Forget All You Know

He takes another role.

"Monsuir Jeandre?"

Someone knocked smartly on the door, making him jump. The voice was familiar to him.

Erik stood slowly, one hand still on his face, and went dazedly to the door, hesitating with his hand on the handle.

They won't be frightened...

Suddenly he glanced back at the mirror. He was in pajamas, no, this wouldn't do. Casting around, he found a dark crimson robe, and fetched it up and fastened it tightly around him. He forced himself to stand tall, stealing another glance at the mirror, and attempting a small smile. It looked so alien on him that he dropped it. Taking a steadying breath, he reached for the handle again, and pulled the door open.

"Madame Giry?"

"Monsuir," she nodded, then frowned. He flinched slightly. "Is there something wrong?" She nodded toward the hand still resting on his face, which he quickly dropped though his stomach fell with it. She smiled slightly. "Did monsuir perhaps stand too hastily?"

She thought he'd injured himself. She cared whether he had.

Finding his voice, he attempted simple charm and couldn't help but smile. "I am only human, madame. What calls you here?"

"Your new managers await their patron."

"Of course," he said, trying to hide the choked joy in his voice. If Madame Giry noticed, to her credit, she showed no sign as she smiled at him again and turned to leave. Over he shoulder, she called, "I think perhaps not in night dress, Monsuir."

He chuckled slightly as he closed the door, not believing anything. It turned into full blown laughter as he swung around the room, searching out clothing but not focusing on it particularly hard. In the end, he decided on a simple black suit not unlike his usual attire, but with no cape or hat, and no mask. Every time he caught sight of himself in the mirror, his laughter started anew, peals of it rolling from his lips until there were happy tears in his eyes. He wiped them as he stood before the mirror, for the first time ever admiring his reflection, tilting his head this way and that to see his new face from every angle. The longer he looked, the more he realized that this was indeed his face, the one he should have known. He let out a final bark of laughter, and exclaimed, "Thank you, Angels! Oh, thank you!"

Knowing his theater as he did, it took him almost no time to discover where he was, an upper west wing that had been prop storage, to his knowledge, before. He was slightly giddy, but at the same time slightly wary of this strange miracle, this world that seemed to know him as a man. But he couldn't find anything amiss, other than his normality. Every time he met someone on his way down to the grand stairs, he shifted slightly, but caught himself, and began to smile and nod instead of shrink away. He got a few strange looks, but each with a smile, as if the oddest thing about him was his joy, which, he supposed, now it was.

He was almost leaping by the time he reached the managers, and smiled to himself at the sight of them. Perhaps this would be greater fun than he'd imagine. He was their patron. Their friend.

"I assume, Monsuirs Feirmon and Andre?"

"Monsuir Jeandre?"

"Please," he grinned, "Erik. Welcome." He bowed low. "I am very please to make your acquaintances."

"Oh but Monsuir-ah, Erik, the pleasure is all ours! To meet the architect and composer in residence of the Opera Populaire! To work so closely with him!" He smiled as he straightened and was greeted with handshakes. Architect was he still? And composer? This was good, this was amazing. He was famed, loved.

"Shall we continue, then?" Feirmon gestured to the auditorium, and Erik extended a hand. "Please, after you."

Stepping in, he froze.

Hannibal was in full swing of final dress, with papier mache elephants and all. There was Senora Carlotta, strutting proudly about the stage and singing, and here came Piange, as always mildly out of tune.

And then the dancers stepped forward. And there she was.

Christine Daae.

They strode up to the front of the stage, and Madame Giry quieted the actors. The managers introduced themselves, and proceeded into a long-winded speech about their excitement and dedication and so and such, but he had no mind for any of it.

His eyes were only for Christine. Oh, how young she seemed! Talking and laughing with the younger Meg Giry, seemingly paying just as little mind as he was to the managers, and instead making fun of them for Meg's amusement. She looked so free and happy, it made his heart turn in his chest.

And then she glanced toward him.

His first instinct was to cover his face, but he was too shocked that she was there, and had seen him, that he couldn't seem to raise his hand. Instead, he simply stared dumbly, terrified. She was going to scream, to run, he was going to revert to his broken form, he knew it.

For a moment, nothing. The world was frozen.

And then she smiled shyly.

Simultaneously thanking every deity there ever was and kicking himself for the idiotic blank look on his face, Erik just managed to gain the motor control to smile in return, even going so far as to nod slightly, nervously. He hoped she couldn't hear his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest to her, and nearly lost his footing when she blushed, actually blushed, and nodded in return.

It wasn't until Andre called his name for the third time that he even realized he was being spoken to, and jumped, chagrined. But even as he spoke to the actors, the words coming smoothly despite his nerves and shock, his eyes flicked back to Christine, who giggled slightly, eyes glued to him even as Meg nudged her and teased.