You asked for angst; I delivered (hopefully). Loosely inspired by the Colin Raye song of the same name.

Thanks for reading! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

It was six months into their weekly lessons when the first missive appeared, on a blustery winter morning that was doing nothing to improve his already dour long mood. One long finger flipped the first switch, removing the false back of the two way mirror and his brow furrowed when he was greeted with an empty dressing room instead of the expectant face of his protege.

Annoyance spiked. This situation was not a novelty; in fact, he had addressed this with her not two weeks before when she failed to attend their scheduled lesson. He knew he had been cross with her; he had meant to be.

"Attendance is not voluntary, Christine. Should you wish to rule the stage one day, you must be present for proper instruction."

Large brown eyes had shone up at this through the mirror glass. "I am sorry, Angel. Truly!" A hiccuped breath that threatened the corners of his frown despite his irritation. "But Madame Giry is very strict! How am I to explain to her where I am running off to should she keep us late at rehearsals? For secret lessons, no less?"

The girl's question was valid; perhaps it was time to alert the Giry woman to his plans. A loathsome idea, but apparently necessary.

"Very well, my dear" he acquiesced, tone softening as the tense line of her shoulders relaxed under his voice. "Nonetheless, if you are detained, perhaps it would not be too much to ask to leave word for me, hmmm?"

"I suppose not." she replied softly. "Would a note do?"

It was with no small amount of irony that he bit back a smirk. "A note would be perfectly acceptable, my dear. Although..." A pause. "...do take care to leave them unaddressed. Secrets that become secrets no more often have dire consequences."

On the opposite side of the mirror her brow furrowed. "A pseudonym, then?"

He sighed. "If you wish it, Christine. But remember this most of all: I will not tolerate laziness or idle excuses. If you must miss a lesson, you will inform me through a note such as we have discussed but if excuses become too numerous, I will be forced to stop our lessons and find another, more willing pupil. Am I understood?"

A vigorous shake of chocolate curls was her answer and Erik felt himself relax. "Very good. Now, shall we begin?".

The matter was settled...

Or so he had thought until today.

Not present and unaccounted for.

Again.

Erik released a heavy exhale. Did she think his threats idle?

Set to turn on his heel and stalk away, he paused just long enough to see a slip of embossed paper he recognized as Madame Giry's personal stationary sitting on the vanity across from the mirror. With a final sweep to be sure the room was empty, Erik released the latch and stepped through the mirror, crossing to the other side of the room. Plucking the sheet from the tabletop, his eyes were greeted with Christine's swirly script, hastily scribbled, but manageable:

Dear Angel:

I am so sorry to keep you waiting! If you arrive before I do, please don't give up on me. I'll meet you as soon as rehearsal is through, though I'm not entirely sure how long I'll be.

I won't let you down, Angel, I promise! Just know that between now and then, until I see you again, I've been practicing diligently.

Love,

Me

Erik blinked as he looked up from the missive. Clever girl, Christine.

The click of a key immediately launched his gaze to the door and his feet back to the tunnel, swinging the mirror into place as the door cracked open. Collapsing against the stone wall, he watched as Christine entered the room without preamble, fingers absently working her curls loose from the updo from ACT II of the ballet.

Her eyes flitted about the room, coming to rest on the now-empty vanity. Combing through a final few knots, hope lit her face as she called tentatively "Angel?

He answered on a breathless sigh. "I am here, my dear."

Her features visibly relaxed at the sound of his voice. "And you received my note?"

"I did. Well done."

She was positively beaming under his praise. "I am glad you are pleased. I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but I am ready for our lesson now."

A warm chuckle broke from his throat as he pushed off of the wall, taking his usual place behind the mirror panel. "Yes, you did mention you had been practicing, hmm? Good. Then let's begin."

And so it went, for months, years to follow. His plan was unfolding perfectly and he waited eagerly for the moment she would take the stage in a flash of glory.

One fine day, it happened, and everything was perfect.

Until it all came crashing down.

He came alone; early, as was his custom. Perhaps it was a fool's errand, but somehow he always did manage to play the fool when it came to her.

Two years had passed, in flickers and flashes of mayhem since that disastrous night in the basements of the Opera house. Somehow, he had managed to dig himself out of his broken-hearted stupor and move forward.

Not on; He would never move on.

But "forward" was different. Forward became a feasible goal, burying the past beneath endless layers of anger, denial and madness. With the assistance of Madame Giry and that insufferable Persian, he had managed to struggle toward a new beginning as he had numerous times before.

And slowly, he had found his footing again.

Until past and present collided one evening in a back-alley cafe.

He knew the place well; open late and concealed in shadows and secrets- the perfect location for those of questionable character to hide in plain sight with a cup of passable Arabian coffee.

What he did not know well was how to react when she entered the establishment late one night. Even with the hood of her cloak drawn tight, he knew her dark eyes as they met his over a particularly strong brew. His widened; hers narrowed, then brightened.

Without giving him time to react, she had woven her way through the narrow tables and chairs that prevented a swift exit, effectively trapping him in her impending web. The scrape of the chair across from him and a quick hand on his wrist forced his eyes to the face he had only seen in his dreams for the last two years.

Still effortlessly graceful.

Still stunningly beautiful.

Still very much alone.

Wait….what?

What followed was a cacophony of hushed whispers, ranging from stunned disbelief:

"Where have you been?"

"That is none of your concern!"

To harsh rebukes:

"Where is your boy?"

"That is none of your concern!"

To tender confessions:

"Do you love me still, Erik?"

"...I've never stopped."

The conversation had crescendoed with a rather heated kiss on her part and a rather shy request on his. "Meet me tomorrow night. Right here." He had hesitated merely a moment. "If this is what you truly want, Christine."

She had not. "It is. I will come at midnight, after the performance. Will you wait for me?"

His gaze had been tender. "Always."

Another kiss and she was gone. For the moment, he hoped.

Now he sat idly in the same chair he had occupied one night prior with fingers laced tightly together and a cup of his favorite coffee steaming before him.

He was early.

She would come; she had promised she would come.

Still, as the minutes crept by and she did not appear, the voices did.

One...

She's not coming. This was another petty trick in her book to laugh over with her Vicomte at supper.

...by...

Did you really believe she would give up a luxurious life to run in the darkness with a circus freak?

...one.

You really must be mad to have believed her. You are a fool and have no one to blame for your folly but yourself.

"Sir?" He started, eyes snapping up to the wide-eyed waiter who stood before him, a plain envelope extended by a shaking hand. "A young woman asked me to pass this to you should you still be here past midnight.

Erik blinked, but accepted the envelope and he fished out his pocket watch as the waiter scurried away.

Twelve-fifteen. A smirk quirked at the corners of his lips as he tore at the fine papers. Late again, eh?

The note before him was written in the same hasty swirl, though decidedly more elegant than her previous correspondence.

My dearest Erik:

I am so sorry to keep you waiting! If you get there before I do, please don't give up on me. I'll meet you as soon as the opera is through, though I'm not entirely sure how long I'll be. I'm sure you know...managers, admirers and such….

I won't disappoint you again, my love; wait for me, as you promised. Know that between now and then, until I see you again, I'll be longing for you...

Love,

Me

The sound of approaching footsteps drew his attention from the paper. Even in the darkness, he knew it was her, from the cadence of her footsteps to the hum on her breath.

She was here. She had come to him.

Her hood fell away as she stopped in the street, eyes scanning the alley for his form in the shadows. A slight murmur from his throat brought her gaze to his and a radiant smile to her lips.

She broke into a run toward him, arms outstretched and face flushed. Tucking the note in the pocket of his jacket, he rose to meet her.

And smiled.

She was leaving far too soon.

After that fateful meeting in the ally, Fate had at last smiled on him for a season.

Ah, but what a season it was! A wedding. thirty years of love, four children, and a lifetime of memories to cherish as his very heart faded away before his eyes.

If he were being truthful, he had known this was coming for some time. Christine's health had been failing for the better part of a year; she had succumbed to a nasty bought of pneumonia the previous winter and never quite fully recovered. She took a sharp decline late the following summer and now, as the autumn leaves fell, he knew it wouldn't be long before his beloved joined them in the cold underground.

Though that knowledge brought a painful tightness to his chest, he carried on. For his family, for her, even for his own sanity. He must.

The children had been at the house with their families only hours before, temporarily bringing with them the loud chaos that had grown on him over the years. Myriad hugs, smiles and tears were exchanged as they relived what had been and shed tears for what would come.

For the moment, he sat by her bed, their hands entwined as she labored, breath after shallow breath. His eyes never left her, alternating between her pale face and the staggered rise and fall of her chest, trying so hard to cling to the life they had built together.

Oh, my Christine. Always so strong, so brave.

He knew what he must do.

He moved closer, ignoring the resisting creak of his old bones as he settled himself next to her on the bed, drawing her to rest on his chest. From the pocket of his coat, he withdrew the note she had left him three decades before, now yellow with age, turning it over in his fingers.

"Do you remember this note, my love?" he whispered, allowing himself an indulgent smile at the memory. "You told me to wait for you. Well," he continued, setting the old one aside and withdrawing a fresh envelope from another pocket, written in his elegant script, and folding it into her hand. "You can read it yourself, of course, when you get to where you're going, but in the meantime, allow me to share my heart with you."

"My dearest Ange,

If you get there before I do, don't give up on me. Then again, you never have. I will meet you when my journey is through; I don't know how long I'll be.

Thank you for believing in me, for sharing your life with me. I'll long for the day when I see your beautiful face. But between now and then, until I see you again, I'll be loving you.

Love,

Me"

With tears clouding his vision, he pressed a kiss to her brow, tightened his hold and whispered, "It's all right, sweetling. You've given me more than I could have ever hoped. I love you, Christine." He heaved a sigh, burying his face in her graying curls. "You can go. Rest well, my love."

She shuddered in his arms then, a final raspy breath before she went limp against him. Erik's resolve shatterd, gathering her prone form close to his chest as his tears flowed freely down his exposed face, falling into her hair.

He would not recall until much later - after his family had surrounded him with their bountiful love, after final good-byes had been given, as he sat in the deafening silence wondering how he would move forward, - what he swore he heard: the barely-there murmur of her voice on the wind as the angels carried her to paradise, repeating his promise back to him.

Between now and then, until I see you again, I'll be loving you…

Love, Me.