Chapter Text
The frantic rustling and fast tapping woke her up.
Christine slowly opened her eyes, feeling terribly tired, weak, and dizzy. She wanted to go back to sleep, but she knew that she wouldn’t be able to. She tightened a blanket around her and shivered. The air was cold and damp.
She felt tears threatening to fall down her cheeks. She swallowed down some sobs desperate to get out of her throat. She felt an enormous weight settling on her chest, making every breath a hard-won battle.
She didn't have to look around to know she was in the one place she never wanted to be again: Erik’s house. His own private underworld. She was lying on the couch in his study, with a soft pillow under her head, a glass of water on the coffee table beside her. A few scent diffusers working at full power, filling the air with a strong mint scent that surrounded her, as if she were part of some strange, dark ritual.
The room was scarcely lit - the only source of brightness was coming from a laptop and a table lamp on Erik’s desk. It was making all of Erik’s weird projects look both mysterious and terrifying. His foreign books lay not only on the wall shelves but also piled all over the floor. Jars filled with weird substances and suspicious objects were neatly stocked on the metal table, casting weird shadows on the walls. Experiments and machines, so complicated in their build that she couldn’t even dare to describe them, let alone guess their purpose, cast away in corners like forgotten toys. His notes were scattered all over the room - most of them torn, others crumpled up and only some of them left untouched in random places.
The master of the house stood right next to his desk. She saw his back as he was leaning over something that appeared to be a complicated map… or maps. Plans? She wasn’t sure. From time to time he typed on his laptop, marking things down. Then he rushed toward cupboards and shelves, searching for things that Christine couldn’t quite see. Most of the time he was bringing and packing them into a dark green trekking backpack lying next to the desk. Some of them, however, he hid in places she didn’t know could open. He was, as always, quite frantic and deeply focused on his work. Christine could almost see how his mind was racing a mile a minute.
For some time she observed him cautiously, not ready to confront him, her mind still quite foggy.
He looked different somehow. The thing about Erik was that he always looked impeccable if one overlooked his strange body. His suit was perfectly tailored, from materials of the highest quality, spotless and creaseless. Never revealing more skin than was absolutely necessary. The hair of his wig was always slicked down, very tidy and dignified. The porcelain mask, beautifully shaped, reminded her of Greek statues that she had seen in history textbooks. It was always clean, without a speck of dust. All of this was astonishing and quite unsettling, considering the circumstances.
This time, however, he looked… messy. His hair was ruffled from running his fingers through it too many times. His jacket was abandoned on the chair, while the front of his vest and white shirt were smeared with some dirt and black liquid. He looked unprepared and raw, much more human than she had ever seen him before.
He was glancing at her from time to time, but not really taking in her image - just as if he was briefly checking if she still was where he had left her. When he finally noticed she was looking at him, he didn’t say a word. His demeanor changed though. His shoulders tensed. His step became unnatural. He moved like puppets she saw once in Sweden. As if he’d forgotten how to move - a wooden man that tried his best to appear human.
Her steady gaze must have been quite distracting. Not long after his realization he shot her a feral look, abandoned his work and strode to the kitchen.
Minutes after, he surprised her by coming back with her a cup of hot sweet-smelling tea, a rare luxury that only a mad fool would risk his life to bring in the limited space of his backpack.
He stalked toward her, his whole front covered in shadow. He kneeled beside the sofa and put it on the table. Then, he nervously took one of the diffusers and put it right between them so that it was blowing humid air right in her face. She coughed slightly and pushed it a little bit further away. It caused a slight tremor in his hand and a short burst of panic in his eyes.
"Can you sit up?" he asked gingerly, with a gentle and calm voice.
As she forced her weak body to sit, he tried to hunch and lean a bit—probably to make his unsettling height less noticeable. It was for nothing, as he was still towering over her, even on his knees.
Then he gave her the cup. She looked at it suspiciously. Anxiety crept into her chest.
"Is it spiked?"
By the way he straightened up and tensed his jaw, she knew the question hurt him.
“How can you…” His voice was cold, at the same time emotionless and full of accusation.
But she wouldn't have it, so she interrupted him.
“Is it so wrong of me to assume after what just happened?” She didn’t intend it, but the question was dripping with resentment.
He lowered his head, not meeting her eyes. His hands tightened into fists on his knees.
“I suppose not,” he said bitterly. Then he continued a little bit quieter: “Drink. It’s clean.”
She hesitated, still not sure what to think.
He looked up, scowling at her.
“Or would you like me to take a sip first, love? To prove my innocence?”
Christine raised her brows but didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sure if he was saying it sarcastically or not. Either way, she deemed it too disgusting to consider.
She took one sip, and then another.
This visibly eased Erik. She saw his chest moving - he took some deep breaths, probably trying to calm down and get hold of his temper.
“How are you feeling? Do you feel any nausea? Pain?” Carefully, he took the empty cup out of her hands.
Having something warm to drink cleared her mind a bit. But every bit of fog and tiredness was instantly replaced by anger.
“I feel terrible,” she snarled. “My head hurts, I feel nauseous, my muscles hurt, and I don't feel my arm.” She hoped it would cut him deep.
Erik looked at her for a while. Then he sighed. He raised his hands and grabbed a corner of her blanket as if it could anchor him somehow. She grabbed it too, for the very same reason.
“Christine, you must understand, I… truly, I had so very few options…”
"Erik, you drugged me! Took me against my will! Again! Why the hell are these options always on the table? And why talking never is?!” she shouted, not able to stand it.
“Because you wouldn’t want to talk to me!” he gave as good as he got, shouting right back at her. But surprisingly, his voice was devoid of anger. His words were filled with the sorrow as deep as an ocean.
“I tried talking to you! But you never listen!” her voice cracked full of frustration and hopelessness. Tears threatened to fall. “God! I hate you! I hate you so much!”
His forehead, covered by the mask, was now almost pressed against the blanket he was holding in a pathetic bow.
"Forgive me. Christine, please forgive me,” he said hoarsely. His hand crept like a spider, quietly and insidiously, just to grab the sleeve of her sweater. He moved closer to her on his knees and looked at her with wide eyes. “You have the right to be angry. But… but, please Christine, don’t hate your Erik.” She leaned back to return the distance between them. His grip became tighter. “Strike him! Kick him, carve your anger into his skin, but don’t hate him. Say you don’t hate him! Tell him you don’t mean it, then!”
Strike him? Oh yes, that was tempting. She wanted to push him. She wanted to punch him. She wanted to pour all her anger onto him so he would finally understand how he was hurting her.
She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt with her left hand and roughly pulled him so he was now on the level of her eyes. Her right hand was curled in a fist, her muscles tense in anticipation.
But then she stopped.
Erik looked at her with wide, wild eyes, but he didn’t move. He didn’t breathe either.
Only when she saw his Adam's apple bobbing nervously and his eyes dropping to her lips for a split second did she understood what was going inside his head.
She pushed him away. She didn’t do it hard, but the motion seemed to make him fall back onto the ground. His chest was heaving.
“If you don’t want someone to hate you, drugging and abduction is a rather poor move,” she hissed, but not as fiercely as before, a bit taken aback by what had just happened. Then she added: “You could’ve just let me go.”
“I could also tear my heart out straight from my chest,” he said quietly.
She glared at him.
“You could’ve come with me.”
“They wouldn’t let me come.” He started to slowly stand up before her, rising back onto his knees. His every move was careful, as if she were a wild animal. “They would’ve slaughtered me in my sleep if they got a chance.”
She hesitated.
“I wouldn't let them.”
He stopped for a moment. He looked up hesitantly, his eyes filled with tenderness.
“You are such a sweet girl for saying that.”
He didn’t believe her in the slightest. She wasn’t sure she believed herself either.
When she didn’t respond, he sighed and continued:
“It no longer matters. We have far more pressing matters to concern ourselves with than futile what-ifs. It is done. You are with me now.”
His words worked like pouring fuel to the fire.
“That’s not true and you know it. I didn't agree to any of this. I didn't want to come here!”
His eyes narrowed, his body tensed.
“Ah, but you didn't run away either, did you?" he said bitterly, darkly. She saw his walls of defensiveness rising. Her adrenaline shot up, washing her over like a wave. "And Erik gave you the chance. You were the one who opened the door, not him. You chose this, Christine, no matter how much you want to deny it.” His voice was deep, dripping with warning. His eyes flashed dangerously. Her stomach tightened. “You wanted to be mine.”
“You’re delusional,” she gasped. “Erik, I did it to save you. I thought you had a broken leg! You lied to me!”
“I did.”
“Why?” This time he was the one to hesitate. He seemed to calculate his words.
“I would have said anything—anything—if it meant you would open that door, if it meant you would come with me… to safety” he said with force. Warning was still visible in his eyes, but for a split second the vulnerability crept in like an unwanted guest. Under his breath, he continued, “But it was never my plan to deceive you. I - I panicked.”
Bullshit.
“You told me you were an angel too,” she said, old wounds opening up, her voice breaking with hurt before she could think about it.
“And given the chance, I would do it a thousand times over,” he said, fire burning in his golden, glowing eyes. “I’m a selfish man, Christine. Never forget that.”
She felt as if he had slapped her. Did he enjoy toying with her? Making a fool out of her? She was too ashamed to ask.
“You are always destroying the last bit of sympathy I have for you.”
He laughed grimly. Chills ran down her spine.
He leaned closer, making her back off this time. A strong mint scent filled her nostrils.
“I do have that habit, don’t I, darling? But you do like sweet lies, Christine. It seems I cannot earn your sympathy any other way!” he hissed, as his pupils dilated. “And yet, as always, it proves fleeting as the wind—weak as a reed...”
"You should’ve just broken in,” she barked at him, cutting him off with bitterness and hurt. “You would’ve saved us both meaningless talk.”
With a sting of sorrow, she couldn’t help but notice that the same could be said about her.
She should’ve spared Raoul that meaningless talk on the rooftop. After all, she should have known that all of this was pointless. She never had any choice whatsoever.
The ring… his ring was never a token of friendship. It was a shackle.
And she was never free since the day a fallen angel called out to her that lonely night in the small, dark, cold, damp chapel hidden deep in the bowels of the opera house.
She hadn’t learned a thing since that day. She was the same stupid child she had been all those years before. The same idiotic little helpless girl who would sell her soul to the devil if he only smiled at her kindly.
She hated herself sometimes.
She wanted to hide away and cry. She wanted to hit something. She wanted to put her head under the water and never take it out again. She wanted to…
She sniffed quietly and squeezed her hands as her breath became erratic. She pushed her nails against her skin to the point of pain. Only a little bit more and she would draw blood -
“Christine.” He caught her attention. His voice was suddenly calm and comforting. Like liquid honey. Like waves crashing on the shore next to her childhood house. His voice was just like all those times ago when she was hysterically crying herself to sleep after losing her father.
She looked at him. She saw his concerned gaze softening with every second.
“I wanted you to choose me,” he started slowly, gently. It seemed as if he wasn't sure which words to use, every phrase caught in his throat. “As pathetic and unrealistic as it may be, I hoped that in the final moment, you would pick me.” He leaned down a bit to catch her gaze, his voice uncharacteristically empathetic. “Quite foolish, don’t you think? I believe these childish tendencies of his will be the death of me. It's astonishing, truly, that I can still harbor such hope at my age. But I guess everyone can afford to be a little bit naïve from time to time, don’t you think?”
She could swear that under his mask he was smiling gently. Or at least she wanted to believe that. Or was he manipulating her? She didn’t know any longer.
“You did open the door under threat of my death. I deceived you, as I did with many. No one has seen through it so far if I did not want him too.” He stopped for a second, giving her time to let out a pathetic soft sniffle. “Deception or not—what you did for me…” For another short moment, he seemed to be a bit lost in his own thoughts. He sighed.
“You are a good girl, Christine. Brave and just far too kind for your own good.”
They looked at each other for a while. She looked down and brushed off some unruly tears that escaped her eyes. She felt some of the weight on her chest disappearing—and she felt awful for that… but not as awful as she had felt just seconds ago.
He cleared his throat.
"Now, love, I must finally check your vitals. So tell me. Be honest, Christine. For heaven's sake, don’t lie to me right now. It is important.” He took a deep breath. “Did you answer my previous questions about your well-being honestly, or did you do it to upset me?”
The question surprised her. With the constant emotional rollercoaster he took her on, it was easy to forget what had happened minutes ago.
For a second, she wondered what she should say. Once again, she would look like a child before him. She could feel her cheeks burning.
"I don't have nausea, or any pain. I suppose I feel a little bit weak and dizzy, but that’s all,” she admitted quietly.
He didn’t comment on her previous lie, just nodded.
Then, he closed his eyes slightly as if preparing to receive a blow.
“Now, close your eyes and hold your breath. This may be unpleasant, but I must check your pulse."
She did not obey. He had already taken her awareness once. This time, she wanted to be present, no matter what happened.
He waited for a few seconds. She could almost hear him grinding his teeth.
"Do as you wish," he growled. He took the diffuser he’d brought and pushed it into her hands. Once again, it was blowing in her face.
He took off one of his leather gloves. Though the mint scent was strong, she could smell his scent cutting through it.
It was an awful stench assaulting her senses. He smelled like water after flowers that had been kept too long in the vase, like soil with a hint of spoiled meat. Like a rat that had been trapped in a long-forgotten trap. Like infected wandering the streets outside.
Erik smelled like death.
And his hand didn’t look better. Long, gnarled, spidery fingers looked like bones with paper-thin membrane stretched over them. Every vein on his hand was visible. His nails were a strange color — not pink, but bluish, purplish. Just like a corpse rotting in the grave that had been brought back to the surface a few days after its burial.
But in all its awfulness, his hand trembled violently. Its movements were rapid and unsure. He raised it and tried to touch her wrist with it.
She could almost feel his feather-like touch. She didn’t intend to, but she winced.
At once, he raised his hand, stretching his long fingers as if he’d been caught in a horrid act.
"I'm sorry," she said hastily. She had to be more on guard with him. He was reading her like an open book.
"Don’t.” His voice broke. His eyes were closed. He took a few deep, shaky breaths. “I know you don’t like my touch. I promise to make it brief. I only need to take your pulse, nothing more. You won’t even feel me.” He tried to sound assuring, at ease, but the pain seemed to be leaking from every pore of his body.
She hated that.
"It is okay. Your touch, I mean. It - It doesn't repulse me.”
“Too bad the opera is no longer working. You would be a marvelous actress, my love.” He laughed coldly, humorlessly.
Then he attempted again, even more hesitant than before, but this time she was still, expressionless. He took her hand in his own trembling and dead-cold palm. He pressed his two bony fingers to the inside of her wrist.
The trembling of his fingers stopped when he focused on the task; his grip became firm.
She often wondered how such a neutral action could feel so uncomfortably intimate. It was always like that when he offered her medical help. She still remembered that one time when she came to him in the middle of the night, bawling her eyes out.
Her tooth hurt like hell. She begged Erik to help her — preferably by giving her some medicine, or in the worst scenario, by cutting her head off. Anything to just stop the pain. His diagnosis was simple: he would give her some painkillers, but the tooth had to go.
What wasn’t simple was the process of diagnosis and the procedure. They spent almost two hours in a very close and uncompromising position. She wasn’t sure whose heart was beating faster then.
It was making her blush even now.
When Erik was done checking her blood pressure, he took his hand away so fast as if she had just scorched him. Then he stood and quickly hid it behind his back.
"Good. Your heart rate seems steady, and your temperature shouldn’t be too far off either… But you must be hungry.”
Her heart leapt with excitement. She nodded her head eagerly.
“I’ll bring you something in a minute.” His eyes shone. “Eat and rest. We should manage to depart in two hours."
He went to the kitchen, his step much more energetic than before.
The smell reached her long before the food itself. It was rich and comforting, sweet and tangy with acidic notes. She could swear there was some garlic from the sharp, mouthwatering pungency.
After five minutes, Erik was once again next to her. And with him, there was food.
A steaming bowl of spaghetti.
The pasta looked perfectly soft and glossy, coated in a promising red sauce. It had a sprinkle of fresh green herbs and small chunks of — dare she dream — meat in it.
Real food. Not a fish can with tomato and some awful bland cracker. Not some puffy, plastic sweet bun.
She felt overwhelmed. Her stomach twisted in anticipation as she swallowed. Saliva was now being mass-produced in her mouth.
He gave her the bowl, murmuring softly something about eating slowly and choking, but she didn’t listen to him.
She practically inhaled the food.
“I told you that you could always come here if you were hungry.”
She knew, but food didn’t come from thin air, and he had to eat too. Not to mention that every time she went to Erik’s lair, the risk of not coming back increased.
With her stomach full, she was feeling much better. But it came with the old shame and guilt.
She was sitting here, warm and comfortable, stuffing her mouth, while up there were people fighting for their lives.
…Were they? How much time had passed since Erik drugged her? What happened to the opera survivors?
It wasn’t a good idea to bring up this topic. He was in a better mood than before, and she knew it would anger him again. But she had to. If there were people trapped on the upper levels of the opera house, Erik might be the only person able to help them. She might be able to convince him to lead them outside safely… And if she played it smart, she might get a chance to escape too.
Christine put aside the empty bowl and drank some water. She was halfway done with it when she mustered the courage.
"Angel?"
He hummed, signaling he was listening, apparently pleased to hear his old nickname. Some wrinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes.
The name still felt wrong on her tongue. She hadn’t used it for weeks.
"How much time has passed when I was unconscious? Were people able to escape?"
“A day. I believe most of them are still locked in the rooms. Some managed to flee by the back door and windows, but not many.”
She hugged herself with the blanket, bracing for the venom that was about to come after the next question.
“Did Raoul…?” he didn’t let her finish, interrupting roughly:
“I believe your boy has abandoned you, darling,” he mused, turning back to her. He paced toward the desk so she couldn’t see his eyes. He tapped out a lively, nervous rhythm on the table and continued, "He did not open the door. He did not run after you. He did not search for you. No - he is far away now, in the jolly company of that shrieking Italian wench and her little pet."
She nipped her cheek from the inside. Was he lying again?
She didn’t want to believe him, but if Raoul thought she was bitten Erik’s claim would be possible. Even more so than if he believed she was dead. If what Erik was saying was true, he had made a good decision. The risk was not worth it. But she couldn’t help feeling hurt. After all, he told her he loved her.
"No one would do the things you say," she tried to reason both with him and herself.
“I would,” he said under his breath.
His response made her laugh faintly.
Yes, that one she could believe.
“And if I would try to eat you?” she raised her brows.
"Beggars can’t be choosers, my love." She couldn’t quite say if he was sincere or joking.
"You are a madman."
He laughed morbidly.
"I’m truly surprised you ever believed otherwise."
She shivered. Then she remembered the purpose of this conversation. He was distracting her.
“Angel?”
He looked at her from above and snapped dangerously:
"If you intend to ask again about your lover, I strongly advise you to hold your—"
“Please save them. Those who didn’t manage to run away,” she pleaded, not seeing the purpose of beating around the bush. If she asked directly, maybe the question would look more innocent.
He looked at her and crossed his arms, then scoffed.
“You have no idea what you are asking for.”
“Just do what you did yesterday! Turn on the music, let them escape. Or take them here… I don’t know, Erik,” she pleaded pathetically. “You are much smarter than me. I’m sure you could think of a hundred different ways of how to help them on the spot. Please.”
He stalked toward her like a predator.
“Maybe I can.” His mask was covered by shadows. His feral eyes shone. “But why the hell should I do that?”
He caught her off guard.
“…Because they will starve to death, be eaten… Or they will get infected,” she felt weird even having to explain that. “Please, Erik. Nobody deserves a fate like this.”
“Is your hearing bad all of a sudden, darling?” If his voice could kill, she would be long dead. “I don't care. Those fools can starve, eat themselves or throw themselves out of the window as far as I am concerned. They wouldn’t be the first ones.”
Her stomach turned. She felt nauseous. He looked like an animal, devoid of any human impulses. Where was the man that was feeding her talking to her so softly only moments ago?
In situations like that he reminded her with whom she was truly dealing, even when most of the time he tried to make her think otherwise.
She missed Raoul. He would hug her and honor her wishes. He would want to help. He would do anything to save those people.
“How can you sentence them to death?”
“Which one of them would help me, if the tables were turned? Who? Who, Christine?” He waited two seconds for her answer, but she had none. “Those people would kill me without a second thought even if I begged for mercy.”
She quietened, then took a shaky breath.
There was no point in appealing to his conscience. If there was any, it was too twisted. She had to try a different approach.
God help her.
“I’ll do whatever you ask. Please - I’ll go where you want. Willingly. I will not run away.”
He looked at her curiously. His head tilted to the right, his eyes still burning.
Now, she had his attention. A good start.
At least that's what she thought until he laughed as if she had just told him the best joke he'd ever heard.
“I have that one already.”
She closed her eyes and grimaced. His voice, his laugh, , his awful words were so awfully beautiful, so angelic. So unfit.
“Where would you run? As much as I have taught you, you have no experience in surviving. You must follow me, dear, if you want to live. Most of the life you knew is over now. And the remaining is in my hands.” He seemed pleased with himself.
His words chilled her and angered her at the same time. As he promised that awful night, he was going to spirit her away from the opera house to God knows where. And she had no control over it whatsoever.
She let out a shaky sigh. She didn’t want it to come to this, but she would have to try a different approach. A much more dangerous one.
“Then what do you want?” she asked anxiously.
His eyes shined. He started pacing around the room excitedly.
She feared that he might ask for too much. Erik was a cruel man. A hungry man. With him, it was always all or nothing. She knew he longed for her touch. For how much was he going to ask?
He was deep in thought for some time. With every second, his excitement became more timid. His body became more tense, his movements more nervous.
Then he froze. He looked at her and after a few moments he whispered something so quietly she didn’t hear him.
“Pardon?”
“A kiss.”
Oh no.
She closed her eyes. Images from that ghastly night, when she saw his maskless face for the first time, flashed before her eyes.
She felt nauseous all over again. A kiss. Absolutely disgusting… Yes, but then, she guessed she should be thankful that it wasn’t more.
She could survive a kiss. After all, he didn't specify where she should kiss him and for how long. It didn’t have to look like when Raoul kissed her. For all she knew she could kiss him in a mask. It wouldn’t be so bad.
She nodded slowly. His breath hitched.
He sat there, flabbergasted, blinking hard, waiting for her to add something. She guessed, he thought she would refuse. Or at least negotiate.
But she wasn’t going to negotiate over people’s lives.
“Good… Good. But when they depart the opera—I can vouch for no more beyond that moment. They will be on their own.”
He pointed his long finger at her, stating it firmly, as if he thought the price for a kiss wasn’t getting people out of the opera but nurturing them throughout their lives.
“I agree, but…” He looked at her expectantly, guarded.
There was one thing she had to bargain for. Erik was a sly creature. If not stated directly, he would use her inattention to his best profit. And she couldn’t afford that.
“Please, if you meet Raoul above, save him too.”
“He is gone.”
“Erik…”
“No.”
“Please, Angel. You will send him away, and he will be gone for me just as you say!”
He started pacing again, tugging on his vest nervously, apparently deep in thought. She too felt fear gripping her throat. Would he refuse or ask for more? She didn’t have to wait long for the response.
“Two kisses then,” he rasped, and quickly continued as if afraid of what she would say. The look in his eyes reminded her of the men her father used to play roulette with. “One for their lives and one for his. One kiss now and one promise - a kiss to keep for later.”
So he had lied about Raoul after all.
“And you will cast him from your thoughts! Whether dead or alive, he will be lost to you forever."
She felt a pang in her chest.
She nodded.
He let out his breath.
Now the difficult part she knew she couldn’t really escape. Raoul couldn’t save her from it either.
She wanted to stand up, but he stopped her.
“Stay there. I- I’ll come.”
With those words, he came near the bed and once again fell to his knees. His shaky breath betrayed him, so did his jerky movements.
Once, he claimed that she was weak and scared easily, but it was his hands that trembled on his knees, his eyes tightly closed, and his soft, shallow panting that filled the silence. His chest was rising and falling so fast she was afraid he was going to faint, his head lowered.
He looked like a child preparing for a severe punishment, not a man receiving a kiss.
Emotions swirled in her mind in an angry storm. She couldn’t decide how she felt. There was a lot of everything. She was still scared of him, still disgusted and so angry at him. But the amount of pity she felt was vast.
Honestly, she even felt bad doing it.
Even worse when he jumped as she touched his shoulder gently.
She wondered if she should ask him if he was sure he still wanted this, but it would probably make things even more complicated.
She sighed and waited for a second, wondering if he would take the mask off. When he didn’t make any move indicating he was going to do it, she moved closer, relieved.
It was awkward, really.
She pressed her lips to the cold, porcelain mask, where a forehead should be. The unmoving surface was nothing like Raoul’s warm skin. It was a sad parody of what might have been if she had been bolder.
His shoulders trembled, as if the contact struck a nerve. His body tensed even more. For a second she thought he would crumble. She looked down alarmed, and when she let him go, she realized he was holding in an ugly, painful sound that fought to escape his chest. He swallowed it back as if choking. Then, he covered his eyes with his hand quickly so she couldn’t see even this part of his face
He stood up before she had a chance to ask him if he was all right. He cleared his throat and swayed away as if he had just been hit by a car.
He went to his desk and grabbed it for support, only to start gathering some things minutes later. He was silent again, focused and fully upright. If it wasn’t for the occasional small lift of his mask in order to wipe his face with a sleeve, she wouldn't have guessed something happened between them only minutes ago.
He packed a bag full of things she didn’t know the name for - some weird complicated electronic devices she saw him working on multiple times, but never had the courage to ask about. He made some notes and marked a few things on his blueprints. When he was ready he drew his long black coat about him like a shroud. He took the bag and slowly went to the door leading outside of his study. Just when he was about to step out, he stopped.
For a second she wondered if he wanted her to go with him, but she knew she would probably be only a hindrance for him.
“You will wait here,” he said after a while. “Escaping is futile and dangerous. You know it.”
She said nothing. His attempt at menace trembled out like a poor imitation of anger. He huffed, impatient, knowing it sounded wrong. Then his voice changed and reminded her why everybody feared the opera ghost.
“If you try to leave, I will know. I will let them die. Then I will come and find you - and you will wish the infected had eaten you.” She felt a chill. “You will obey me. You will wait for me. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Christine.”
“Yes.”
“When I’m back, we’re leaving.”
He opened the door to leave.
“Wait.”
He froze.
After all this, she should know better than to say what she was about to say. She should want him dead. She should pray for him to never come back. He was her worst nightmare. He was threatening her. What the hell was wrong with her? She should just send him away…
He looked at her. His eyes were red from crying.
She felt a pang of pain in her chest.
“If… I- I know you are competent… You will save them.” she hesitated before continuing. “But if - if things get too dangerous, just… ” her voice broke. “ leave - just leave, okay? Save yourself.”
She didn’t think she could dislike herself more than when she left Raoul. Apparently, she was wrong. She didn’t understand herself, recently. She seemed to be a slave to a ghost of old, rotten friendship.
But sending Erik to die was out of the question.
She looked deep into the eyes of that broken, sick man searching for his agreement, any kind of confirmation. But he surprised her.
“I love you” his voice was small, so different from the booming power it showed seconds before. His golden eyes met her, affection seemed to pour from every pore of his body. Then, without a second glance he left, knowing there would be no answer, no confession back.
With his disappearance she felt the weight leave her; the tension ebbed.
But the fear remained.