Author: Smidgie PM
Christine wishes that her suitors would get the message, and wonders if the world will ever understand.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance - Christine - Words: 1,460 - Reviews: 11 - Favs: 6 - Published: 08-26-08 - Status: Complete - id: 4500199
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
The Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, etc, etc. Whoever owns it all, I envy them, but I don't own it myself, much to my dismay.
Uh, this fic is basically my response to my pet peeves in this fandom which, despite having never written any myself, I have read extensively. This is for all those people who portray Erik as an overemotional, self-absorbed idiot, and for all those people who write weak, pathetic Christines, and all those people who have Raoul call Christine "Little Lotte" and nothing else, and all those people who write Meg Giry as a useless side character that serves as a love interest for Erik / Raoul / made up male OC / made up female OC (delete as appropriate).
Any humour is entirely unintentional.
The curtain fell on yet another triumphant performance. Grinning like a fool, I turned and embraced the baritone to the right of me and the tenor to the left. It had taken months of gruelling rehearsals and weeks of little to no sleep but at last, the final performance had been concluded and as much as I loved it, I would not have to sing Marguerite again for at least another season.
I imagined my love's face in my mind again. That smile, those eyes… they accompanied me on every note, a constant reminder that I was loved, that I was beautiful, and I couldn't wait to get home.
We were so very good for one another. No one could ever understand us like we understood one another, no one at all.
My smile faded. How very persistent he was.
"Vicomte de Chagny," I deadpanned. "Didn't I tell you to never come near me again or I would call the gendarmes?" He looked flattened.
"I thought you might have come to your senses," he blustered. He held out a bouquet of flowers. I gave them a cursory glance, no more.
"Well, I haven't." His face turned an unbecoming shade of purple.
"Little Lotte! You can't possibly still be with that – that – thing! It's positively unnatural!"
My blood boiled. How dare he say our love was unnatural! It was the very essence of natural, two likeminded people that loved one another and wanted to be together always!
Without a word I turned and stalked off. Miserable, over bred bastard, I reflected. How could I have ever thought I loved him? As I left I turned around and shouted, "My name is Christine!"
I couldn't help it. How does he claim to know me for ten years and yet be incapable of distinguishing me from a character from a tale my father made up?
I reached my dressing room with a degree of relief. Although I appreciated the attentions of the public, sometimes they were just a little bit too… how can I put this… overenthusiastic. For the most part they were nice, sweet people, genuinely interested in giving me feedback on my performance. But there were the aberrations, like the Chagny swine…
At first I didn't notice the rose, but when I did, a smile stretched across my lips. iIt was a barely opened bud, gentle and sweetly scented when I pressed it to my face. Its colour was bright and vivid, and I smiled anew; it was my favourite, and only my love would think to get it for me. Attached to it was a tiny note.
Good luck, I'm sure you'll be fabulous tonight.
I smiled, exhaling. How could any one person be so wonderful? Sometimes I felt so undeserving, not worthy for this outpouring of beautiful, beautiful love that was showered upon me without condition or clause.
I scowled as my eyes landed on another rose, a deep red thing with a black ribbon around the stem. Honestly, he was the most melodramatic man I had ever met.
"Don't you ever get the message?" I asked as the ethereal, angelic voice continued. "No matter how often you sing to me from behind that mirror in that obsessive way that you do, I am still never going to fall in love with you." Abruptly the music stopped, and its creator was revealed as the mirror swung open. The Phantom stood there with his arms folded across his chest, a curious aroma of whisky lingering on his clothes. I glared. "What is it now?"
"What can I do to make you love me, Christine?" he asked in beautiful, mournful tones. I sighed. Here we go again. Usually the Phantom can manage to control his impulses, and we've even had a few nice conversations over tea. But every so often he slips back into his old ways… much to my consternation.
"We've been over this, Erik. I am never going to fall in love with you."
"It's my face, isn't it?" he asked, one hand melodramatically going to cover his mask. His eyes were already brimming. "Oh, if only Erik had been born a normal man, with a normal face, then he could love his Christine and she would love him too!"
I rolled my eyes. Mr. Melodrama. "We've talked about this. I don't love you because you stalked me for ten years, pretended to be an angel, spied on me while I was changing from behind that bloody mirror, and tried to kill my fiancée. Twice. Not because of your face."
"Ah, that damned Chagny chap!" he cried, now in the throes of romantic torment as tears streaked down the unmasked side of his face. "That perfect boy, who holds Christine's heart in his unworthy hands! How Erik longs to feel his throat quiver beneath the iron will of the Punjab lasso!"
This is just getting irritating. There's no arguing with him if he's like this. "Erik. Go home and sleep it off." I shoved him back through the mirror, throwing his rose after him. He batted away the tears, instantly brightening as he held the rose up to the light from my dressing room.
"A gift from Christine's divine hand!" he gasped, clutching the rose to his chest and apparently not noticing it was the gift he had given me earlier. "Erik shall treasure it forever!" I slammed the mirror on him.
"About bloody time," I growled to myself.
"Erik loves you, Christine," said a voice from behind the mirror.
It was much later than I had expected when I finally arrived home. Twisting my key in the lock, I made my way into the apartment. It was small, nothing fancy, but my love and I had filled it with homey little touches until it was all our own.
There she was.
Curled up in one of the two armchairs before the fire, golden hair all around her face, she was angelic. Forget the Vicomte's trinkets or the Phantom's music, angels had nothing on Marguerite Giry.
"Hello, beautiful," I said to my drowsy wife, whose eyes had opened when I had entered our flat. "Feeling any better?" A sneeze was my only reply. I gently handed her a handkerchief, placing the yellow rose she had given me earlier on the table next to her chair.
"Sorry I couldn't be there tonight, 'Stine," she rasped. "Bet you were divine." A smile splits my lips.
"I wasn't too bad," I replied. Meg smiled back; she often says I am too modest when it comes to my voice.
"Seriously, how was the performance?" she asked. I couldn't restrain another smile. Meg was lovely tonight, curled up in my armchair and wrapped in a blanket, just as I had left her, sick but beautiful regardless. The angels couldn't compare to her, the woman I loved, my wife, and regardless of what anyone said, we weren't unnatural. We had known one another for what felt like forever, and we knew one another back to front. No man could ever complete us the way we completed one another. Did a man know how to tie my corset or how to wake me in the mornings or how to make me tea in just the right way on the mornings when I couldn't speak? No, I knew, she was the only one for me.
I just wish the rest of the world around us could see that.
"Christine? How was it?" Meg pressed when I only stared into space. I drew up the other chair and pulled it close to hers, cradling her little hand in both of mine.
"Beautiful," I whispered tenderly, my lips hovering over her hand. "Simply beautiful."