Chapter Text
She lay on the floor, watching as he thrashed about the alcove, ripping curtains and growling at his own reflection, though the words were clearly meant for her. She'd removed his mask while he was playing the piano - and in retrospect - it wasn't a great idea. He'd trusted her, didn't think she would betray him like this, but she did. Yes, she didn't see it as a betrayal, but the important thing is; he did. Her curiosity had gotten the best of her, and she revealed his face. The one he'd worked so hard to hide from people. The piece of white porcelain he'd used as a shield for so many years, still lay clutched in her hands, her knuckles now almost as white as she gripped it.
He now sat on the steps at her feet, his right hand still clutching his face, keeping it from her view. But she'd already seen it; in the fleeting moment it took him to realize she'd removed his mask; and in the numerous mirrors he'd been glaring at for the past few moments, as his angry rant continued. She was surprised that with all of this commotion, no one had come running into the alcove by now. But she guessed he'd taken his precautions to make sure no sound ever leaves the stone walls. After all, he always plays his piano and composes music, and no one had ever even heard a note.
She snapped out of her own thoughts when she saw how his shoulders slumped. He always struck fear in the hearts of those who had the chance of meeting him before; with his posture, grim look from behind the mask, and the way he carried himself. The way he carried himself, made him look taller than he really was. But now, she found none of that fear-striking posture, nor did she find the confident and talented music Angel before her. All she saw was a broken man, a man who had been walking around with a heavy burden for years, and she was the one who finally broke him. It broke her heart to know that the sense of defeat and surrender he was showing her was her doing. That was not what she meant.
She moved slowly, the white mask still in her hand, and she kneeled next to him. His previously closed eyes flew open when he felt her hand on his shoulder, as she steadied herself in front of him. His grey-blue eyes met her chocolate ones, and he couldn't believe the lack of fear in them.
"This haunted face," she sang, "holds no horror for me now," she continued, his eyes widening in surprise, and his lips parting, the lower one trembling as he drew in shaky breaths.
"It's in a soul," her voice was the soothing remedy he needed, her hand pressing against his chest, over his heart, "that the true distortion lies." she finished, her eyes holding his terrified ones steady, begging him to believe that she truly wasn't afraid of him.
"It takes more than just a scar to scare me," she informed him, and he was still too stunned to talk, "I do not care about what you look like, I've met many horrible people in my life who had the face of an angel." she soothed, smiling sadly when she saw the disbelief in his eyes.
He finally broke their gaze, and looked down at the hand she had resting on his knee to steady herself, the porcelain mask still safely secured in the other, and she made no move to stop him when he reached for it. He turned away from her to put it back on, and he heard her sigh in both sadness and frustration.
Once the mask was back on, it seemed the persona granda he had returned as well. He turned back to her, the defeat and fear from mere seconds ago had completely vanished, replaced by the cold, hard stare he normally had. Even the hint of love she thought she saw before she ripped the mask was gone as well, though she supposed that was her fault. He thinks she took advantage of his vulnerability, betrayed him. And in a way she did. But not so that she could hurt him like he must believe, but so that she could get to know the man behind the mask.
He offered her his hand to help her up, "you must return." he said coldly, and her hand froze midway to his.
"I beg your pardon?" she whispered in shock.
"Those two idiots who run my theatre will be looking for you!" he answered evenly, moving his hand the rest of the way to hers and taking it into his.
The way back to her room was spent in total and utter silence, with her trying to find any landmarks that might help her reach the alcove again on her own. She needed to show him that she won't run and hide just because she caught glimpses of his distorted flesh.
When the finally reached the mirror, he signaled for her to walk through, and without even a single syllable, he shut it behind her. She looked at the mirror sadly, not bothering to hide the hurt from her features, knowing very well that he was still standing behind the mirror, or at least she hoped he was.
"Good Night my Angel." she whispered brokenly, her hand pressed slightly against the mirror, before she left the room and headed for the room she shared with the rest of the ballerina girls.
Christine rushed over to the ballet room, she'd overslept that morning due to her adventures the day before, and now she was sure that she would be behind on the steps for the new opera. She wasn't sure why Madame Giry didn't wake her, or why Meg, or one of the other girls didn't, but she guessed that those questions are better saved for later.
She was still thinking about the events of the previous night; the love she saw shining in his eyes as he looked at her; the care with which he touched her; and the desperation and longing in his voice as he sang to her. And last but not least; the anguish she saw itched in his face when she ripped the mask away, the fear of impending lost, of impending heartbreak. It's true that he lashed out at her, and even threw her to the ground, but she took him by surprise, and she guessed that people never reacted nicely to his face, and the reaction she received last night became more of a second nature - a reflex if you will - to him, rather than something that required thinking and consideration on his part.
She was a bit surprised that when she got back to the room she shared with the other ballerinas, Madame Giry did not inquire about her whereabouts, she only told her to get some sleep. She had spent the better portion of the night contemplating the older woman's strange behavior. It was almost as if she knew where she'd been, who she was with, and saw no reason to be alarmed. It was almost as if she knew the man behind the mask.
Her thoughts hadn't reached a further point the previous night, since her exhaustion overwhelmed her and sleep claimed her before she could contemplate that last thought any further. And now she was also unable to ponder upon it, because she realized that the usually loud music room, was eerily quiet, save for the whispered conversations between the ballerina girls. She snapped out of her thoughts, and the closer she got to the room, the more abundantly clear it became that rehearsals hadn't even started yet.
This struck her as unusual seeing as she knew how punctual Madame Giry was, and she couldn't think of any explanation as to the delay.
Unless…
She picked up her pace and quickly spotted Meg standing at the back of the huddled girls, and headed for her.
"What is going on?" she asked, keeping her voice down, to make sure she doesn't attract the attention of the furious owners.
"The Opera Ghost sent Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur Dare letters, and they are furious about it." Meg explained, though her tone hinted that there was still more to the story that she hadn't said yet. She cursed under her breathe at his actions.
"What is it Meg? What aren't you telling me?" She inquired urgently.
Her answer did not come from Meg, however, it came from the angry voice of Monsieur Andre, "he wants that understudy to be the star of the show!" he screamed incredulously, and Christine couldn't help but scowl at his words.
'He didn't!' she groaned to herself.
"Need I remind you, Monsieur, that this understudy as you called her got a standing ovation last night!" Madame Giry reprimanded patronizingly, and Christine couldn't help but feel proud that her mistress was defending her, especially at the monsieur's fallen face. But then the oddity of the older woman's behavior struck her again; she wasn't just defending her, she was also defending the actions of the Phantom, or her angel of music, or whatever his name or moniker may be.
But why?
She's once again snapped back to planet earth by Monsieur Firmin's voice this time, "people come to this opera house to see Carlotta sing, not some understudy-wanna-be who filled her shoes at the last minute." he retorted, and Christine saw her mistress's jaw clench.
"If she hadn't filled in, Monsieur, it is my understanding that you would've lost quite a large sum. I understand your hesitation to put her in the leading role, but there is no reason for you to undermine her, or to ridicule the man who is very much keeping this opera house open through his music compositions." Madame Giry said firmly, and both owners realized that she was not a woman to be messed with, and wisely decided to keep their mouths shut when they saw the fire in her eyes, as well as the dare for them to prove her mistaken.
"Well, this is NOT his composition, and it is OUR opera house. Ergo, we get to choose who is in lead and who isn't. This Christine Daee will play the role of the mute lover." Monsieur Andre declared, looking directly at Christine, who merely nodded her agreement.