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

18: In Which Christine Plays Hookie and Meets a Persian

Christine

I hurried back to Erik's house the moment the opera concluded, seeking to avoid any more unpleasant encounters. After closing the door behind me, I leaned against it and slid to the floor in relief.

Erik looked up from the organ. "Is anything the matter?" he asked.

"No, I'm fine," I said. "Just tired."

"It sounds like you could use a break."

I smiled at that. "Says the man who works all the time. I don't think I've ever seen you take a moment's rest." I pulled myself up and walked to the kitchen to get something to eat.

When I returned, Erik was in the same spot, playing and replaying a section of music with slight changes.

"It all sounds good," I said, resting my head on his and wrapping my arms around him.

He chuckled and extracted me, bringing me around to his side. "You are tired," he agreed, searching my face. "Why have you not been sleeping?"

I shrugged and looked away.

"Christine," he warned, "don't lie to me. What is wrong?"

His hands rested almost unconsciously on my waist. I'd always read that his hands were ice cold, but on the contrary, I found that they burned holes through my clothes, leaving imprints on my skin that remained long after they were gone—ghosts of memories of touches.

He was waiting expectantly.

"I have dreams," I admitted, looking back into his eyes.

His face furrowed in concentration. "What kind of dreams?" he asked.

I looked away again, not bearing to see his face.

"Christine," he growled.

"You. Leaving or betraying or killing me." These recurring nightmares prayed on my deepest fears of abandonment. I trusted Erik—I loved him; it was my own insecurities that woke me in a cold sweat. I looked back tentatively at his face, which was etched in sadness.

"Oh Christine," he sighed, pulling me into a hug. "If there is one thing that you can be absolutely certain of, it is that I will never, ever hurt you."

I felt a tear trickle down my face. "I know the dreams aren't real," I explained, "but I can't get them out of my head—and I'm just tired."

Erik held me and rocked back and forth as I began to cry in earnest.

I closed my eyes and relaxed into his embrace. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

At that, he pulled away and held my face in his hands. When he was positive he had my attention, he spoke. "You have absolutely no reason to be sorry. You've done nothing wrong."

I sniffled. "But I—"

He gave me a look that shut me up. "No reason," he repeated. His voice became soft. "I dream about you too," he said. "But you are always the one that dies."

I was shocked. Erik dreamt about me as well? I couldn't believe he was so worried about losing me that visions infiltrated his sub-consciousness at night. My self-centered dreams felt silly in comparison. I pulled myself back into his arms. "I'll try my best to stay alive," I said, my voice quivering.

He hugged me tighter. "What can I do to ease your mind and assist you in falling asleep?" he asked, delicately stroking my hair. He always looked out for me.

Stay with me, I thought. Sleep with me again. "Could you play your violin?" I asked. At home, listening to music always calmed me.

He let me go and stood to fetch it. Halfway across the room, he stopped, looking back at me. "Christine," he hesitated, "if you were a different person before you arrived here, do you have another name?"