A/N: Yes, it's fluff. Please do not kill me for it. I rather happen to enjoy Raoul/ Christine. If you happen to be severely allergic and/ or have a dislike of Raoul and/ or Christine that mounts to insurmountable detestation, you'd be better off reading another fic. Also: dedicated with utmost love and affection to Project Vicomte and the wonderful people at R.A.O.U.L. at Yahoo! Groups. You guys (and gals) are awesome. Merry Christmas/ Happy Hanukkah/ Happy holidays! One more thing: 'je t'aime' means 'I love you' in French. 'Aussi' means 'also' or 'too'.

Disclaimer: Erm, no. I own nothing but an insurmountable love of the characters (and sundry other memorabilia), though I could lay some claim on the tyrant of the stage manager. The characters belong to Leroux/ Andrew Lloyd Webber, and yes, one line is shamelessly pilfered from the musical: forgive me, as I've just seen the movie. (Patrick Wilson!)

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The Persian man was making his rounds once more, his jade eyes peering into the darkness of the halls until a candle loomed into view, momentarily illuminating the man's way. There were no signs of trouble, and from the faint strains of music echoing in the fourth basement, the trap-door lover was at work, composing. The Persian man was unsure what: Don Juan, a wedding mass, a funeral mass… the Persian felt uneasy at the thought, and paused to examine his appearance in a hastily hung looking glass; a prop, no doubt, for that night's opera. The Persian adjusted his astrakhan cap, watching the reflection of the space behind him in the mirror. A young man, well dressed (though his hair seemed to be falling into his eyes) was walking backstage. His hand was in his trouser pocket and he looked remarkably happy.

The man looked familiar to the Persian. He focused on the reflection of the young man. Ah! Raoul, vicomte de Chagny. He was courting Mademoiselle… Daäé. The Persian frowned. Mademoiselle Daäé, the trap-door lover's student…. The Persian hid himself in the shadows, intent of seeing what Monsieur le Vicomte was doing.

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"Christine!"

"Raoul!" Christine felt her cheeks flush and she gently tiptoed down the stairs to the foyer. "What are you doing here?"

Raoul smiled, and leaned closer towards her, taking care to whisper very softly in her ear, "To wish you luck."

Christine felt her cheeks bloom into a deeper red blush, the nearness of Raoul causing her heart to speed up dizzily. She noticed a strand of hair had fallen into Raoul's eyes. Raoul never noticed those sorts of things, and never had, not even when they had been children. "Thank you, Raoul."

"It's not like you need it, Christine, but I also brought you this."

Raoul gently pulled a ring, sparkling in the bright light of the candles, out of his pocket. Looking somewhat bashful but smiling as brilliantly as the ring sparkled, he murmured, "An engagement ring."

Christine paused, deeply uncertain. The Phantom's ring, solid gold, hung heavily on her ring finger, weighing her had down, and seeming to cast it in shadow. Raoul's ring gleamed with hope and promise, just like Raoul's happy smile.

"Raoul…."

Raoul's smile faltered. Always eager to please, he hated to make those he loved unhappy or miserable. "Do you not like it?"

Christine tore her eyes from Raoul's, intending to gaze on the ground and lie, though she hated to lie to anyone, especially Raoul. She found herself staring at the ring in Raoul's hand instead. A diamond winked at her like a star, and it seemed a sliver of a sunbeam had transformed itself into a slim band of gold. More than anything, Christine wanted to slide the ring on her finger and see how Raoul's face would light up.

Christine smoothed out her skirt to delay her need to reply. The Phantom's ring beaconed dully at her, like the crucifix on the priest who performed her father's funeral. She shivered, and the shadows around her lengthened.

"Are you all right Christine?" Raoul asked, gently taking her hand. He looked at her worriedly, love gleaming beneath his anxiety for her.

Christine smiled weakly, and then looked down, noticing Raoul had taken her right hand. The Phantom's band was hidden from sight, and the warm weight of Raoul's hand on her own seemed to drive off the shadows.

"Christine! Your hands are like ice. Are you sure you're feeling well?" He took her other hand in his, the engagement ring warming between their two palms, and the Phantom's ring seemed to try and counteract the presence of Raoul's hands and Raoul's ring.

Very quietly, she whispered, "I think so, Raoul. Thank you."

She was rewarded by Raoul's gentle and reassuring smile. "I'm glad Christine." He let go of Christine's left hand, letting the engagement ring sparkle in the candlelight. "You don't have to take the ring, Christine. I just thought that since we had an engagement… a pretend engagement, we might need an engagement ring. A pretend engagement ring." His smile was so hopeful; she hated to have to disappoint him. Another strand of blond hair flipped onto his forehead and Christine wished desperately to push it away, if only to feel the softness of it on her fingertips.

"Raoul, I…."

At the sound of his name on her lips, he brightened, looking so inherently charming Christine found it harder and harder to say no.

She glanced about cautiously. There were no overly dark corners, no brooding shadows, no sense of unrest save for the ring on her right hand.

"Five minutes, Mademoiselle," hissed the stage manager. "The orchestra shall begin to tune, shortly." He disappeared from the doorway.

Filled with sudden resolve, backed by her feeling of overwhelming security in Raoul's presence, Christine slid her hand from Raoul's, and pulled the Phantom's ring off her finger.

Raoul looked at her, his smile growing. He looked like he was a child once more, the strand of hair flopping into his eyes, eyes lit up with sudden hope.

Christine carefully held the Phantom's ring in her felt hand, and extended her right hand, suddenly so free and light, to Raoul.

Another strand of hair fell into his eyes, and Christine felt her heart melt in a most agreeable way. She smiled, very shyly, terribly unsure.

Raoul gently took her right hand in his and slid the ring onto her finger.

"With this ring, I thee wed," he murmured, almost softer than their breathing. Christine realized, with a bit of a start, that they breathed in unison. It startled her, making her wish to run, but also strengthening her resolve to stay. It was a horribly conflicting feeling, and Christine felt her smile fade and her heart twist.

"Only pretend," Raoul quickly, noticing Christine's discomfort. "It's only pretend."

Relief tinged with melancholy filled Christine. "Of course."

"We shan't actually marry, shall we?" Raoul asked, sadness creeping into his voice.

Christine had to look away, trying to ignore how Raoul's hands lingered on hers. "N… no."

Christine, felt, rather than saw, Raoul's face fall in disappointment. Her heart twisted itself once more.

"Well, it may… be pretend, but…." Raoul, very gently, almost timidly, lifted Christine's chin. Christine's heart untwisted itself, and began to beat so loudly she imagined its sound could rival that of the tympanis in the orchestra pit. Her cheeks colored once more.

"Christine," Raoul paused, unsure. "Well, this is not: I love you."

Tears unexpectedly sprang to Christine's eyes. The Phantom's ring weighted heavily in her left hand, while Raoul's touch and Raoul's ring seemed to lift her up out of danger, of fear, of melancholy.

"Oh, Raoul. I… je t'aime aussi."

The words were spoken before she even thought of them. Her cheeks reddened even further.

Raoul looked so elatedly happy, though, Christine felt her own heart lighten and felt a smile try to creep across her face.

Raoul glanced around, and then carefully kissed her cheek, his fingers still warm against her chin. Christine felt like melting. There was a delirious happiness in this, though the Phantom's ring sought to tug her down into reality.

Dutifully, she turned from Raoul, his fingers releasing her chin, and slid the Phantom's ring on her finger, right above Raoul's ring. The Phantom's ring seemed to taunt her, looking as if it might fall off. Christine jammed it down, over her knuckle, hoping desperately to keep it safe, and with it, her freedom. Christine held her hand out, fingers splayed, examining the two rings.

It was an odd contrast. She had worn the Phantom's ring so long, its polish had faded and turned dull. It was heavy, very heavy, a thick solid band of gold, reminding her always of her bondage to the Phantom. Raoul's ring sparkled very prettily in the light. It was not nearly as heavy as the Phantom's, as it was half the size. It was still warm from Raoul's hand. She moved a hand to touch the diamond, and her fingertip brushed the cold gold of the Phantom's ring.

Christine suddenly did not care if any one saw, or if the Phantom was present. She stood on the tips of her shoes, and threw her arms around Raoul's shoulders.

One of his arms encircled her waist, delightfully warm and reassuring, and the other rested upon her unbound hair. She hesitantly moved her right hand to Raoul's cheek, fingertips brushing against his hair, and pressed her ear to his chest, listening to the soothing thump of his heartbeat.

"Je t'aime," Raoul whispered, voice unusually husky. Christine looked up and pushed the strands of hair on his forehead back. Raoul smiled at her, and kissed the palm of her hand. Christine felt her hand tingle.

"One minute!" the stage manager barked, clapping his hands impatiently and herding some giggling ballet rats from one place behind stage to another. "You ballet rats, get to it! You're onstage first! What you are doing there, Jammes? Braiding the ribbons on your shoes? Playing with marbles? Get onstage, you rat!"

"I must go… they'll wonder where I am." Christine reluctantly pulled her arms off Raoul.

Raoul kissed her hand. "Bon chance, Christine."

Christine felt her spirit rise, and her hand tingle again. "Merci, Raoul." She nearly skipped to the door, hair and skirts swirling about her. At the door to the stage, she rested her hand on the doorpost, the two rings winking at her and plunging her into momentary uncertainty. Then she turned to Raoul and smiled. "Je t'aime."

Raoul's face brightened.

"Now go, Raoul, or you'll miss the beginning. I shall look for you in the audience!"

"All right." Christine scurried out into the hallway, trying to make as little noise as possible, the ballet rats running past her in a flurry of crinolines and silk ribbons.

"Christine!"

She paused, turning to face Raoul once more.

"I love you."

She blushed fervently. "Oh, Raoul…."

"Get on stage, mademoiselle," snarled the stage manager, favoring her with a glare any governess with a spoilt charge would be proud of.

She kissed her hand and extended it to Raoul, willing the breeze from the opening and closing of the trapdoors would blow it to him. She ran off, holding her skirts up, followed by an irate stage manager.

Raoul stood there a moment, grinning dazedly, like a giddy schoolboy, and walked off slowly, hand linked behind his back.

The Persian stepped out of the shadows, frowning once more. He had noticed the new ring on Mlle. Daäé's finger, how the old ring seemed more likely to fall off, the dazed grin of the vicomte, and the blush on Mlle. Daäé's cheeks.

He was filled with foreboding, and glanced behind him to see nothing but shadows. The trap-door lover also loved shadows….

The Persian pulled a candle out from its holder, ignoring the hot wax as it dripped onto the sleeve of his jacket. The shadows were empty, not filled by any phantom, nor did any footsteps echo in the dark passages.

The Persian gently replaced the candle, glancing at the foyer just to be sure. No one. The Persian man felt a pang. Of what? Remorse? Fear? Pity?

The Persian stood still, hand resting on the candelabra. Yes, pity.

As always, he felt pity for the trap-door lover, Erik, and (more surprisingly) a stir of apprehension. Erik had always been denied happiness and would be, by no fault of anyone, denied happiness once more. His heart would break, his hopes crushed. The Persian sighed. Love was never easy, never simple, never logical.

Then the apprehension: Erik was not the same as others. A broken heart could only lead to rage, and a furious tantrum to get what he wanted, as always. The Persian almost wished he could not think of what horrible punishment the trap-door lover would met out against M. le Vicomte and Mlle. Daäé. The Persian man shivered, and, unnerved, walked slowly to his seat.