Erik is NOT Dead (Phantom of the Opera one-shots)

Kiss or Hug

Author's Note:

Dear Readers,

Yet another one-shot colab between myself and Christine-1990! This is a long one so be prepared to have your heart ripped to shreds over a long time. This one-shot was originally going to be a helping guide for us whenever we get around to writing our book together but then it turned into this and we decided to post it.

sarahlet2999

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Christine leaned back in her chair and sighed contentedly. The meal had been extravagant, covering all four courses, by far the finest she had enjoyed in her life. And, now, Erik had promised her a game, a game that would help them get to know each other in a safe, fun way. From her place in the parlor, she could hear the water running in the kitchen. She felt helpless, sitting in her chair, but he had specifically forbidden her from helping him. Respecting his wishes, she waited patiently for him to return and tell her what he had in mind.

The squeaking of the damp rag against the ceramic plate was quite unpleasant to Erik's sensitive ears as he did his best to hurry, but not rush. The thought of Christine waiting in the other room made his heart race. Of course, he couldn't allow her to help in the kitchen. She should never be made to work a day in her life.

Satisfied with his clean kitchen, Erik strode to the parlor, the spring in his step unmistakable. He was quite proud of himself in this moment, for he had come up with a game of sorts to play with his beloved. He had not yet perfected his little game, but he believed this would help him get to know the depths of the beautiful mind belonging to his angel.

Upon entering the room, he smiled paused a moment to look over Christine's features. Her small frame was engulfed in the large blood red armchair - his chair - but if she wished to sit there he would say nothing of it. The fire light glinted off her soft golden curls. These curls bounced a bit as she turned and smiled sweetly at him, causing his heart to flutter.

Beckoned by the smile, he crossed the room, his long legs carrying him gracefully around the sparse furniture. After winding his way around the back of the armchair, he padded across the thick Persian rug to the large corner desk that occupied the far left corner of the room. He retrieved the small glass jar from the dark ebony desk. Pivoting on his heel, he made his way to the plush armchair that stood across from Christine. He placed the jar on the tea table between them. A dozen or so strips of parchment twisted among each other in the clear jar, folded so the chooser could not read them ahead of choosing each slip.

"Alright, dear, let me explain how my game works. We will take turns choosing slips of paper from this jar. Each slip has a question on it. We will read our question aloud and each of us will answer it. You are, of course, welcome to decline any question you wish. I would never want you to feel uncomfortable. You are welcome to draw first if you like." He pushed the jar closer to her side of the table to reinforce his statement.

Christine perked up as she listened to the description of his game. The premise sounded very entertaining, and she inwardly celebrated getting to know some details about this man who she loved so very much. Reaching into the jar, she pulled out a slip of paper. She smoothed it gently in her lap and read the words scrawled in almost childish hand across the white paper.

"'Did you have an imaginary friend growing up?' Should I answer first or you?" She inquired shyly, wondering if the question was perhaps a little too intimate to start but willing to go along with it. Might as well dive in. I wonder if he did have any friends at all, even imaginary ones as a child? The thought made her sad, remembering his life story that his father had told her.