First of all, to the purists out there: don't hate me.

Explanation for the story: I went on a blueandblack fic binge this afternoon, and ended up writing this. It borrows a tiny bit from her style (and genre!), and it ended up being modern-day-ish because I've been toying with that idea for ages now. But I've still tried to keep the melodrama and feel of the original book. Also, rather than simply retell a part of the story, I wanted to focus on the relationship between Raoul and Christine and how their characters would translate to a modern-day setting, especially Raoul's—cause as we all know, he's rather... weepy woobie. So although this takes place on Apollo's Lyre, don't try to place this at any particular time in-story because it doesn't fit. In my defence, this is fanfiction...

Oh, and it's all sappy and soppy because I'm in that kind of a mood, and because Raoul is permanently like that (i.e. conducive to idealism and romance and angstiness). Add to that the fact that I don't normally write kissing scenes (if what I've written really sucks, I'd appreciate it if somebody would let me know!). You have been warned.

And when you're done, go read blueandblack's stuff, especially We Wouldn't Want Bella to Have To. Even if you'd rather poke your eye out with a stick than read Twilight, you'll like it. Trust me.

Still in Love and Just as Jealous

They were standing at the top of the Opera Garnier, underneath Apollo's Lyre. Apollo, the god of—something, Raoul could never remember what. The ancient gods weren't really his thing; it was the present that occupied him.

Because he'd come home on leave, and found her again. And now they were standing on top of the world right now, in tennis shoes of all things. Bright golden light in the air, Paris at their feet and the wind blowing over them, and Raoul felt like he could do anything, be anyone, be good enough for Christine. Maybe good enough for him to break through the pretence they both had that any feelings they had for each other were only a game and not that serious, to stop the feeling that this wasn't quite real, that they were playing at what they couldn't have. It was the way he'd sometimes felt aboard ship, staring down at the ocean rushing past, but this was far more intoxicating.

He stared at her, but she was looking out at the city, though he could tell her spirit was far away. He wanted to whisper something, tear her out of these haunted day dreams. They were away from it all, away from the furthest part of the Opera Garnier from the Cellar, away from the man whose voice and presence followed Christine wherever she went. Christine, the most beautiful and the most pure woman he'd ever met.

Damn this fear that overshadowed her purity. The fear that manifested itself through glances behind her when she thought he wasn't looking, to a trembling in her hands, wide eyes and nerves constantly on edge. She was scared, and he couldn't do a thing about it.

He moved in to comfort her, wanted to kiss her, to know how it felt, full of so much love and pity and suffering and hesitancy that it somehow doubled back on itself and he ended up thinking, damn it, I shouldn't be afraid of him.

"Christine, look at me. Please," he said. He couldn't believe how much of his heart had come out through his voice. It sounded so small, so upset. He sounded like a young boy, nervously in love for the first time. Which he was, after all.

"What is it, Raoul?" she said, and to him her voice was so ethereal it hung in the air for but a moment, and then floated away on the wind like music. He strained to hear it again after a second.

"Can't you trust me?" he asked her, hating how weak he sounded, but at the same time not caring because this was Christine and she knew who he was. How he hated that she could be in a place where he couldn't reach, couldn't help her, couldn't be with her.

She was alone with her fears and her man-who-was-an-Angel inside her head, and all he wanted was to make them go away, be her strong one, be her Raoul. She might be stronger than him normally, but this time she needed someone, and Raoul wanted to be able to be that person.

He loved her so much that he had to try. "Can't you trust me?" he asked again.

"Raoul, I can't do anything." She was always elusive. "Erik—" she lowered her voice to speak his name. As though in veneration! Nobody who terrified his-and-not-quite-his Christine should be given such respect! "—I can't leave Erik."

Raoul ignored what her words suggested, because she didn't love the man who haunted her, couldn't!

"You're scared of him. Let me take care of you, Christine," he found himself saying, the words sticking in his mouth a little. He couldn't quite look at her, instead focusing on the grey and red tops of the buildings of Paris, street cleaners beginning work, street lights turning on as the light began to dim in intensity. Clouds had wafted in front of the sun, and the lack of light made it a little easier to lay his heart out on the table, saying what neither of them had dared to say for far too long. "Christine—"

And then he couldn't think of anything to say, because she had come to stand beside him and her face was just too close to his for him to concentrate. He turned to her automatically, stared at her wide blue eyes, her porcelain cheeks, her skin which was almost entirely smooth—he never saw a blemish on her—and her pink rosebud lips. Her mouth, so soft and vulnerable, and her blue eyes that were so frightened that he almost couldn't bear it.

"Christine," he breathed again, leaning closer to her, trying not to startle her. She didn't move, didn't even breathe; neither of them did. And as long as they didn't breathe, time and air parted around them, moving forward and leaving them in a world of their own.

For Raoul, the anticipation alone was almost enough. But not quite enough. So he moved in closer, and cradled her cheek in his hand. She leant into it, closing her eyes as he rubbed his thumb and the last traces of those calluses along her smooth cheek. She felt like velvet, and he wanted to go on touching her forever.

Slowly, almost frightened, he moved his head so that his nose and forehead rested on hers.

And still she didn't pull away and he gained confidence. His hand moved to her waist, and then, because he was still new to this, and didn't know what to do with it, it moved again and travelled higher, rubbed tenderly and uncertainly over her back through her thin shirt, came to rest just under the nape of her neck. She breathed out in a way that was a little bit shuddery, eyes flicking open like a candle flame in a soft breeze and coming to focus on him.

Sinking into her eyes, Raoul breathed out too, relieved he'd done nothing wrong yet, scared of what was going to come next, but wanting it all the same, and thinking, Right, you've made it this far. Now move in for the kiss. Show her what she means to you. Make her want you.

He closed his eyes, moved forward, everything inside him screaming this is it!

And just before his lips could land on hers, she turned her head, and his lips, this kiss he had wanted to give her, had been planning for what felt like years now, hit her cheek. She'd turned her damn head!

He didn't say anything for a long moment, just staring at her. And then all at once he couldn't hold it in any longer: these past few months had been so agonisingly restrained, and there was too much disappointment to bear, and he burst out:

"Damn it, Christine! You can't do this to me! We can't keep pretending this is only a game!"

He sounded angrier than he meant to; he had been caught at his most vulnerable, and he was trying to pretend he was only angry, not incredibly sad. He tried to stare accusingly at her, but there were tears at the corner of his eyes, betraying him. He looked away before she could see them, swiped at them angrily. Somehow, they always seemed to find their way to the surface when Christine was involved. He cared too much.

"Raoul!" she said, face twisted.

The clouds had moved away from the sun now, and it hit them with a passionate, harsh orange light, the sort that flares into brilliance for a few brief moments, then dies as the sun sets and the day finally comes to an end.

"You're not being fair on me!" he said, knowing he sounded like a spoilt child whining for a prize, knowing he should shut up now, he'd ruin it, but something had a hold of him inside. A frenzy of words dying to tear out of his mouth after so long a period of silence, and then such a crushing disappointment. She'd turned her head away from him. And then before he could say a thing, he was halted by one soft little whisper:

"It's not that simple, Raoul." It wasn't what she said, but how she said it, eyes and voice full of tears, that made him know just how mean he'd ben to her, and that hadn't been his intention at all.

"Tell me why," he said, softly and without a note of harshness in his voice, gently showing her she didn't need to be afraid. At least, he'd meant to say that.

But when he opened his mouth, all those good intentions disappeared in a flash and the frenzy rose up in him again, and he said, "Why can't it be simple? You love me. I know you do. Why can't you just run away with me? Get away from him? I'd take you anywhere you wanted, I wouldn't ask for anything from you." Just that you'd love me.

And then after all that, everything he'd said, she ignored him like it was nothing. "Raoul, not so loud!" she said, looking around with a frightened face he hated. "He'll hear. You know I can't."

Why she couldn't just focus on him right now? Why did her fear have to be so much a part of her that it followed her around everywhere—and especially here, where it wasn't wanted, shouldn't be important!

The bitter taste of spurned love and disappointed tears was rising up inside of him. He couldn't acknowledge it. That would be to admit defeat, give the victory to a man who had seduced the girl he loved with his voice alone, preying on her innocence, then daily frightened her out of her wits! He couldn't let that happen to Christine.

"Christine, I know you can. You know you care about me." He tried to speak gently, but still he ended up pulling her roughly into his arms, far too in love and too angry at the same time to be able to contain anything.

And she stayed there, rested against his chest for a few brief seconds, relaxed a little, and he began to hope she might say yes, leave behind everything that was bothering her and come with him. Somewhere, anywhere, they'd work it out.

"Raoul, it's not..."

She pushed him away.

Raoul let her walk away, watching her go in the dimming light that wasn't so orange anymore, feeling bruises flower inside of him, in a place that nobody could see. It didn't mean they hurt any less.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. And he didn't know it but it was the best thing he could have done. To his joy, she turned around, almost immediately, flew to his arms and held him tighter than he'd ever imagined she could.

She was talking so fast he could barely hear her, but he was just glad she was in his arms. That was apology enough. He caught her last few words: I'm so afraid.

"Leave," he said. "Don't be afraid. Leave with me."

"He'll kill us," said Christine, shaking her head, her voice nothing but a despairing whisper that hinted at the darkness she couldn't—or wouldn't—leave behind. "He'll kill us."

And there was nothing Raoul could say to that. Not "I'm sure he won't," not "that's impossible". What did he know about anything, after all? Instead he held her tightly and thanked his lucky stars that she was in his arms for now, even if he could never hold her again.

"I hate him," he said with feeling. "I hate him for doing this to you. Tell me you hate him too, Christine—you must hate him!"

When she didn't make a sound, he said again, "Christine!" Bewildered and hurt and angry again. He put his hands on her shoulders, spoke firmly. "Tell me you hate him."

Christine raised agonised eyes to meet his. Her pupils dilated in the gathering darkness, making her look twice as scared. "I don't," she whispered finally, her voice a dead, drained breath that was drained of all the ethereality and promise that it had held before. "I can't."

Raoul said again: "Tell me you hate him."

"No." She was calm now, almost stone—didn't she realise what she was doing to him? Raoul could barely separate the hot mess of emotions that whirled within him, all of them wanting out. A tear or two trickled down his face—again!

He tried to ignore it. He couldn't totally lose control of himself here, now. "Why?" he said, as flatly as possible.

"Because I don't hate him. I don't hate him, Raoul! Oh, I wish I could make you understand!" she said; and in that moment, Raoul understood perfectly. He'd never wanted to be ignorant more in his life.

"It's because you love him, isn't it?"

"No."

"Christine," was all Raoul said, all he could manage. His hopes had shrunk to the size of a coin, were as dark as the night that was now surrounding them. Her silhouette against the full, clear white moon showed that her hair was falling out of its braid, falling around her distraught face in patterns that made her more heartbreakingly lovely than she should be, after doing something like this to him. They could have been twenty storeys higher than they were right now, and yet Raoul would still feel as though his heart had dropped all the way to the ground, perhaps even further.

"No. Yes. I don't know."

"You do, don't you?"

"Raoul, he scares me."

"It doesn't matter," said Raoul cruelly, turning around and walking away so that the moon couldn't shine any light on the tears that were following the first two. He didn't want her to know he was crying, especially not now. "You still love him. You've just been toying with me. Making me think you cared enough about me—that-that you might actually (and his next words were choked) love me."

"How can you say that?" she cried aloud, not seeming to care any longer that Erik could be listening. "How can you say something like that?" Raoul felt a kind of spiteful pleasure in making her break through her fear and speak loudly, just for him. And then he felt guilty and upset, because she was terrified and alone and he'd hurt her with what he'd said before, and he still loved her.

It wasn't fair.

And then she grabbed him feverishly by the front of his jacket and said, "Raoul, you must know how I feel about you, you must."

Raoul just stared at her, because by now he didn't know, hadn't got the foggiest, and was beginning to wonder if he'd ever had any idea at all. She had always been out of his reach, from the moment that he'd realised he'd fallen in love with her. He cursed that day.

And what she was doing now didn't make sense. He couldn't bear it. "Christine—don't."

She ignored him, but she was staring into his face, willing him to understand something with a passion he'd never, ever, seen in her before. "How could you not know? How?" And it looked like her whole heart was in her eyes and that she wanted him, really and truly, but before when she'd looked as if she wanted him to kiss her, she'd turned her head away, and she loved another man, and he was defeated—so, really, how could she want him?

And then before he could turn away from her, she moved closer and closer, until she was a breath away from him. She was staring up at him, with those eyes—those eyes that had bewitched him constantly, the eyes that still had him under their spell.

This really wasn't fair.

And then she moved her hand to his cheek, and he realised that she was doing exactly what he'd done to her before. And maybe this was a sign, a good sign.

Then she brought her other hand up to cradle his face, and by now Raoul could barely think of anything besides her touch. She was holding him, and not the man whose name he didn't know. Perhaps, perhaps—

Tentatively, he put his arms around her. She closed her eyes briefly, sighed, opened them again. She smelled like lavender. "Don't you know that I love you, Raoul?"

Perhaps she meant it. Damn it, she had to mean it. You didn't just say things like that and not mean it. Did you?

"No, I don't," he said softly, letting her see he was scared, hoping this wasn't all an elaborate dream his brain had constructed just to torment him.

"I'm confused, and I'm scared, and I'm sorry for making you go through this," she said, each word forming clearly in her mouth and floating off her tongue. "And I don't know what I'm doing. But I do love you. I couldn't not love you."

And then her eyes closed and she forced away the gap between their faces and then there was only a kiss that was everything he'd imagined it would be. He kissed her, couldn't stop kissing her; and then he needed to kiss her cheek, and her neck, and the hollow of her throat, and he realised he was crying again. But this time, she was too, and so he didn't care. She loved him, life was sweet and exhilarating and full of possibilities, and that was all that mattered.

Blindly, he kissed his way back to her mouth again, and when he felt the shape of it, he realised she was laughing. Laughing and crying all at once, and even more astonishingly, so was he.

She pulled back and she rested her head on his shoulder in a way that felt too perfect and right to be quite real, shaking with silent laughter. He drew her face up again, kissed her because she was so beautiful and good and scared and happy (and he sort of felt that way himself) that there was no way he couldn't at a moment like this.

"I don't know how this is going to work," she said, with laughter that didn't match the seriousness of her words, but seemed to bubble up in spite of everything. Raoul understood. He could understand anything at this moment. "He'll come for me, no matter where I run. I can't ever be free."

"I'll take you away, Christine," he said, hoping he could keep this promise. "He'll never find you."

"No; no, it won't work," she said, and though she hadn't stopped shaking she was no longer laughing; she was crying in earnest now. Crying from exhaustion and fear.

"Yes it will," said Raoul, and believed it with all his heart, because Christine loved him despite everything, and they'd kissed and they had the sort of bond that couldn't be broken—so how could it not turn out all right? He'd make it turn out all right.

"It won't," she said, nevertheless; and she sounded determined, as though she were trying to make herself believe it with all her strength. Her voice became not much more than a sob. "You can't make a promise like that, so don't. Let's just forget. Just kiss me tonight and, and—and we'll work out what to do in the morning."

Raoul obeyed.

They stayed there for a long while, two lovers standing on top of an opera house, entwined in the moonlight.

And a shadow who'd heard every word watched from above.

For some reason, I can't quite take this fic seriously. I just have this image in my head of actors playing it out, and Patrick Wilson hamming it up and going, "Damn it, Christine! You gotta love me, babe!" Like Kevin from Daria or something... uh, yeah.

Anyway, Patrick Wilson aside (say what now?), a review would be nice. Concrit is especially welcome, but not essential. I'd like to know what you thought, even if you hated it.