Notes: One-shot, although I am currently working on a few longer stories. When I wrote this, I pictured it as a scene from the 2004 movie just after Christine unmasks Erik. As always, please feel free to let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: I do not own POTO; I do this for fun and because I love to write!

Hope

By: Arianna083

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage. ~ Lao Tzu

xXx

Christine stared numbly down at the evidence of her broken dreams. It was beautiful, finely crafted and flawless. Smooth to the touch, yet unyielding. Tears clouding her vision, she traced trembling fingers across its features; straight nose, graceful cheeks, perfect forehead. It was half of a perfect face, and she cradled it in her lap as though it were alive.

As though it needed comfort.

It was strange...in her heart she knew that its flawless visage would never need comforting. It was forever fixed in its perfection, unable to show distress, happiness, joy or pain. It was lifeless—it was simply a mask.

Slowly, as though it bore the weight of the world, Christine lifted her head to gaze at the man who was crouched across the room from her. He was huddled into himself, unconsciously rocking back and forth slightly, his last confession still suspended in the air between them.

"I am unworthy. I know this. I am a monster, I know this truth too. But secretly...I dream of heaven. Secretly, I dream of beauty...of love."

His admission seemed to take all his effort and control, for once he uttered it in a raspy, broken tone that held no more accusation or blame, he had fallen silent and buried his head in his hands.

His shoulders shook with sobs that were so forceful they made no sound, only the odd harsh gasp and hitching of breaths. Gripping his mask in her hands, Christine felt her heart leave her chest and fly out to him, but the vastness of empty space between them was like a canyon. She teetered at its edge, gazing across the expanse and knowing she had two choices.

She could stay where she was, or she could jump.

Follow your heart, my little angel. Always follow your heart, and you will always fly home.

Her Papa's words floated to the surface of her mind, and their significance wiped out every other misgiving. She could do this. She was meant to do this. She was her father's daughter, and he had taught her well. Love, kindness, and above all the courage to offer them in the face of turmoil and strife.

"Love..." she thought, allowing that one word to become her sole focus, her reason for rising from the floor and standing on trembling legs.

"Kindness," she chanted silently, moving on her bare feet towards him. He didn't look up from his hands, and she could almost feel the pain exuding from his crumpled form, and she realized with a strange calm that this was the edge and once breached, there was no going back.

They would either soar, or fall.

Christine took a breath, as though preparing for the plunge. In the back of her mind, where it was quiet and still, she knew it didn't matter if they fell. If they did, she would reach out and catch him. If they fell, they would fall together.

One step. Two steps. She was so close. She could see his shoulders shaking, and how hard he was pressing his face between his hands.

The laced edge of her robe brushed against his back as she stepped around him. He stiffened instantly, as though frozen by the innocent touch. She could hear his ragged breaths, and the urge to reach out and place her hand on his back nearly overwhelmed her. But she refrained; it was too soon. Continuing to let instinct guide her, Christine knelt down to face him, only a short distance from where he sat.

"Courage," she thought, a silent incantation, and with it cast she gently, carefully held out her hand.

He remained motionless for a moment, as though he would not or could not bring himself to move, even to look at her. Then, slowly, just as she had done his hands slipped from his face, and he raised his head.

Christine felt a hitch in her throat; it was both heart-breaking and horrifying. His face! One side was red and swollen with anguish; it merely punctuated how badly mangled the other side of his face was. Yet as their eyes met, unhindered by masks or mirrors for the first time, she found that it was not his deformities that pushed her over the edge.

It was his eyes.

There was no rage left, only utter despair. Their pale depths reached out to her while his body couldn't, and she realized suddenly that she had never been alone on the precipice of hope; he had never left her side. With this realization came a rush of emotion so powerful she felt the hand she was offering move without command and close over his, which was balled into a tight fist on his knee.

He wore no gloves; his skin was warm and damp with tears, and she marveled at its composition. It was smooth, and taught...it was vulnerable, just like any other man's. Wanting only to protect even this tiny part of him, she held her hand atop his and tried to channel through her touch and gaze all the comfort she felt without restraint or doubt.

Faintly, almost imperceptibility, his breathing slowed.

Christine felt a small smile, a soothing expression form on her lips. She was seeing her angel, truly seeing him for the first time and he was gazing back her in stunned awe. For a moment, it looked like he was trying to say something—his jaw worked, but then his face crumpled with renewed grief, and he broke their connection by squeezing his eyes shut and bowing his head as though in physical pain.

He was struggling to restrain a sob, to gain control. She could see it in his every fiber, every muscle. She did not pull away, and simply sat with him, waiting and hoping that when their eyes had finally met unhindered, her message had gotten through.

Just in case it hadn't though, she licked her dry lips and spoke to him in gentle tones. "I'm still here. You thought to frighten me away, to push me past the point of caring and force me into hate. But I do not. I do not hate you. How could I? How could I hate when every memory, every joyful moment I've had since..." her voice faltered, knowing that even now, speaking aloud that her father was no longer there was like losing one of her own limbs.

"...since I came here, has been with you?" her eyes filled with tears again, but she blinked them away without trying to hide them. They were not important; this was.

"Please. You told me once that you would do anything for my happiness—"

"I will!" he suddenly breathed, harsh and with such conviction that when he raised his head sharply to meet her eyes, there was no shame or humiliation, only certainty.

"I would do anything for you...anything you ask of me!" he said, his voice still rasping and almost feral in its intensity. She had only ever caught rare glimpses of this bestial side of his angelic voice, so unguarded and raw. With the entirety of his face, and the burning fervency of his eyes fixed upon her, she trembled; it was devastating to behold.

Daring its scorching heat, Christine held his gaze resolutely. "Let me stay."

Her words hung in the air between them, and he stared at her as though she were mad—as though he had never seen anything like her even in his most fevered dreams or nightmares.

"S-stay?" he whispered, his entire face riddled with confusion as though words were sounds he had ceased understanding in his astonishment. Christine slowly drew his fist from his knee, and held it to her chest.

"I have faith you would not break my heart, and send me away from you. Let me stay. Let me know you. That is what I ask."

A sharp intake of breath, his eyes filled with tears, and he half-heartedly drew back from her as though the sight of her burned. Feeling the tension begin to build between them once more, she gripped his hand against her breast more firmly, beseeching.

"Do I ask too much? I ask for the one thing only you can give me, and it is more precious to me than all the trinkets and promises of greatness in the world. Time, my angel. I ask only for the time to know you." Her words were soft, yet the threat of tears made her voice sound tight and childlike. "Life is so cruelly short, don't you see? I know this to be true; one day, you have eternity, and the next is it gone."

He was gone...Christine thought, remembering how helpless she had felt by her Papa's sickbed. Time had suddenly become an enemy, slipping through her fingers and vanishing without a care for her breaking heart.

Time was emotionless and uncaring, just like his mask; yet both hinted at something deeper beneath. Christine gazed at him steadily. She was not about to let him slip through her fingers, and vanish. She had already lost so much—her Papa had been her whole world and when he had died, it had shattered without a thought.

Then an angel, with his kind, beautiful voice had helped her build a new one that was filled with deeds she'd never dreamed herself capable of. She was stronger because he had believed in her.

"I believe in you," she whispered fiercely, determinedly. "Tell me it is not too much to ask that you let me stay. I can help you, as you have helped me. I had forgotten how to live when I first met you—I am still learning. Let us help each other?"

Tear tracks marred his cheeks, yet he had stopped trying to move away from her. Her voice it seemed was just as hypnotic to him as his was to her. He stared at her in wonder, and prompted by her encouraging, tremulous smile that begged him to see reason, he swallowed rapidly, lips parting as he tried to gather himself to speak. "Oh, Christine..." he managed, then stopped, as though her name were enough to destroy him completely.

"I would worship forever at the altar of your grace...but as a dog, begging for scraps. Don't you see? I am not made for any other fate. It is too late—"

"No!" she denied letting him finish, passion flaring and making her cheeks burn with it. "It is not too late! I have heard the promise of a lifetime in your voice, and an eternity in your eyes! I have seen it...you need only let me in."

"I cannot!" he gasped harshly, his face contorting with pain. "Damn you— for you will have no other choice but to be damned if you stay! You were never supposed to see this!"

His pain was palpable, and as though to staunch its flow he pressed the hand she wasn't holding to the damaged side of his face.

"You were only supposed to hear an angel—but that was not enough. I had to be nearer to you! So I tried to give you a gentleman, handsome and kind, everything you deserve. But I was not strong enough to even pretend I could be such a man. I coerced you down here to fulfill my own fantasy, and then blamed you for having the wisdom to see through its pretense; see what I truly am... hell. It is truly a place, Christine, but it exists here..." taking his hand away from his face, he reached out and touched a fingertip to her temple. "...in my head."

Instinctively, Christine reached up and grasped his hand, drawing it from her temple and pressing it against her cheek. His fingers became pliant to her will immediately, his palm cupping her face.

"You do not give yourself enough credit, my angel. Hell does not dream of beauty. Hell does not wish to become more than it is. Hell cannot love..."

Love...

The word was like a stimulant, a summons that he couldn't deny. Bringing his other hand to her face so that he cupped it fully, he moved closer to where she knelt, and slowly, tentatively, as though afraid she might shatter, pressed his forehead to hers.

He held himself there, unmoving, and took a long and deep breath. Afraid to break the spell, Christine remained frozen in place, matching his breaths with her own until they breathed at the same pace, in the same moment. Closing her eyes, she reveled in this intimacy of their position—somehow, even though she imagined them to be two lost children seeking comfort from each other, this innocent gesture felt more powerful than any simple caress could have.

She was learning quickly that when it came to her angel, there was no such thing as a simple touch. Each one was laden with a soul he denied having, offered with hope, raw and vulnerable. He was broken; she was broken. How could they not find completeness within each other?

Their breaths eventually began to slow, and she could feel tension uncoiling and leaving his muscles. He rubbed his forehead against hers lightly, and she returned the gesture, its sweet affection and innocence only further fueling her resolve.

"Will you send me away?" she whispered, knowing that never in her life had such a simple question held so much power. He released a breath, but it held no trace of his previous trembling. Then, without words, he shook his head.

Christine couldn't help it; she smiled, a joyful sound escaping her. He held her fast against him still, as though only through her touch could he see a way out of the torment that had threatened to drag him under. Their connection was vital—he was loathe to let it go. When he felt her lips press against his cheek however, shock overruled his needs and he leaned back, breaking their contact. Eyes wide, he still cupped her face, unable to let go completely in the wake of the brightest smile he'd ever dreamed of.

Christine's heart had wings...she could stay!

"We shall help each other," she promised. "You have taught me so much...about dedication, and sacrifice...about music—and I will teach you something in return."

"What?" he asked, gazing at her as though her words alone kept him alive.

"Family," she said, simply. "You say you dream of love, but what chance have you had to express it? Family is where you learn to love, and be loved. Family is where home is."

He stared at her, and as the impact of her words seemed to permeate his consciousness, a small, unpracticed smile began to shape his mouth.

Christine felt as though she could cry with joy at its emergence.

It was small, and it was by no means whole yet—but it was there.

It was hope.