Between Mirrors and Roses (A Phantom of the Opera Fanfiction) ✓

8: The Aftermath

Dedicated to my best friend, who has been editing every chapter. This would not be the same story without you.

Erik

I had expected Christine to be cast as the pageboy in Il Muto; I had heard the managers talking and knew of their plan to spite me. I had expected Christine to find the hidden door in the wall once I guided her where to look; she was smart, the smartest person I had met in a long time. I had not expected her to kiss me.

Her lips were soft and warm and their warmth spread through me like a hot drink, like a dose of morphine dispersing in my veins and leaving me intoxicated. She pulled back too soon, large doe-eyes staring up at me questioningly, fearfully—as if she could ever be faulted for showing me affection I didn't deserve.

I was at a loss. In front of me stood an angel who had kissed me without prompting, without warning, and left me speechless for the first time in years. I fought the simultaneous urges to both push her away and pull her back, crushing my mouth against hers. Instead I stood in my indecision, arms hanging uselessly in the air, for once finding nothing to do.

Oh, if only she were an instrument I could tune to sing the song I wanted-never faltering except when I was at fault, never doing anything unexpected. I had tried to treat her like a beloved violin, taken out and used when I wanted its company and easily put aside when I was through. I had invested a year learning how she sounded—learning how to shape her voice as if it were only an exquisite instrument that needed perfecting. But she was not a violin; she was a human person and humans were unpredictable.

She had enchanted me with her company, softened me with her kindness and intelligence and childlike wonder, and now kissed me.

I had stood still for too long, and Christine was nervous and confused. Why could I not say something to comfort and reassure her? How I had longed for this, dreamt of this, and here it was: Christine had kissed me. Christine had... Why did I now falter? Was it so impossible that I could be loved? I had always believed it to be, and in all my longing and dreaming, I had never truly viewed it as something attainable. I was not prepared for the flood of dreaded emotions that accompanied this simple, human action.

I backed slowly away from her, leaving her hugging herself in the middle of the room. My uncertainty and my lack of response had stolen the joy from her expression. I had stolen it.

I turned from her accusing eyes and ran.

...

Christine

I wasn't sure what I'd expected—I hadn't thought through what I was doing—but when Erik ran from me in terror, an icy wave of guilt spread through my chest. I should have known what the effects of his first kiss would be. Had I somehow convinced myself that I was not Christine? That he was not Erik? In the books, and in the musical, which we seemed to be following, every touch Erik received was charged with meaning, especially kisses. Christine's kisses incapacitated him and turned his murderous fury to remorse.

So I should have known that kissing him without warning would shock him to the core. I didn't know why I did it, but in that moment, I saw all that we could be together. I wanted him to understand how I felt in a way no words could express.

I paced the room, and the house, for hours. Tears stung my face. What had I done? What was he thinking?

I remembered the taste of him and the smell of him: something like ink and cold night air and sweat that was unquestionably masculine.

Why hadn't he returned? I wondered if he ever would.

...

Erik