuring him that she had a very thick wool scarf to protect herself from the harsh winds and she could easily walk several blocks to her own apartment. He nodded his head in disagreement, not bothering to argue further, and directed his attention to making tea in the kitchen.

So there she sat on his couch, the storm outside seeming calm in comparison to the swirling flurry of thoughts and images in her mind. Where would she sleep? Would he spend any time with her before she slept? Would they talk to each other, get to know each other better, discuss they had not discussed before? There was one moment, one moment that Christine had been playing in the back of her mind for weeks, one moment that Erik had seemed to pretend never happened in the first place, and she wanted so desperately to discuss it but never knew how.

One night, she had been out to a bar with the other dancers and had ordered far too many refills of rum and coke. At some point in the night, everyone had left her behind to move to the next bar, too drunk to realize she was missing from their large group, and she had been too sleepy to lift her head up long enough to notice their absence. When she realized she was alone in the Upper West Side at 2:00 AM with a dying phone and a very unclear mind, she had been unsure of who else she could call. She had dialed his number, and he had picked up on the first ring.

"Christine? Are you alright? What's going on?" He had asked frantically, undoubtedly alarmed by her calling at such a late hour.

"Hey, Erik...I uh, I've got a problem," she had slurred in response, and the unpolished lilt of her voice had not been unnoticed by him.

"Where are you? I'm coming right now, Christine," he had replied, and she had been able to hear him walking quickly across his apartment and grabbing his keys.

"You're so nice, you know. Even though you're all gruff and blasé, you're really nice to me."
"Thank you, Christine," he had replied absentmindedly, focusing less on her words and more on getting out the door and finding her.

"Okay, I'll text you the address. Don't worry, the bartender is a nice lady and won't let me get kidnapped. Bye, I love you!" She had gracelessly hiccuped before hanging up.

A drunken phone call pleading for Erik to rescue her had not been the way Christine had wanted to confess her feelings for Erik, if she confessed them at all. Thankfully, he did not speak of it when he had picked her up, had simply strode into the bar with all his usual elegance, took her in his arms and guided her to his car. The ride to her apartment had been silent, and she had made one more foolish decision before the night had ended.

When he had carefully led her into her apartment, assisting her in unlocking the door and removing her winter jacket and scarf, she had taken his hands in hers, looking into his amber eyes.

"Sorry I said that thing on the phone. I was drunk," she had giggled.

"You are still drunk, Christine," he had responded matter-of-factly.

"Still, I know now it was a little too much. I just kind of said it out of habit. That's what I always say to Meg when I hang up," she had explained.

"Do you say it to the pizza delivery man as well?" He had asked sarcastically.

"No, because I don't care about him, silly." She had thoughtlessly answered, and she had felt him go stiff, his fingers no longer tracing circles around her palm.

"Please drink some water, Christine, and get some rest," he had finally said before turning to depart from her apartment.

"Erik, wait!" She had called.

He had turned around on his feet immediately, walking back to her. She had risen up on her toes rather clumsily, swaying a bit. He had steadied her, placing his hands on her arms, and she had kissed his unmasked cheek swiftly before returning to the ground and stumbling to her room. When she had closed the door, he was still standing in her living room, mouth agape, a hand on his cheek.

She knew now that she had likely offended him, or scared him, or made him uncomfortable as her teacher, a teacher twenty years her senior, or all of the above, and yet, she could not bring herself to regret it. She only wanted to talk about it, to ask him why he had stood there dumbfounded in the middle of her living room - was he pleasantly surprised or appalled by her behavior?

She rose from his couch, meeting him in the kitchen. Deciding to try something, she placed a hand on his arm, and he froze beneath her touch. This wasn't promising. Still, she masked her disappointment, smiling at him. "Thank you so much for allowing me to stay here, Erik, you're too kind to me."

"I would never let you freeze, Christine. This weather is horrendous. You could easily fall ill," he replied nonchalantly, dismissively waving a hand.

"When the tea is done, there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about, actually," she began, and he quickly removed the kettle from the stove, retrieving two cups from a tray and bringing it to the living room. "Is everything alright?" He asked anxiously when they sat down.

His knees were bent at an awkward angle, seemingly restraining himself from turning towards her, and she made an effort to sit as closely to him as she could, bumping her knee against his.

He froze again. Damn it.

"Remember that time you picked me up at the bar?"

"It is rather difficult to forget, Christine, you were deeply intoxicated."

"Right. Well, I said some stuff to you, and I just wanted you to know...no matter how drunk I was -"

"Christine, it is quite alright. I do not...I do not hold you to it. I am your teacher, and I would never want you to...to feel uncomfortable. I am perfectly content pretending it never happened," he replied with little emotion in his voice.

She frowned, unable to hide the hurt she felt. "Right. I see. Well, thank you, I guess, for your honesty."

His exposed eyebrow furrowed at that, the elegant arch scrunching up. "Is something the matter, Christine?"

"Not at all," she smiled, and they carried on throughout the night as they normally would, drinking tea and discussing music and literature and Christine's future. He never seemed to mention himself having a role in it, always talking about her success in a strange, detached way, as if he did not envision himself still supporting her as her teacher after she secured a lead role, or even talking to her. She had never felt so insecure, knowing that she had been the foolish ingenue that fell in love with her teacher and he saw her as nothing more than a product to sell.

But that wasn't true, was it? Erik valued her voice and its potential, of course, but he also valued her. He constantly praised her for her strength and dedication, stating that no matter how good her voice was, he would not believe in her if her heart was not so full, her spirit not so strong, her mind not so stubborn. But these were all qualities that aided her in her career, professional qualities he appreciated from a professional standpoint. He did not love them, he admired them.

But sometimes, there were moments that these assumptions dissipated completely. A glance her way, a gasp at her accidental touch, and for a moment, for just one, beautiful moment, she wondered if he felt it too. Everytime he would show this vulnerability, this tenderness, though, he would immediately resume to his typical aloof demeanor, tilting his chin up proudly and disguising any traces of affection remaining in his expression.

It seemed easier for him to let his walls down on nights like tonight, though, when he was not teaching her, and they were just talking, spending time with each other not as a teacher and his student, but as equals, as friends. There had been occasions in the past when he'd taken her out for coffee, or they'd seen an orchestra together, but these expeditions became much less frequent as her feelings had intensified. She wondered if he could sense it, and turned away from it, turned away from her, not wanting to lead her on. They were discussing ballet when she began to have hope that they could return to this, though.

"You've never seen The Nutcracker? Erik, it's the most gorgeous ballet out there!" She remarked.

"I do not go out much, dear," he replied, and she tried not to bite her lip at the term of endearment he used. It was something he did rather often as of late, but she could not allow herself to think there was any meaning behind it.

"Maybe you could get a private box like you do with the opera," she suggested.

"Perhaps, but I still think they would be alarmed by the sight of a masked man walking towards the box. I must remain a patron of the opera house, Christine, they are the only place in the city that has grown oddly accustomed to my...appearance."

She frowned. "I get that seeing someone in a mask is unusual, but it shouldn't be so difficult to just assume that it's for medical reasons. It's not like you wear a full mask. It's clear you're not trying to conceal your identity."

He gave a sad smile in response. "If only people were as thoughtful as you, Christine, and as kind."

He raised a pale hand, bringing it to her cheek before swiftly pulling away.

She caught it in her hand without thinking, then stared in shock at their interlocked fingers, mentally berating herself for the action. Still, if he'd raised his hand, maybe he wanted to touch her…?

He cleared his throat awkwardly, removing his hand from hers. "I apologize, Christine, you just...you had a stray curl," he stuttered, and she nodded her head awkwardly in response, pensive. She knew her hair was in too tight a bun with far too much hairspray for any hair to fall in her face.

They were silent for a few moments before Erik looked at his watch nervously. "I think you should be getting your rest now, in case rehearsals resume in the morning." He stood from the couch, opening the door to his bedroom.

"Erik, I can sleep on the couch, it's okay. This is your home, I'd hate to impose," she attested.

"You are my guest, Christine, and I want you to be comfortable. Especially considering you dance. Tense muscles will do you no good," he replied.

She followed him through the door, settling in his bed, still wearing her jeans and sweater. He scanned the room, ensuring that nothing was amiss, before he noticed her awkwardly sitting atop the bed, rolling up the sleeves of her sweater.

"Right, of course, you have no pajamas. Give me one moment," he said awkwardly. He pulled out a long, white dress shirt from his dresser, identical to the one he was currently wearing. "You are so small, this will fit you like a dress, I think," he smiled, and she thanked him quietly, taking it from him and walking towards his en suite bathroom. "There is a spare toothbrush in there, and plenty of clean washcloths. Make yourself at home," he called out as she entered the bathroom.

After changing into the shirt and cleaning herself up, she returned to the living room, finding Erik stretched across the couch, long legs falling over the edge, a book in his hands. "Are you comfortable?" He asked her, and she gave an exasperated laugh. Was she comfortable? He was the one on the couch.

She nodded her head. "I just wanted to thank you, and say goodnight," she murmured. His gaze flickered to her legs for a moment, then he seemed to shake his head, meeting her eyes with his.

"Goodnight, Christine," he abruptly replied, returning his attention to his book.

She had an odd ache in her chest as she returned to her room, a feeling of unfulfillment, of emptiness. She wanted nothing more than to curl up next to him on that couch, to lay next to him in this bed…

At this thought, she buried herself under his covers, trying not to breathe through her nose and catch the intoxicating, familiar smell of his cologne that surrounded her.

She tossed and turned for what felt like hours before rising from the bed. Being in his apartment, in his room, with nothing but a wall and their own awkwardness and nervousness separating them, she was fed up. She wouldn't hold back any longer. She was certain she'd suffocate from the weight on her chest if she did.

"Erik?" She whispered, finding him still awake in the darkness of the living room, looking out the window at the lights of the city around them.

"Are you unable to sleep, Christine? Can I help you at all?" He inquired.

"I just have a lot on my mind."

"Would it help to talk about it?"

"It might. It might make things worse, though."

He swung his legs off the couch somewhat awkwardly, leaving room for her next to him. "I'm here if you need me," he assured.

She sighed heavily as she sat down next to him, her hands shaking. "I don't even know where to start," she laughed nervously.

"Take your time, dear. I'm listening," he said patiently.

"Erik, you might hate me for this. Or maybe you'll just be surprised. No, you'll definitely be displeased, you'll probably just...say something nice, send me off to bed, and then be awkward with me for the rest of our lives…"

"Christine?" He questioned, his patience wearing thin.

"Erik, I'm falling...I've fallen...I think…"

"Christine, I beg you," he pleaded.

"I'm in love with you."

The air was too thick as silence settled around them. With the snow falling outside, there was no traffic, no movement, there was only the sound of Christine's nervous breathing, and it was too dark to read his expression, too dark, too quiet -

"I know it's...a lot for you to take in. I've only known you for a few months now, and I suppose there's still a lot I don't know. But I know your intelligence, your talent, your humor - you are funny, you know, even if you don't realize it - your genius, in music and in so many other trades...and I think I even know some of your heart, and I want to know more, Erik, I want to know so much more - "

She was not able to finish her statement before she felt cold plastic against her left cheek and soft lips crashing onto hers. She gasped in surprise, opening her mouth and allowing him to explore her further, his tongue tracing her bottom lip. He had one hand on her cheek now, the other running down her arm before taking her hand in his, intertwining their fingers. They kissed until they couldn't breathe, parting only for Christine to wrap her arms around his neck, sliding onto his lap and pressing her forehead against his.

"I love you, Christine, I have loved you all this time, and I have hated myself for it. I have hated myself for loving you when you are such an angel and I am...oh, Christine," he moaned, kissing her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her lips.

She smiled. "You are wonderful, Erik, and I may not know what lies underneath that mask, but it doesn't matter to me. I love this," she attested, placing a hand over his heart. "I love you, and I'm certain I'll only love you more as I learn more about you. So please, let me in."

He nodded his head. "I will tell you anything you want to know, Christine. Anything you ask. Just...not tonight. Please. Let us remain like this tonight," he begged.

"Nothing you say will change my mind, but I agree. I think we've discussed enough tonight. I know I'm certainly exhausted. Professing your love for your teacher isn't easy," she giggled, unable to stop the joyful, light sound from escaping her, and he chuckled in response, the low rumble in his chest only causing her smile to widen.

He took her hands, kissing her knuckles before guiding her back to her room. She lay down on the bed again, and he pulled the covers up to her chin. "Rest, Christine," he whispered, placing a final kiss to her forehead and turning away from her.

"Erik, wait," she called, and he turned around on his feet, returning to her. She remembered the last time this had happened and smiled, now knowing that he had stood in that living room in shock because he was pleased by her kissing his cheek. He had loved her all along.

"Stay with me?" She asked this time, moving over in the bed to leave a space open for him.
He stood for a few moments, seeming to battle with himself, and she looked at him with sparkling blue eyes. He could not resist them, could not resist her, and he slipped into bed beside her. He was tense next to her, seeming to prevent himself from moving an inch, and she wrapped her arm around his chest, tangling her legs with his. He could not suppress his gasp in response, and she pecked him on the lips one last time. He gathered her up in his arms, holding her tightly against him, and as she settled in his embrace, her head on his chest, she could feel gentle sobs racking his chest. She did not question them, only brought her hand to his unmasked cheek, wiping a tear away. He cried once more at this, and she did not know who had been so cruel, so foolish as to not love him in his life, to cause him to be so unsure of himself, so broken that he crumbled in her arms, but she vowed to herself in that moment that she would spend each night, each morning, asserting her love for him, making him understand that he was not alone.