Who: Raoul, Christine, + the Phantom What: Old friends reunite and the Phantom is not pleased. Where: Paris Opera House. When: Uh recently? Warnings/Rating: Just the Opera Ghost doing his thing.
Christine had been worried that she would not make it through the door in time for the final performance.
She was only a chorus girl, and her part was limited to ballet and accompaniment in the production of Il Trovatore, but she could not miss a performance. Madame Giry would be so angry if the choreography needed to be amended to accommodate her absence, and while she had not heard from her singing teacher since she had been here, Christine did not wish to anger him by being absent. Samantha had promised that there would be no interruptions, but recent events had made it seem likely that there would be, and Christine had been very afraid. Samantha had told her that one day she would have a much larger part than just that of a chorus girl, though she would not expand on the statement, and Christine assumed being in the performances would be critical to this coming to pass. She wanted to sing very much, and she would do anything for the opportunity to truly do so. She was sure her papa had not sent her such a wonderful teacher if nothing was to come of it.
And it had all turned out in the end. A few missed rehearsals would not ruin things, or so Madame Giry had claimed when Christine blamed illness for her truancy.
The performance flew by, as performances always did for Christine. She had all but forgotten about Raoul's invitation, and so she wasn't worried about any anger on the part of her absent teacher at the prospect. After the final curtain, she wandered toward the group dressing room shared by the ballerinas, still dressed in the white dress and black habit that the chorus donned for the finale of the opera. She hummed as she went, Carlotta's voice singing Lenora's final aria still ringing in her ears, her pale cheeks bright from the stage lights. The wooden floor made no sound beneath the white ballerina's shoes she wore, and she tugged the black habit off as she went, shaking free her brown hair.
Inside the dressing room, there was the happy chaos that always existed when things were good inside the Opera Populaire. The Ghost had caused no problems as this production came to a close, and rehearsals would begin for Hannibal shortly. There were whispers of the current owner retiring, but no announcement had been made, and things surprisingly quiet. Madame Giry was even content, for once, not demanding extra practices after the curtain, and the ballerinas scattered with whispers and clandestine plans that they didn't dare let the choreographer hear.
Christine lingered in front of her mirror, brushing out the last of the tangles in her hair, then leaving the dressing room behind. Backstage, there was still the bustle of patrons treading the planks and visitors enjoying a tantalizing look at the life behind the opera curtain. Save for the polite greeting, Christine ignored the men and women in their finery. Dressed in a chaste white dress, Christine wound through the bodies, intent on making a stop at the chapel before returning to the dormitories.
The performance had been, as he had expected, marvelous. Ever since he was a small thing, he had been introduced to the arts, to museums and theater and art and music, and had developed an appropriate appreciation for them. His elder brother, Philip, might have joked that as he got older, his appreciation lay more with the women in their makeup and finery than it was the performance, but still Raoul persisted, if only to prove his brother wrong.
When the show was over and the patrons rose from their seats, some to leave to other appointments that evenings, others to the back of the theater to congratulate their favourite singers and others, Raoul joined the throngs behind the curtains. But tonight, he had no eye for the girls who tittered and batted their lashes in his direction. No, he was looking for one in particular, the one he had promised to meet that night. He was sure he could convince her to spend more than just an hour of her time with him. Whatever demands her music teacher had upon her time, Raoul was sure he could convince her otherwise. Even a promising young singer had to have a life beyond the theater.
Winding through the bodies, Raoul moved deeper, to where things got quieter, and it was a flash of dark hair that caught his attention, drew him in her direction. "Little Lotte!" he called out, knowing that if it were his Christine, then she would answer. If not, she would move on, none the wiser as to the gentleman caller who prowled the backstage area.
The voice almost did not register, distracted as she was. Her polite greetings to those she passed were by rote, and she did not linger long enough to commit faces to memory. She was thinking about this place and how odd it was. It was home, she knew, but then it was not, and she had not been raised to understand such aberrations. Her papa had told stories when she was a child, fanciful things full of darkness that were spoken in the shadows of a flickering candle, but they had not been tales of chess matches in enchanted books, nor of girls who claimed to know the future and yet would not share it.
But she was young, barely eighteen and she had experienced otherworldliness before. If not for Madame Giry's assertion that her music instructor existed, she would think herself mad. Who heard voices in their heads and would not think themselves mad? But Madame Giry was the sanest woman Christine knew, and so it must be true. Her papa had sent an angel, as he said, and then was it so much to believe that ghosts walked the flies? That enchanted books and enchanted doors existed? She was young, and she was fanciful enough to believe in all these things.
But these things were still odd, and she was lost in the thoughts as she traversed the crowd. It was the word Lotte that caught her ear and distracted her from her own distractions, and she turned, finding herself at the edge of the crowd, in the quiet that led down to the chapel stairs.
She lifted onto the tips of her toes, and she tried to see where the voice originated. "Did someone call for me?" she asked, the shadowed staircase down to the familiar place of prayer at her shoulder.
Perhaps Christine had forgotten Raoul’s invitation, but her music teacher, who unbeknownst to her was also the famed Opera Ghost, had not.
It had come as a surprise to discover that she thought her teacher and the Ghost were two separate entities, He had no understanding of the concept of different timelines, nor did the girl, and so he wondered if she had forgotten somehow. She was not the sort to lie or manipulate; he thought her perfect, pure, and so would not entertain the possibility that it was some sort of trick. No, Christine’s lack of knowledge was no fault of her own but he was, admittedly, reluctant to refresh her memory. He had not forgotten her kindness but neither had he forgotten the way she looked at his face, the horror there, the disgust. And when he discovered that Hannibal had not debuted and Carlotta still held the role of star, well, the Phantom knew something strange was amiss.
He was in attendance that night, as he always was, the unseen and unacknowledged owner of the Opera House who oversaw all. Carlotta disappointed him as she always did yet he refrained from interfering, as that would come very, very soon, even if for him it was merely history repeating itself (to a certain point.) Christine would rise to her rightful place soon enough, his star, and the prima donna would be forgotten. It was her he followed when the performance ended, watching from behind the safety of the dressing room mirror as she looked through him, close enough to touch, but he dared not. A ghost he truly was, her shadow as she made her way backstage and moved towards the chapel. Perhaps he would speak to her there, the Phantom mused, to reassure her that he had not gone, that her angel was still there, still cared--
But then that man called for her, and his eyes narrowed into darkened slits as she turned, attention captured, and he knew he only had moments before the two found each other. He could not bear it.
“Christine.” His voice, low and haunting, echoed up from the stairs at her shoulder. Perhaps he could draw her away.
Ignorant of the ghost that lurked nearby, enticing Christine further away from him, Raoul pressed forward, the sound of her voice, familiar despite the years, ringing true to him. "I did!" he called out to her, rising onto the tips of his own toes to catch better sight of her lingering at the edge of the staircase that led further down. With her in his sights, Raoul pressed forward with a sense of urgency, his aristocratic finery helping him to part the proverbial seas as he moved towards the girl - no, young woman - who lingered at the top of those stairs.
"Did you forget already about meeting, Christine?" Raoul asked, and there was not a hint of coldness to his voice. Pleased smiles and boyish charm, he had grown up well in the years since they had last seen one another. He was still a young thing, but travel had taken some of the innocence from his eyes, leaving him gregarious and outgoing, always ready to make another friend in whomever he encountered. "I had hoped that you would not forget me so quickly. It has been far too long, after all, little Lotte." Raoul reached forward without permission to take one of her small hands in his own, and with a dip of his head and a bend of his back, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles before releasing those captured fingers.
The haunting voice that beckoned from the top of the darkened staircase drew all of Christine's attention for a moment. It made the hairs on her arm stand, and it sent a chill along her spine. It made her think her papa had not forsaken her, and it made her heart catch in her throat at return to her chest, all at once. It was breath. It was breathing, except that she forgot about breathing a moment, and the world went slow as she turned to look up into the darkness, brown eyes curious and fearful, awed and curiouser. She put a hand against the wall that separated the staircase from the flys, from the noise and bustle of patrons and dancers, girls hoping for a better future than their lot in life should allow. She glanced over her shoulder a moment, guilt and the need for secrecy in a place where some already thought her mad. She'd spoken freely of her teacher at first, until the ballerina stares became too much. Now, she was quiet about the voice in her head, and the glance she cast over her shoulder was furtive, guilty in the way of young girls that still dressed in unblemished white.
She took one step forward, and she set one foot upon the step, and then she heard the movement at her back.
Familiar, old, something from the time when her papa lived and songs echoed against the attic walls of a home by the sea. She had been young when Raoul had come, though it had not been so long ago. Young, and still foolish enough not to understand that his title and rank meant she should not lead him on merry chases with trailing petticoats through the narrow halls of the home she'd been so happy in. Before papa had become ill. Before she had grown up too quickly in a lonely voyage across the sea to a strange place.
She drew her foot back from the step, setting it on the wooden floor once more. She turned as he approached, her smile going warm and fond. She gave him her hand to kiss, and then she extended the other arm as well, both hands offered for a proper squeeze with acceptable room between them. "It is you," she said, though she'd believed him when he'd written in the book. "I did forget," she admitted sheepishly. "It was the final performance, and I was worried I would not make it," she said in English, because the shared language was easier than her native Swedish and his native French. She pulled her hands free with reluctance, and she gave those dark shadows another look, longer, lingering, before turning her attention back to the Viscount. "Did you like the performance, monsieur?" she asked.
Raoul was not one to think often on his station or that of those around him. Yes, he enjoyed the luxuries that were afforded to him, but it was simply a way of life, the only one he had known, so whatever difference, whatever ocean of class that lay between he and Christine was not given any attention. Instead, Raoul poured himself into whatever (or whomever) had gained his attention at the moment, and currently, that was the lovely Christine. He took the hands that were extended towards him, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze though he did not let go so swiftly as he had moments earlier.
"I suppose I will forgive you this one time," Raoul said with a smile in his voice. "Though I do hope that you shall make time for me. The last performance, as you said, so you should have an evening free to celebrate!" He glanced down as she pulled her fingers free, a brow raising in question though he did not pursue her just yet. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders, proud and comfortable in his own skin. "And the performance was lovely, Christine," Raoul responded. "Though I have to admit that my attention was not upon the prima donna. A girl in the chorus caught my eye and I was transfixed by her beauty."
She was so close. One step forward as he beckoned, and the Phantom could taste his victory. Until, that is, Raoul drew her attention to him and he could feel her slipping away like water through his fingers. The way she smiled at Raoul was like a knife in his chest; he had never known such warmth, not like the Vicomte had, with his life full of riches and affection. She would never offer her hand for him to kiss, never embrace him as she did her old friend. Pain was familiar, his only friend, but pain like this was something new, something he had not known until the first time he heard Christine sing. And with pain came jealousy and rage, for what had Raoul given her? Did he seek to make her a star, to improve her voice as no one else would? No, he waltzed in the Phantom’s Opera House as though he owned the ground he walked upon and showered his Christine with compliments.
How dare he?
Jealousy reared its ugly head with every word the Victomte spoke, and the Phantom could endure no more. There was a flicker of movement in the shadowed staircase, a sound like footsteps, and a single word barely rising above the surface. Still haunting, ethereal, but with an edge of disapproval. “No.”
Raoul's smile was an old familiar thing, like childhood blankets and the safety that came from knowing a parent would be there when the sun rose in the morning. Childhood, and the memories drew Christine in much the same way that her papa's angel had when he'd first come. She smiled at Raoul, returning the warmth in the expression, but she sobered when he asked about making time for him. "Monsieur, there is a new production that begins for the holidays, and I have missed days of early rehearsal," she explained, hoping to appease him. It was not a lie. With Samantha's recent troubles, there had been a string of days away from the Opera Populaire, and she had missed so many rehearsals. But that was only partially true, and she glanced toward the dark sanctity of the stairs once more, fingers wrung in front of her for the briefest of moments as Raoul let go of her hands.
She blushed at the very bold comment about her appearance, and she tipped her head down with the pleasure of someone young who was as yet unaccustomed to compliments. Madame Giry was very protective, and she had not been alone with many men in her life. And she knew, too, the rules that governed their world. He could ignore them, wealthy and titled as he was, but she could not. Here, they were surrounded by patrons and performers, but that would not be the case if she went off with him alone. She had just begun to explain all the reasons she could not go, the ones beyond the missed rehearsals, and then she heard the voice.
A step back, then another, and Christine put feet and feet between herself and the boy from her childhood. She had not heard that unearthly voice since she had ended up in this strange version of home, but she would know it anymore. It had been her companion as she tossed and turned, fitful after her arrival at this new home. She glanced toward the dark of the stairs, gaze quick and darting. "Monsieur, I must go," she told Raoul hurriedly.
The voice went unnoticed by Raoul, his attention wholly on the girl who was almost racing in retreat to put distance between them. "And they would have you rehearse this evening? After the final performance? Are you not allowed even an evening to yourself to celebrate a show that has gone so splendidly?" Raoul was not one to back down at words of refusal; he was not so brash as to force himself upon someone who did not want him, but he was not one to take no for an answer at first utterance. So he pursued her, matching her step by step as he did not allow the distance between them to widen any further than it already had.
"Just an hour, mademoiselle. Sure you can spare at least an hour for an old friend who has not seen you in so many years." He dipped into a bow, his head tilted towards her, eyes never leaving her face, one hand extended towards her. "Please, Christine. I beg of you. An hour and you shall have no further arguments from me this evening."
Christine’s refusal of the Vicomte’s offer soothed some of his anger. It pleased him that she obeyed, though in the Phantom’s warped mind he failed to realize that he was little better, forcing his desires upon her, as he believed Raoul was with his continuous insistence. Rich fools knew nothing of being denied for they had never been denied; they knew nothing of pain, of suffering, of aching loneliness which rotted one from the inside out. Of course he expected Christine to agree. When had he ever been refused?
Had he not lived in the shadows he would have interrupted then and there, a physical presence to stand between them, but a masked man would draw too much attention. Better they continue to think the Phantom a ghost than a flesh-and-blood man. Yet what was he if not a master of illusion, of trickery and magic? From above, where the catwalks and planks were too dark for the eye to be drawn to, he watched, and this time when he spoke again his voice seemed to come from somewhere beyond the crowd; nor was it his, but Madame Giry’s. Mimicry had been one of the first skills he’d learned and one which he practised most often.
“Christine Daaé! Where are you, child?”
Raoul's question about one evening to celebrate made her look away from the darkened stairs. She glanced toward the wings, where the revelry was beginning to quiet as the crowd thinned, heading off to dinner and home and, sometimes, to secret places that Madame Giry would not approve of. It was a cruelty of the opera that made wealthy men so accessible to girls without title or dowry to recommend them, and Christine had seen many girls whisked away over the years, their reputations in tatters. But it did not stop it from happening again, and she turned her attention back to Raoul. Raoul, who she knew was not interested in anything like that. He had been a childhood ami, and he had known her papa, and surely no harm could come of an hour in public.
She did not expect him to bow as he did, and she looked at his extended hand with the bright trust of youth, the flutter of wings in her belly and other girlish things that the ballerinas whispered when the lights went out in the dormitories. He had grown so handsome, and perhaps there was a warmth to her cheeks that had not been there previously. But it was cautious, because she did not want her teacher to think she did not want to practice. She would not displease her angel.
But her angel wasn't here, and-
But then Madame Giry called out, and Christine did not suspect the trick. She looked over her shoulder, and the hand she had begun to extend was retracted. "I come, madame!" she called, loudly enough to be heard over the crowd that remained.
She turned back to Raoul, her expression regretful, but with a fair amount of relief. She could not disobey Madame Giry, and the choice was made for her. She would not need to make it at all. "I cannot go, monsieur." She knew Madame Giry spoke to her teacher, and she would not risk the stern woman's ire.
Raoul's gaze flicked to the side at the sound of the woman's voice calling out to Christine, his brows arching when he looked back towards Christine and the relief that was etched upon her face. "Let me go with you," he said earnestly, stepping back towards her, keeping the distance between them as near to nothing as was appropriate for them. "Let me go with you and explain that I ask only an hour of your time. I am sure she would be amiable to my request given the number of years that have passed since we last saw one another." His expression was hopeful, gaze searching over her face for a long moment before he paused and took a step back, the clouds coming over his face a moment later.
"Or is it that you wish not to spend time with me, mademoiselle?" Raoul could understand dedication to her art, and he would not fault her for that, but there was more eagerness to run off than he was honestly comfortable with. "You need only say as such. I am no longer a boy upon my mother's knee, you realise. I am able to accept refusal if that is how you feel."
She had not expected Raoul to close the distance between them, though perhaps she should have. He had been bold when they were children, fearless of things like horrors in the night and the cold brisk of the sea in a frigid winter. But it had been years since she had seen him, and she had only been a girl then, unaware of what life truly could bring, and she had not been expecting him to move. Her smile was unguarded a moment, the blush and shyness of a girl who had been well protected by both father and Madame Giry, and she was reluctant when she shook her head at his hopeful expression. "Monsieur, I cannot," she said, a quick glance back into the darkness of the stairs and the thought that her teacher had asked Madame Giry to call for her.
His suggestion that she did not want to spend time with him was quickly countered with a shake of her head. "Non, monsieur. We are old friends. I would love to spend time with you," she said with earnestness, the sentiment true. It would be easier, perhaps, if he was at the opera with more frequency. If her teacher saw that he loved music. Raoul had never cared for music as she did, no, claiming that he did not understand it. But he was a patron of such things, his family was, and they had always been. It was how they had come to know each other as children, after all. "Come to rehearsal, monsieur, for Hannibal." It was, she was certain, a safe suggestion. No one could object to that, could they? Not even her teacher.
She backed away again, away from the chapel steps entirely and toward the dormitories. "I will retire, monsieur." She stopped. She smiled, bright and songbird in her grin. "You remind me of childhood," she added, a fond and unguarded moment, and then two more steps away, before she turned in a swirl of white, dark hair a tumble along her back.
Raoul was not a complicated man; he tended to take things as they were, to not delve too deeply into the meanings behind them, so when Christine batted his fears away, Raoul tended to hold her words as truth. "I shall be there, mademoiselle," Raoul answered after a moment, a nod of his head as he took another step back, the distance between them a growing gulf of space.
He said nothing until after she was gone, her words ringing in his ears, a swirl of white fabric and dark hair the image that lingered in his thoughts. "And you, Christine, remind me of happy times and smiles." He let out a breath, chin dipped to his chest as he took a step back and then turned sharply back towards the people that still gathered backstage, a ready smile upon his face as he greeted old friends of his family, the young vicomte come home where he belonged.
His victory was bittersweet. Yes, he had prevented Raoul and Christine from spending time with one another, but he could not deafen himself to the words spoken between them. I would love to spend time with you, Monsieur, she’d said. She had invited him to rehearsals and the Phantom knew what would follow; it was his past, even if it was their future. Never had she smiled at him like that, never had she expressed such a genuine desire to be with him. Even his love for her was pain, and he could not separate despair from anger.
But there was time. Christine could love him, she could, and Raoul would not be permitted to come between them. The Phantom watched through narrowed eyes as the Vicomte melted back into the crowd before setting off to follow Christine, as ever her unseen shadow.