milady-pink

[milady-pink]

Pride & Prejudice AU

Part of an ongoing series of oneshots that explore Erik and Christines souls finding the other across the multiverse: Anywhere You Go

“A young gentleman is said to have rented Foxwood Fields!”

Christine, who had been busy reading one of her favorite novels, looked up to where her adoptive sister had just entered the room. Unfortunately, at the age of eight her father passed away unexpectedly which left Christine without any parents since her mother passed during childbirth. Ms Giry, by the goodness of her heart, adopted Christine as well as took care of her father during his final days, promising to see that his child lived to become a well mannered young woman who will marry an adequate gentleman.

Every one of her new mother’s promises had turned true, except for the marriage. At the age of twenty-one Christine felt her aspirations were far different than those of her sister, Meg. Where she was every bit the social butterfly and more than excitedly awaiting the day that a suitor— preferably rich and handsome— would ask for her hand in marriage, Christine would rather wait for a suitable gentleman whom she loved deeply and respected just as much as he respected her. Aside from their marital aspirations, the two girls also had significant differences in their personalities: while Meg found enjoyment by practicing her needlepoint or gossiping about fellow townsfolk, Christine much preferred the company of a well written book and intellectual conversation. Despite these differences the two had a bond most would agree is stronger than those who were joined by blood, many nights spent whispering about their dreams while the stars twinkled above.

Another reason she has had such few suitors was due to her self-proclaimed wit and expectations for a man. Her sister generally could not care if her husband knew any current literary work or could hold a conversation about anything that required energy, but Christine needed a companion who held her interests and refused to settle for someone she did not wholly see herself with. The thought of a mediocre marriage— not to mention one simply for profitable gain— was beyond her comprehension. If one was to be married they should be filled with love for one another, a love that will stand the tests of time, and if Christine never found such qualities in a man along with not putting a burden on her dear adoptive mother she would have no quarrels but to die an old maid.

—————————————————————————————————————

Sir Nadir Khan was quite the handsome fellow— and his mind certainly not the barren landscape Christine had at first imagined— his added charm of well learned manners made his character amiable and seems to have easily become one of the most popular men in town. In the simplest of words, he was a fine individual for whom a future bride will be the town’s envy. Christine herself, however likeable Mr Khan was, found him to be a bit too pepper for her taste in a man as he was surely enjoying the night’s festivities far more than she was.

The ball itself was a splendid affair; the great assembly room was brightly decorated with fresh flowers from the garden, candles lit up every corner of the room, and the crystal chandelier above shined its own dance in time with the dancing couples. Christine— who busied herself by examining one of the many paintings in the room— wore a yellow-cream dress and had her hair pinned up by a comb her mother allegedly wore before her passing. It was the only thing Christine had to remember her, having been too young to remember her features. As the live musicians began to descend their sound, Christine turned her attention back to the dance floor.

Immediately she spotted Meg—beautifully dressed in a peacock blue gown with pearl pins in her hair— dancing with who else but the man of the hour; Mr Khan. Christine smiled to herself, happy for her sister who would surely bring about a shared discussion as they danced. Her smile grew when she remembered that this was not their first dance of the night, but their second, remembering how just a few months ago she still acted as a young girl admiring the uniformed soldiers. While Christine would have been happy to partake in the festivities herself, she had never found these social moments her favorite.

Against the backdrop of a pianoforte player, who decided the night’s atmosphere was in need of the same playing that a young child just learning to dress themselves would play, Christine thought about the book she had left unfinished at home. Hoping for the night to end swiftly and soon, as there was little enjoyment to be found here.

And to make matters worse Christine had just made eye contact with the one person everyone has been avoiding since his arrival.

A man of roughly double her height and half her weight— which was already thought to be slim to none— stood at the edge of the dance floor acting like the affair was a bore. Introduced as Sir Erik Destler, owner of Rosewood Manor, came by the request of the ball’s very own honoree. For the first time in seemingly ages, Christine had the same questioning thought as the rest of the room; how on earth could two such polarizing gentlemen be on friendly terms? Nonetheless, he came by the behest of his friend and chose to accomplish the bare minimum of making an appearance.

And what an appearance he had.

As one of the tallest men in the room, Mr Destler drew the attention he seemingly wanted nothing to do with. While it was common for the men to wear their regular suit jackets and trousers, Mr Destler somehow made the regular black look even darker then the rest of his peers. Most likely it was the sharp features and keen, observant eyes that made their place upon his face. Although the gentleman was simply watching the festivities take place, his eyes made such a simple act look as if he was scrutinizing the crowd (and quite possibly the room they inhabited as well). He was a most handsome person��� if not in the opposite ways of the soft and warming manner of Mr Khan— but there was an allure that existed around him. It was an air of mystery that Christine had never seen before, one she had only ever read about as a foreboding to certain characters.

His mask, of course, was the most striking thing about him. It was stark white, covering the entirety of his right side, but left a gentle contour of his cheekbone trying to blend in with its flesh twin. The mask was the greatest warning for most women to stay away should he dare to leave his shadows and ask the hand of a woman to dance, and in this way Christine felt some empathy towards the man. In the similar way his mask told those around him something not said with words— a certain message sent out that marked him before getting the chance to introduce himself properly— Christine was marked by much the same message being an orphan.

Ms Giry did her best to welcome her into their family, but Christine knew that she would always come last when it came to most everything. Should Ms Giry pass away before her sister was married and well, she would be last in line for any scrap of an inheritance. Along with this, if she wasn’t as close in size to Meg as she was, Christine would be made to wear the dresses handed down from other girls of her stature who had outgrown them. It wasn’t so much an insult as it was a harsh reminder of how the world takes care of those who lose their guardians before they have come of age to be married off or sent to the militia.

Perhaps it was a poor idea to absently think of the curious stranger whilst gazing in his direction, for Christine had found herself staring across the dance hall at the very gentleman who occupied her thoughts. What was worse was how he stared back, slightly surprised yet not quite angry at her acknowledgment. Feeling utterly mortified, Christine ducked her head down and focused on the detailed wood flooring as she felt her cheeks felt aflame. Even more terrifying was the man’s voice— that could be heard just outside her view— addressing her.

“Miss Giry, may I have the honor of the next dance?”

Turning her head towards the man’s voice— one she had not heard before— and was once again staring at the one who had taken residence in her head. Before her, Mr Destler appeared to have grown even more as her head barely made his chin, and his eyes bore into hers when she realized why they had the affliction they did: their color was a deep yellow. Still dazed from the fact that he was standing before her, Christine would not realize until later as she recalled the night’s events that he knew her name without ever having spoken to her before.

After shaking herself from her reverie— giving Mr Destler an affirmative answer— he held her hand and led her towards the center floor, quite stiffly she thought.

The two danced and followed the rest of the crowd through the appropriate movements. His dancing was of high quality which, when coupled with his manners and propriety, affirmed the suspicions that he is of a noble and wealthy household— evidently the one shared aspect of his and Mr Khan’s friendship. But the hope for a light or casual conversation with her dance partner was lost as he chose to remain in amicable silence rather than partake in a meaningless chat. It was clear after Christine tried to engage him by bringing up usual topics such as the weather, or the ball itself, but was instead met with Mr Destler’s curt replies. One thing that would plague her mind for far longer than she would care to admit, was how his eyes seemed to shine with something akin to excitement when she commented on the ill playing of the pianoforte.

His response of, “If they had done the job of tuning the ancient thing the room would be a different hue,” was the longest of his replys. Choosing to honor his wishes for silence during the dance, Christine instead let her mind wander to his appearance— using their proximity to her advantage— and was surprised by what she saw. His mask, for example, what she once thought was nothing but a barren landscape of white in fact had the softest of pinks dusted on the cheek, the color bringing some life into the object. It was such a small detail but it stuck to Christine’s thoughts and for what reason she could not say. Perhaps because it made him appear less like the ghostly figure he is seen as from afar, and more like the human man that wears it. But to her dismay she shifted her gaze back to his eyes— somehow glowing from the candlelight— and saw within them a kind of sadness that reminded her of when a friend would betray your trust and sell your secret.

Finally the song ended and, after making an abrupt courtesy to Mr Destler, Christine once again found herself at the dance floor’s edge, only this time happy to be alone. She tried desperately not to wince at the thought of how embarrassing she had been to Mr Destler. Within her ranking of her family, tonight it seems she went from being a spectator of the humiliation they caused to being declared the winner of a sport she wished had never entered the room. This solitude was fleeting however, as Meg came strolling up to where she stood. Her eyes were distant and her lips in a crescent, clearly having enjoyed what Christine found to be a dismal evening. To anyone looking on they would see two young women chatting, when it was entirely Meg talking Christine’s ear off about her budding feelings for Mr Khan. She spoke of how he kissed her hand, held her waist, even stared into her eyes until she felt she would never breathe again— at the very same time, the very two gentlemen of whom the sisters were reflecting began to start their own conversation a mere few feet behind her. With her sister still going on, Christine tried her best to eavesdrop on the two’s conversation without coming across as overly eager.

“My friend, of all your worldly travels, do you not agree that Meg Giry is by far one of the most beautiful creatures there ever were?” The voice of Mr Khan could be heard asking, but Christine dared not think of who he was chatting with. Though rather than hear Mr Destler say anything, he simply hummed in bored approval. “It would do you good to have a delightful evening,” he continued, his voice giddy by his blossoming romance. “Why not a ask a young lady to dance? Meg’s sister, Christine, she is quite a pretty girl, no?”

As she awaited to learn his response, Christine found herself holding her breath, a fact of which she would deny to herself later.

“She is tolerable,” he began, “but it takes more to entice me. She seems to offend far too easily for a girl of her societal order.”

Christine stood there, aghast that such a man would have the audacity to say such a thing about someone he met once and who refused to speak with while dancing. A dance which he inquired of her for, further proving the fact that Mr Destler was but a avaricious man who couldn’t stand to hold a conversation with a well-read woman. As a woman she could not stand by and let his opinion go unchallenged.

Before Mr Khan had the opportunity to call out his friend about his chosen words, Christine left Meg to her juvenile prattling as she swiveled her body’s position to be facing her intimidator. Mr Destler bore an unreadable expression— though even if he showed true shame it still wouldn’t have qualed Christine’s hurt— while Mr Khan appeared to have taken interest in her arrival.

“Ms Giry—“ He tried.

“It amazes me you still speak, Mr Destler, for you’ve already insulted me in every way possible,” she told him, “and if you must address me let it be known that I use my late father’s surname, Daae, a name that this lowly orphan hold with pride,” and with that left the two men gaping in her wake. Christine could not dare to spend another minute in that ballroom, so despite her sister’s calling of her name, she continued walking until she found herself staring at her carriage’s door.

And thus was the end of an abysmal evening.

_________________________________________________________________________

Meg had fallen ill.

Since the night of the unfortunate ball, many things had happened: the once budding— now properly blooming— romance of the eldest Giry daughter and Mr Khan continued to grow, while the relation between Christine and Mr Destler was at a placid standstill. There were few, yet eventful, parties that were thrown come the weeks following— at which became the plotting for certain occurrences.

For example, during the small gathering held by the Lucas’, it was of no surprise that Mr Khan chose to dance with Sorelli more times compared to the other ladies. At this same gathering, Mr Destler seemed to be actively listening to a conversation involving Christine and the host about a young autheress seeking fortune through writing. She had been speaking of the positive aspects that came from a woman having made her own means of finances, away from her husband, when she noticed Mr Destler watching and listening to her words with more attention than she imagined he possessed. It struck Christine as an oddity, yet she could not understand his actions besides which to later mock her for such thinking with his more wealthy colleagues.

There had also been two instances at the Bingley’s home gathering. The first was the bewildered request by Mr Destler to Christine for a dance, which was most out of character; both after what happened at the meeting hall as well as Mr Destler’s custom to socialize as little as possible and certainly not to seek out the hand of a lady. Then there had been the dinner party at the incredibly stuck up Guidicelli’s home where luck would have it Christine was seated next to none other than Mr Raoul DeChagney, an officer of the royal militia. He was a devastatingly handsome young man who seemed to take interest in Christine, choosing to lean in multiple times to whisper into her ear— for which they were scolded by their host. When questioned about his lack of presence at the multiple balls held around town, he admitted that his work and training had kept him occupied.

Not only was he quite a companion to look at, but it turned out that he and Christine had a shared foe; one Mr Destler. A few years ago Mr DeChagney’s father had unfortunately passed, leaving he and his siblings a substantial inheritance yet when he requested Mr Destler— the son of his father’s employer— for his share, he refused to provide it. This went directly against his and Mr Destler’s father’s wishes, and when asked about it he received no explanation for such a cold action. Mr DeChagney also admitted that this quarrel, and therefore Mr Destler’s presence, was a leading reason for why he chose not to attend the social gatherings.

For Christine, this revelation was anything short than surprising, yet she still found herself gaping at how such a man can do something so soulless to an already grieving son. It was easy to push Mr Destler further into the much disliked— bordering animosity— portion of her opinionated mind.

On a crisp spring evening a letter arrived at dinner asking that, if she so wished, Meg could spend a day at Foxwood Fields and enjoy the company of Mr Khan along with some friends. A few mornings later and she was on her way to the manor with the Giry’s horse Caesar, a plan that Ms Giry believed to be genius as it was set to rain later that day. Due to her lack of coach Mr Khan— believing that he is a proper host who takes care of his guests and their needs— would subsequently ask Meg to spend the night at Foxwood, prolonging their time and thus strengthening their relationship and prospect of engagement.

Unfortunately their plan had worked a bit far too well, for the midmorning’s downpour left poor Meg with skirts soaked to her knees and had caught a cold. After receiving the letter that her sister had fallen ill Christine chose to go and tend to her until she was well enough to come home. Rather than herself take a carriage, Christine chose to hike through the fields with the calming knowledge that there was to be no rain forecasted that day.

Her embarrassment began the moment she stepped foot into Foxwood, as the guests— which included the Khan’s and Mr Destler— continuously stared at her dirty stockings and sweat ridden brow. At the moment, she was certain that the entire household, including the dog, held her in contempt for wearing and walking about in soiled clothing.

After being shown to where her sister resided, Christine began to take on the role for which she was sent for. She would wash and replace the cold cloth to lower her fever, she helped un then redress Sorelli her dressing gown, and once the more laborious tasks were completed she kept her company by reading to her. At present she had fallen asleep, so Christine quietly walked out the room and closed the door to give her a restful sleep. While wandering the halls of the house a maid told her that dinner was being served in the dining hall, so Christine thanked her then made her way to rejoin the rest of the company.

Dinner was awkward to say the least, though Mr Khan tried his gentlemanly best to keep conversation light and pleasant given the circumstances, choosing an optimistic view of Meg’s hindrance as its own invitation to another guest. By his insistence Christine was to stay the night lest she become ill for having traveled back home by foot in the black of night; her presence also deemed nourishing for her sister’s chance at a quick recovery. Their host was as amiable as the man he presented himself as outside of the manor, yet Christine found herself still suffering from her earlier actions. Mr Destler had set about making her time at the manor as uncomfortable as possible, choosing to steal as many glances towards Christine as he could, making her resist the urge to squirm under his eyes. Despite this she still did not regret having told him off after what he said the very first night they met.

Mr Khan had made a claim that while he found Meg to be the loveliest Giry, he believed her loveliness must stem from her household and its residents— making a show of nodding to Christine. Surprisingly, Mr Destler added that a family’s wealth did not dictate how well mannered or taught a person becomes— though he shortly conceded by saying he himself would never allow his sister to traverse such an expedition nor found a family lacking certain resources adequate for marriage. After his words, Christine chanced a glance of her own and caught the look of something simmering in his eyes, taking note of how his mask emanated a glow from the above lighting. It made her think of the moon peeking behind a cloud in an otherwise absent sky.

After eating the guests made their way to the parlour room, each one having chosen a different place to settle as the conversation segued onto what made an accomplished woman. It was at this moment that Mr Destler decided to join the conversation, claiming that, “There are far more than skillful hobbies that make a woman accomplished.” His timbre from where he stood by the pianoforte brought the room’s attention to befall on him— something he disliked by his sudden shift to a stiffer frame.

“Well,” Mr Khan said, trying to rope his friend into the exchange, “do tell what those attributes are?”

Mr Destler stretched his impossible height even more, unaccustomed to the attention of guests— however few there may be— especially after Christine found such a moment to attune her scrutiny towards the gentleman, unnerving him further.

“For a woman to be laudable for even half the title of ‘accomplished’, she must excel in all things that make one a successful conversationalist. She cannot pick up a talent for a fortnight then abandon it once the true challenge starts, similarly with her schooling, languages, worldly knowledge and news; anyone who is not well taught in all fields should not even be considered ‘accomplished’. Notwithstanding, I believe besides her intellect an accomplished woman is one who possesses a certain air about her; she collects the gazes of everyone she encounters, something alluring in the way she walks, talks, smiles, as well as her general being. A woman, of valuable accomplishments, is one who is effortlessly capable of discussing any topic while simultaneously not boring those listening with her grace and elegance.”

“I’d like to know in which world such a woman of knowledge, talent, and allure united into one being lives,” Christine muttered, unaware that her companions had heard.

“Ms Daae,” their host began, turning the focus on her, “what say you? ‘An accomplished woman.’”

Christine thought for a moment, turning her attention to a painted vase that had been placed on the pianoforte, of which she stood beside. “I, as a woman, believe that one of my sex is to be considered accomplished when she herself feels herself has gained an accomplishment. It depends on what one finds to fit the criteria; if a mother who just gave birth for the first or third time, that to her is very well an accomplishment. Should a girl who just completed her years at a seminary, now well taught in the areas of needlework, music, and languages,” she made a point to glance at Mr Destler— who stood opposite her of the instrument, “her completion, rather than her newly acquired skills, becomes her accomplishment. Or if a woman who chooses to abstain from marriage, childbirth, and every aspect of domesticity in want for an independent existence and career, such a woman should be permitted to declare these things accomplishments. What really matters is what each woman wants from her life, and what challenges she’s gone through to achieve it, that determine how accomplished one is. More so, the question is not, ‘what makes an accomplished woman?’, but rather, ‘what accomplishments has this woman already achieved by her account?’.”

The room fell silent— for the briefest of moments— as each person let the gravity of Christine’s words set in. Once it had been absorbed by the group, Mr Khan was the first to break the silence. Against her better judgment, Christine chanced a glance across the pianoforte at her opponent, finding a sincere look upon his face; something which Christine hoped meant her proclamation had made an impression on the obstinate gentleman.

“Well,” he brought a closed fist to clear his throat. “As much as I do agree with you, Ms Daae, that one’s accomplishments are only decided by oneself, if I remember correctly this question came about in relation to said woman being a wife; and as far as the concern for whether an accomplishment is salient to a wife, I must agree with my friend,” Mr Khan conceded, lifting his glass in the direction of Mr Destler, “but let it be known any suspicion of any prejudice or bias is purely fictitious.”

For Christine after the arduously long day she’s had, any last piece of friendly debate had dissipated, finding herself fatigued and frustrated and in want of a dreamless sleep. “Then I suppose, gentlemen,” she began to say whilst moving to the door, stopping at the frame to turn around, “that such a woman would make a most desired wife and social companion, and I wish you both luck of finding such a woman. Good evening.” And with that, Christine left the parlour room now consisting of a nonplussed Mr Khan and one Mr Destler— who found himself feeling something he dared to regard.

________________________________________________________________

My, what a fortnight can bring.

In little less than two weeks poor Meg’s world came crumbling down by the arrival of a mere letter. During Tuesday’s breakfast— the start of a rather gloomy day— a letter came addressed to Meg from who else but Mr Khan. She became quite giddy, her joy bringing smiles to Christine and Ms Giry’s faces, each lady hopeful that somewhere in that letter was the long-awaited question. Alas, there was no such question but rather a depressingly long explanation for Mr Khan’s absence from the recent balls and gatherings. In excruciating detail Meg read aloud that Mr Khan had returned to the city for the time being, hoping to make a return soon. It was by this time that both Ms Giry and Christine had taken it upon themselves to reassure Meg that Mr Khan must be in the city to pick the perfect ring for her, an engagement on the horizon as soon as he stepped foot back in town.

Sadly this hopeful sentiment was but a dream, for by Friday that week another letter arrived for Meg. This one was by far even worse than the first as it claimed that Mr Khan’s stay in the city was— as written by his steward— for the time being prolonged. Once again there was no date or even mention of a season in which his presence was expected to return. For Meg— who couldn’t even finish the letter without tears welling up in her eyes— that inked piece of parchment had all but destroyed any hopes she had of finding someone of whom to love and marry. She felt betrayed and mournful of the life she would have lived, in combination with her anxieties over every little thing she said or did when she and Mr Khan were together. As the week concluded and seamlessly merged with a new one, unhappy Meg spent her days combing through every conversation the two had for the slightest hint of uncomfort from Mr Khan but, as she lamented to Christine, she could find none.

What’s more as Meg’s mood turned from mournful to melancholy, Christine was baddleing a fight of emotions as well. She knew, somewhere deep inside, that Mr Khan’s sudden absence was the work of Mr Destler: by her logic she believes the masked man discouraged his friend from proposing to Meg due to her class, as was custom for him. It burned Christine in a way no other crossing has ever managed to make her feel, she longed for nothing but to see her sister happy and to watch her have such happiness stolen from her— by means of a letter no less— made a bitterness for both men grow within her.

The next morning Christine needed a break from the constant state of distraught her poor sister was in, so waking up early and quietly dressing she left her sister to sleep in while she went for a leisurely walk. While moving through the gardens and the dew embellished grass she could not rid herself of the words of her sister— could it be possible that her expectations were too high for marriage to be possible? The last thing she wanted was to drain the resources of Ms Giry or her sister, and yet she has found no man of intellect, wit, and whom she truly loved and respected. For Christine the thought of marrying for security in finances was close to inhuman; it was especially against what she believed the sanctity of marriage to be for.

Amidst the gardens was a nearby stone temple modeling those of Ancient Greece where Christine chose to sit and reflect. She thought of the past weeks ever since Mr Khan’s arrival with his contemptuous friend of polarizing traits and how both of their presences have altered the lives of at least one household in their once quiet neighborhood. And if these thoughts could not have tormented her enough, the very vice that taunted Christine came walking right into the same gazebo as her.

Refusing to speak, she merely watched as his behaviour escalated from odd to concerning. Mr Destler’s added presence at once soured her mood, but this annoyance turned to amusement as she studied him further; he at first sat down on the stone bench across from her, then abandoned his seat in favor of standing. But he couldn’t stay still for long as he leaned on one of the pillars with an arm raised above his head, only to once again change positions and walk a bit away as if pretending to gaze out unbeknownst to Christine’s attendance. She could see his face— the portion not hidden by the mask— and saw there in his features a kind of inner battle he seemed to be fighting. Whether the fight was won or lost would remain a mystery as he chose the moment to speak.

“Ms Daae,” he began, no mention of his previous unsettling. “I hope your health has improved since the last I saw you,” the words rushed out of him at defying speeds. After Christine realized what he had said, she answered him with a cold civility. His position and face changed now standing with his entire person facing her, again showing a sense of vulnerability in his unmasked side. He looked to be taking her in, closing his eyes before again speaking only this time in an agitated tone.

“I would be a liar to admit I have not wrestled with my vanity.” His voice, the very same velveteen notes, sounded to shake. “I do not wish to remain that way. From youth I have been taught to honor my feelings and to not suppress them and as a man I have found this to be true. As such you must know how deeply my admiration and love for you is. Despite my fears for expressing such emotions know that I am going against not only my own but the expectations of my family, my friends, and most every other person of high regard. Even against these better judgments— knowing the differing circumstances of our families is as it stands— it cannot be helped that from the moment I first made your acquaintance that a respect and positive regard formed against my rational wishes.” Mr Destler stepped forward bending a knee right before Christine, their eyes locked. “I beg of you to end my torment and agree to be my wife.”

Christine sat there unmoving as her mind continued to race. He— this cold and uncaring thief— was in love? With her? The absurdity was almost too much to bear, and yet she found her mouth speaking as she remained befuddled.

“Usually in cases similar to these there is an expectation of duty to be performed and agree to such a question,” she said, her tone containing the evenness her thoughts were absent of. “But not I. For you are of the few whose opinion of me I never cared to hear, and yet you certainly choose to believe I am all the better to have heard it. I am sorry for any and all pain that I might cause to anyone, however unseen by me, and I hope that it will be a quick recovery for all involved.”

Now it was Mr Destler’s turn to stare absently, Christine noticing a similar sense of shock as she too had felt. He again rose from his knee to his full height, then retreated to the opposing bench so as not to seem intimidating. With an unearthly calmness— one which was suspected to be forced— he asked her, “May I ask as to what do I owe this rejection for?”

“Then I may also ask why you insist on declaring your likeness for me only by stating it is against your will! I have every reason in the world to believe you are a man of bad intentions. Does your well rational mind think I am to wed a man you drove away all happiness from my dear sister? Are you even in such a position to deny you have?”

It was clear that Mr Destler was clenching and releasing his jaw whilst Christine spoke. “Well?”

“No, I do not deny that I tried to steer my friend, who has been like a brother, away from your sister. Nor do I deny that I did not celebrate the success of his departure. I have been kinder to him than I have to myself.”

Christine, undeterred from his involvement with her sister’s unrenounced engagement, continued on. “It is not only my sister’s engagement that have shown me your character. My dislike for you stemmed from the very first ball you attended and insulted my name, only growing once your history of the wrongdoings to Mr DeChagney,” his head popped up at the name’s sound. “Pray tell, how does one defend oneself for such offense?”

“For fear of insulting your good name again, I warn you to not take every word of that sir for truth.”

Christine’s brow furrowed, now more angry at his belief that she is an uneducated waif who knows not the difference between a lie and the truth. “It concerns me how anyone with knowledge of his mistreatment can not feel his unjust position, least of all someone who put him into the state of poverty he resides in! Not only this but you add to his pain mockery and disdain!” Thinking far too quickly with her heart in charge, later to regret she adds to injury, “And do explain why a man of dignity and respect,” she spat, “should feel the need to wear a mask? For further intimidation, perhaps?”

There is a moment’s silence between the two, the air thick from resentment. “So, that is how you see me? A cold calculating man who only wishes to bring forth unhappiness and misery to all he encounters?” His eyes— amber from the sun— shine with a hurt Christine believed was there for very long but only now came to surface. “That I don a mask to hide the identity of an ill some being whilst traversing the land like some angel of death?”

Feeling angry but now wishing she had discussed things further, Christine began to feel weighted by a sudden sense of pity— no, of empathy. Within his eyes she saw what she for some time thought to be present but had been held hostage by fear of vulnerability: for within Mr Destler was an immense amount of hurt that Christine felt only she could relate towards. Hoping to relieve some pain— however unfeasible— she tried to make amends, “Mr Destler—,”

He held up a hand that slightly shook, “Please, you have said plenty, madame. I understand your feelings towards me and am in only the position to feel contrite over my own.” Mr Destler looked her in the eyes once again, now with a watery smile, “Please accept my well wishes towards your health and happiness, and forgive me for wasting time in your presence. Good day, Ms Daae.” He gave a gentlemanly bow before leaving the stone structure, carried off by long strides.

Still aghast to what just transpired, Christine sat with her thoughts and emotions for what felt like years— allowing any and all tears to flow freely— until finally she began to soothe her own damaged pride.

__________________________________________________________________

The next day Christine awoke to find a letter waiting for her at breakfast. The envelope sat at her seat, her name written in a thin, messy cursive. As told by the ladies maid, the letter was hand-delivered by none other than Mr Destler. Her day seemed to be destined for another angry and embarrassed soirée as she had spent most of her night tossing and turning as she remembered every single word that was said the day prior. Although she did not yet know it, Christine would soon come to regret these thoughts.

“Dear Miss Daae,

Do not be alarmed by the contents of this letter, as there are no repetitions or reiterations of my statements said previously which you expressed were offensive to you. I hope my words cause you no pain, as you are in no need of further hurt, nor am I to write for sake of humbling myself, for it is not my character to do so. Rather I hope to alleviate your perceptions of me as told to you through actions and the words of others. If you should continue to read the words which are written contain only the truth, for which I deem highly, even should there be portions that I do not feel proudly of.

“Two of your aforementioned objections that I wish to express the full truth. In regards to the estrangement of Mr Khan and your sister, which as mentioned I do not deny my involvement, but there was plausible reason to do so. During each and every encounter between the aforementioned couple I sensed no attraction whatsoever towards Mr Khan by your sister. Perhaps I had misjudged her nature as uncaring and unwanting of my friend’s attentions, and his persistent asking for support of a possible marriage from me was impossible to give: I spoke of how I felt her calm, reserved demeanor was due to her having no strong attachment for him and I said as such. It was from these incorrect sentiments, for a friend whose happiness is equal to my own, that I urged Mr Khan to retract from your sister and hold off an engagement. For this I give both you, your sister, and Ms Giry my utmost apology.

In the regards of Mr DeChagney I understand him to be a pleasant man with no morals to his character in addition to a resentful and covetous attitude. By contrast to Mr DeChagney’s account I must assert that in no way did I deprive him from any inheritance and in fact procured 3,000 pounds for him to study law at a city university. Alternatively he chose to use the money for means which I am not certain of, but can guess were in acquaintance to a gambling debt. After this loan was squandered Mr DeChagney tried to receive more money from me and, after I refused, he attempted to elope with my younger sister, Ayesha, in an effort to obtain her inheritance. Should this matter still remain questionable to you, which you have all rights to, I would ask you to speak with Mr DeChagney’s older brother, Philippe, a man of great integrity and morality even when it comes to matters of his brother; matters which he is already aware of.

Finally in terms as to why I wear a mask, which I must admit is my least favorite topic of discussion, I was born with a facial deformity that has driven many away and even more into disgust. My mother, a high aristocratic woman who held title and influence above all else, handed me off to her lady’s maids to be raised and taught, refusing to show any ounce of affection or care for me. Much the same can be said for those in charge of my schooling and development, withholding themselves from abandoning my family only because my father, a highly respected military commander, paid them handsomely to keep quiet.

It was not until my sister was born years after I that my lonesome days changed; her spirit was palpable throughout the home, and yet her choosing to love and look upon my face as it was a normality was what won her my brotherly affection. No amount of punishment from my parents could extract the humanity from her as she continued, even now, to treat me as she would any other gentleman whose blood she shared. Later my small circle grew to allow a few more while in school, once it was decided a mask would at least hide the deformity from my peers, and Mr Khan was one of the only brave enough to approach me. His friendship throughout the years, from schooling and beyond, have given me more joy than I ever could have imagined.

I am sorry that, much like my facial covering, the irony of which his not lost on me, my character has been predetermined for you by those who I’ve crossed and still hold a grudge for, along with my own poorly conceived ideas of those whose temperament in public is not always to be believed as their true self. If your heart allows it, I only ask that you do not think of me with hate, but with the neutrality of an acquaintance. May these words bring some comfort, if not to you than for your family.

Health and wellbeing,

Erik G. Destler”

——————————————————————————————————

It has been an unusually long few weeks since Christine had received Mr Destler’s letter. After she had read it multiple times, she began to realize that— in conjunction with the conversations she’d had in the past month— his account had to have been true. In addition to coming to this conclusion Christine brought up the information with Meg, the two debating on whether or not to relate Mr DeChagney’s true character to the neighborhood, but had thought better against it as they did not want to be perceived as gossiping children.

While Meg did indeed appreciate the apology from Mr Destler regarding his involvement in Mr Khan’s decision to leave for the city, it seldom helped relieve the pain that remained from the lack of engagement. As this was so, she chose to stay at home when her mother’s sister, Ms Carrier, and her husband came around to ask if the girls wished to join them in taking a tour of the countryside along with some of the homes. The carriage departed with the Carriers and Christine, as the scenery would be a good change for her clouded head after so many days cooped up to avoid the heat, amongst other things.

Somehow the greenery of the grass and foliage seemed to take on a more pleasant tone, easily making Christine more calm and enjoying the sun’s golden rays shining upon all things living. At times they would leave the carriage in favor of walking around the properties and making light conversation of the architecture and gardens, soon treading offley close to Rosewood — the manor of Christine’s once thought hated acquaintance . Against better judgment they agreed to tour the home, barely soothed by the fact that the house's master was not in.

Whilst they walked through the manor it started to become apparent to Christine that her opinion of Mr Destler was beginning to change, for if not how was it that she was so easily able to question herself what would it feel to be Rosewood’s mistress? Her breath was continuously taken away as Christine saw artifact after artifact that she was unable to find in a manor that was supposedly owned by what she had believed to be an arrogant and unrespecting; there were countless statues of Greek figures, most of which she knew of, crown molding to resemble foliage painted gold grew into every room, crystal chandeliers hung from almost every ceiling. What was most notable, and what Christine found to be a kiss to a wound, was the music room of Mr Destler, for it was by far the most beloved; instruments of varying sizes from the pianoforte— it too painted in gold leaves— a harp standing off center, a violin resting on a chair, a cello that occupied a corner, and a lute situated on a tufted bench. It was one of the most beautiful sights Christine had ever witnessed, comparative to that of a sunset.

As if the manor itself hadn’t already told Christine who Mr Destler truly was, the words of his staff surely did. The head maid, Mrs. Reynolds, showed the group portraits of Mr Destler and Mr DeChagney, speaking very highly of the latter and claimed to have never heard him say a cross word to anyone within the home. She also divulged that, as a child, he was known to be a very generous and kind-hearted boy which brought a smile to Christine’s lips without her noticing. They were also a portrait of Ms Destler— of whom was almost made the pawn in Mr DeChagney’s foul game— and with the knowledge she possessed, Christine could not help but feel an appreciation for the young gentlewoman, for it was she and her kindness that gave her brother a less forlorn adolescence.

Soon the group made their way outside, whereupon Christine was sure to have angered a very powerful god for who else but the home’s master was just climbing the steps to where they stood. Rather than requesting the trio to leave his home and never return he instead asked if they would like a tour led by himself— another tick added to the box of uncharacteristic behavior by Mr Destler. Although it was starting to become more and more clear to Christine that the gentleman’s true character was unknown to her, what she was currently seeing from him warmed her.

Mr Destler shows them the gardens— all of the expertly groomed trees and shrubs, with perennials blooming of the home’s name sake and many benches along the grounds made of stone to appreciate them— and all the while is as polite and gentlemanly as anyone would expect, maybe more so. As for Christine, his kindness to her relatives and herself evokes the harsh sting of shame everytime she remembers their last encounter along with every other encounter they’ve had over the course of the past few months leaving her to trail behind the others. Back at the manor’s front steps where they began the group was ready to disperse but Mr Destler— who seemed to know exactly how to make her heart race— stayed back with Christine as her aunt and uncle prepared the carriage.

Before he could even get a word out Christine striked the moment and began to apologize profusely for her being there, recalling to Mr Destler how she was told he would be out otherwise she never would have gone. He spoke to her in such a tender voice that her shoulders sloped from the calm that overshadowed her immense embarrassment. Mr Destler told her how he had merely come back to Rosewood in order to prepare his home for a group of guests, making sure to add that Mr Khan and his sister were sure to be accounted for. Then he paused, as if thinking of something, then asked Christine if she would like to meet his sister— which she replies in the affirmative whilst feeling a great gratitude for his chivalry.

Ayesha was a very sweet young lady with a shy and quiet demeanor that nonetheless took away from her pretty features. It was obvious to Christine where the resemblance lied between the two siblings, but her surprise at watching Mr Destler’s solicitude for his sister while they chatted— more or less as the young girl barely spoke but a few words— sparked an affinity within herself that she realized had only grown tenfold since first reading his letter.

After saying their goodbyes, Mr Destler took it upon himself to see Christine to the carriage door, going so far as to offer his hand while she climbed the coach. What’s more is that Christine looked back to his retreating form and caught the sight of his hand— the one that she held— flexed then contracted, a vision that would plague her the whole carriage ride home and into the night. Unbeknownst to their niece, Mr and Mrs Carrier shared knowing looks that told the other to expect more than one wedding from the Giry household in the future.

___________________________________________________________

The morning was bright and warm as the late days of Spring and early days of Summer had begun to overlap and create a beautiful mix of the two seasons. It was on this Friday morning— just as the three Giry women were sitting down for their breakfast— when the front door had a determined knock. One of the lady’s maids had gone to see whom had it had been only to come back to the table and announce,

“My lady, Mr Khan, is requesting your presence,” Martha’s voice declared, causing all three women to look at one another with plain shock in their faces. It was Meg who stood up and, dazedly, walked down the hallway to meet her caller; soon followed by Christine and Ms Giry.

He stood there on the door’s step with his hat in his hands and an apology at the tip of his tongue, lamenting to Meg how he had wrongfully told her and her family of his departure in a letter that he himself did not write along with the lack of return date. Mr Khan also admitted to being persuaded to rethink his affection for her due to status, but while in Paris he could not stop thinking of her and how he wished her to be with him there. Then—surprising all the women— Mr Khan reached into his coat’s pocket and proceeded to ask Ms Giry for her daughter’s hand in marriage, to which she straighten replied positively. They hugged and held each other as members of the staff happily cheered, Christine too was happy but felt there was more that would lift her spirits, a visit beginning to come to her mind; her plan to bee seen as a welcomed one when Mr Khan said to Christine a good friend of his had encouraged his return causing her to smile.

_____________________________________________________________

Only a day and a half later Christine found herself in a carriage ride alone heading towards what she hoped to be the right decision. All the while she thought that— however implausible the notion was— should Mr Destler ask for her hand again she found herself wanting to say yes. She must force acceptance upon herself for after having refused him once he would not do so again; but the idea that they are to always avoid the other’s gaze did not feel right with Christine and thus the purpose of this trip.

Once again at his home, Christine began to feel anxiety build in her stomach even after Mr Khan’s statements that of all the visitors she would be the only one he would not turn away. Slowly she began to climb the steps to Rosewood’s door, lifting the handle and knocked timidly. Her arrival was met by Mrs Reynalds who— after greeting her with a hearty welcome— told Christine that her master was currently out in the gardens but that he would be most pleased by her being there.

After a few instructions on how to get there Christine trudged arduously to the house’s back to find her destination. Following the stone path she found the hedge and green door that acted as the secret entrance, unlocking the latch and cautiously walking through.

The door’s hinges squeaked alerting the suited gentleman of another. “Mrs Reynalds,” he said, turning his head towards her “I have already told you I—.” His voice stopped short at the sight of Christine, her presence causing him to stand from his seat.

Unsure of what to do now, Christine clutched her skirts while saying, “I hope I am not intruding on sacred ground.”

“Such sanctity has been absent… Please, enter.” He gestured with a sweep of his hand.

It was only until now— after her nerves have diminished significantly— that she could see the true beauty of this hidden wonderland. There was a small pond with lily pads surrounded by bushes of hydrangeas and marigolds, the entire area hidden by a tall hedge and overhead tree branches to escape the sun; to Christine it felt like heaven in a garden. She offered the seat Mr Destler gestured to, almost regretting her choice once it appeared he too would be sitting leaving the two of them on the bench looking towards the water. The soft trickling from the waterfall brought a serenity to the air.

“This was one of my favorite places growing up. Sometimes I would compose a poem or aria. In the Springtime ducks have been known to bring their young to the pond.” He spoke with a gentile that nearly brought Christine to tears knowing the added history of his lonely childhood.

“I came to apologize,” she began with a soft voice that was too weak to not break should she raise her volume, “for many things. For my actions towards you, not only within the past week but since our first meeting. I must also ask forgiveness for all the things I never said but rather thought, how they were misconstrued by others who meant you ill will.”

“Ms Daae—“

“And I undoubtedly regret, having now the information I did not then, how I treated you during your proposal, as any woman who knew your true intentions would have no choice but to accept. I also came to thank you for what you told Mr Khan—“

“I was righting a misjudged wrongdoing—“

“—as his return not only brought my sister a happiness beyond belief but the promise to marry her and share a home of love for each other—“

“Christine,” he adamantly stated, boldly taking hold of her hand nearest to him. There were three things, of which she’s certain, that were the reason for her ended rant: the first was his holding her hand, the subtle heat of hers mingling with the coldness of his drawing her senses; the second was his use of her first name rather than surname, a sound which felt too good on her ears; and third was what she felt after saying the word ‘love’ while sitting directly beside someone of whom she was beginning to fall deeply for.

Mr Destler took her hand in his own and held it closely, “I grant you forgiveness,” he said, speaking lowly and whilst staring into Christine’s eyes. “But I must ask you for yours.”

Puzzled, she asked, “What for?,” in a whispered tone that matched his.

He lifted her hand to his lips, Christine holding her breath and watching every muscle, “I am sorry that I cannot let you go, and will ask for your hand in marriage until the day I either succeed or die knowing I attempted a more than worthy endeavor.” His words were a warm whisper over her knuckles, placing a kiss just on the peak.

Christine swallowed, nervous of what she dared to say. “Mr Destler—“

“Please, call me Erik,”

“Erik,” her tongue tested the letters, a fit which she found most appealing and he too for his lips quivered in what could only be surmised as the first smile he has granted her. “I cannot marry a man whom I cannot see fully,” she admitted, her eyes leaving his to focus on the white mask of his right side.

Now it was he to swallow anxiously, “Please do not ask that of me,” he begged, “no courtship has and to lose you now would surely kill me.” Despite the fear in his voice, he watched with golden eyes as her hand left his to hold his unmasked side.

“If I found love for you now,” she said, moving her other hand to his mask, “then I shall love you then, too.” With one motion, gentle so as not to scratch him, Christine removed the white plaster.

What she found was not to be expected, but so too could be said for the tormenting past few months of their acquaintance. His skin was surely scarred, with a portion of his upper lip more swollen than the rest, puckered and red, his eyebrow more sparse and a small hole where half his nose ought to be. Yet despite this, Christine gently cupped his face which urged him to emit a long-held gasp that screamed of a wanted touch and loving gesture. He opened his eyes— too afraid to see her run scared to never return— and saw Christine smile with the glimmer of love in her eyes.

“Is it true?,” he asked her.

Her smile increased, “It is. Only, my love has not remained but grew tenfold more.”

With a watery smile of his own he replied, “And mine as well.” The two embraced tightly to leave no room for their love to escape, though even miles apart that was not destined to happen. Their lips met in a passionate and powerful kiss, each wanting desperately to show the other the extent of their love. There would be no more disillusions or ill inferred judgments, for this was the beginning to a change most welcome.

[milady-pink]

Reverse Height Difference AU

Part of my ongoing series of oneshots that explore Erik and Christine’s souls finding each other across the multiverse: Anywhere You Go

Ugh

Stupid mug

It started as another day for Erik— wake up, kiss his Christine on the forehead so as not to wake her, apply face cream for those inhuman scars from the many surgeries to reduce his facial deformities to mere cosmetic irregularities— and now he was about to enjoy a nice mug of his favorite tea while preparing a mug for his sleeping girlfriend. The problem was that his favorite mug (the one that said, “Music Is My”, and a forte f; he thought it was stupid, but because Christine had gifted it to him for his birthday the first year they were together, it immediately became his favorite) was sat at the back of the top cabinet which contained their shared mugs and glasses. The obvious answer was to simply reach up and grab it.

Apparently, simple was never meant for Erik.

Standing at five foot six, one hundred sixty-seven centimeters according to his “friend” Nadir, he wasn’t exactly the tallest of his male counterparts. When he was younger, Erik would envy all the other boys in his classes for many things— their normal faces, healthy skin color, and above all noses— but height was one of the things he deeply resented not being granted by his poor genetics. Realistically he could handle not being extremely handsome, beauty only got one so far, and plenty of people suffered from skin conditions, but his short stature was always something he thought would come unto him. He was always told this by teachers, parents, and their friends— especially at the age of six when he was the tallest of his peers— but little did they know that his growth spurt wouldn’t last. By thirteen he averaged out with the others, and by sixteen he was one of the shortest in his grade.

The only other thing he had besides looks, was talent.

Music, every kind of genre and instrument, Erik was extremely gifted. A prodigy, they called him. It filled every missing piece of confidence he lacked due to his physicality, being told he was a genius and was going to go places far beyond the others in his school just by doing something he loved. No one in the thousands of crowds cared what he looked like— thanks to a fairly life-like mask that was given to him early on to not frighten other classmates— nor his height, seeing as his position on stage skewed the audience’s perception. Sometimes when he was asked to perform as a guest to a symphony or orchestra, his shortness was a bit more apparent when he would walk by the standing conductor (which he didn’t find very fair since they always stood on a box) and that tell-tale murmur would spread through the audience. But once he started to play, no matter the instrument nor the piece, he shut them up and held their attention all at once.

By his late twenties Erik had resigned himself to his solitary life, having hardened his heart long ago at the realization that he would never find a romantic partner who would want to share his bed without being paid to. Really it wasn’t even the sex that he longed for, it was the casual hand-holding, the spooning in bed on cold winter nights, the gift of smelling their perfume every morning, getting to cook and share a meal with them, every piece of domesticity that he only ever dreamed about. It wasn’t until after a performance at the London Royal Opera House did he dare to open that box of forgotten dreams again.

The performance was a great success—due to be one of his last on the stage after accepting a residency as lead composer and conductor for the New York Philharmonic— leaving the packed house’s energy electrifying. Afterwards there was a small party that was thrown in his honor, open only to high paying patrons, opera house staff, and current musicians. He was given a very special goodbye from the beloved company, having had many milestones and successes over his career, but that night would be his best. It was just after an encounter with one of the patrons— who sang their own songs of praise and honeyed words as usual— when an older gentleman approached him to give his thanks. His name was Gustave, he had said, one of the orchestra’s violinists, and wanted to say what a delight it has been to work with such a true artist for the past years and what a role-model he was to younger performers, such as his daughter. The man then turned and called to a young woman by the bar to join them, and it was then that Erik’s heart had finally stopped. Or only just began, he wasn’t quite sure.

She introduced herself as Christine and shook his hand with all the ease and gentleness in the world; which normally wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else, but for him (a short man who wore a mask) it was everything. The first thing he noticed about her was her unwavering beauty, both on her face and in her mannerisms, like how she talked to him and acted like his height and chosen facial wear was normal. The second thing, he was a man after all, was how her dress’s slit seemed to make her legs look like they went on for days. In truth it took a few moments and careful staring to realize he hadn’t drunk too much champagne, but in fact the gorgeous woman before him was at least half a foot taller than him.

She was practically an Amazonian.

Needless to say, he was smitten.

And after practically falling head-over-heels (quite literally) trying to ask her on a date, Erik was prepared for the inevitable humiliation that followed when he tried to make his affections towards the opposite sex known. But instead of getting laughed at by the goddess Christine, he was met with a very sweet ‘yes’ accompanied by a blush that spread over her cheeks; which soon became his new favorite color. And after hearing her laugh at some dry-humored joke he made, her laughter became his new favorite sound, only to be replaced by the heavenly song she sang for him on their seventh date, after navigating how to accommodate their height difference (which he has since dubbed the ‘Bedroom Sonata’) knowing his were the only ears that she sang for, his hands the only way her body would play for him.

He got to learn everything there was to know about her, where she grew up, her schooling, her love of music and how she loved her current job as a pre-school ballet instructor, but had always wanted to go back to school and study music, voice especially. And in turn, Christine got to learn all about Erik, even the parts he was surprised with how comfortable he was to tell her like his facial deformities, his love of composing, and his many adventures traveling the globe performing with only the very best musicians. Their bond made during those few weeks between their first encounter to Erik’s departure for New York had changed the two of them for the better, so much so that Christine gave an emphatic yes when he asked her to join him. Though it was difficult at first for her father to accept his daughter’s wishes, he trusted Erik to take care of her, even more so when he gave Gustave a two-way ticket set for any date if the older man ever wanted to visit her. When the day came to say goodbye, Gustave gave his daughter a tearful hug farewell, going so far as to include Erik in a friendly embrace too.

Back in the US, their union continued to flourish as they began to decorate their shared apartment, learned how to live with each other, and started to engrave a new routine and life together in the city; Erik enjoying his position as lead composer and conductor of the philharmonic, while Christine— now a proud owner of a bachelor’s degree in vocal studies— is interning at the Metropolitan Opera.

It hasn’t always been easy, especially in the beginning. As luck would have it the two not only faced the challenges of their contrasting personalities, one of their friend’s favorite topics to joke on, but their very opposite physical appearances. While they had mostly spent their courtship in London to each other, there were the odd looks and glances at the couple whenever Erik tried to take his beloved out to a fancy restaurant. At the time, be believed them to be pointed at his mask, or else their sheer devotion to the other. But as time passed on and the couple moved to the states, he started to realize it was much simpler than that. Whenever he was accompanied by Christine at galas or fundraisers for the arts at his work, he would receive numerous comments about their difference in height, not to mention the grating passive-aggressive questions that aimed to break their strong connection.

“So, you’re kinda like her personal armrest, yeah?”

“Which one of you will get carried across the banister?”

“How do you keep up with her on the streets?”

“At least she never loses you in a crowd.”

“How does it work…in the bedroom?”

“You’re like, really short.”

It was bad enough to hear the seemingly never ending list of ‘jokes’ that others would try to make, as if he wasn’t already aware of his stature. Over the years he’s learned to listen and politely respond or just flat out ignore them if possible, but it still took a hit at his confidence. Regardless of the number of concerto’s he’s performed, or the countless awards and accolades he’s received, there was always something that ate away at him inside whenever they brought up his height. Maybe it was trivial, it was definitely unimportant, but Erik almost felt less than a man when his appearance was watered down to a short man with a messed up face. It especially hurt when a young child— who Erik knew full well was not to blame for his insecurities— would point and ask his mom why he looked like that. He tried to tell himself it was due to the way he dressed, his all black ensemble having become a staple for his closet.

But he knew.

At least for every bad moment he experienced from outsiders, there were smaller joys he found usually with Christine. Sometimes when they were in public and it was busier than usual, Erik’s hand would find its way to Christine’s so they do not separate; of course this can sometimes come across as a child with their mother. Of course he received an endless amount of forehead kisses, for which he can find zero problems with, and the same can be said about borrowing some of Christine’s t-shirts. While there was a brief workaround for the couple, sex soon became much more adventurous when they started to use their different body lengths to their advantages; some positions better suited for them than others. There were also the everyday downsides, like clothes that fit too big unless they came from the adolescent section, not being taken seriously, or else getting labeled with a “Napoleon Complex” for merely expressing his frustrations. Or the countless photos the two of them would try to take, only for Erik’s bottom half getting cropped out, or else his beautiful Christine’s face would be cut off, so really that trade wasn’t too bad.

Once, after a particularly grueling day of work after hours spent dealing with the new lead coloratura who had the attitude of a donkey, he almost lost his most treasured possession. It was a cold, rainy afternoon when Erik—still fuming after being called a ‘talentless sewer goblin’— came home and discarded his mask by the front door, hoping to alleviate the day’s misery through a nice hot cup of tea with a drizzling of honey. Unfortunately upon opening the cabinet door, Erik discovered his mug to be far too high up to reach without assistance, distantly remembering Christine placing it there after removing it from the dishwasher. In absolutely no mood to ask for help he decided to do what most undersized people in such a predicament are inclined to do; he started to climb.

It wasn’t until his fingertips were practically brushing the mug that a manicured hand easily grabbed the mug away from him. He turned around, still perched like a tree frog, eyeing the form of his partner behind him with the mug in one hand and the other on her hip.

“Erik, how many times have I told you not to climb the counter! You could hurt yourself!”

After the day he’d had, along with the never ending torment of being less than average height, this was the drop that broke the dam. Uncharacteristically, Erik started to fly into a rage, his anger only matched by the— downright terrifying— look of twisted features on his unmasked face. He tore into his poor, sweet Christine, saying awful things about how he is just as much of a monster as he looks, that she should never have treated him like any other man, finally saying to the crying girl that she should find a new man to share her life with.

And if it wasn’t for the added, “maybe someone taller, handsome”, she would have walked out of his life for good. She had started to retreat to their bedroom, most likely to pack her things, when his mumbled admittance seemed to have struck her.

“Erik,” she began, her back still turned to her aggravated boyfriend, “I don’t care about your height.” That, that simple and soft-spoken statement was all that she needed to say for Erik to come crashing back into the moment.

Of course, he still felt like a petulant child, so he told her, “Oh how would it not,” in that disbelieving tone of his. Instead of succeeding in driving the last good thing to have come into his life away for good, caring and patient Christine came back over to him. She slowly, telling him he can retract at any time, reached her hands to his face and gently cupped his head, angling it so his eyes met hers.

“What happened?”

Ah, and that was all it took for the floodgates to break open, tears of frustration and pain spilled down his gaunt cheeks while he voiced his terrible day and how it reminded him of all the years he’s spent trying to make up for his body’s lack of good genetics. And by doing so, it opened a new kind of gate, one that was blocked by a vulnerability that neither of them knew was there. During Erik’s emotional breakdown, he told Christine how he has always felt less than a man whenever they were out in public together; how no matter his talent or notoriety, his height will always be a hindrance on how others perceive him. He told her how his face could at least be somewhat normal with the mask, but unless he wanted to walk around in stilettos and risk breaking one or both his ankles there was no masking it.

“My poor, sweet Erik,” she had said. “Do you know how unwomanly my height makes me feel?” At this, Erik was at a loss for words, too selfish to truly understand how his angel’s tallness might have made her also feel like she stood out. Now fully aware and wanting to sympathize, he stayed silent and listened as Christine told him how she too has been made to hate her height. She told him about the years spent in school when she wouldn’t stop growing, and soon became taller than all the boys in class, including some teachers. Even in university people asked if she played basketball, how much she weighed, overshadowed people at the cinema, and never fit comfortably in compact spaces. Not to mention how many times she was forced to either get a dress or outfit from a specialized store, or else settle for whatever fit from a regular shop. Of course it had its perks, but mostly she felt embarrassed and wanted to shrink into nothingness after the amount of guys she tried to date would leave her due to feeling emasculated at not being the taller one in the relationship; which was why she was so happy to be with Erik and his care-free attitude towards how tall he was.

They stayed like that, hugging each other in the kitchen as rain pelted their outdoor flower boxes, until their emotions sobered up and they realized how they must have looked. Once again due to their half-foot difference, Christine had to stoop a bit over to fully embrace her love, likewise Erik was almost standing on the tips of his toes to return his angel’s embrace. He caught a glimpse of them in the window’s reflection, causing a sudden chuckle to bubble forth. Christine— who at first thought Erik had truly lost his mind— followed his gaze and looked at the window, soon joining his laughter at the absurd sight.

After they calmed themselves down from the laughing, both of them felt ten times lighter with the very last of their individual insecurities being laid out for the other to see. In turn, they each saw these negative opinions and took them with love and compassion, ready to spend the rest of their lives reassuring them of how their actions and expressions are far more important than their earthly body and all of its flaws.

So as Erik drinks tea from his mug— sharing the morning with the love of his life telling him about the bizarre dreams she had last night— he smiles knowing that it was only a matter of time until the ring that has been sitting in his jacket pocket made its appearance.

[milady-pink]

Broadway Vlog AU: Part ii

Part of my ongoing series of oneshots that explore Erik and Christine’s souls finding the other across the multiverse: Anywhere You Go

“We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when. But I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day!” The cast and crew sang cramped in the stairwell of the ancient theater. From this vantage point we can see several people— some who are known actors and others unknown faces assumed to work behind the scenes— with the focal point being a young woman standing on the landing with her hands over her heart. Beside her stands an older woman with her hands around the younger’s shoulder, and a young man with blonde hair holding a tray of cupcakes frosted to look like roses. The video has one person tagged: @RealChristineDaae

Despite the pouring rain outside the interior of the Populair Theater was bustling with joyous singing and applause; surprising considering it was forty minutes to the last show of the week. Rose and Thorn— the hit broadway musical that reimagined the iconic tale of Beauty and the Beast— was going great even after months of shows. As is the nature of the industry some of the original cast and ensemble have already left to pursue another role, tonight marking the last performance of one of their own.

“Today,” the older woman— Antoinette Giry— began, speaking to the crowd, “is the end of a chapter for our company as we say goodbye to our beloved Christine, and wish her well on her journey as the new —. As excited as I am to welcome a new Belle, there will never be another one like Miss Daae.” The crowd cheered and applauded, quieting down for the lady of honor to give a few words of her own.

”I cannot tell you how fortunate it’s been to work here with all of you, from our stage managers to set design, fellow actors and dancers, and of course my hair and wardrobe. Thank you for making this such a magical experience.” More clapping. “It wasn’t easy to make the decision to leave, but I’m happy to be moving forward after making this such a momentous milestone,” her voice wobbles and some tears start to brim her eyes, “but I couldn’t be more proud to pass the torch to my friend and understudy, Clair.” The last wave of applause echoes through the stairwell.

“Now let’s eat some cupcakes and have a great last show!” Antoinette said, invigorating the crowd into scattered whoops and cheers.

Even after the beautiful send off from her friends and colleagues, Christine was still saddened by the absence of a certain princely actor.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was nearing nine in the evening after a successful yet bittersweet performance knowing that it would be her last. With her hair— now extra curly thanks to the pincurls— unpinned, makeup off, and regular street clothes back on Christine was getting ready to head home. Usually she was easily out of the theater within fifteen minutes of finishing the show, but tonight she decided to take her time and really enjoy her space— that now lacked a majority of her decorations. That and the fact that Raoul had mentioned the weather had only gotten worse since the afternoon. Maybe it was the sadness at the realization that she was really about to leave this dressing room for the very last time, or maybe she was still wishing to catch a glimpse or quick goodbye from the one person she had seemingly not received a goodbye from.

This really surprised Christine due to the amount of time she and Erik had spent together, whether it be singing a song or two as a ‘warmup’ or when they would simply chat and enjoy each other’s company. Over the past few months Christine would have considered him a friend but now she was wearily thinking she had misread the signs. As a rule Christine considered whatever happened during the show was the characters and not the actors— which has saved her a lot of unnecessary heartbreak when she needed to kiss or get intimate with the actor she was playing opposite, feeling like they really shared a moment, only to remember they were married with kids— and the same has continued to keep her sane and associate her profession from the real world.

Although tonight was definitely one of the more challenging performances, as it was the only real time she got to see Erik. But for whatever reason he had always busied himself backstage after catching sight of her, then completely going into character once he stepped foot onstage. That would have things a bit different, but not necessarily harder. That came from Erik’s, ahem, improvisation of the character during their shared scenes together; when they were to be fighting he seemed to get closer, almost nose to nose; then there was the mini montage of Belle and Adam getting closer and learning to communicate, what was usually a cute little scene was made into something more when Erik chose to place his hands— large and warm— gently on her waist or when he teasingly stepped into her space and brushed his hand along her back; but the real challenge came when the iconic ballroom dance began, as Christine thought herself to be a decent actress her skills were really put to the test tonight as it felt like Erik put more sensuality into the well-rehearsed scene. The way the audience too could feel the energy change from playful romance to genuine emotion, Christine especially feeling it as his hands— still warm, still large— softly caressed her waist or when he leaned in close to her practically brushing her ear with his lips. All in all, it was more than enough to make her weak in the knees, and in no way did Christine feel she was being touched against her will or uncomfortable.

It was odd how he would go from this romantic, sensuous man on stage, but then retreat to his dressing room afterwards. Throughout the show he kept his door shut, when it was usually open, so Christine thought that meant he wanted some privacy or space, which she gave him and didn’t bother to knock. Maybe it was all just acting after all. If so, the man deserves a damn award.

With the last of her stuff packed up— only her fan art, letters, and small gifts given to her at the stage door— Christine put on her raincoat and carried the happy memories of this show out the door, for the last time. She made sure to say goodbye to everyone she crossed on the way out, even the evening desk clerk. Now here she was, standing under the awning with a box of fanart watching the rain pour down.

She could make a run for it,

but that had the chance of ruining her precious gifts.

Maybe take her coat off and cover the box?

As much as she coveted the artwork it wasn’t worth catching a cold over.

While Christine took her time pondering what to do, the sound of the stage door’s squeaky hinge— the telltale sign of someone leaving the theater. With a turn of her head Christine saw the one person she’s been silently wanting to see all day.

Erik wore a dark navy raincoat and black jeans paired with dark brown— possibly vintage— Doc martens. His hands were in his pockets due to the cold, his dark hair a bit messy with some tendrils falling in his eyes, and the look on his face when he saw Christine standing there was a mixture of surprise and panic. Deciding to keep things civil she tried to make small talk to break any ice that may have regrown.

“I hope New York doesn’t become the next Atlantis,” she said as Erik came to stand a few feet beside her.

He was quiet for a moment too long, making Christine rethink her choice, until his voice could be heard through the noise. “What’s worse than…” his voice trailing off, getting lost in the air.

“What?” She stepped closer to hear him better, “I lost the last half of that.”

Noticing Christine’s increased distance, he too took a few steps towards her while asking, “What’s worse than raining cats and dogs?,” his deep voice and aftershave smell of aftershave making her feel a little dizzy.

“What?”

The smallest movement in his upper lip— barely a quirk— showed a smile being restrained. “Hailing taxi cabs.” The laugh that Christine emitted could be heard over the rain, but more so it let Erik finally give way and crack a real— albeit small— smile. The two of them shared the moment and let it go into a comfortable silence; but Christine had questions she wanted to know the answers to, even more if it meant not seeing him again for the unknown future.

“Can I ask you something?” Her voice was timid but strong, a side effect after years of being told to amplify her singing.

The subtle motion of his eyes— a light amber from the streetlights— meeting hers said yes. It was one of those characteristics you pick up from the people you're with a lot, you start to read them better.

Even though she was happy to now have his attention, Christine found the gum-ridden sidewalk very interesting all of a sudden. Still she mustered up the courage to ask, “Have you… Why did you avoid me all night?” She inwardly cringed because her tone sounded more butt-hurt than how she really felt, at least what she told herself…

There was a pregnant pause as she awaited his answer, becoming more nervous the longer he took. “I suppose,” his hand reaching up to scratch the side of his forehead where his port-wine stain birthmark occupied almost half of his face, “there are two answers.”

Christine’s breath was stuck in her throat. “What are they?”

His anxiety was heightened as he balanced his weight between one leg to the other, he too found the sidewalk very interesting at the moment as Christine’s eyes watched him and his body. “Well,” he sucked in some air, “one: I was having a really bad hair day.”

A small chuckle bubbled out of her, alleviating some of the nerves. “And the other?,” a smile remained.

Shockingly Erik’s long legs carried him forward until he was looking down at her, the box of artwork keeping them apart. Before speaking his tongue poked out to moisten his lips unknowingly causing Christine’s eyes to watch before darting back up to his eyes. “I didn’t wanna say goodbye,” his usually strong voice now sounded scared. His answer made Christine hold her breath.

“Wh-why?” Daring to hope for the answer she wanted to hear.

In response he let out a chuckle himself, a beautiful noise that made her ears tingle. “Christine,” his use of her name putting her into a dream-like state, “you’ve made everyday of my life the past six months magical. Whenever I was having a bad day or wanted to go home you always found a way to brighten my day, and when I had the day off I could only think about getting back to the theater to see you again.” He let out another soft laugh, this one warming her face from his breath. “You didn’t even do anything, just acted your usual kind hearted self. Out of everyone I’ve ever worked with, you're the only one to not ask— or even mention my face.”

Now it was her turn to say something, “Why would I?” Her brows furrowed from pure confusion.

To her question his smile only grew. “Christine, I’ve worked with some actresses who were genuinely scared they would ‘catch whatever I had’, just from a closed-lip kiss.”

“That’s awful,”

Erik shrugged his shoulder, “I’ve gotten used to some stupid things said by stupid people,” he nonchalantly stated. “But you never made me feel anything less than human. Sometimes even handsome,” his muttered voice added.

“You are handsome,” she professed, stepping even closer until the box touched his stomach, both of them choosing to ignore it.

His eyes bore into hers, “And you are beautiful, inside and out. That’s why it’s been so hard to—“

“To what?”

He shifted his gaze down before gaining some confidence and outright saying, “To ask you out.”

For a moment Christine couldn’t distinguish the pouring rain from the blood pumping in her ears. “Wh-what?”

“I’ve been aching to ask you since previews,”

“That was like,” she did a quick count, “seven months ago.”

A laugh huffed out of him, “Don’t remind me, I’ve only been torturing myself ever since. Do you know how much it hurt to dance with you— romantically— while you were all dressed up and… gorgeous.” Her heart was surely going to beat right out of her chest, or she might wake up from this perfect dream. “Half the time I forgot there was an audience until the applause.”

Now it was she who dared to speak. “So, tonight when you—“

“I didn’t want to let you go,” came his quiet admittance.

The silence that followed could have been cut by a knife. Erik had just admitted his true feelings leaving Christine to inwardly scream and cry and laugh all because she had no idea how to react. While the rest of her nervous system was freaking out, her voice seemed to say what she was feeling.

“Really?”

Erik— who had maintained his gaze on her face for any sign— gave her one of those lop-sided smiles she felt were more important to her survival than her daily multivitamin. “Here I thought I did something wrong,” her voice almost whispered.

He placed his hands on top of her own that held the box. She could feel his warmth and some callouses he must have earned from playing guitar. Christine wishes she could hold and look at them properly, but she was scared to hope for a second chance like this one. “You could never do anything wrong,” came his quiet reply. “Nothing that could keep me away for long.”

Even though Christine felt like she was living in a dream, to be experiencing one of the best nights of her life, for some reason she could feel herself swell with tears. It had been a long, tiring day both emotionally and physically with her body finally feeling like it was ready to burst from the mere gentleness of the moment.

She no need to worry though, as a tear started to travel down her left cheek Erik’s gaze shifted to the droplet. He removed one of his hands from the box and ever so softly used his finger to wipe it away; which only made her want to cry like a baby all the more. What really kept Christine from releasing the floodgates was the fact that instead of removing his hand from her face, Erik subtly cupped the side of her head. Her body acted on its own accord, choosing to gently lean into his offered hand making his eyes shine brighter than the stars. The air around them had changed and Erik was going to take full advantage by flicking his eyes to her lips, tilting his head a smidge while he began to close what little distance was left. Her heart racing but her body still as stone, Christine closed her eyes and started to buzz from the anticipation as she was more than curious to discover if it would feel any different from on stage.

Unfortunately for Christine that kiss never came, as she dared to open her eyes only to see Erik begin to retreat, her spirit falling lower than low. As a way of explaining his actions he told her, “I promised my mom I’d take a girl out on a date before going for a kiss.”

Rather than let her heart fall more, Christine too used the shifted mood to her advantage. “Does that mean you’ll take me out on a date?,” her tone was optimistic.

He granted her another smile, making her insides flutter, then cheekily said, “Only if I get your number.”

“Deal.”

Putting the box on the dry sidewalk, Christine rooted around for a pencil and small piece of paper from a lovely piece of fanart she had received. Ironically, it was of her and Erik during their final scene as they held hands and stared into each other’s eyes, the words ‘Happily Ever After’ written in a winding cursive; it couldn’t have been more perfect. After writing her number on the piece she handed it to Erik, feeling rejuvenated by his warming smile that she surmised was from her little cartoon heart. When he looked back up Christine— quite boldly she would later recount— raised herself on her toes, placing her hands on his shoulders for stability, and met his lips with her own, his hands quickly going to her waist as support.

It was far better than any kiss she had ever received— from Erik or other actors— when performing. This one was full of warmth and promise, and a bit like home. Just as she dared to slip her tongue out did he slowly pull away, maintaining the little to no distance between them and his hands on her waist.

Christine stared up at him, her cheeks burning from the action and his shocked face, saying, “I never made any promises.”

Their encounter for the night was over, after Erik had hailed a cab and kissed Christine’s hands with the promise of texting when he got home. She spent the majority of the ride thinking about all of their past encounters, both on and off the stage, and dreamed of where they might be twelve months from now, her smile only growing the more she dreamed.

1 Year Later

“Hey guys!,” the familiar face of Broadway actress Christine Daae can be seen on screen as she props her phone up to record her message. “I just wanted to come on and say how thankful I am to have all of you wonderful people as fans, whether or not you’ve managed to see any of my shows live, know that your continued support for every role I’ve taken on has always filled my heart. Thank you.” Her background is familiar for those who frequent her Instagram posts and stories often, much of her content revolving around her and her boyfriend’s cat, Ayesha.

“I also wanted to pop on and say two very special announcements. The first being that this May the beloved musical ‘Rose and Thorn’ will be coming to the West End in London! And as part of that I can also announce that Myself and Erik will be reprising our roles as Belle and Adam, we are so excited to come and see the great city of London. Hopefully we'll meet some fans too!” Her eyes can be seen looking a little off to the side of the camera, possibly due to another presence.

“And the second announcement— which has long been rumoured no thanks to Raoul— is,” she lifts her manicured hand to show a beautiful ring on her finger, “we are in fact engaged! I’ll share all about the proposal on a different post but for now you’ll have to be content with this, huh?” She asked the person to her side.

Her fiancé, fellow broadway actor Erik Destler, pops his head on camera holding a Siamese cat upside down. “So please stop dm’ing asking for her number. I won.”

Christine laughs at her partner’s antics, he places a sweet kiss on her forehead, leaving her to continue the video. “If you ask me, I’m the one who lucked out,” she stage-whispered to the camera. “But do not fret, I promise to keep you all updated on our trip to England and subsequent wedding. Until next time, bye!”

[milady-pink]

Broadway Vlog AU

Part of my ongoing series exploring Erik and Christine’s souls finding each other across the multiverse: Anywhere You Go

“Hey guys!”

Sitting in her dressing room, Christine with a bright smile plastered on her pretty face. The background consisted of a well-loved couch, posters and fanart, all lit up by fairy lights that hung on the walls adding a magical glow to the room. The actress herself wore a casual outfit for daily living and her hair was braided into a side pleat — her attempt at controlling those unruly curls of hers. There was minimal makeup on her face, the bare minimum she needed to not look like the living dead,but enough to accentuate her features.

“I’m so excited to be starting this series and bringing you all behind the scenes here at ‘Rose and Thorn’. Hopefully you’ll get a chance to see some of the inner workings of the show and see what mischief we can get up to backstage.”

The video's intro plays with a colorful background, pictures of Christine in costume wearing a 1950’s style blue gingham dress, black and white saddle shoes, and a light brown wig styled with gentle waves and a cow lick, all of which glide across the screen to the sound of the musical’s soundtrack. The sequence lasts little more than ten seconds.

“Here we are, on our way to the theater.”

We see Christine walking down one of New York City’s many busy streets, a scarf wrapped around her neck and winter coat donned on her upper body, talking to the camera.

”I like to arrive pretty early to call time so I can settle in and start to prepare for tonight’s show without rushing. And lucky for you, tonight is a two day show! Whoo! Okay, I’ll stop embarrassing myself and see you at the theater. Bye!”

The next time the camera is turned on we see Christine, back in her dressing room, standing before her vanity’s large mirror. We can easily see her holding the camera in view.

”Okay, now that we are here I thought I’d take you guys on a little tour of the wonderful Garnier Theater, and hopefully we’ll bump into some castmates along the way.” The camera’s view moves from the mirror to show her surroundings. “This is my dressing room where I get ready for the show and warm up a bit, hence the keyboard right here.” She walks towards an electric piano, turning it on and playing a chord. “And over here we have some decorations to make the room feel more cozy because— as you’ll see— a lot of the cast and crew like to congregate here and steal some of my snacks.” The camera pans over to a basket filled with mini bags of chips, pretzels, and cookies. “On this wall I’ve put up my second favorite thing in this room; my fanart!”

We see a wall behind the couch filled with art of varying degrees of skill and subjects; some of Christine in costume with her castmates, others are lyrics artfully written in the show's colors. “I love receiving your guys’ artwork, the thought and love you put into every piece amazes me and reminds me why I do this in the first place. Sometimes I like to lay on this couch and just admire all the beautiful pieces. Now, I only say this is my second favorite thing in the room because…” The camera’s view swiftly changes from the fanart wall to a small, if not a little dingy, bathroom. “We have a bathroom! And that’s not all, we also have a shower! Whoo!”

The camera is turned to face Christine again, showing us her smiling face. “Am I not the luckiest girl on Broadway?” The camera once again changes from her face to her dressing room door, the name ‘Christine Daae’ written on a yellow laminated card decorated with red roses. “Before we set off in search of cast and crew, here is what my door looks like, and trust me when I say I have spent many years dreaming of the day that I got to see my name on a door like this. So everytime I get to walk in and see it, my heart just flutters a bit inside, completely full of gratitude.”

A quick jump-cut to another door, similar to Christine’s, but this one has the name ‘Raoul DeChagny’ written on the card. “Hopefully he’s in,” she says faintly before knocking. A mumbled, “Coming!”, can be heard from the other side as padded footsteps move closer.

“Hey Christine, and hello vlog.” Comes the suave greeting of Raoul, in all of his sandy blonde and dashing charm. Dressed in a sweater and jeans, casually leans against the doorframe as he runs a hand through his already tousled hair.

“I feel like I can already hear the fangirls,” Christine responded, referencing the dozens of young girls— and some boys— who regularly lineup outside the stage door in hopes of getting a picture of their favorite Broadway actor. In retort, Raoul flashes a side-smile accompanied by a pointed finger-gun, wink, and clicking sound. “Oh boy, anyways we were hoping you’d be so gracious as to introduce yourself to the people. Maybe a room tour, mayhaps?”

“I would be honored to have my dressing room shown to the vast crowds of the internet.” He said in a playful tone, putting his free hand on his heart. With a sweep of his hand he exclaimed, “Please, c’mon in!”

Although a bit smaller in comparison to Christine’s, the room is still decorated and lighted to create a homely atmosphere. The camera follows Raoul as he begins to point out and speak of the various things adorning his room: “Right here we have some flowers that my mom got me for opening night which I had made into a resin… sphere. Uhh, here are some very sweet notes and letters from fans and family I’ve collected and now happily display on my wall. On this itty bitty coffee table are some Marvel comic books that I recently got from a shop around the corner— trying to stay up to date with ‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes’. Oh! This is probably one of the most treasured possessions in my life: baby Yoda Squishmallow from the ever prestigious Costco. And yeah, those are the main highlights of the room, this couch of course is very comfy cozy…”

“What’s this?” Christine asks, pointing the camera away from Raoul to focus on a framed photograph of a signature.

“Oh, just a personally signed Hugh Jackman photograph he sent on opening night, no biggie.” The actor said in a most nonchalant manner.

We now see Raoul, cuddling his baby Yoda Squishmallow, seated on his loveseat while Christine interviews him in a semi-serious way. “Please state your name, who you play, and… favorite memory of a musical you were in.”

”Ooh, okay, nice. I’m Raoul DeChagny, I play everyone’s favorite Chad, Gaston, and my favorite memory is… Oh! You remember that time—well, if you don’t know me and Christine have done a few musicals opposite each other. This will be our… fourth or fifth? Wow, crazy. Anyways, there was this one time during the revival of ‘Bye Bye Birdie’ where our wonderful Christine, who played Kim was singing the title number at the end of a two show day. I’m not sure what really happened, all I remember was waiting in the wings for final bows when all of a sudden she slips while running towards the front of the stage and lands on her butt, her skirts flying up a bit almost flashing the audience. It was so funny, I was stunned!” He recanted with a laugh.

“In my defense the stage was very slippery due to someone’s shedding pompadour.” Christine’s voice could be heard behind the camera.

“Ha, yeah, definitely not in my top ten favorite wigs. Extremely itchy too,” he disclosed.

”Well thank you, Raoul, for introducing yourself to the vlog. Hopefully your pants won't get caught on any fences and leave you stuck there like in Les Mis.”

His jovial mood sours and his handsome features quickly harden as he points a finger at the camera. “Editors, you make sure to cut that out.”

We are soon brought to yet another door, this one partially opened, the name ‘Antoinette Giry’ prettily written on the card. “Knock knock, is anyone here?” The door opens further to reveal an older woman with very dark hair piled on her head wearing some simple yet elegant slacks and a blouse.

“Christine, my dear, how are you today?”

“I’m good, Antoinette. I was wondering if you had a minute to introduce yourself to the people?” She

”Of course, please come in.”

Similarly to Raoul’s interview— without the room tour seeing as hers was about the same size as a walk-in closet— with the camera pointed at the older actress and Christine sitting behind. “I guess I’ll start by asking you to say your name, your role in the show, and your favorite dressing room item.”

“My name is Antoinette Giry, I play Margaret Pots— housekeeper extraordinaire— and my favorite item is…” she looks around for inspiration, her eyes light up when she spots it. “Ah, probably,” she reaches over, “this thermos my wonderful daughter— and Rockette— Meg. Not only does it have some of my favorite photos of us but it keeps my coffee warm all day.” She finished with a satisfied smile, which earned a laugh from Christine.

“It’s part of your method-acting to get into the role.”

The older woman’s eyes twinkled with agreement, “Exactly.”

The next cut brings us to the stage, the seats empty as dancers and workers are scattered about getting ready for tonight’s show. “Here is our beautiful stage and very empty auditorium, so I thought I’d show some of the props used. Right here,” we are shown a dark backstage with various scenery and props of different sizes all over, the camera closing in on a metal rack with smaller pieces all labeled, “are some of what we use. There are my books that I’m constantly reading— spoiler but the pages don’t really flip. Gaston’s driving gloves and goggles, some rose bushes, ooh my favorite scene; the giant library inside the Arrington mansion. Even if the books aren’t real, the painted gold carvings and embossing are gorgeous and take my breath away every time.”

We then go from the dark stage wings to the brighter stage, nearing some dancers who are stretching out. “Hi guys!”

“Hey, Christine.”

“Hi,”

“Is it okay if I bother you guys for the vlog?” The dancers nodded in approval. “So, what are your favorite dances you do during the show?”

“Well for me, I really love the beginning number when Belle— you— are walking through the town and we’re all dancing around you ‘cause you’re too busy reading,” one of them said. “I remember how long it took you to pretend not to notice us during rehearsals.”

Christine laughed, “Someone does a backflip in front of me! No book can distract you from that!” The small group of them laughed.

“Personally, I really love when all the servants are bringing Belle different delicacies during her first night. We all have these large metal plates holding weird fake foods which are really heavy! I never knew what a good arm workout carrying a croquembouche was!” Again, they break into a laugh.

“Well thank you guys for your time, I’ll let you get back to stretching. See you later!”

”Bye!”

“Later!”

With another jumpcut, the view shifts to Christine now sitting in her vanity table, back in her dressing room. She is wearing a blue and white gingham dress— her hair has changed to a ‘50s style bob in light brown. A small, flesh tone microphone is perched right where the lace of the wig ends at the top of her forehead.

“It’s almost places but I wanted to show you the final product before heading off to start the show. I already have my makeup and hair done, and my wonderful dresser came in to help put on my village dress. I’ll see you guys later, hopefully to sneak some mini interviews with more of the cast. Bye!”

We get a glimpse of Christine on stage from behind the curtains, her voice lovely and echoing through the theater, singing about wanting a more out of life than what her meager small town can provide. The song ends and the camera flips around to show a very proud and smiling Raoul, who was also fitted into his costume wearing a dark brown wig, red leather jacket, and yellow scarf.

Back in Christine’s dressing room, she was still in costume, now adorning a long navy jacket, the sound of a deep baritone can be heard singing live through the speakers. The camera is pointed towards the door, specifically the basket where the snacks are kept as a hand starts to reach through the cracked open door. “Nibble nibble, little mouse. Who’s that eating my snacks?” The door opens to reveal a shorter young man, dressed in a brown sheepskin jacket and sunglasses perched on his head. His expression is that of shock and slight horror.

“Hi,” the man says.

“Identify yourself to the vlog,” she says to him in a playful authoritative tone.

”They call me Joey, and I play Lefou. But right now I’ve taken on the role of snack mule,” he tentatively discloses.

“Uh huh, and who are you supplying to?”

”Uh, no comme—“

”What’s taking you so lo—Oh! Hi Christine!” Greets a surprised older man wearing a sweater vest, thick black glasses, and white wig. He nods his head towards the camera, “And vlog.”

“And you are?” She questions.

”My name is Gerard Carrier but for two hours a night, eight times a week I go by Maurice Hadley— your father. You wouldn’t deprive an old man of his favorite post-dinner sweet treat would you?”

”Or an innocent boy a salty snack?,” chimed in Joey, using as sweetly a voice as he could muster. “He was gonna blackmail me, Christine!”

”Oh I was not, and besides everyone already knows you play with dolls before the show!”

”They’re not dolls, they’re wrestling figures!”

The camera continues to capture as the door starts to close on the two men, leaving them to their— now muffled— bickering in the hallway.

Once again we are introduced to two new faces, both men dressed in similar suits. The shorter and older of the two wears a gray mustache and brown tie, whereas the other is clean shaven with slick back hair and a yellow bowtie. They sit on a small sofa in their shared dressing room.

”Gentlemen,” Christine can be heard asking, “if you’d please tell us your name and who you play.”

”My na—“

”I am—“

The two stop and stare at each other, both accidentally starting to answer at the same time. The mustachioed man gestured for his friend to start first.

“Bonjour, I am Richard Firmin and I play the deviously handsome Jacob Lumiere who acts as chief butler to Monsieur Arrington of the Arrington Rose Garden Estate.” He said with an extra flourish to his voice.

“You and your dramatics,” mumbled the older man. “My name is Giles Andre and I play senior butler,” he emphasized the higher title as a dig to his partner, “William Cogsworth.” The two men now stared at each other, their eyes a bit squinted in equally fashioned sneers.

“Right, thank you,” Christine said. “Now would you kindly tell the vlog what it’s like to share your dressing room? For the future Broadway actors and actresses who might be watching. What do they get to look forward to?”

The men continued to stare at one another, until they finally broke and faced the camera once more. “Well for starters, you might have to get used to sharing… everything,” Andre said with a grave tone.

”Oh, ‘everything’. I ask you for an extra bobby-pin and you act as if I’m asking for a kidney!” Exclaimed Firmin.

”I do not—“

”What you fine people at home should know is how often you’ll have to smell garlic on your roommate’s breath!”

”You told me it wasn’t noticeable!” Interjected an aghast Andre, “What about my mints?”

”Oh, there’s not a mint strong enough to suppress that stench.”

”Stench! Is that what you call those God-awful romance novels?”

”Excuse me?!”

”You know, the ones with the half naked men on the cover, their hair flowing in the wind.”

”I’ll have you know those are artistic pieces of literature!”

”Who in their right mind would call that literature?”

”You little—“ The camera quickly cuts to a different scene.

We now find Christine back in her dressing room, the camera propped up on her vanity as she puts a new wig on; this one resembles the soft waves of old Hollywood stars.

”It’s princess time!” She cheerily announces. “This is by far my most favorite dress and scene of the whole show. Not only do I get to wear this beautiful ball gown—,” she spins around to fully show off the costume: with red roses accented along the bustline and outer cape, a soft butter-yellow encompasses the majority of the dress, “which as a behind-the-scenes secret was inspired by Audrey Hepburn’s dress in Sabrina— or the enchanting scenery that I get to dance in.” Christine lifted a white-gloved hand to the side of her mouth, “Not to mention the fact that I get to dance with a very charming prince. I—“ her sentence is cut off due to her attention shifting towards the door.

The camera— now in Christine’s hand— focuses on a young boy about ten-years-old wearing a fitted suit and black dress shoes. “Dear dapper gentleman, would you be so honorable as to tell us your name?”

The boy lets out a giggle, “My name is Gus.”

“Hi, Gus! And who do you play in the show? A rosebush?”

He laughs again, “No! I play Chip Pots and a town boy in the beginning.”

“What’s it like to perform on Broadway? Hard, easy?”

”Mmm,” he hummed while thinking, “it’s not too hard.” He said with a shrug of his shoulders.

”A true professional,” Christine states. “And he kills it every night, huh?,” she asks while extending a hand.

”Yep!,” he answers, meeting her high-five. “Plus the snacks help.”

“Haha, good!”

“Before we say goodbye, we have one more castmate interview,” Christine could be heard saying off camera. In-shot was a new person sitting on her couch— which was surprising considering how many people we’ve already encountered— this time a man maybe a few years older than herself holding an acoustic guitar, strumming some mindless chords. The man wore a dark t-shirt and jeans and was very handsome in an almost gothic way: with high cheekbones, dark hair, and rounded square jaw. Most striking was the port-wine stain that colored a good portion of the right side of his face, barely tickling his eye’s inner corner. Still, it did nothing except draw someone into his unique beauty. “Erik, could you introduce yourself to the vlog?”

His dark eyebrows furrowed at her question. “The what?”

“Vlog. Stands for ‘video blog’.”

“That’s a terrible word.” His voice, a golden timber, was surmised to be the very same as the one heard earlier in the video.

Christine can be heard huffing out a sigh at his agely antics. “Just tell us your name, who you play, and something interesting about yourself.”

With another strum of the guitar’s chords, acting as a fidgeting of sorts, he started to answer. “Hello, my name is Erik, I play the beast—“

“He’s not a beast! He’s a wounded World War Two veteran who needs the gentle touch of a woman to remind him of his humanity!”

“Okay, the ‘not beast’, Adam Arrington. And a fun fact about me is I play guitar.”

“Yeah, we can tell,” her voice dripping in sarcasm as the camera zooms in on the instrument. “Tell us something we don’t know.”

“You already know most about me,” he said rather quietly.

“Where were you born?”

“France.”

“There, that’s cool!”

Erik huffs out a small laugh, a gentle smile tugging at his lips, “Okay.”

“So,” began Christine, now back in her regular clothes sitting in a cross legged position next to her colleague, her hair free from the confines of a dozen pin-curls. “To end this vlog I thought it would be fun to bring in a guest each episode and sing a little song— not Broadway related— so you can get a look into each cast member’s personality.”

The two made eye contact to count down. “1, 2, 3…” and the pair began to sing a harmonic duet of the song ‘Landslide by Fleetwood Mac’ their contrasting voices, Christine’s purity and Erik’s velvetine vocals along with his playing, came together to make a perfect match.

During their singing it was hard not to notice the subtle glances they would shoot at each other, especially Christine who would always inadvertently smile when he met her eyes then dart them away as if embarrassed. As for Erik— when he wasn’t busy watching his playing and when Christine wasn’t looking— he would unabashedly stare at her face, almost trying to study it and imprint them like this in his memory. They ended the song with the final strum of Erik’s fingers as he continued to stare at her, while Christine opened her eyes and came back to the moment. When she turned to her partner, and noticed his concentrated stare, she simply smiled at him, his lips tugging up for the first time giving her a smile in return.

With an inhale of breath, Christine once again faced the camera to sign off. “Thank you all so much for watching and we hope to see you next week! Bye!”

The video ends.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Top Comments

Mrs. Dechagny

OMG they are SOO cute together!! I came for Raoul but stayed for the unrequited attraction!!1

Thorn’sRose24

Can you blame her?? He’s so handsome! And that voice ugh, I’m so jealous

Bway Princess24601

Right? imagine getting to sing AND dance with him on a candlelit stage almost EVERY DAY!?

Xvader54

Nah way man, not with that ugly crap on his face maybe a 6/10 without it

EponinePhan

You did NOT just insult God’s favorite like that!

XScarletVVitchx

Disagree to disagree like srsly go touch grass!!

gAlinda82

Cmon guys its clearly just acting!! Remember everyone was all over Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper?? Same thing, diff people

Rierra4Life

i suspect there’s little acting… I can smell good chemistry a mile away and these two are def legit!!

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The musical was inspired by Beauty and the Beast 1954 by Jonas Pina and his amazing artwork | I take ZERO credit for his story, only Erik and Christine

[milady-pink]

Anywhere You Go

Let me go too,

Follow Erik and Christine (along with their friends) as their souls find each other in every multiverse/ oneshot!

If you have any recommendations for ideas you’d like to see our favorite couple in, please feel free to drop an ask!

Ballet AU

Cats AU (not the musical)

Broadway Vlog AU: Part 1 | Part 2

Reverse Height Difference AU (Tall Christine Smol Erik)

Pride & Prejudice AU

Roommates AU | 5 fights, 1 agreement (Erik & Raoul)

[milady-pink]

Cats AU

Part of my ongoing series exploring Erik and Christine’s souls finding each other through the multiverse: Anywhere You Go

It was official

Nadir had become his greatest fear

a crazy cat man.

It had started off innocently enough, wanting a companion to occupy his evenings and weekends off duty as a Parisian investigator for foreign crime. Now, at the ripe age of sixty-eight, Nadir found himself walking home after a long day’s work and quick stop at the nearby pet shop for some more litter. As he walked through the chilling early night air, he started to ponder where exactly he let his fondness for felines almost entirely take over his life.

His first was Erik, a black short hair with eerie yellow eyes, having encountered him after a neighbor of Nadir’s asked him to call animal control and dispose of the dead cat. It saddened his heart to hear this, but it nearly jumped out of his chest when upon inspection the cat was, in fact, not dead. If it wasn’t for his interference and stubborn determination to keep him alive, Erik would surely be dead. This was a bit after losing his loving, compassionate wife to cancer that he made the decision to adopt the worse-for-wear feline. Maybe it was due to being a bit lonely, Reza having grown up and moved out many years ago, but Nadir was hoping to get a loving companion to spend his evenings and weekends with. But alas, this was not to be.

Erik, as it turns out, became an incredibly difficult and challenging task, making Nadir feel as though he had accidentally signed up for a second job with no paycheck. The first week alone the raven scoundrel tore apart his couch, flung litter outside his box, and almost choked to death trying to eat a scrap of paper, not to mention how aggressive and temperamental he was, Nadir still had the scars. It wasn’t until over a month into living with him did Erik start to feel a bit more comfortable; choosing more and more to leave his beloved cat-cave and sit by Nadir’s feet as the older man watched tv or read a book. He was never a cuddler, that is with him, but there was a sadness, an ache that Nadir could feel seep out from the traumatized animal. That first fateful day the vet and technicians told him how difficult he was, going so far as to consider calling him feral, and just by looking at him he has suffered a long and arduous life.

On the right side of his face was badly scarred, most likely from a past mange infection, as well as other wounds that could very likely have been from previous owners. Despite the forewarning, Nadir felt he could show this poor creature the touch of a gentle hand, wanting to bring him some peace and comfort for the rest of his lives. That decision is one he has yet to regret, even if Erik has a tendency to howl like a madman at three in the morning, he wouldn’t give up his judgmental little criminal for anything after forming a certain bond even the cat can’t deny.

After Erik, Nadir thought about getting a second cat, a possible sibling or partner who could care for him and occupy his time. Raoul was, to put it lightly, a sweet but dimwitted boy of a light orange coat who was many years, cat and human, under Erik. The thinking was that maybe a fellow male could act as a brother or son to Erik, possibly even unlocking a nurturing side that he liked to keep so hidden Nadir doubted it even existed. This time however, he decided to venture out and contact a breeder who recently had a new litter of orange shorthairs not far outside the city. On the first day home, after a positive experience with one of the kittens, Nadir was greeted by a hungry Erik asking for an early dinner. What he believed to be a black bag of toys or goodies for him—not that he played with the ones he already had—Erik sniffed the carrier in Nadir’s hands but instead of a fishy or poultry laden aroma, he was met with a foul stench of an outsider. An intruder. In his home!

“Erik, I have a surprise for you…” but instead of excitement, the midnight male gave Nadir a look that said, ‘take it back’. He sat before Nadir as the human unzipped the bag, hitting his tail angrily on the floor. After a second of the carrier’s top flap being opened, an adorable ball of fluff poked his head out. “Erik, meet Raoul.” As a response the older cat merely jumped up to his perch on his favorite cat tree, whipping his tail while staring daggers into the youngster.

Raoul, born the youngest of four siblings, had an adventurous spirit coupled with a nervous nature. Their first meeting would outline the course of their relationship. Young Raoul would try and befriend the mature Erik, by cuddling up or playfully swatting at his tail, only to be met with a hiss or a slap to the face. Although credit where credit is due, Erik never once clawed at or seriously tried to shed blood, but his great dislike was evident. But just when he thought he would have to rehouse Raoul to a more safe home, the streets of Paris sent him an answer.

Call it fate, all though Reza told his father it was the “cat distribution system”, whatever that is, and along came Christine. He was walking back home after making a stop at the butcher's shop for some fresh cuts of beef for him, and slices of salami for the boys. All of a sudden a crowd caught his attention and his police instincts leapt into action, clearing the people gathered around a car. There had been an unfortunate accident involving an adult cat and an innocent driver who didn’t see the animal run across the street. What made the situation worse was the small ball of brown fur that was frantically meowing for someone to help him. After a downtrodden visit to the vet, the kitten's father passed away from his injuries. Feeling he owed this small being, he adopted the orphan that day, feeding her bits of salami to gain her trust.

By now, Raoul had grown into a lovable oaf of a teenager, his face especially keeping some of his kitten charm which only added to his pretty boy appearance even more. When Nadir first walked through the door, both boys were immediately transfixed to the small cinnamon ball in his arms. “Boys, meet Christine.” Ever since that first day, the chemistry of the house, solidifying Nadir’s belief that sometimes all a problem needs is a woman’s touch.

Each male had their own relationship with Chrissy, an affectionate nickname she garnered, effectively stealing the hearts of all three men. With Nadir, it was easy; all she had to do was cuddle up on his chest, start making biscuits, and he was a goner. He bought her toys, treats, even a collar the same color blue as her eyes. With Raoul, she was a very nice playmate that helped get both of them tired for bedtime, warming up to him easily due to their closeness in age; they would often cuddle and groom each other in the afternoon sun; much to Erik’s chagrin. Ever the loner, Erik strayed from the happy lovers, choosing to hide away in his beloved darkness, resigned to live what remained of his nine lives alone. That is, if it wasn’t for Christine.

Everytime the two younger felines would couple up, Nadir started to notice Chrissy actively searching for Erik, even when Raoul was happily grooming her tail. It only took a few months and the small ball of brown grew into a fluffy cinnamon haired lady, grace and elegance in every step her paws took. This certainly caught Erik’s attention, so it was no wonder when Nadir once awoke in the middle of the night to find not only Erik, but also Christine, sleeping in the moonlight. The two were happily cuddled up together, despite Erik’s bony body and scarred face, and something drew her in to him. Nadir really should have seen it coming a mile away; there were more often than not times that he found Christine watching, almost contemplating leaving her spot to join him, but seemed to be too afraid of hurting Raoul’s feelings. Then there were the times she would cautiously approach him, not in the same way Raoul would when looking for a playful fight, more like she wanted to genuinely befriend the phantom cat as if it would fulfill something her beau could not. Nadir could also not deny the way Erik’s ears would perk up anytime Chrissy would chirp at the birds, their devoured human having set up a birdhouse and feeder by the window for their entertainment. He acted as if she was singing a beautiful aria deserving of the Opera house and not the adorable trilling it was.

To say Nadir was eating up this little love triangle would be an understatement. Any time he saw Raoul and Christine together, grooming or watching birds together, he would look over to Erik in his lair of darkness and not so slyly make a comment or two. “You’re really going to let that fop take your girl, Erik?”

Likewise, he would whisper not so nice things to Raoul when the poor love struck boy found himself without his significant other; the boy still hasn’t figured out where they hide off to, doubtful he ever will. “Raoul, your lover has been catnapped by the Phantom, and you’re just going to let her go?”

At one point he tried to de-escalate the situation by bringing in a second female, Carlotta. She was a very beautiful girl, older than Raoul and Chrissy yet younger than Erik, with a very diva-like attitude. She was a very picky eater, much like Raoul who only ate the most expensive food, but after days of eating the same food fine she would one day scrunch her nose up at it like it was the most foul thing in the world. This wasn’t so much of an issue for Nadir, but he crossed the line at her bullying of Christine. Too often he would come home to find the feisty lilac point Birman lounging in Chrissy’s usual spot, only for her to be hiding on a far off pillow. This, added to the many literal cat fights Carlotta had instigated, Nadir decided that she would have to go. Luckily his neighbor, an Italian fellow named Piangi, agreed to take her off his hands and provide her the divalicious life that she wants; every now and again he would hear from her about Carlotta and all the ways Piangi has spoiled her rotten.

So, his flat would only house one female, that was perfectly alright.

As Nadir continued his trip home he started to ponder about his three wards, playing a little game of which toy will Chrissy cuddle up with tonight; her grasshopper or her scorpion? When all of a sudden, he felt the sensation that he was being watched, something that living with three cats will acustom a person. Turning his head to the left he saw a small Siamese cat, no more than a few weeks old, sitting perfectly content on a park bench. Her tail was light and airy, a sign that she was not afraid of him nor intended harm, so Nadir approached slowly, testing the waters by reaching a hand out. The cat sniffed his hand then happily rubbed her face against his knuckles, aching for a good scratch. “Where are your owners, little one?” There was no collar around her neck, and Nadir was familiar with how cold these nights could get, often leading to a light snowfall. Waging a small war in his head, one he knew was fruitless to fight, Nadir shifted the kitty litter to one side and offered the inside of his coat as a warm haven for the creature. Easily trusting the man, she hopped in with no hesitation, leading Nadir to wonder if she had an owner and was microchipped.

He mentally made plans to bring her to the vets office tomorrow, along with already coming up with a new name in case she wasn’t. With such a friendly demeanor, he felt that all three of his existing pets will get along with her, should he need to add another bowl to the mix.

“Mmm, what about, Aisha? Hmm?”

“Mrew”

Okay,

Maybe he was a crazy cat man.

[milady-pink]

Ballet AU

Part of my ongoing exploration of the many ways Erik and Christine’s souls find each other in every universe: Anywhere You Go

It was a grey and dreary January day, one which would have been better spent in bed, but unfortunately Erik was here. Miss Mabel’s Dance Studio, a mid-sized brick building painted what he suspected to once be stark white that has since faded away to an aged yellow, with portions having been repainted due to chipping. As he began to walk in, checking in his car’s crappy mirror to ensure his mask was securely on his face, he angstily wished he knew Miss Mabel. Instead he knew Miss Giry, the only reason he was here in the first place instead of happily rotting in self-pity under a warm blanket listening to music.

Stepping into the place, Erik was quickly met with the very woman he was mentally cursing. She wore yoga pants, possibly a tank top, and zip up jacket rolled at the sleeves on top, all in black. Of this, Erik highly approved considering his own attire of black jeans, black tee, and a white and black flannel over top, for a splash of color. Unlike his messy bedhead, her black hair was perfectly done up in a bun with a singular braid over the top like a crown. Fitting, he thought, seeing as how she basically runs this place with an iron fist, always striving for perfection in each of her students; even the toddlers. At least she also obtained the patience to work them into shape, something Erik himself notably lacked.

”Good, you’re here,” she says, no formal greeting, but that was to be expected. In fact, her upfront attitude and blunt honesty was something he greatly admired about her, the desire to take a shot of bitter honesty chased by the sweet sensation of improvement far outweighed the mountain of sugar most teachers poured over their students only for them to find it empty of constructive criticism. Not that Erik was ever not gifted at everything he tried. “This way,” she said while waving a hand indicating to follow her.

Down a poorly lit hallway, and through two windowed doors, Miss Giry showed Erik where he would be trapped for the afternoon. “I doubt that old thing is even in tune,” she gestured to the black baby grand that sat in the corner of a rather large practice room. “Nadir mentioned that you knew how to fix them but you really aren’t obliged to. As long as what you play is danceable, it doesn’t matter to me.” Raising her jacket’s sleeve to read her watch she told Erik he had roughly twenty minutes until students would start to show up. “Do as you wish, and thank you again for helping out.” The appreciation caught him off guard a little, but three days ago when Nadir said how anxious the dance instructor was about finding a one time pianist after their regular got sick, even his cold dark heart went out to her. “I’m a very big believer that live music is better for a dancer than anything a device can do.”

Erik nodded at that, then as Miss Giry started to leave asked her, “Did you ever know Miss Mabel?” When she turned around her face was a bit surprised, but somewhat used to the question.

She shrugged her shoulders and told him, “No clue,” then left the same doors they came from leaving Erik to the empty studio. Walking over to the piano it was clear that a little love and affection was not going to make this instrument perk back up like a daisy. The black paint was chipping, especially along the very bottom where he suspects bored kids who were waiting for their turn in class picked at the flakes to pass the time. Deciding to hold further judgement until the keys where played, he tested the sound by plucking a few notes; only to be met with possibly the worst off-pitch note he ever heard.

That will not do…

He went back to his car to bring in his bag of tools before opening up the boards of wood that hid the keys, pulled out the keyboard, and started to inspect the hammers, several of which were stuck.With those now cleared Erik moved onto rectifying the pitches by using his tuning hammer, to tighten the bolts that held the strings, and cranking until the string had the right tension to emit the correct pitch of that note. Although he used apps for something’s when working on a piano, he mostly relied on his sense of hearing, perfectly tuned itself Erik could easily tell when a key was almost out of tune by the age of four. Of course, he didn’t know about pitch and tone, but he could tell that the note just didn’t sound how it should, a little off. Which was ironic given he was a little off, but sometimes God likes to play jokes like that.

It wasn’t long after fixing the piano that students began to flood into the studio, making Erik more anxious than expected due to the scarce amount of socializing he’s experienced, which unfortunately left his face starting to perspire under his mask. Just when he was thinking about quickly running to the bathroom to pat his face dry with paper towels, the most beautiful laugh he’d ever heard danced to his ears. Glancing towards the doorway he saw her, a girl about his age with the most luscious auburn hair and shining skin came walking, no floating, into the room. She was accompanied by a possible friend, their arms being linked together, who was a bit shorter with dark hair and the same nose as a certain instructor who needed Erik’s services in the first place. He surmised her to be Meg, Miss Giry’s only daughter, who had been taking dance lessons since she could stand.

But who was she with?

The thought occupied Erik’s entire being, so much so that he didn’t realize he had been staring at her since she entered. It only finally occurred to him when two azure eyes met his dark amber ones. Even from a small distance, as the girls went to find neighboring spots at the barre, their blue shade reminded Erik of the prettiest hydrangeas during the height of spring. She finally broke contact as the two girls started to stretch while continuing to chat.

If her eyes and laughter were beautiful, her body was a work of art. God, Erik felt like a creep, but it was true.

Light pink tights accentuated strong, muscular legs with defined calves and quads, which hid behind a thin white skirt adding a contrasting delicacy. The powder blue leotard she wore, a different shade from her eyes, he could tell, hugged her body to reveal slightly toned abdominals providing her a strong center. She wore a baggy sweatshirt, but upon taking it off from the studio’s heater, her sculpted arms had biceps even Erik could admit he was jealous of. All in all, she was a sight to be seen, and heard.

Trying not to stare awkwardly, the mask did not help the pervert accusations, Erik only did a once over of her physique before returning his gaze to the cream colored keys before him. While his mind continued to work overtime trying to remember every last detail about her, and already coming up with an excuse for Miss Giry to play for next week's class, he almost missed Meg Giry divulge her friends’ name.

“God, Christine, my old Barbies are more flexible than you! Are you sure you’ve been doing this for ten years?”

“Shshut up!” She laughed, once again making the ears of a shy pianist tingle from euphony.

Christine

What a perfect name

With the name of the angel that has unknowingly captivated Erik’s mind, a small smile grew from his thin lips. Unfortunately, mere seconds after, Miss Giry walked through the door, clapping her hands twice to signal the beginning of the class. She gave Erik a curt nod, telling him it was time to perform.

As the girls, began to go through their tendus, jetes, and rond de jambes, Erik let his mind slip into that wonderfully empty place where his fingers and emotions could take over and create a beautiful melody. The only difference was that this time his mind had a muse, and her name was Christine; a strong, delicate, and softened mixture with a certain something that entrances you, pulling you in until you’ve drowned in the salty sea. Erik was sure he would swallow buckets full of seawater just to hear her laugh again.

Laugh at something he said

While his spindly fingers danced their own sequence across the keys, Erik dared to sneak a glance at the object of his music’s desire. Having moved on from their barre warmups, they currently practiced center work, each dancer performing a combination set by Miss Giry. Ever the fair and honest woman, not even her own daughter could escape the ballet mistress’s corrections, her strive for perfection shining through, just as Christine was about to take the floor. Quieting his playing just the slightest bit, merely to conserve energy, that’s all, Erik watched with more attention than he should have as she began to dance.

Although it could not be said that Erik was on the same level of expertise as either Giry, it could be said that anyone with an eye for performing arts would agree; she did not dance, but rather flew. The grace and gentile of her foot work was sightly, the thing of which writers long ago used to describe to their out of town friends in a letter after visiting the ballet. She held her head high with a regal expression, the smallest of smiles visible on her lips, all while her arms floated and waded like she was alone and adrift in an ocean of waves. And her leaps! Erik had seen the other women perform their own but, call him biased, somehow with Christine she made it look as easy as a bird gliding through the air, effortless and practiced. Was she perfect? Absolutely not, but that’s what made her performance so enchanting; it made any watcher feel like they could do it too, her humanity piercing the meat of her act.

To end the combination, Christine was to lift her back leg, kept straight, into a full arabesque while en pointe. Of the limited knowledge Erik had on ballet, which he would now be expanding tenfold, the move was similar to that of Giselle in her ghostly form. Regrettably, Erik was a teenage boy and despite the fact that his brain can comprehend and appreciate the womanly form for its ability and beauty. But his monkey brain saw long legs and the smallest hint of cleavage, turning awe into arousement. The sudden attraction to the talented dancer, and its effects, was near immediate, but not in the normal way. Before vengeful nature could take over, another uncharacteristic action happened; he messed up.

His too long and too thing fingers, with their pale skin and knobby joints, misstepped and played a few wrong notes. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue, as he would have been playing alone, but today it was an issue for the entire class of around fifteen women stared at the pianist who had laced a sour note, effectively cutting off all blood flow from heading south. Quickly, Erik turned his face back towards the keys and hands that betrayed him.

But, what was that?

He turned his head ever so slightly towards the mirrored wall, unable to face those judging stares again, searching for that elusive laughter he was sure would haunt his dreams. As Erik’s eyes found the auburn bun that first caught his eye earlier, just as before blue met amber, Christine met his gaze. She was smiling, had laughed, and now smiled at him! Laughed at something he did! Oh, he could die happily now. Feeling daring, Erik lifted his lips in a lopsided smile just for her. And, maybe it was delusions of grandeur, but he could have sworn he saw the smallest glint of mirth in her eyes. A warmth bloomed across his cheeks, leaving him for once thankful for the mask.

Filled with joy, and a renewed desire to play, Erik once again took up the position of pianist and began to perform his own dance across octaves and half steps. The most beautiful melody poured from the instrument as the class continued on.

”Very good work this week ladies, keep it up for next time.”

Miss Giry’s informal goodbye left everyone feeling proud, knowing that her ‘very good’ was the equivalent to an A minus. As students started to pack up their things and trickle out of the room, most of them scurrying to get home amidst the weather, Erik stayed back a while and packed up his few belongings. Yes, he was still embarrassed about what happened earlier, but Christine’s smile was the soothing balm his burnt self had needed. Too busy, again, in his own head instead of his surroundings the voice that suddenly reached his ear pulled him back to reality.

“You’re really good”

He looked up at the source, finding the answer to have two blue eyes and a hair of auburn. He stared, for how long he did not know,but what he did know was that now that she was this close Erik could smell the faint perfume of lavender.

“Piano,” the poor girl, unbothered by his brainless gaze, tried to clarify. “You’re a really good player.”

Finally something brought Erik back from his stupor into the now, his brain telling him that the girl he now has the biggest crush on was talking. To him! “Oh, th-thanks.”

Stupid, Erik!

Maybe I should have taken Nadir up on that “small talk practice” after all…

Trying to salvage the conversation, he tried to add, “I practice a lot.”

She smiled again, “I can tell, the no sheet music kinda gave it away.”

Erik was taken aback, “You play?”

“No, but my father does. Along with violin and guitar, you learn a thing or two.”

She then struggled to get the right words out to express what she felt. “You look so… peaceful. Like your hands are working on their own and you’re just the vessel.” Feeling a little better, she offered an embarrassed smile.

Nodding in agreement, Erik revealed, “That’s exactly how you look while dancing. In control but also, in your own world. As if you see something that you’re trying to convey through your moves.” Now he wanted to shrink, feeling he said too much.

But rather than say anything that would send him to the hills until the end of time, Christine merely smiled, genuine appreciation poking through. “Thank you.”

“Christine,” called Meg from the doorway, “just give Zorro your number and be done! It’s raining cats and dogs out there and I need my caffeine fix!”

Her friend's words made Christine clearly embarrassed, her eyes wide and in shock. “Meg!” She whisper-shouted. “Uh,” she started, directing herself towards Erik, “here. Maybe you could join us for coffee after class sometime, yeah?” She asked while handing over her phone for Erik to put his number in.

“I don’t like coffee,” he said, handing her phone back to her with his lopsided smile.

She easily reciprocated, “Me either. Tea?”

He nodded, “Tea is perfect.”

“Perfect,” she replied with a smile. To keep her waiting friend from leaving without her, Christine started to walk away looking at her phone until she turned back, saying “I’ll see you around, Erik. Keep practicing.”

“You too,” he responded. Now the last one left in the studio, he sat at the piano like he had been for the past hour, only this time he felt lighter and more than grateful for the unexpected turn of events that have transpired on this rainy day.

He left for home not too long after, telling Miss Giry that he would be happy to help out whenever she needed him, then got in his car and began composing a symphony to be titled, ‘Christine’.

[milady-pink]

I broke a blood vessel just trying to read that…

Cat owners are psychopaths.

Like, imagine being abandoned by your previous owner on a street named “Maple”. You’re rescued and find a new forever home then you get named “Maple” because of your origins.

I certainly wouldn’t like it if my parents decided to name me “Dropped As A Child”.

[milady-pink]

Cat owners are psychopaths.

Like, imagine being abandoned by your previous owner on a street named “Maple”. You’re rescued and find a new forever home then you get named “Maple” because of your origins.

I certainly wouldn’t like it if my parents decided to name me “Dropped As A Child”.

[milady-pink]

Every time Erik swishes his cape, an angel gets a mask.

[milady-pink]

Sometimes I think I could teach a robot to love.

In other news when the Phantom of the Opera animatronic goes missing from Universal Studios in May, I ask all of you to avert your gaze from me or else a disaster beyond your imagination shall occur.

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In honor of Halloween I’d like to shamelessly promote my Phantom Fic from last year.

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Ilvermorny Info:

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Dear readers,

The difference between ?! And !? Is the order or priority.

When the question mark is first, that means the question and answer is more important or enunciated than the exclamation.

When the exclamation is first, the emotion and expression is more pronounced than the question itself. The emotion behind what is being asked is the main focus point instead of the question.

Thank you,

Writers

[milady-pink]

Also on AO3, Fanfiction.net, and Wattpad:

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There’s a large part of me that thinks Erik created Opera (the search engine)

Like, my guy,

you couldn’t have been a LITTLE subtle?

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This hurts

‘Oh Rascal Children Of Gaza’ by Palestinian poet Khaaled Juma, 2014

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