Christine:

"No, no, no, don't get up!"

I gently pushed Erik back onto the bed, pretending to ignore the look of astonishment on his face. However I could not help but allow a smile to form on my lips, and I laughed a little. "What do you need? I'll get it for you."

Erik gave me a puzzled look that slowly melted away to amusement. "I was going to get a book," he explained carefully. "You needn't coddle me." His tone of voice made me wonder if he wasn't blushing beneath his mask, and I attributed this to the (possibly) massive amount of attention I showered him with. As he started up again, I placed my hand on his shoulder, warranting another shocked glance.

"Really, I'll get it for you-" he moved to speak "- honestly, you act as if you haven't been spoiled before!" I'd meant my comment to be a joke, but after seeing the slightest frown, I realized the gravity of my statement. My fists clenched instinctively and I added quickly, trying to maintain the lightness in my voice, "Well, if it means so much, go ahead and find your book then." I released him and for a moment, neither of us moved. Slowly he lifted himself out of bed, but after a few steps, days of being bed-ridden (mostly due to my demands) and a still worrying fever took its toll. His legs faltered and immediately I was at his side. I heard a softly muttered curse and offered him a smile as a condolence.

It had been a little less than a week since Nadir and I had brought Erik down to his subterranean home due to his illness. Since then his fever had all but disappeared – his temperature would rise and fall with very little predictability, thought lately it had become more stabilized. And since then I had been doting on him much like a mother would care for her ill child. I wasn't quite sure if Erik was entertained or embarrassed by my antics, but either way I was hardly ashamed. Perhaps this way he could see first hand how much I cared for him?

I ventured back up to the Opera House for brief appearances so as to avoid more rumors concerning myself and the infamous Phantom of the Opera. Immediately after rehearsals Nadir would accompany me back to Erik's house on the lake and then would walk me back home – if I chose to go home. Often I would sleep on a divan in Erik's home so as to watch over him during the night. Vaguely I wondered over the implications of my actions but chose to ignore them – despite how improper it was. Erik still rested in the Louis-Philippe room, simply because I ordered him to stay put. In my mind I could not comprehend his getting well in his room filled with death. I imagine that he consented only to mollify me.

Embarrassed, Erik glanced at me, seemingly trying to gain my forgiveness, as I gently sat him on the bed. I could see the feeling of shame in his eyes, and I scolded myself a little for treating him as if he were a helpless infant. I took a seat beside him, though I was careful to maintain space between us. We sat in silence for what felt like hours, my mind racing and scrambling for topics to break this oppressive silence.

After some noticeable hesitation, Erik murmured, "Why are you doing this?" His musical voice was flat, but not accusing. His gaze was occupied by some spot on the floor, so I could not gauge his emotion at that point.

"I want you to get well," I answered simply, shrugging. What else was there to say? It seemed that my answer did not satisfy him, but he did not pursue the train of thought.

"When was the last time you spoke with. . . the Vicomte?"

I flinched a little and looked into tired and resigned eyes. It was then that I'd finally remembered his note – granted, I'd thought of it, but only briefly, and I had not recalled his invitation. A pang of guilt resounded through me; I moved to touch his hand as an act of apology but stopped myself, placing my hands back on my lap and staring fixedly at the wall. "I've not seen him since the gala."

From the corner of my eye I could see him wilt a little, and he turned away slightly. It was apparent from the slump of his shoulders that he was exhausted or, at least, fatigued. I saw him hesitate again before saying at length, "Do you. . ." he faltered, and after a beat, "Do you still. . . still. . ."

He did not continue, seeming to be at a loss. His slump became more apparent, and it was clear that he was not himself. Erik put his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. I was not sure of what to do, so I simply sat in silence.

"Christine. . . I'm sorry. . ."

"Erik. . ."

He turned his face to me and there was an infinite sadness in the movement. My hand shook a little before taking his. I steeled myself for icy coldness – the touch of death that I had so often referenced only months earlier – but I felt only welcoming warmth. . . At my touch, however, he went rigid and instinctively recoiled. His eyes were wide and only briefly showed disbelief before instantly glazing over into his usual stoic calm. Almost immediately I regretted the simple action; I could have wept. I'd not fully realized the treacherous ground we tread, and it seemed I had just set-off the first trap. . .

My mind raced for a way to escape from this quicksand and I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Nightingale."

Erik's icy composure dissolved back into uneasy amusement. "What did you say?"

"Tell me the story of the nightingale and the rose, Erik. . ."

Erik

Perhaps the most awkward of my days in the Opera House were those spent bed-ridden and useless in my own home, being attended to as if I were some fragile invalid capable of shattering at any second. I watched Christine with an almost horrified fascination and did not have the heart to stop her – she seemed to derive a sort of pleasant satisfaction from waiting on me like a hen tending to her chicks.

True, my illness did not seem to improve, nor did it seem to worsen – this did not mean, however, that I was incapable of caring for myself. It was humiliating, but I did not wish it to end! On some level I found serenity in our newly simplified relationship – nurse and patient – but I knew this would not and could not last forever. Pity is not, as a general rule, something I enjoyed accepting on a regular basis.

Nonetheless I was always at a loss for words when she greeted me with that dazzling and innocent smile. My thoughts and annoyances seemed to scatter at her very presence; I never mentioned my misgivings, but eventually she was beginning to sense my uneasiness.

These days I began feeling increasingly wearier, and I wondered if perhaps my age was finally catching-up to me. The irony was overwhelming. Perhaps I did need a nurse after all!

But I found Christine's willingness to play the part bewildering. Before, when I'd had my attack after first having brought her down here, the role had been forced on her for both her survival and my own. This time there were no lives at stake, and she knew well enough how to escape from this wretched house. Nadir was even here for added security. So if not for survival, if not for hope of freedom, then why?

It suddenly dawned on me one day, sending my mind reeling with possibilities.

Maybe. . . maybe hope did play a factor here.

Maybe she finally trusted me.

Maybe she . . . cared for me?

I dared not assume or read too much into this. I feared that too much hope on my part would prove to be foolish. Perhaps she did care for me – but it was likely it was not in the way I would desire.

But this could not last. All dreams end with a rude awakening.

If puzzling over Christine's intentions did not drive me insane, I mused, surely boredom would!

I made to go for a book but was quickly reproached by the ever vigilant Christine. After some rather questionable banter, she finally permitted me to do something for myself.

Irony, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy torturing me.

My knees buckled and I felt that fatigue had decided to force its payment from me. Muttering a curse I felt Christine's supporting arm leading me to take a seat on the bed. I wondered briefly over how quickly she had come to my aid, and was more impressed that she had once again been willing to touch me. And not for the first time, I felt oddly frightened that I did not have control of the situation. I'd been wrong – I once thought that Christine lacked maturity, that she would prove to be incapable of governing her own life, that she would need someone to guide her. This was one of the few moments that it was better to be wrong than right.

As she sat next to me, tempting me with her closeness, I struggled to keep myself in control. It seemed to be an opportune moment for me to ask her of her motives. At the time I was too flustered to think of a tactful way of asking her. The only other option was to ask her outright. . .

"Why are you doing this?"

"I want you to get well." I glanced at her momentarily as she shrugged her small shoulders. I wondered as to why she wanted that, but I chose not to ask. Instead, a more pressing issue had occurred to me. . .

"When was the last time you saw the . . . Vicomte?"

She looked over in bewilderment and I embraced the idea that perhaps she had only seen him hours before. It certainly wouldn't have been surprising. What she said was, "I've not seen him since the gala. . ."

I saw regret in her eyes, but I did not know what it was she regretted. Maybe she had missed some meeting with the boy in order to care for my pathetic self? Perhaps she regretted not being able to see him due to rehearsals. Or maybe she was regretting her return to the Opera House. . .

Suddenly I felt exceedingly tired. I could not continue to compete with the Vicomte forever! I'd lost the first time, would I lose again? Past experience led me to believe I would. . . but for some reason I grasped desperately to my last blinding ray of hope. . .

No one can save you now, except perhaps Christine!

The words I'd spoken that night had been to the Vicomte, but now I realized that they were true for me as well and always had been. . .

"Do you still. . ." I tried to force myself to stop shaking. "Do you still. . ."

Do you still love him?

It should have been simple enough to ask, but in reality it was about as simple as moving the very earth. I leaned forward and put my head in my hands. No, nothing was easy with Christine – sometimes it seemed that breathing, even existing, was an arduous task when I was around her. My love for her was dangerous for both of us, but I knew that there was no way to rid myself of it and I did not wish to discover a way. But I knew that it was because of me, because of my paltry desire to be loved, that had caused her so much torture, so much grief.

"I'm sorry, Christine. . ." I hoped she understood my sincerity.

"Erik. . ."

I looked up at her when she uttered my name, feeling that some act of blasphemy had occurred when this angel had spoken the name of a demon. Her fingers twitched a little before she daringly took my hand in hers. Shock stabbed through me like a saber and I felt my body go stiff. I instinctively pulled away, though my heart screamed and demanded to touch her. A shudder coursed through me, my mouth going dry with desire. Why had I jerked away from her? Instinct had betrayed me, and my hands tightened into fists. As my mind battled my heart for control, I saw Christine shrink away in hurt surprise. No words could describe how much I wanted to comfort her, but it was as if I had been held captive by invisible chains and rope. The more I yearned to hold her, the harder it seemed to move.

But. . . what did this all mean? She had touched me, why did I find it so hard to reciprocate it? She had touched me. . . she had. . .

"Nightingale," she murmured, her voice just barely audible in the thundering silence.

I felt the invisible hands holding me back start to loosen their hold. I took a deep breath, trying to regain my composure. I Nightingale /I . . . the tale I had told her so many times of forbidden love was eternally imprinted into my mind. Was that what she had said? My heart raced, hardly daring to believe that, perhaps, she was hinting at something, like I had done. When I was sure my voice would not betray me, I said with equal softness, "What did you say?"

"Tell me the story of the nightingale and the rose, Erik. . ."

I laughed for some reason, probably because I realized the completely foolishness of the situation. She was confused, and I saw that this reaction was probably causing her more pain. Quickly I looked her in the eye and assured her, "Of course, my angel. . ."

And in the sudden tranquility, it was suddenly so much easier to breathe, so much easier to exist. . . .

It took a moment to realize that I held her hand.

It took another to realize I was smiling.

Christine was smiling in return.