A/N: Hello, all! This here ficcy thing is a collaboration between two authors! Yay. I'm Kalisona, and my fellow author is Lasiriyea.
Welcome! This is the first chap-tar in our OC, NONSHIP fic.
Yes, you read right. This is A NON-ROMANCE FIC. Well, between our OC and anyone else. Christine love Raoul still, Raoul still loves Christine, Erik loves one and wants to punjab the other. No, this is not slash.
We accept reviews, criticism, pointers, and flames. We like to MST flames. Consider yourselves warned.
And on a final note, we are looking for a beta willing to look over our chapters. We aren't desperate, since we already have two eyes looking over the chapters, but feedback never hurts, and we are somewhat rusty at times in our Phantom knowledge. And without further ado, enjoy the ficcy!
Disclaimer: Also, Phantom of the Opera does not belong to us. We borrowed it and never promised to give it back. It does, however, belong to Leroux and Webber. Alix and, technically, Madame Hobkins belong to us. You can use them if you ask. And want to.
Le Voix dans le Nuit
Madame Vivinne Hobkin's voice rang through the small room, and the students of ballet immediately began again.
Alix Linne went through the first five positions, her feet arching and folding in the learned patterns, sheer habit by now.
Premiere, deuxieme, troisieme, cinqieme, quatreime.
Step forward, step back, arms up and out. The cool down was almost second nature now, though Alix didn't dare let her mind wander, not when Madame Hobkins watched them with the eyes of a hawk, waiting for a single mistake so she could make them do it again. And again. And again, until it was perfect.
Madame Hobkins clapped her hands once, a small smile on her lightly lined face.
"Very well. That is all for tonight. You may leave. Rest well, for the show is in three days."
With that, Madame Hobkins turns and swept out the door, her movements as graceful as any in the ballet corps. Alix watched her go for a moment before turning to her bag. She ruffled through it for a moment, searching for the small ring, barely a trinket, that she wore when not dancing.
She brushed a strand of dark hair that had slipped from her snood away from her face and blew out in frustration. She sat back on her heels. Where was it? The silver band, plain except for the thin wiring painstakingly wrapped around it, was truly not very important. However, Alix had a fondness for it, as it had been the first item she had bought with the money she had earned from her position as a ballerina.
Alix sighed and shook her head. Her fellow ballerinas had already left, and she knew that she needed to get rest, both for tomorrow's practice as well as the show that was in a few days. She stood, slung her bag over one shoulder, and turned to walk out.
As she did, she fancied she heard a sound, one that she realized was similar to fabric brushing against wood or perhaps a wall. Alix straightened and listened again. No sound. She frowned and turned around, searching the room. There was no one to be found.
Alix sighed, thinking her tired brain was simply playing tricks on her once again. Still looking behind her, she walked out of the room and straight into a thin young man. Blinking from the collision, Alix looked up…and gaped.
The Vicomte de Chagny straightened his clothes and looked at her curiously. He said quietly, "Excuse me. I was not watching where I was going."
Alix gasped. "No, no, monsieur, I am sorry! It was my fault completely, monsieur!"
Flustered, the girl curtsied quickly and darted down the hallway, her face burning in mortification. She had let her mind wander, and what did she do? Run into the Vicomte de Chagny himself! Alix didn't think to wonder what he was doing near their practice rooms.
Alix fled to her room and shut the door behind her. Then she slumped to the floor and buried her face in her hands. Why did these things have to happen to her? First her ring, then the mortifying collision…
She sighed and turned to rummage through her bag once more, only to realize that she no longer had it. Alix groaned. She must have dropped it when she had run into the Vicomte. That meant that she had no choice but to trek back up the stairs to the studio.
Alix slowly opened the door and began to trudge back to where she had last seen her bag. Her only comfort was that it was highly doubtful that the Vicomte would still be in the hall outside of the studio and even more so that he would have been interested in her tattered black sac.
One short, uneventful journey later, Alix padded lightly back into her room and dropped the accursed thing onto a chair. Pausing only to change into more comfortable clothes, Alix slumped over to her bed and tumbled onto it.
Just then, she heard a snatch of song. The female voice grew stronger as the song progressed, and after pinpointing the direction it came from, Alix collapsed back onto her pillow with an exasperated sigh. Christine Daaé, the quiet little chorus girl who roomed above her, was singing. And for the life of her, Alix could not figure out why.
Alix considered yelling up at her, but then she realized that that would have woken up her neighbors. Then they would have been after her for weeks. As she pondered her new dilemma, a second voice joined the first. And all thoughts of stopping the singing were pushed aside as Alix listened to the duet.
She could not remember falling asleep.
Le Voix dans le Nuit - The Voice in the Night
Premiere, deuxieme, troisieme, cinqieme, quatreime - First, second, third, fourth, fifth
monsieur - In the case that you do not know, it means 'sir'
sac - bag