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charleygirlTitle: Mistletoe Kisses
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2912
Rating: G
Genre: Romance, Humour
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: There's mistletoe in Christine's dressing room. Unfortunately, she has no idea how it got there...
Author's Note: Thanks muchly to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
litlover12 for the prompt. Complete seasonal fluff ahoy, with a Blackadder reference stirred into the mix. :)
MISTLETOE KISSES
“I won’t be a moment, Meg; I just need to fetch my scarf. Why don’t you – oh.”
Christine stopped dead in the doorway, staring in some consternation at what had become of her dressing room during her absence. She was positive she had locked the door behind her, and really she must have done as the key turned easily in the lock to allow her access; when she left the room had been in its usual state of slightly shabby disarray, costumes awaiting the attention of the wardrobe mistress thrown across the little sofa and make-up tubes and bottles scattered across the chipped and dented table top, but now...
It almost looked as though someone had done their best to bring the outside into her tiny space within the Opera. Bundles of holly hung from the looking glass’s elaborate frame, their berries red and juicy in the lamplight; ivy snaked its way across the dressing table and entwined itself around the coat rack in the corner, for all the world like some great green serpent. Pine cones were piled in her empty grate, their scent filling the room. When she looked up, paper chains undulated across the ceiling, dozens of them; who on earth had the time and patience to make such things and why would they decide to use them to decorate her room?
“What’s the matter? Are you all - ” Meg trailed off as she all but bumped Christine over the threshold from behind. She stared open-mouthed, taking in the spectacle before her. “My goodness! You kept that quiet! When did you have time to do all this?”
“I didn’t,” Christine said.
“Oh, come on.” Meg looked unconvinced. She clocked the mistletoe that dangled in front of the enormous mirror which covered most of one wall, and a sly smile crept onto her face. “Hello... who are you trying to ensnare, then?”
“No one! I didn’t do any of this; when I locked up earlier none of this was here!”
The little ballerina put her hands on hips. “Well, if you didn’t do it, who did?” Her eyes suddenly went wide as an idea occurred to her. “Ooh! You don’t think it could have been the Phantom?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Meg.” Christine didn’t mention that she had had the same thought but immediately discounted it. “Erik doesn’t sneak about putting up Christmas decorations.”
“How do you know? He is a bit odd, and it’s not as if he has anything better to do with his time,” Meg said. “There must be only so much prowling about he can do before he gets bored. I suppose he could drop another set piece on Carlotta; it’s not as if that ever gets dull. Maybe next time he could actually hit her.”
Christine shot her a suspicious glance. “You didn’t put that mistletoe there, did you?”
“Me?” Meg looked up at the greenery hanging over the mirror and then down at herself. “Do I look as though I’m wearing stilts? Maybe Monsieur Opera Ghost is after a little intimacy...”
“Now you really are being silly,” the soprano said, flushing up to the roots of her hair. While it was true that whoever had decided to decorate her room must have been exceptionally tall (or carried a ladder, she told herself), Christine could hardly see Erik going to so much trouble just to snatch a quick Christmas peck on the cheek. He hardly ever touched her, apparently preferring to keep what he regarded as a proper distance between them; she had to admit that there were times when his gentlemanly manners frustrated her no end. They were friends, yes, but she could not deny that there was part of her that hoped for more. He was her teacher, which was awkward, but that complication paled in significance when she considered the implications of being romantically involved with the Phantom of the Opera.
Meg raised an eyebrow as her smile widened into a triumphant grin. “Oh, am I? Methinks it may be a case of ‘the lady doth protest too much’!”
“Oh, stop it, Meg,” Christine told her, whirling around and trying to hide her bright red face amongst the dresses in her wardrobe as she fished around for her scarf. She was so engrossed that the knock on the open door nearly made her leap into the air. She spun back around, skirts flying, to see the Vicomte de Chagny standing in the doorway, hand raised to knock again, watching her with vague concern. Hand pressed against her chest she tried to still her hammering heart. “Hello, Raoul.”
“Is everything all right?” he asked. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“A ghost bearing mistletoe,” Meg said, which only made Raoul’s face crease in confusion. With a flick of her hair, she slipped past him into the corridor, throwing a conspiratorial smile towards Christine. “No sense in wasting it; I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Whatever is she talking about?” Raoul asked when she had gone.
“Nothing,” Christine said quickly. “She gets these odd fancies sometimes. What brings you here? I thought you were in the country until January.”
“I couldn’t stand the idea of an interminable house party with shooting and cards; Philippe had me tied to an itinerary every day. Anyway, do I need an excuse to come and see you?” He smiled and leaned in for a kiss; she moved her head just enough that his lips landed on her cheek. Clearing his throat and giving her another peck to give the appearance that he had meant it that way, he glanced around the room. “I see that someone’s getting into the festive spirit.”
“Oh, you know me,” she told him, spreading her hands helplessly. “I’ve always loved Christmas.”
“I remember. You once told me that you waited up all night just so you could see St Nicholas put the presents in your shoe.”
“But I fell asleep and Papa found me in the morning lying in the fireplace. He didn’t let me forget that for so long...” Christine felt tears welling up as she thought of her father’s laughing face and how he scooped her up to return her to bed, even though she protested that she wasn’t tired. It was funny how, even after nearly five years, his loss could still hit her like a hammer blow when she was least expecting it.
Raoul noticed her sudden change in mood, and his face fell. “Oh, Lotte, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up; forgive me.”
“It’s all right.” She squeezed his hands, blinking the tears away. “I’m just being a little over-emotional. It’s been a long day.”
“Well, why don’t you come out for dinner with me? I’m at a loose end, and we can talk about all the things we used to do as children. I find myself quite in the mood for a stroll down memory lane,” he said with a grin.
Christine sighed. “I would love to, but I promised Meg I would go out for a Christmas drink with the ballet corps. It’s not often they get to escape Madame Giry’s beady eye.”
Raoul’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “How have they done it this time? I thought she monitored their every movement?”
“She does. But it just so happens that Madame is having a little seasonal refreshment of her own, with Monsieur Reyer. When last seen she was rather unsteady and singing a song about goblins.” Christine smiled as Raoul threw his head back with a hearty laugh.
“I see. So while the cat’s away...”
“Something like that. We can have that dinner in the New Year; will you still be in Paris then?” she asked.
“I have every intention of remaining in Paris until my brother’s little gathering is well and truly over. Nothing would induce me to listen to the Comtess de Balzac droning on and on about her pet Pekinese again,” Raoul said, pulling a face. “She dresses it up and calls it her baby. Mind you, the Comte is hairy enough and she has sharp teeth so maybe it really is their offspring.”
Christine slapped him on the arm and he yelped. “You horrible thing!” she cried, trying not to giggle. “Go away now; I don’t want to keep Meg waiting any longer.”
“As my lady commands.” He bowed deeply, his hat almost touching the tips of his polished shoes. As he rose he took her hand, bestowing a kiss upon her knuckles. “Merry Christmas, Little Lotte.”
“Merry Christmas, Raoul.” She watched him go, and then turned back to the wardrobe, finding her scarf almost immediately. With a rueful smile, she wound it around her neck and picked up her purse, reaching out to turn down the lamp. As she did, she was suddenly aware that there was someone else in the room.
A dark figure stood before the mirror, wrapped in a black cloak, hat pulled low in an attempt to hide the white mask which caught the light and seemed to hang in the shadows like a half moon. Despite herself, Christine’s breath caught in her throat. Silhouetted in front of the glass he looked magnificent, the masterful Opera Ghost. Then the figure moved, unfurling itself, and there was Erik, the Phantom banished with the hopeful little smile he gave from beneath the brim of his fedora.
“Would it be wrong of me to wish you the compliments of the season, Christine?” he asked.
She countered with a question of her own. “Did you do all this? For me?”
Erik nodded. “I recalled you telling me once how much you loved Christmas.” His smile faltered as he regarded her. “Do you... do you not like it? I hoped to please you, but if - ”
“No, no, it’s beautiful, Erik, thank you,” Christine said hurriedly before he could become cast down. She glanced around at the profusion of evergreen. “However did you manage it? You must have had to go outside to get the holly - ”
“You would be surprised how much can be accomplished under cover of darkness,” he replied smoothly, and she couldn’t help wondering if he had come obtained the greenery by entirely legal means. Perhaps there was an irate homeowner somewhere in Paris with a denuded garden; she wouldn’t put it past him. He looked her up and down, taking in her pretty dress and warm cloak. “But I am obviously detaining you. Are you going out?” When she nodded his jaw hardened and she caught the flash of his mismatched eyes in the shadow cast by his hat. “With the vicomte, I suppose.”
“No, with Meg and the other girls. Do you mind?” she asked, nervous of his response. Her Angel of Music could be extremely strict. Now, however, he almost looked relieved; an outing with the ballet rats was the lesser of two evils, it seemed.
“As long as you drink in moderation and keep your throat warm, I have no objections,” he said, and she blinked in surprise. Reaching out a long-fingered hand he adjusted her scarf, pulling it closer around her neck. Hesitantly, as though he feared she might find his touch repugnant, he allowed his thumb to ghost across her chin. “We must look after your voice, mustn’t we?”
“Yes, we must,” Christine whispered, her mouth suddenly dry. She glanced up at the mistletoe hanging above them. “Erik... do you... do you know the significance of that particular plant?”
He looked up at it too, his expression unreadable. “I am aware of its tradition, yes. It was a silly whim of mine to hang it there; you need take no notice of it, Christine. I expect nothing from you.”
“Why do you say that?” she enquired gently. She tilted her head, trying to see his face, but he had turned away.
“Mistletoe is for kisses,” he said, his voice so quiet she had to strain to hear him. “Erik has never been kissed. No one wishes to kiss a gargoyle.”
Appalled, Christine had no idea how to respond. Instinctively she reached out to him, only to draw back her hand when she realised that he might regard her attempts at comfort as intrusive or patronising. The moments ticked by as she watched his back, spine so straight beneath the heavy beaded serge of his cloak, before he faced her once more, wearing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You should go; Little Giry will not like to be kept waiting,” he told her. She did not miss the faint tremor in his voice. “Run along now, and remember not to stay out too late. The ballerinas can be wild when allowed off the leash and you need your rest.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose I should.” She didn’t quite recognise the emotion that was stirring within her, but it felt rather like disappointment. Forcing a smile of her own, she said, “Goodnight, Erik, and thank you for the wonderful decorations.”
He bowed gracefully. “It was my pleasure, mon ange.”
Christine gathered up her things and turned towards the door. As she opened it she risked a glance behind; he was still standing before the mirror, and this time he looked so sad and lonely shrouded in the shadows that her heart nearly broke. She knew she couldn’t just leave him like that. Closing the door again and nearly trapping Meg’s foot between it and the frame as her friend tried to enter too quickly, she ran back to Erik, flinging an arm around his neck and standing on tiptoe to kiss him full on the lips. She missed slightly, ending up kissing more the side of his mouth, and bumped her nose against that of his mask which caused a giggle to bubble up inside her.
It quickly became apparent that Erik had no idea how to react. Taken by surprise, he tried to escape but was prevented by the mirror; when Christine did not let him go he sagged against the glass as though all the strength had been drained from him. His hands flapped uselessly in the air, floating over her back and shoulders, never quite daring to actually allow himself to touch her. When she drew back so that she could see his face he was staring at her in a mixture of astonishment and wonder.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, adding when he didn’t move, “You are allowed to reciprocate, you know.”
“I... I don’t...” He faltered; Christine had never seen him at a loss for words before. She waited, and a determined light came into his eyes. Leaning down he carefully, lightly brushed her lips with his own. It was like the fluttering caress of a butterfly’s wings, soft and chaste and hesitant. He pulled away, and she almost cried out in protest; she held it back however, and he looked down at her, not quite able to meet her gaze. “Was... was that all right?” he asked, and she realised he almost sounded shy.
Christine tightened her hold on him, glad that she was used to standing on her toes. She cupped a hand to his unmasked cheek. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to do that,” she told him, and he blinked. She smiled widely, bright and genuine. “You have my permission to do it again.”
After a moment’s deliberation he did, bolder this time as his confidence grew. Christine was quite happy to melt into his arms. His lips were bloated and uneven but they felt quite wonderful against her own; he tasted of almonds and claret, the scent that always surrounded him a mixture of wood smoke and spice with a background of sandalwood. She had never realised that such smells could be quite so intoxicating. His hat fell to the floor, and she barely noticed that the door had opened again until she heard Meg clear her throat and say,
“I’ll tell the girls you won’t be coming, then, shall I?”
Christine wasn’t quite sure which of them was blushing more, her or Erik, as she glanced over her shoulder to see the little ballerina standing on the threshold with a huge grin on her face. “I think that might be a good idea, Meg,” she replied. “I seem to be...”
“Unavoidably detained?”
“Umm...” Christine tried to catch Erik’s eye but he was averting his gaze in mortification, looking anywhere but at Meg. Disentangling himself from her embrace, he bent down to retrieve his hat, jamming it back onto his head with more force than strictly necessary. Only Christine could see from this angle that he had gone pink right to the tips of his ears; his mask stood out all the more in comparison. She couldn’t help smiling; it was really rather sweet. “Something like that,” she said at last.
“Goodness me, Christine, I never knew you had such hidden depths,” Meg said mischievously. “Must be the effect of the mistletoe! Wait until I tell the others about this.”
Christine stared at her friend in horror, and Erik looked as though someone had run an electric current up his spine. “Meg, don’t you dare tell anyone - ”
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” Meg winked, and turned back into the passage, adding as she closed the door behind her, “I mean, who would believe me if I told them I saw Christine Daae kissing the Opera Ghost?”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2912
Rating: G
Genre: Romance, Humour
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: There's mistletoe in Christine's dressing room. Unfortunately, she has no idea how it got there...
Author's Note: Thanks muchly to
litlover12 for the prompt. Complete seasonal fluff ahoy, with a Blackadder reference stirred into the mix. :)“I won’t be a moment, Meg; I just need to fetch my scarf. Why don’t you – oh.”
Christine stopped dead in the doorway, staring in some consternation at what had become of her dressing room during her absence. She was positive she had locked the door behind her, and really she must have done as the key turned easily in the lock to allow her access; when she left the room had been in its usual state of slightly shabby disarray, costumes awaiting the attention of the wardrobe mistress thrown across the little sofa and make-up tubes and bottles scattered across the chipped and dented table top, but now...
It almost looked as though someone had done their best to bring the outside into her tiny space within the Opera. Bundles of holly hung from the looking glass’s elaborate frame, their berries red and juicy in the lamplight; ivy snaked its way across the dressing table and entwined itself around the coat rack in the corner, for all the world like some great green serpent. Pine cones were piled in her empty grate, their scent filling the room. When she looked up, paper chains undulated across the ceiling, dozens of them; who on earth had the time and patience to make such things and why would they decide to use them to decorate her room?
“What’s the matter? Are you all - ” Meg trailed off as she all but bumped Christine over the threshold from behind. She stared open-mouthed, taking in the spectacle before her. “My goodness! You kept that quiet! When did you have time to do all this?”
“I didn’t,” Christine said.
“Oh, come on.” Meg looked unconvinced. She clocked the mistletoe that dangled in front of the enormous mirror which covered most of one wall, and a sly smile crept onto her face. “Hello... who are you trying to ensnare, then?”
“No one! I didn’t do any of this; when I locked up earlier none of this was here!”
The little ballerina put her hands on hips. “Well, if you didn’t do it, who did?” Her eyes suddenly went wide as an idea occurred to her. “Ooh! You don’t think it could have been the Phantom?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Meg.” Christine didn’t mention that she had had the same thought but immediately discounted it. “Erik doesn’t sneak about putting up Christmas decorations.”
“How do you know? He is a bit odd, and it’s not as if he has anything better to do with his time,” Meg said. “There must be only so much prowling about he can do before he gets bored. I suppose he could drop another set piece on Carlotta; it’s not as if that ever gets dull. Maybe next time he could actually hit her.”
Christine shot her a suspicious glance. “You didn’t put that mistletoe there, did you?”
“Me?” Meg looked up at the greenery hanging over the mirror and then down at herself. “Do I look as though I’m wearing stilts? Maybe Monsieur Opera Ghost is after a little intimacy...”
“Now you really are being silly,” the soprano said, flushing up to the roots of her hair. While it was true that whoever had decided to decorate her room must have been exceptionally tall (or carried a ladder, she told herself), Christine could hardly see Erik going to so much trouble just to snatch a quick Christmas peck on the cheek. He hardly ever touched her, apparently preferring to keep what he regarded as a proper distance between them; she had to admit that there were times when his gentlemanly manners frustrated her no end. They were friends, yes, but she could not deny that there was part of her that hoped for more. He was her teacher, which was awkward, but that complication paled in significance when she considered the implications of being romantically involved with the Phantom of the Opera.
Meg raised an eyebrow as her smile widened into a triumphant grin. “Oh, am I? Methinks it may be a case of ‘the lady doth protest too much’!”
“Oh, stop it, Meg,” Christine told her, whirling around and trying to hide her bright red face amongst the dresses in her wardrobe as she fished around for her scarf. She was so engrossed that the knock on the open door nearly made her leap into the air. She spun back around, skirts flying, to see the Vicomte de Chagny standing in the doorway, hand raised to knock again, watching her with vague concern. Hand pressed against her chest she tried to still her hammering heart. “Hello, Raoul.”
“Is everything all right?” he asked. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“A ghost bearing mistletoe,” Meg said, which only made Raoul’s face crease in confusion. With a flick of her hair, she slipped past him into the corridor, throwing a conspiratorial smile towards Christine. “No sense in wasting it; I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Whatever is she talking about?” Raoul asked when she had gone.
“Nothing,” Christine said quickly. “She gets these odd fancies sometimes. What brings you here? I thought you were in the country until January.”
“I couldn’t stand the idea of an interminable house party with shooting and cards; Philippe had me tied to an itinerary every day. Anyway, do I need an excuse to come and see you?” He smiled and leaned in for a kiss; she moved her head just enough that his lips landed on her cheek. Clearing his throat and giving her another peck to give the appearance that he had meant it that way, he glanced around the room. “I see that someone’s getting into the festive spirit.”
“Oh, you know me,” she told him, spreading her hands helplessly. “I’ve always loved Christmas.”
“I remember. You once told me that you waited up all night just so you could see St Nicholas put the presents in your shoe.”
“But I fell asleep and Papa found me in the morning lying in the fireplace. He didn’t let me forget that for so long...” Christine felt tears welling up as she thought of her father’s laughing face and how he scooped her up to return her to bed, even though she protested that she wasn’t tired. It was funny how, even after nearly five years, his loss could still hit her like a hammer blow when she was least expecting it.
Raoul noticed her sudden change in mood, and his face fell. “Oh, Lotte, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up; forgive me.”
“It’s all right.” She squeezed his hands, blinking the tears away. “I’m just being a little over-emotional. It’s been a long day.”
“Well, why don’t you come out for dinner with me? I’m at a loose end, and we can talk about all the things we used to do as children. I find myself quite in the mood for a stroll down memory lane,” he said with a grin.
Christine sighed. “I would love to, but I promised Meg I would go out for a Christmas drink with the ballet corps. It’s not often they get to escape Madame Giry’s beady eye.”
Raoul’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “How have they done it this time? I thought she monitored their every movement?”
“She does. But it just so happens that Madame is having a little seasonal refreshment of her own, with Monsieur Reyer. When last seen she was rather unsteady and singing a song about goblins.” Christine smiled as Raoul threw his head back with a hearty laugh.
“I see. So while the cat’s away...”
“Something like that. We can have that dinner in the New Year; will you still be in Paris then?” she asked.
“I have every intention of remaining in Paris until my brother’s little gathering is well and truly over. Nothing would induce me to listen to the Comtess de Balzac droning on and on about her pet Pekinese again,” Raoul said, pulling a face. “She dresses it up and calls it her baby. Mind you, the Comte is hairy enough and she has sharp teeth so maybe it really is their offspring.”
Christine slapped him on the arm and he yelped. “You horrible thing!” she cried, trying not to giggle. “Go away now; I don’t want to keep Meg waiting any longer.”
“As my lady commands.” He bowed deeply, his hat almost touching the tips of his polished shoes. As he rose he took her hand, bestowing a kiss upon her knuckles. “Merry Christmas, Little Lotte.”
“Merry Christmas, Raoul.” She watched him go, and then turned back to the wardrobe, finding her scarf almost immediately. With a rueful smile, she wound it around her neck and picked up her purse, reaching out to turn down the lamp. As she did, she was suddenly aware that there was someone else in the room.
A dark figure stood before the mirror, wrapped in a black cloak, hat pulled low in an attempt to hide the white mask which caught the light and seemed to hang in the shadows like a half moon. Despite herself, Christine’s breath caught in her throat. Silhouetted in front of the glass he looked magnificent, the masterful Opera Ghost. Then the figure moved, unfurling itself, and there was Erik, the Phantom banished with the hopeful little smile he gave from beneath the brim of his fedora.
“Would it be wrong of me to wish you the compliments of the season, Christine?” he asked.
She countered with a question of her own. “Did you do all this? For me?”
Erik nodded. “I recalled you telling me once how much you loved Christmas.” His smile faltered as he regarded her. “Do you... do you not like it? I hoped to please you, but if - ”
“No, no, it’s beautiful, Erik, thank you,” Christine said hurriedly before he could become cast down. She glanced around at the profusion of evergreen. “However did you manage it? You must have had to go outside to get the holly - ”
“You would be surprised how much can be accomplished under cover of darkness,” he replied smoothly, and she couldn’t help wondering if he had come obtained the greenery by entirely legal means. Perhaps there was an irate homeowner somewhere in Paris with a denuded garden; she wouldn’t put it past him. He looked her up and down, taking in her pretty dress and warm cloak. “But I am obviously detaining you. Are you going out?” When she nodded his jaw hardened and she caught the flash of his mismatched eyes in the shadow cast by his hat. “With the vicomte, I suppose.”
“No, with Meg and the other girls. Do you mind?” she asked, nervous of his response. Her Angel of Music could be extremely strict. Now, however, he almost looked relieved; an outing with the ballet rats was the lesser of two evils, it seemed.
“As long as you drink in moderation and keep your throat warm, I have no objections,” he said, and she blinked in surprise. Reaching out a long-fingered hand he adjusted her scarf, pulling it closer around her neck. Hesitantly, as though he feared she might find his touch repugnant, he allowed his thumb to ghost across her chin. “We must look after your voice, mustn’t we?”
“Yes, we must,” Christine whispered, her mouth suddenly dry. She glanced up at the mistletoe hanging above them. “Erik... do you... do you know the significance of that particular plant?”
He looked up at it too, his expression unreadable. “I am aware of its tradition, yes. It was a silly whim of mine to hang it there; you need take no notice of it, Christine. I expect nothing from you.”
“Why do you say that?” she enquired gently. She tilted her head, trying to see his face, but he had turned away.
“Mistletoe is for kisses,” he said, his voice so quiet she had to strain to hear him. “Erik has never been kissed. No one wishes to kiss a gargoyle.”
Appalled, Christine had no idea how to respond. Instinctively she reached out to him, only to draw back her hand when she realised that he might regard her attempts at comfort as intrusive or patronising. The moments ticked by as she watched his back, spine so straight beneath the heavy beaded serge of his cloak, before he faced her once more, wearing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You should go; Little Giry will not like to be kept waiting,” he told her. She did not miss the faint tremor in his voice. “Run along now, and remember not to stay out too late. The ballerinas can be wild when allowed off the leash and you need your rest.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose I should.” She didn’t quite recognise the emotion that was stirring within her, but it felt rather like disappointment. Forcing a smile of her own, she said, “Goodnight, Erik, and thank you for the wonderful decorations.”
He bowed gracefully. “It was my pleasure, mon ange.”
Christine gathered up her things and turned towards the door. As she opened it she risked a glance behind; he was still standing before the mirror, and this time he looked so sad and lonely shrouded in the shadows that her heart nearly broke. She knew she couldn’t just leave him like that. Closing the door again and nearly trapping Meg’s foot between it and the frame as her friend tried to enter too quickly, she ran back to Erik, flinging an arm around his neck and standing on tiptoe to kiss him full on the lips. She missed slightly, ending up kissing more the side of his mouth, and bumped her nose against that of his mask which caused a giggle to bubble up inside her.
It quickly became apparent that Erik had no idea how to react. Taken by surprise, he tried to escape but was prevented by the mirror; when Christine did not let him go he sagged against the glass as though all the strength had been drained from him. His hands flapped uselessly in the air, floating over her back and shoulders, never quite daring to actually allow himself to touch her. When she drew back so that she could see his face he was staring at her in a mixture of astonishment and wonder.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, adding when he didn’t move, “You are allowed to reciprocate, you know.”
“I... I don’t...” He faltered; Christine had never seen him at a loss for words before. She waited, and a determined light came into his eyes. Leaning down he carefully, lightly brushed her lips with his own. It was like the fluttering caress of a butterfly’s wings, soft and chaste and hesitant. He pulled away, and she almost cried out in protest; she held it back however, and he looked down at her, not quite able to meet her gaze. “Was... was that all right?” he asked, and she realised he almost sounded shy.
Christine tightened her hold on him, glad that she was used to standing on her toes. She cupped a hand to his unmasked cheek. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to do that,” she told him, and he blinked. She smiled widely, bright and genuine. “You have my permission to do it again.”
After a moment’s deliberation he did, bolder this time as his confidence grew. Christine was quite happy to melt into his arms. His lips were bloated and uneven but they felt quite wonderful against her own; he tasted of almonds and claret, the scent that always surrounded him a mixture of wood smoke and spice with a background of sandalwood. She had never realised that such smells could be quite so intoxicating. His hat fell to the floor, and she barely noticed that the door had opened again until she heard Meg clear her throat and say,
“I’ll tell the girls you won’t be coming, then, shall I?”
Christine wasn’t quite sure which of them was blushing more, her or Erik, as she glanced over her shoulder to see the little ballerina standing on the threshold with a huge grin on her face. “I think that might be a good idea, Meg,” she replied. “I seem to be...”
“Unavoidably detained?”
“Umm...” Christine tried to catch Erik’s eye but he was averting his gaze in mortification, looking anywhere but at Meg. Disentangling himself from her embrace, he bent down to retrieve his hat, jamming it back onto his head with more force than strictly necessary. Only Christine could see from this angle that he had gone pink right to the tips of his ears; his mask stood out all the more in comparison. She couldn’t help smiling; it was really rather sweet. “Something like that,” she said at last.
“Goodness me, Christine, I never knew you had such hidden depths,” Meg said mischievously. “Must be the effect of the mistletoe! Wait until I tell the others about this.”
Christine stared at her friend in horror, and Erik looked as though someone had run an electric current up his spine. “Meg, don’t you dare tell anyone - ”
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” Meg winked, and turned back into the passage, adding as she closed the door behind her, “I mean, who would believe me if I told them I saw Christine Daae kissing the Opera Ghost?”
