Erik pressed a splayed hand across the back of the mirror in his protege's dressing room, leaning in close. He was careful to not let his breath fog up the glass, lest it give him away too soon.

Christine Daaé's hair was, as always, exquisite.

As much as he wished his focus could remain solely on her hair, there was something else that required his focus - namely, the Vicomte de Chagny.

"These are lovely flowers, Raoul," she smiled sweetly for the boy. "Thank you."

"Are you very certain you aren't able to attend dinner with me, Lotte?" he asked hopefully.

Erik huffed. Why, Christine was far too old to be called such childish nicknames anymore! It simply wasn't befitting a young lady like herself! A little voice reminded him that he himself was rather fond of calling her Ichild/I in their more tender moments, but he savagely shoved that voice away.

"I'm afraid not," she shook her head, still smiling.

"Ah. Perhaps another time, then?"

Christine stifled a groan, instead smiling harder. Raoul was nothing if not persistent, and though she didn't want to hurt his feelings, she did wish he would simply take no for answer.

"That might not work, either - I'm terribly busy lately, you know. My tutor is very strict about my practice schedule!"

"Your tutor is too strict, it sounds like," Raoul's smile faded a little as he grumbled.

"Raoul! He's practically the Angel of Music! Besides, I dare say all his strictness has paid off, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose..." he eventually conceded. "But we'll have dinner one day, just you see!"

His smile returned, brighter than ever, and Christine slowly but firmly closed the door on him, bidding him a cheerful farewell.

She sighed once the door was closed and locked, her shoulders slumping. Erik was strict, but that had nothing to do with why she didn't want to have dinner with Raoul.

She glanced surreptitiously behind at the mirror.

"You can come out now, Erik," she said steadily.

He fumbled with the latch, trying to look sauve as he entered her dressing room, but ended up only looking a little lovesick instead.

He watched with longing as she sniffed her newly gifted roses, setting them on her vanity and sighing.

"I'm going to need another vase, don't you think?" she turned to him cheerfully, but he didn't see anything cheerful about it - the girl had received so many bouquets from admirers that they practically filled her vanity table, at least half a dozen vases already scattered there.

His mismatched gaze fell to the single dark rose in the tiny crystal vase she kept right in the middle of her vanity. It was lovely, and she'd saved it there ever since he'd given it to her, but to him it felt dwarfed by the lavish arrangements given to her by her numerous other would-be lovers. It was already beginning to wilt. He looked down at the floor.

"Are you certain you don't want to have dinner with the Vicomte?" he asked tightly. "Are you certain your tutor isn't too strict? After all, he never said you couldn't go to dinner with the boy!"

Christine rolled her eyes and was about to retort when she saw the very real hurt in his expression.

"Oh, Erik," she crossed her arms. "I only say that because Raoul will accept it as an answer. 'I don't want to because I don't want to' isn't a concept he understands..."

She paused, then took a step closer to him, reaching a hand out to cup the bare side of his face.

"Besides, you know I'd rather have dinner with you..."

The tension went out of his shoulders at the soft, warm touch to his face. He leaned into her hand, sighing. He was being ridiculous again, he knew. But still, nothing riled him like the thought of losing her to someone else.

"Do you- wish to have dinner with me, tonight?" he asked, uncertain.

"I do!" her face lit up, smiling widely.

She moved a few things around on her vanity in search of her hairbrush, and the movement drew Erik's eye.

"Another gift of the Vicomte's?" he asked, eyeing a large box of chocolates.

She smiled shyly, blushing as she ducked her head.

"No, it's, ah- this is from, er, someone else."

He swallowed hard. He had learned the most difficult way that he should respect her boundaries, but sometimes it was difficult for him (he still vividly recalled the first time he'd taken her to his home - she had been running errands - her hair had been pulled up in a delightful twist and topped off with a saucy little hat - when he had plucked her off from the street with a gentle incapacitation thanks to a firm hold around her and cloth dipped in chloroform, and how when she'd come to again she'd given him such a look of disgust as she realized she had been, as she later put it despite his denials, "kidnapped". It was there that the unexpected had happened - she had reached up to her hat, withdrew the shiny little hatpin, and deposited it firmly into the flesh of his arm. Despite his vow to be a gentlemen of the highest grade to her, he had let loose a string of the most ungentlemanly curses and swears as he'd doubled over in pain and shock, hardly believing his ears as she had demanded to be released immediately.)

He knew he shouldn't pry, but his curiosity was far too fierce.

"From who?" his tone bordered on demanding, and his hand absently strayed to press over the old stab wound on his arm - it always ached when he felt like he was pushing his luck with her.

She fidgeted a little.

"Th- the Emperor of Russia."

Emperor.

Erik sat heavily on the divan, his face falling. He thought he might actually pass out. It was just what he deserved, he knew - to lose Christine to an emperor, all because he had fibbed and told Madame Giry that her little Meg would marry an emperor in an attempt to get a letter delivered to the managers.

"Emperor," he breathed. "You've caught the eye of an emperor..."

She huffed.

"See, this is why I didn't tell you. And I hardly caught his eye, he merely enjoyed my work on the stage and sent a little gift... It doesn't change anything, Erik."

"You've been hiding these things from your poor Erik?" he placed a hand over his heart, leaning forward and clutching at his knees with other hand.

"There's nothing to hide, Erik! They're just gifts, you can see them for yourself!" she gestured to the vanity table.

They were both silent a moment, and she noticed how uncomfortably close he appeared to crying. She quickly grabbed her hairbrush off the vanity and held it out to him - she needed to distract him.

"Would you like to brush my hair?" she asked softly.

He straightened up, his eyes wide.

"Oh- of course!"

She sat next to him on the divan, and he took the brush from her, a near-imperceptible tremble in his hands.

He sighed happily as he plucked each little pin out of her hair, letting it all fall down her back. She did have exquisite hair. He didn't think he could ever tire of looking at it, of touching it. It was gorgeous. Golden sunlight spun into the softest silk that reached down past her waist. He took a lock and raised it to his lips, kissing it. Christine sat patiently. He gently parted her hair into sections and ran the brush through it, starting only just above her shoulders before pulling the brush all the way to the ends, just the way she preferred. He didn't know why, but she didn't like the brush to touch her scalp or even come close to her head.

Her plan had worked, for a little while. He was completely lost in the fixation of her hair, too far gone to even think of his perceived inadequacies compared to other men.

He had loved her hair for as long as he could remember - longer, even. Everyone loved her hair. He personally had spied no less than three love poems penned by some nose-having, love-sick fops (three different fops - he could tell by the handwriting!) set out on her vanity in the past, and he had no reason to assume that these were the only such letters. He had seen the looks of envy on the faces of the ballet rats and chorus girls as Christine walked by, had heard them whisper about how they wished they knew her secret to such lovely hair.

"I can't help it that other men might take an interest in me, you know," she said quietly, trying to turn just a little to glance back at him.

"I know," he said quickly, not meeting her eye.

"That doesn't mean I'm interested in them, too," she continued.

Erik said nothing.

Her hair was perfect - everything about her was perfect, really. While most of the time it was the utmost joy to be around such perfection in human form, there were sparse occasions where it only served to bring into stark contrast just how imperfect he himself was.

This was swiftly becoming one of those times.

"Don't fidget, dear."

She turned forwards and sighed.

Sometimes he wondered how she could stand to bear his presence. She was perfect in almost every way that he was not - and he was so very far from perfect in every single thing, except for singing (but Christine was perfect in singing as well).

What was such a glorious being doing spending her time with one such as him? His heart sank a little lower as he ran the bristles through her long tresses. One day she would realize, and there would be no more moments like this. Could she not see how perfect she was? How she was the envy of every woman and girl in the opera house and possibly the world?

"You know, I've been thinking..." she glanced behind her, pausing, but Erik was only frowning at her hair. "Maybe I wouldn't get so much attention of a certain type... if, perhaps, well- if I had a ring that I wore..."

Erik let some of her hair fall without a word, then began brushing another section.

"It's no business of mine what jewelry you chose to wear," he said stiffly.

She looked off to the far corner and blinked back a few tears. How was this man so dense? Was he not supposed to be a genius? She sniffed.

It had been Valentine's Day just the previous month. Erik did not celebrate holidays, almost to the point where Christine wondered if he even knew what holidays were. It hadn't stopped her from handcrafting him a valentine, though.

At the end of her lesson that week she had shyly handed it to him, her face pink and her eyes downcast. He had taken a moment to unfold it, until finally it was fully open in his hands - a large paper heart with little paper flowers and greenery attached to it, and in the middle of it was a poem that she herself had written for him.

Wherever you go, whatever you do, please always remember - my heart belongs only to you

Christine knew she was not a poet, but she dearly hoped that it truly was the thought that counted.

Erik had stared, unmoving, at the words just a little too long. She twisted her hands together bashfully.

"It's true, Erik," she had told him, daring to look up at him. "I really mean it."

His mismatched gaze had held her tenderly as he looked up from the valentine. He'd folded the paper heart carefully and placed it just inside his vest, in the pocket over his own heart.

"Your heart is a precious thing, child," he had told her, his voice overcome with emotion. "No one has ever received so fine a gift."

She had truly thought that he would understand after that, but their next lesson had been just the same as always. It baffled her to no end and very nearly infuriated her. How many times had he proclaimed his undying love for her, his never ending devotion to her? And yet still he refused to take it any farther than passionate words, occasional kisses, and chaste embraces.

He had his reasons, she supposed, but they were such silly reasons! They were all issues he'd created in his own mind, and she certainly didn't know how to go about convincing him otherwise. He had terrible mood swings on the matter, too - sometimes he would allow her affections towards him, but other times he simply wouldn't hear of it. He'd flown into a fit not even a week ago when she'd tried to coax him into sitting on the divan with her. He hadn't minded the sitting part - it was the part of just how close she wanted him to sit that he took issue with. He'd launched into a rant about how inappropriate it was to lean against him like that, how his touch would sully her innocence, how he didn't deserve to be in the same room with her and his continued presence would eat away at her virtue. She had rolled her eyes and huffed at the whole thing, but he had't noticed, being far too caught up in his wild fears. She'd been quite peeved at him afterwards. She had only wanted to cuddle! Why couldn't he see that it wasn't the end of the world?

She rubbed her fingertips at the corner of her eyes, keeping a tight control over her composure.

"I think I should like to wear a ring, actually," she said evenly. "People will think I'm married then."

Erik's lips pressed together in a thin line.

"If you wish it."

She was quiet a long time.

"You could buy me a ring, Erik," she finally said.

His hands froze in the middle of their actions. It was not the first time she had mentioned a ring in this way.

"We have been over this, Christine," he said gravely. "It would not be right for me to buy you a ring. It would... mean something that it shouldn't."

"Well why shouldn't it?" a petulance crept into her tone. "What if I want it to mean that?"

It was his turn to blink away tears. He pulled the brush a little faster, a littler more forcefully. He took a tremulous breath.

"It can never mean that between us, you know that," he shook his head.

She turned to look at him as best she could.

"Why not? Erik - why not? If you want it to, and I want it to, then why can't it?"

"Don't, don't turn," he chided. "And you know perfectly well why not-"

She had turned forwards again at his prompting, but still she tried to face him even still.

"You given me so many reasons and all of them mean absolutely nothing!" she cried, exasperated. "You're the only one standing in your way!"

He tugged the brush hard through a minor tangle, squeezing a fist around the hair just above the knotted part so it wouldn't pull her scalp.

"Then you clearly don't understand! I am not like other men! I can never have a normal life!" his voice grew just a little louder. "I have explained it so very often and still you willfully look away and pretend these problems don't exist!"

She scowled. The last time he had tried explaining why they could never be together in the way that they both obviously wanted, he had broken down in tears halfway through, falling to his knees before her as she sat on her divan, and he spent the rest of the afternoon clinging to her legs, his head resting on her knees as she had stroked gentle hands over his head and shoulders and listened to him sniffle and cough as he had rambled some nearly incoherent words about how he would never be allowed into a church to marry her, and he had then mumbled something about her hair as well.

"They only exist in your mind!" she turned to shoot a glare at him.

"Christine, come to your senses - I could never be with one like you!"

"What does that even mean?!"

The frustration of it all felt like hundreds of needles pricking at him. How could he explain it in a way hadn't already? He was wicked, cursed. She was an angel. Even a small child could see they didn't belong together!

"Your hair- why, isn't that proof enough?" he was incredibly flustered, and could hardly force his tongue to form the thoughts in his head into something that made sense.

His own hair was brittle and weak and quickly graying even though he was not that old. It refused to grow in certain places, and often he'd break down in a fit and shave it all off so that he wouldn't have to look at it anymore. It would grow back slowly, itching and burning as it did, the wig he always wore only making it worse. Why wouldn't that be the case? Just like with his face, his hair was terrible because it was a reflection of how he was on the inside - a horrible monster. His mother had told him so! Just like how Christine was pure and good on the inside, so her hair was voluminous and shiny and long... It was just how nature worked.

Someone like her should never have to marry a monster. She was a clever girl - why couldn't she understand that?

"Proof of what?" she turned suddenly, annoyed.

Erik hadn't realized she'd been about to turn - he was too absorbed in getting another tangle out of her hair, squeezing hard and pulling fast - and then she turned - and suddenly, suddenly-

"Proof that I-!"

He fell silent.

Erik stared at the clump of hair clutched tightly in his fist. His jaw dropped. He lifted his shaking hand in front of him - the hair he was holding was most definitely no longer attached to her head. His eyes, as wide as saucers, met hers. She reached two hands up to the back of her head. His whole body started trembling.

"Hah- hah- ah- Christine! I! I didn't- not on purpose!"

He opened his fist, the length of hair still hanging limply across his palm. The silver hairbrush in his opposite hand clattered to the floor. He wanted to retch.

He slid off the divan and onto the floor.

"Christine! Erik has maimed you!" he groaned loudly.

He brought a hand up to cover his mouth, staring at the hair still in his other hand.

"Oh! How can you ever forgive such a monster who would do this to you?!" he howled as he held the hair up as though to let her inspect the evidence of his wickedness.

She looked on in confusion, her hands still patting the back of her hair.

"Oh, Erik," she sighed as she brought her hands to rest on her lap. "It's alright."

How could it ever be alright? He looked at her hands, noting they were absent of any blood, but the relief he felt was minuscule.

"I am so, so sorry! I never meant to do that - Christine, I never wanted to hurt you-!" he sobbed.

"You didn't hurt me, Erik," she soothed, reaching her hands for him to try to pull him off the floor.

Didn't hurt her? He was holding a fistful of her hair that he had ripped from her head!

There was a high pitched whining noise that took him a while to realize it was coming from him. With her coaxing he sat next to her again, though he was still shaking like a leaf, his hand clenching and unclenching around the length of hair, tears streaming down his face and mask.

"I'll have to sew it back to the comb, but that's not an issue," she said in a comforting manner, but he could barely understand what she was talking about.

She reached up and pulled a little comb out from her hair, but he still didn't understand.

He didn't even understand when she reached up to her hair again and pulled out a fistful of her own hair herself.

"Look," she held it out to him. "You didn't know I wear these?"

He stared dumbly at it. At the end of the hair in her hands was a little comb for attaching it to more hair. It slowly dawned on him.

Christine Daaé wore a wig.

Well, not a wig exactly - but they were hair extensions, all the same.

His brow knit. That wasn't her real hair?

She reached up and pulled another such comb out, then another and another. His mind was reeling. Her bangs, too, came off, those curly bangs that framed her face in the way he loved so much.

She finally had removed them all, a pile of long blonde curls sitting between them on the divan, and brushed her fingers through her actual hair. It was shorter than the extensions, reaching just past the top of her shoulders. It was certainly thinner, and flatter now too. It lacked a bit of the shine that the false hair had. She smiled wryly.

"Don't tell anyone, okay? Almost everyone thinks it's real!"

"Christine-" he swallowed hard. "Why?"

She shrugged a little.

"I suppose I'm rather vain about some things, really... And hair takes so long to grow! And I wanted some little way to stand out, and you know people always notice my hair! And it does look so lovely, doesn't it?"

He cautiously reached a hand out to run it through her real locks.

"How long have you-?"

"Since before I knew you. Quite a long time, actually."

"And I didn't hurt you?" he asked anxiously.

"No, dear, you didn't hurt me."

He scooted a little closer, now running both hands through the hair on either side of her face. It was so different than how he was used to seeing her.

"That was never even your hair..." he murmured, mostly to himself.

Her lips turned down into a pout.

"I should hope it was mine, I certainly paid enough for it."

She studied his face as he eyed the hair between his fingers, lifting it this way and that, examining it.

"You're not- upset, are you? That it was all extensions?" she bit her lips as she awaited his reply.

He was silent a moment. His entire worldview was unraveling in front of him, and it was disorienting... but also almost freeing, in a way.

He shook his head, then he leaned in close, his hands resting on either side of her face, and softly kissed her lips.

"You're perfect, just as you are," he murmured when he broke the kiss.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"Even with my less-than-average, regular hair?"

He pulled her close to him, hugging her in the way that she had wanted him to the previous week.

"Even so, sweet child," he squeezed her a little tighter, taking a few deep, steadying breaths - he had been so terrified that he had hurt her.

"I think of you just the same way," she whispered to him, basking in his embrace. "You're perfect to me, no matter what you look like."

He made a noncommittal noise, but she could tell from the way he was rubbing his thumb in little circles on her waist that this embrace was most certainly headed in a decidedly not-chaste direction. She smiled, her heart fluttering.

She had pieced together from a number of previous crying fits that he seemed to think that beauty was somehow tied to morality, and she knew that that was one of his reason he thought he couldn't marry her even if he wanted to. She was hopeful, now, that perhaps he was beginning to realize otherwise. She smiled wryly as she leaned closer into his arms, nuzzling against his neck as he petted her hair. If she had known that this would be the end result, she should have taken her hair pieces out ages ago!

She knew it wouldn't be easy to have a life with him, but she wanted so badly to try. He had problems, she knew that too, but she loved him too much to let that stand in the way. They could face all of those things together, she was certain.

Erik couldn't say what, exactly, caused him to do it - perhaps it was the overwhelming relief that she wasn't hurt, perhaps it was the way everything seemed topsy-turvy in his head now.

Two equally likely possibilities presented themselves to him - either she was flawed like he was because she practically had to wear a wig like he did (and that surely meant that everyone was flawed, then, because Christine was the most perfect thing on earth), or she wasn't flawed even though she wore fake hair, which would have to point to the fact that her hair and appearance had nothing to do with whether she was good or not - which also left the possibility that he, too, could be good. After all, she had sat there in front of him, stripped of her lovely, glorious hair - but she was still sweet Christine, as good and pure and wonderful as ever.

Either way, that meant that there could possibly be... a chance. A chance of a future together. A chance of a life that bordered on normal. A chance that her words were true, that the only thing standing in his way was himself.

Whatever the reason, he tilted her chin up and kissed her. He surprised her with his boldness - he had never kissed her like this before. He surprised himself as well, shocked that he had dared such a thing even as his tongue tentatively explored her own open mouth.

She wanted that moment to go on forever, but all too soon they had to part or air, leaving them both slightly panting as he leaned his masked forehead against hers, her eyes sparkling as she looked at him. He reached a thumb up to wipe at her now smeared lipstick.

"What kind of ring does Christine want her Erik to buy for her, hmm?"

"Oh, Erik-" she kissed him again, throwing her arms around his neck.

This time, when her eyes filled with tears, they were tears of pure joy.