"Anything worth doing always starts as a bad idea." — Leigh Bardugo

"You will hear thunder and remember me ,and think: she wanted storms..." — Anna Akhmatova

Somehow, Christine ends up here, at a back-alley establishment in the gutters of Paris so full of suspicious stares and watered-down ale, she is not sure what concerns her more. She knows she must be mad to have come all the way here under the cover of night on a fool's errand. But she is here and she is determined.

A bitter chuckle works its way to her lips, even as they close around the rim of the glass as she drinks. Only water- no, she cannot, will not be impaired. She must remain alert and on her guard on the occasion her target deigns to show his metaphorical face tonight. It has certainly taken her long enough to trace his steps this far and even this lead is premised only on wisps of rumors.

Heaven knows the amount of plying it took for Madame Giry to give up the name of the tavern-weeks and weeks of alternating rounds of begging and tears sprinkled with threats to seek further assistance on her own. She knows how immovable the ballet mistress can be, how she often is, and therefore she considers her presence here a substantial victory on its own. Madame's warnings echo in the corners of her mind and her eyes stray to the bar keep, a former stagehand from the Opera and potentially her only ally should anything go awry.

The low rumble of thunder sounds, a warning from miles away and if she were wiser, she would heed its unspoken advice, pay her check and leave this place. But her future is a question mark and if there is a chance to find an answer, however elusive, she is hellbent on finding out for herself what path she will choose.

So here she sits night after night, nursing a glass of tepid water while clinging to her what-might have-beens and what-still-might-bes ….

…And waits.

The ironic thing is that it is his hands that end up giving him away, and not the mask that was always the subject of his paranoia.

She finds herself transfixed by the spindly finger, gesturing to the bartender to top-off his glass of scotch, and a full minute passes before she realizes she is staring, finding herself falling back under a spell he has not even cast, driven by mind-conjured images of those long fingers trailing lightly over her collarbone, ghosting down her arm, joining to hers..

She blinks, takes another gulp of water and the spell is broken. How many men boast fingers such as those? The question is rhetorical and a sour taste in her mouth and, in an ironic twist, she knows her obsession is bordering on unhealthy, but just because she knows does not mean it is a habit she can easily break.

Even if she wanted to do so.

The man turns then, clearly having finished with the bar keep and Christine's eyes narrow at the brief glimpse of white revealed by the shift in his cloak, gleaming against the stark light. She feels her heart stop...stutter before it returns to beating again, the rhythm now frantic and pounding. She moves before she's even aware of herself, shooting to her feet and sending the wooden chair scraping across the beer-stained floor. Even over the low din of conversation, she is frozen in place every eye seems to turn in her direction. Her throat is thick with embarrassment as she methodically meets every one until her gaze collides with the only one that matters, a pair of gemstone eyes that take her breath away and piece her where she stands.

His eyes cut to the door and those long fingers twitch with momentary indecision. It is only her strangled cry of "Wait!" as her feet move forward of their own accord, colliding with the chair that has somehow aligned itself in her path, that saves their interaction. One moment, she finds herself stumbling, the floor racing up to meet her until a vice wraps itself around her arm and she barely has time to register the brief cry of pain that comes with its grasp when she is suddenly hauled up and out the back of the bar. Her captor halts them in a shadowed corridor of another back ally. It is dank, dark and she is half sure Madame herself would break her big toe if she could see her now, but she doesn't care; not with the man who continuously haunts her mind standing right in front of her.

He's here. The Phantom of the Opera.

" It's you." She breathes the words into the air between them and his eyes fly back to hers once he has ensured the ally is empty but for the two of them. It is all she can think to say and she falls silent, willing him to take the lead, to explain his whereabouts and that he understands what brought them to this moment. He swallows hard before her and she reaches forward, grappling fingers seizing his overcoat even as his hold on her loosens.

"Christine -" He sounds so incredibly tired, as if he has been the one to trek to this place night after night for weeks on end. Despite his tone, his eyes are sharp, brimming with equal parts wariness and defiance, as if he suspects this is all another elaborate plan for his capture and the gendarme await her signal to approach. "What is this? What are you doing here?"

She knows she should give some sort of explanation, but she can nearly feel her blood simmering, the crackle and pop of a boil inevitably approaching. She sees when he feels the shift in her energy, in the way her fingers tighten and her eyes narrow and her chin tilting insolently higher. Is he not glad to see her again? Had he not begged her to stay, to spend her life with him in that god-forsaken cellar. Perhaps she has been the fool this whole time, endlessly missing him while he's been the one to move on?

"Are you not happy to see me?" The question is a plea and she hates that tears fill her eyes as it's asked. He does not answer, only watches her with hooded gaze, closed-off and unreadable in that infuriating way of his. She hates that he makes her feel childish for her tears and just wishes for a moment that he would show something, even if it is disdain or hatred or any of the other extreme emotions he so seems to favor because anything would be better than his cold indifference and not knowing where they stand.

He remains immovable, infuriatingly so, and she nearly abandons him to the rain, the ally and his dogged determination to flee from humanity. But something stops her and she isn't exactly sure what causes her to act as she does (surely not alcohol, although she does suddenly wish she had indulged in a touch of liquid courage), but whether it is instinct, desire or pure, unadulterated determination to see her mission through, she leans forward, pushes up to her toes and all but crashes her lips to his. He stiffens immediately, a muffled noise of surprise coming from his throat, but is betrayed by his own body when his hand slides up to her neck and roughly pulls her closer. The kiss is pure need, fueled by desire too long denied, searing but brief, and Christine can't help but groan in protest when he abruptly pulls away, his hot breath still puffing against her skin.

"Erik…"

He will not meet her gaze, but she feels warm lips press tenderly, regretfully against her forehead before he physically turns her away and that melodic voice is a whisper at the shell of her ear. "Go home, Christine."

She whips around to face him, but any retreat dies on her lips when, the space illuminated by a sudden flash of lightning, she finds him already gone.

The next time, he is the one to approach her.

Despite his prior instructions, she has returned to this place, night after night again, in hope of even the briefest encounter. A fortnight has passed since she has seen him and she does not know if he will appear again, but something keeps her coming, drawing her in like a siren's song and she will not cease until she is sure he wants nothing to do with her.

Tonight her patience is rewarded. She feels him there, senses his presence in the way the hair on the back of her neck stands in the brief moment before his hand comes down, resting lightly, briefly on her shoulder. Without turning, she abandons the glass of wine she had been indulging in and rises from her seat to follow him, as if they are back on stage at the Opera and this is their scene rehearsed to perfection.

Light rain greets them as the emerge from the bar and they barely manage to reach the corridor before when his lips are on hers again, her tongue sweeping boldly against his mishapen mouth and his fingers tangled deep in her hair, as if this isn't only the second time they've found themselves like this, but an age-old routine that they both know and love. He growls, actually growls as he takes her mouth again, one arm sliding down to tighten around her waist, melting into her and their kiss in such a way that tells her everything she needs to know.

Thunder rumbles as they part, flushed and panting and a hint of a smile playing on his elusive mouth. His eyes drink her in, distant in the darkness and hooded under his cloak. The rain has intensified since their exit, falling in a steady rhythm to soak them completely, but she can still see the his hunger and knows he studying her, from her blushing cheeks and glowing eyes, the way her chest is heaving and the curve of her waist to hip beneath his palms, and the mixing rivulets of water and sweat running down, plastering pieces of hair to her neck and forehead. She is his study and is committing every detail to memory until the next time they meet.

Before him, pressed against the wall with her head tilted back, she can only imagine how she must look if someone were to happen upon them. She hopes she has the look of a woman well-loved or at least well-satisfied and find she cares not about the consequences that illusion may bring. In this moment, she feels joy, perhaps for the first time since the whole ordeal began, and she lets herself be the subject of another stolen kiss, a gleeful chuckle escaping as she tastes the rainwater on his lips.

She startles when his hand slides down the length of her arm, twining her fingers with his. A thunderclap sounds, closer than before and that is the moment she feels him freeze, sees him look down before realization sparks in his eyes and they fly back to hers. He holds her gaze as his thumb traces the cold metal of the ring that, that had forgotten to remove in her haste to arrive on time. Anger sparks in his eyes, betrayal coating his face as she opens her mouth to say something, anything, that might save the trust they have been building.

But it is too late and, in another flash of lightning, he has already slipped from her grasp again.

The first time takes her, it is against the same wall where they have shared numerous kisses and touches. Despite everything that lay unresolved between them, they keep meeting, drawn to one another like gasoline and fire. He had protested, insisted she deserved to wined and dined, at least to be loved in a proper bed, but she had rolled her eyes, told him to shut up and stopped any further protests with her lips. She no longer wears the ring and he no longer questions if she still shares another's bed and they find they are both happier with this arrangement.

Instead, he presses feather-light kisses to her eyelids and nose, moves to her cheeks and jaw before creating a tantalizing trail over down her neck. Around them, a storm rages, as if Nature herself is shouting her objections, having grown tired of issuing warnings with rumbles and flashes. They pretend not to notice with his hands on her hips and her legs hitched around his thighs, holding her against the rain-soaked brick. He thrusts into her on a thunderclap, her breath a soft gasp against his ear. He stills, allowing her to adjust to the feel of him, and she just hold onto him for several heartbeats, blinking against the flashes of light that illuminate the ally.

She arches against him and moans as he rocks within her and her gasps turn to an erotic purr deep in her throat that echoes in his ear and he pulls her closer still. The storm becomes stronger, his thrusts deeper, her cries louder and she is glad for the chaos because it gives her the chance to surrender herself completely to him and the elements. He grunts as his body works harder to draw the pleasure they both seek and she urges him on by digging her fingers into his shoulder, her heels into his thighs.

Vaguely, she wonders if this constitutes making love or a second, more vulgar term she's heard whispered among the bowls of the opera. She hopes it is the first, fear it might be the second, but when she shudders and clenches around him and hears him cry out her name with a guttural moan, she finds she doesn't much care which it is, as long as he is the one to satiate this hunger within her.

Her breathes come fast and quick, only now realizing that he has gone still, waiting to gauge her reaction to what has just happened. She loosens her hold and her body instantly feels the loss of him as he steps away, allows her skirts to fall back between them, creating a barrier when there had been none moments before.

She rest against the wall a moment longer, not quite trusting her legs to fully support her yet. He turns back, having set himself right and observes her through the sheets of rain that continue to fall. They are both soaked to bone, willing audience members to the symphony of thunder and lighting that dance across the night sky.

The unspoken question - what now? - hangs thick between them and she sees him open his mouth, knows his intention is to send her away, so she speaks before he can. "Take me with you."

She does not care where, but she know she can not leave him behind again.

His sigh is a visible thing. "Christine…"

"I mean it," she retorts, pushing away from the wall and advancing on him. "Whatever this is between us…" She doesn't call it love, doesn't know if she can just yet, but it's strong enough to fuel her on. "...this is what I want."

What does exists - lust? Love? something in between?-, it is fathomless in its beauty. She knows that beautiful things can contain their own darkness, sees a flesh and blood example a foot away. But it- he- is here and warm and real and she wants nothing more than to chase the storms with him as far as fate will allow and she tells him so, earning another deep sigh as he steps forward, taking her hands and tilting her chin to meet his gaze.

" You don't know what you are asking . I will destroy you, Christine, in the most beautiful way possible. So slowly and meticulously, that you will not even know that it is happening. And when I leave you will finally understand, why storms are named after people."

A sob closed around her throat. "Erik…"

He glanced away, dropping her hands. "You deserve more than the pain a life with me would inevitably bring."

"I don't care!" She hears the desperation in her voice, wants him to hear it too. How can he do this to her? Love her in one breath and leave her in the next. "I want to be with you. I was foolish enough to leave you behind once. Do not make it so again. Please."

He hesitates and she sees the opening to deliver the final stroke. "I love you."

He eyes fall shut and his head tilts back as he process the words he has wanted from her since that night in the cellar. Lighting illuminates his figure and in the flashes, she can see the telling bob of his throat and clench of his fist, a physical manifestation of the battle happening within.

When his eyes open, the gemstone eyes piece her where she stands. "You are certain?"

She gives a single nod, resolute.

His answer is one of the same. "Meet me here in two days. I cannot promise it will be a pleasant trip."

Joy courses through her veins with such ferocity, she does give a whit if he were to lead her straight through a den of vipers. Leaping forward, she whispers her assent, presses a potent kiss to his lips and disappears into the night.

This time, he is the one to leave her in tears.

She arrives early, armed with only a traveling cloak and a valise containing minimum clothing and her most prized possessions, her father's pocket watch among them. She slips inside, annoyed to discover the bar full and her usual table already occupied.

A sharp whistle pierces the air and her thoughts and she turns to find the bartender watching her. He motions her over with a flick of his fingers and hands her a small slip of paper filled with a familiar scrawl, elegant even in its haste.

Her brow furrows as she reads his words, his refusal to put her through what lies ahead for him, his desire for her to have a better future than as a fugitive at this side. He can not give her the life he wants for her, so as much as it breaks his heart, he implores her to return to the one who can.

She swears she can feel her heart breaking and she shudders against the tears that threaten to fall. All of that time, those stolen moments, heated kisses, tender caresses…the storm of emotions she had weather, just see him again. Did it mean nothing to him?

You fell in love with a storm. Did you really think you would get out unscathed?

Not in the mood to be chastised by her own thoughts, she sniffs the tears away and steels her resolve. Instead, her lips purse as annoyance spikes, quickly shifting to rage, tired of his endless apologies and of men making decisions for her.

When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about.

And she isn't. She is older, wiser, stronger. Perhaps a touch more cynical, but hope is still her favorite.

It is decided. She will make her own.

If he has a fondness for notes (which of course he does!), then that is the only warning she will give. Flashing the barkeep her most charming smile, she secures a quill and pens a response, leaving it in safe hands should be return to their old haunt. Her lips curve into a smile as she strolls away, committing the six words to memory and her lips curve into a smile as she imagines his face if or when he ever reads them.

Ready or not, here I come.

But that is not the only note she leaves that night…

Dearest Raoul,

By the time you find this, I will be gone.

God, I can already feel your heart breaking and even though you may not believe me, so is mine. I do not know what my future holds, only that what I need can not be found here.

I'm sorry, Raoul. I am so sorry.

You deserve only the best, but I know I cannot be the one to stand by your side in that role. I honestly don't know what else to say or how to explain myself except this:

No matter how much I wish it to be so, we are no longer those two besotted children who once listened in rapture to Papa's cold stories of the North. We have left them behind.

You, my oldest friend, were made for sunshine and summertime; you were made for Little Lotte.

But I…

I realize now that I was made for chasing storms.

Love always,

Christine.

Standing at the desk in his study, Raoul felt the lump in his throat grow as he read Christine's words, the letter clutched in his right hand while the ring she had left behind was clenched in his left. He knew she had been different lately….distant…distracted….

But this?

Vaguely, he wonders if she will find what she so desperately seeks, what she needs so badly that it has consumed her so completely.

Outside the rain falls, the thunder rolls, and the lightning strikes.

And somehow, between the claps and flashes, he knows she will.