A choral concert; it was an odd request, but Christine had accepted regardless. As she prepared herself for the evening there was a sort of doubt that grew within the soprano's being. Erik was, of course, a lover of the arts. Music was arguably one of the most important aspects of his life, and yet she had never known him to be one to attend many performances outside of his typical scope; that of which included operas and musicals. He was a harsh critic if there ever was one, and Christine was certain she would be hearing a lot of hushed complaints and corrections from her date for the evening, but she would take it with a grain of salt.

Christine found she was eager to attend the concert; it was no secret she enjoyed music herself and it was always a treat to expand her knowledge and, occasionally, her repertoire. These sorts of events certainly helped.

A buzz alerted her to the man's presence, and Christine moved to allow him entry while pushing the last few bobby pins into her hair. She soon disappeared into the bathroom, allowing Erik to let himself into the apartment. She heard the door open and shut, and, after a few moments of silence, called out to her.

Christine appeared, stunning as ever. Though, perhaps saying she was stunned would have been a much more accurate term. She found herself frozen in place, blue irises scanning over the man's face once, twice; she nearly moved to rub at her eyes but halted upon remembering the makeup currently decorating her eyelids.

"Erik." The name was nothing more than a faint whisper.

There was a brief moment she wondered if she had managed to allow a stranger entry into her home, but the thought was quickly shaken from her head. No, she knew this man, even if he had taken her by surprise. She recognized that gait, knew the broadness of his shoulders and the pride in his stance. His posture and dress were immaculate and every hair on his head was in the proper place. The most telling feature, however, were those strong honey colored eyes.

It was almost ironic, for it wasn't the lack of features that took her by surprise, but the addition.

Without a mask, he certainly looked like a new man. His cheekbones were sharp and distinct, his nose straight— thin. Without the porcelain hiding his features she could tell just how exhaustion plagued his being but was more so taken back by the fact she was seeing him, all of him for the first time. He was a handsome man; it made her question why he ever felt the need to hide.

"You're staring; are you displeased?"

Christine blinked a few times, her gaze still fixed upon his features. It took her a few long seconds to completely digest the question and form an answer.

"What? Displea—no! No, not at all, no. Surprised, yes, very much so! Erik, you look so different! Not bad different just—different, that's all. I didn't even recognize you for a moment."

"Yes, well, I figured wearing the mask would draw more attention, something of which I would care to avoid so consider this as me going undercover by losing the very thing that hides my identity."

Christine smirked at that, and she couldn't help but notice the small smile tugging at his own lips. His emotions were plain as day now; she could grow used to such.

"Are you ready? I wouldn't want to be late."

"Oh, yes! Yes, of course. Let me just grab my purse and we can leave."

While she rummaged through her closet searching for her coat Erik couldn't help but take the time to also admire her. She was a thing of beauty, as always, and there had never been a time he hadn't been completely taken back by this unadulterated grace. Perhaps the lack of porcelain was a gift to her; for once he could indulge in the façade, he could give her some form of happiness no matter how minuscule and for once he could walk among the crowds as another face among the never-ending sea of individuals. She would never blend into that wave; not with her beauty and the glow she always carried about her wherever she went.

But Erik; Erik could afford to blend in for even just a single night.

"Alright, let's head out, then."

The not-so-phantom of a man beat her to the door and gingerly held it open for the lady. He received a sly smirk, and the two departed soon after.

It was dreadfully hard for Erik to miss the passing glances he received from the dancer throughout the evening. He supposed he could not blame her for her curiosity; he was showing her a side of him that was new and unfamiliar. She deserved to be inquisitive; after months of acquaintanceship and so much of himself hidden it was only natural she would want to gaze upon him; see him for what he was open and exposed to the world.

But she did so in glances rather than staring. It amused him so, but he refrained from mentioning such.

Even in the dimming light of the theater, he could see from the corner of his eye the gaze she held on his face and the slight smile across her own fair features. He truly felt overjoyed that he was capable of pleasing her so, all by removing the mask upon his face. A night of surprises and music would make a pleasant night, indeed; so long as they met his expectations which were, granted, not the easiest to hold up to and impossible to surpass. Of course, that was unless you were the woman at his side.

He was pleasantly surprised, for the most part, with the quality of the singers. They certainly were no Italian primadonnas with their heads too far up their own—anyway, the pieces were done well enough to keep his complaining at a minimum which was also a relief to the young soprano at his side. He had leaned over to mention how out of tune the violins were at one point but even Christine couldn't ignore the fact. It hadn't necessarily bothered her to the same degree as it had her mentor, but she agreed nonetheless.

There was a particular piece they seemed to do very well with; a newer one but beautiful nonetheless. The soprano solo was dreadful, and certainly an insult to the other sopranos within that choir and he briefly wondered who she knew to get the line. He leaned over to make another one of his snide remarks but was caught off guard with the sight.

Thin lines traced the girl's face; hot tears the culprit. It startled the man, for although Christine had always been an emotional woman, sadness was not something he saw often. To see her cry felt like some sort of indescribable tragedy; tears were not befitting of someone as beautiful as herself—beauty even with her gentle tears streaming down her thin cheeks. She was truly something beyond his comprehension.

"Christine, are you alright?"

She seemed somewhat startled by the question, her face turning to face his own. She faltered for a moment, before a thin smile bloomed across her features, sniveling all the while.

"Yes, yes I am, I'm sorry." Her words were hushed, and a thin laugh escaped.

"It's just so sad and—beautiful. I know this poem, Go Lovely Rose and it's just—beautiful. I've never heard it put to music before."

He had heard it before; understood the meaning but had not thought, had not really reflected on their situation. Was it really so different from his own beliefs? Go Lovely Rose; a man telling the woman of his fancy and that hiding her beauty like a rose in the desert will inevitably lead to her death, so she must go out and present her beauty to the world, allowing herself to be desired. The mortality bit was a part he would care to leave out, for thinking of Christine's death was too painful for his fragile mind, instead, he chose to admire the beautiful aspects, that she needed to show off her talents and allow the public to appreciate her just as he. Christine was his lovely rose; and oh, if only she knew how longingly he admired her.

Being so moved by music, by words and harmonies; it caused his heart to momentarily soar. It wasn't often Erik found himself becoming so brazen, but he had moved to gently brush away those tears with his gloved thumb, cupping her face with the rest of his hand.

"To be so moved by music is a gift."

Christine laughed once more and quickly nodded in agreement with the statement.

"Of course."

He felt their souls align, felt his heart pulse at her smile, as her hand entangled around his own and as she briefly leaned into his grasp. He tensed, every muscle in his being constricted as her warmth touched his skin, as warm tears dripped onto the leather and he froze.

How could such a thing of beauty exist in a world such as this?

Erik pulled back after that, placed his hands in his lap, rung his hands together with his heart still pounding against his chest. He would need to keep to himself for a while, he wasn't sure he could take much more for the rest of the evening. That was enough physical contact for now.

At the very least the rest of the concert had been uneventful; Christine seemed to enjoy herself and, even if he had some complaints, he instead resolved to ask her what her favorite pieces were and of her overall opinion on the performance. She spoke highly of it and it caused for some amusement from the man. She was generous to a fault, he would never understand how she did it. As they exited the building he felt her wrap her hands around one of his own deathly thin arms and once more his heart was soaring; she would truly be the end of him.

"Well, what now?"

The words caused him to momentarily falter.

"Hm?" It was all he could muster.

"What are we going to do? It isn't terribly late. Did you eat yet? Actually, I already know the answer to that. Why don't we watch a movie and get some take out?"

Erik pondered the question and enjoyed the warmth currently at his side. Dinner a movie with her?

"That sounds fine."

It sounded wonderful.

There had been a slight sense of irritation that filled the Soprano, even if she did her best to hide such. Upon arriving at her apartment he had insisted on replacing the porcelain mask that cruelly hid the handsome features beneath. When he had reappeared from his trip to the bathroom and she had found the mask replaced she had been, understandably miffed, especially when he looked so handsome without that piece. Erik explained that it made him feel more comfortable, and while she couldn't see how that could possibly be, Christine chose not to push the matter further.

The pair had taken their places on her couch and Erik had resolved to watch one of Christine's movies. Perhaps she was somewhat cruel, knowing she could get her way, but Erik hadn't put up too much of a fight and he was relatively quiet. Seeing him pick at his takeout was also enough to put a smile on the woman's face. It wasn't the best meal but a content Erik—or, well, a quiet Erik practicing basic self-care made for a happy Christine. And he most certainly knew that.

Christine had been happy to point out some of the scenes that were her favorite but as the minutes ticked by he could see the exhaustion gnawing at her being. It had only taken around an hour before she had completely dozed off, slumped over on the taller man, head resting in the crook of his neck. His heart had begun to flutter and he hadn't been entirely sure what to do with his arms leaving him in a particularly awkward position but he dared not move for fear of waking the sleeping beauty.

He found himself in a precarious situation, golden hues watching her peaceful features. While he wanted so desperately to remain alert, to relish this contact he couldn't help but feel the wicked embrace of sleep was far too powerful. He knew his schedule was atrocious but he was typically able to fight it. This night was, unfortunately, not one of those evenings and it wasn't long before the phantom found himself dozing off, head tilted back, and his arm slowly finding it's way around the other's shoulders. Of all the times to sleep now was not the time he would have liked, however, he was near positive he had never been as peaceful as he was at that very moment. And although his mind was wandering, the last thought was one along the lines of him getting used to nights such as these.

When Christine awoke she was greeted by a faded Netflix menu and the offensive light of her lamp. There was also the surprisingly cool body beneath her own. Blue eyes had shifted to catch the sleeping face of the Phantom himself. Although sleep still surrounded her thoughts, she couldn't help but find a small smile blooming over her face. Seeing him so peaceful was enough to cause her heart to soar; never had she been able to see him so completely at rest. The only disappointment was that mask covering that handsome face.

A devious idea crossed her mind after that thought.

Christine shifted, careful not to stir or bump her sleeping tutor. She was careful as she maneuvered around his arm, a pale hand moving to grasp as the cool porcelain on his face. Her fingers wrapped around the cheek and she paused, watched for any sign of life, and then she slowly lifted the visor, a keen smirk on her pale face all the while. With one swift pull, the mask was off and the phantom's face was revealed. Christine felt her heart drop.

There were no words to accurately describe just how horrified the singer was, nor to describe the face that laid behind the mask. She had honestly believed she was dreaming, her mind was suddenly filled with an indescribable fog. This was not the face she had seen only hours earlier; this was hardly a face at all, this was the semblance of a face. It was pale—so incredibly pale and thin and it shook her to the very core. This was not the source of her angst, however, rather it was the nose of this man, or the lack thereof. A gaping hole served as the nose that never grew, it twisted her stomach, caused her throat to constrict and suddenly she felt as if she were drowning. The mask was quickly slid back onto the man's face, and the soprano was leaping from the couch in an attempt to escape from the Phantom beside her. She threw herself into the bathroom, clicked the lock, tried to stop the shaking of her hands, tried to regain her lost breath.

Oh God, God oh—she had to have been dreaming but no matter how many times she splashed her face with the freezing faucet water she remained painfully awake and aware of what she'd witnessed. What had she seen earlier? A prosthetic? Was this the reason for the mask—obviously. All of his past behavior was now all too clear; of course, he wouldn't want her to see, there was no one who would ever be able to handle that, no one could ever—

The knock on the bathroom door caused her to jump out of her skin.

"Christine? Are you alright?"

No, no she's far from alright she was the opposite of it and she couldn't think straight. All she knew was that, for the first time in her life, she understood and it was too much for her to bear. She was terrified and she hated herself for it.

"Erik I—I think you should leave for the night I—I'm unwell."

There was silence on the receiving end and it was agonizing. She jumped once again when a hand slammed against the door.

"I told you not to. I told you to leave it how many times! Well, now, are pleased? Are you happy with yourself!?"

Hot tears burned at her eyes, and a hand had to move up to her lips to keep her from sobbing. Oh, how could a man possibly possess such horrors?

"Dammit, Christine, why couldn't you just leave it be? Why couldn't you just listen? You've ruined everything!" Another bang, she found herself sliding against the wall—she was paralyzed.

At the very least she heard Erik's rage calming, and instead, it shifted into something much more heart-wrenching.

"You've ruined everything." She could hear the waver in his voice and was hyper-aware of the tears now falling even if she couldn't see him.

His footsteps soon became distant and she heard the door of her apartment slam. Although gone, she refused to move from her position and instead buried her face in her hands, allowing the tears to flow.

How could she ruin things so horribly?

He was inconsolable.

Erik was never a man capable of containing his rage; he had never properly learned to control his emotions, never learned to vent and never truly had anyone to speak with. His method of expressing himself was violent. He was a hurricane, leaving shattered glass and flipped furniture in his wake. She was never supposed to see; he thought he had appeased her with the fake, thought she would leave the mask be, but he had been foolish. He had gotten too comfortable and now he'd chased her away. He understood he was living on bided time; a wretched creature such as himself couldn't last in the company of an angel, but it hadn't meant he didn't want more.

A vase shattered against the ground and he relished the sound, the way it felt to hurl the object, the pain in his foot where the broken glass had pierced his skin. The apartment then fell silent, aside from the harshness of his breath and the beating rain outside. It was uncalled for, it was incredibly destructive and he could hear the criticism now; could see the look on her face—his nails dug into the sides of his head after that, interlocked with his now disheveled hair and tugged until it stung his scalp. No, no she was gone—she was gone because of him, just as always. He was destined to be alone, all monsters deserved such a fate.

That thought threw him into another fit; caused him to stalk around his apartment, once more enjoying the crunch of glass and stabbing pains that traced up his leg. It lead to overturned chairs, to the removal of his jacket and tie and left his shirt open, left himself so exposed but with the absence of a singer what was there to lose? He'd already lost everything; he lost the one he cared about—the only one who had ever cared about him all because of the malady he'd been cursed to bear.

So then why was it he saw her standing there?

Hallucinating? It had been a while since he had done such. But there she stood, wind beat, water dripping from her thin form, blonde hair stuck to her face and shoulders, a shiver racking her body and her eyes red—tears not visible but certainly they were there. How cruel life was, not only would he never see her but to see such a cruel illusion; seeing her so disheveled at his own expense infuriated the man.

He stared at the figure, eyes ablaze, the stinging in his foot very clear, keeping him alive and in the present, his lungs heaving from his earlier episode. What startled him was the way she peered about, the way her chest heaved and her face momentarily contorted as another sob racked her body. And then she approached. She flinched even as she drew near, and he watched the hesitation she had, watched as she took in the mess surrounding her.

And then the figure did something unspeakable.

She wrapped her arms around him; clung to him and squeezed him as if he would disappear if she let go. She cried all the while, face buried in his chest, leaving him standing completely motionless. Was this really—?

"Christine?"

Her grip tightened if that had even been possible, and another sob escaped her.

"Oh Erik I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Her face pulled away and her gaze rose to meet the mask, and then the burning eyes behind it.

"You—you deserved better, I never wanted to hurt you. Please, forgive me. I'm so sorry."

Sorry—sorry, he was sorry, she should never have been exposed to his own self, never should have seen what hid beneath, never should have to remember. His face was horrid; it was a sight no one could forget and a burden she need not bear.

He found his own arms wrapping around her small form and he held her as she held him, hot tears poured down, flooded his mask, drowned him but he dared not take it off.

"Christine, Christine, forgive me."

And they stood for some time in each other's embrace, tears falling between the two. They lost track of time but held each other even when the tears had stopped and the wounds were beginning to heal. At some point a bony hand had met with golden locks and began threading through them, causing her to momentarily tense, and ultimately relax in his hold; continued even now. She had finally taken the time to take in her surroundings with a clear mind, to take in the disheveled man.

"Erik, you're—you're bleeding."

"Mm."

"I'm tired."

"Mm."

"And so cold."

She paused after that, her hands grabbing at the fabric of his shirt.

"Let's watch a movie. On the couch. We can clean up in the morning."

Erik hesitated but relented. As they traveled to the couch she never once released her hold, whether it be around his hand or, when seated, around his middle. As they sat, listening to the hum of the television he could see the tiredness in her eyes, both emotional and physical. It hadn't taken long for her to doze off once more, not without another gentle apology.

He could never allow himself to hurt her again, not in such a wicked way. He realized just how blessed he was that she had decided to come back to him, to embrace him and weep for him. At the very least he was determined to make up for this misdemeanor. He could see the tremble in her body, felt it underneath his touch. And so he moved from underneath her, and instead scooped her up in his arms. She was still damp from the storm, but it could not be helped. Instead, he carried her off into her bedroom, placed her on the bed and carefully tucked the blankets around her sleeping form.

In the dim light, she truly looked like an angel; her face caused his chest to constrict. It was red; swollen eyes and flushed cheeks were very apparent and caused disgust to rise in his being. Her hair was still damp and wild, her skin pale. He never wanted to see her shed a tear, let alone over his own misfortunes. He would rather see her cry for beauty; cry for her love of music.

Never again would he see her weep for him. He couldn't be certain what exactly he could expect in the days following, and it left him with a building anxiety within his chest. It lead him to flee her room and to, at the very least, begin to pick up the mess he'd created in the home.

While it didn't fix their problems, it would at least lighten the soprano's heart. If he could do something as minor as that, he would be satisfied.