Fic: Teacher of Music (14/20?)
YEAH I DID. (It's short, but it was a good stopping point.) sparklybee, this is for you. :)
Title: Teacher of Music, 14/20(?)
Fandom: The Phantom of the Opera
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I'm just playing with someone else's toys. Please don't hurt me.
Author's Note: Thanks muchly, as always, to [info]eclecticmuse for thebeta.
Summary: On the anniversary of her father's death, Christine and Raoul go to Perros.
Snow slashed past the train window in unending gray lines as Christine stared sightlessly out at the passing countryside. Tomorrow was the anniversary of her father’s death, so she was traveling to the little village of Perros, where he had been buried, to honor his memory. Raoul had expressed a desire to accompany her to pay his respects as well. He was now sitting on the seat across from her in their private compartment, leafing through a novel.
She had briefly considered declining his request. The fall-out and subsequent aftermath of her debut in the gossip columns of every Parisian newspaper in print had left Christine extremely reluctant to be seen in public with Raoul again. But in the end, she had relented. It would have been grossly unfair to Raoul to deny him a goodbye to a dear friend because she was feeling selfish. And while traveling with him would doubtlessly cause tongues to wag anew, it would perhaps have been more unseemly for her to travel alone. Thus she had allowed him to come with her, and he had quietly made their arrangements.
So far during their trip Christine had been quiet and withdrawn and Raoul, in his gently understanding way, had tacitly assumed she was somber in remembrance of her father. This was true--she was--but it was also not the entire truth. She was still quite disturbed by her last encounter with Monsieur Reyer. It had been some considerable time since their blowout in his office but Christine still felt as if her heart had been ripped out and stomped upon.
Il Muto had closed out its limited run with Christine still performing the lead role. It was unprecedented--it had been several seasons since anyone besides Carlotta had headlined a production at the Populaire, as Monsieur Lefevre had consistently chosen to stage operas that showcased his star to the fullest. But the diva, now believing Il Muto to be cursed, had patently refused to return to it. To the new managers’ relief, her loss did not result in the drastic drop in ticket sales they had despaired of. There were losses--that was inevitable. But they were minimal. As pleased as was possible for a man of his temperament, Firmin had even added a bonus to Christine’s salary for the month.
Thus Christine experienced her first true taste of life as a leading lady. She had her own dressing room, her own dressers, a raise in pay, and she took her bows every night to enthusiastic applause. Elaborate arrangements of flowers were delivered to her dressing room before and after every performance. She had determined to be realistic about the whole thing since she knew, as they had all believed regarding her appearance in the Hannibal gala, Carlotta would never permit it to happen again. She honestly believed most of the audience came to get a glimpse of the little chorus girl who had the Vicomte de Chagny so besotted. Even so, her friends encouraged her to enjoy the experience while it lasted.
"Carpe diem, and all that," Joseph had said.
But try as she might, Christine had found that her heart just wasn’t in the enjoyment.
Reyer was too near, his face closed off and blank like a cold stone wall. Every note she sang, she was reminded of the hours they’d spent together perfecting them; every flower from Raoul left on her dressing table before a performance brought back the choking, suffocating sensation she’d felt in her throat as Reyer had stabbed his finger down on the hated column in the paper. That was always followed by a heavy sense of betrayal mixed with guilt. Why should she feel betrayed by his behavior and accusations? What had there been to betray? There was nothing, on either side. But she had thought she and Reyer were at least friends. She had thought... a lot of things. None of which seemed to matter anymore.
She was so hurt and angry that she couldn’t even bear to look at him in the days immediately after; that was only compounded by the fact that he made not a single overture of peace towards her. A tiny little voice in the rational part of Christine’s mind tried to argue that this was how he behaved--he would never be the first to apologize, if he even apologized at all. But her emotional side remained staunchly resolute. She would not give him quarter until he showed remorse.
But he never did. He seemed as determined to ignore her as she was to ignore him.
It sat like a leaden weight in her chest, heavy where her heart had been. She’d taken the toe shoes off her vanity table at home and hidden them away in a drawer, because seeing them every morning and every night made it curiously hard to breathe.
Glancing down at the colored wool twined in her fingers, Christine sighed. Despite her efforts to banish all reminders of her teacher from her life, she hadn’t been able to part from Reyer’s birthday gift to her.
**
Raoul secured them rooms--separate, of course--at the little inn in Perros, and the innkeeper’s wife served them a simple meal of stew and bread in the common room. As night had already fallen, they decided to retire early and go to the graveyard in the morning.
She couldn’t be certain if it was only her imagination, but Christine felt sure the innkeeper’s wife had stared at her and Raoul while they ate. Surely she had paid them more attention than was necessary for the amount of politeness required for her position? Perhaps it was just her newly-acquired paranoia making her see things that weren’t there, read more into actions than she should.
She shouldn’t feel guilty. She had no reason, no logical reason, to feel that way. She wasn’t betraying anyone; she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was only bringing an old friend to pay his respects to her dead father. There was no way Reyer--anyone, she angrily corrected herself--could possibly view the situation in the wrong light. She shouldn’t have to feel so defensive. But she did. She felt nervous and lonely and deeply unhappy.
She sat for a long time at the window in her room, watching what little snowfall she could see in the glow from the inn’s lights until the innkeeper extinguished them.
In the morning, Christine was first down to the common room. The innkeeper’s wife served her and Raoul again, and afterward Raoul spoke to the innkeeper about acquiring a horse and trap. It wasn’t such a long walk to the church and graveyard, but the snow would make it a slow and uncomfortable one. The man agreed to lend them his own and once the horse was harnessed and brought around, Raoul solicitously handed Christine up into the seat and made sure the heavy wool blanket was wrapped securely around her legs before seating himself. With a flick of the reins, they were off.
They spoke very little during the ride. Raoul needed only a few reminders for directions, and Christine felt no inclination towards making small talk. As it was, they had never required it to comfortably pass the time; at present their mutual silence wasn’t content, but neither was it awkward. Raoul remarked once or twice on landmarks he recognized, but took Christine’s unresponsiveness in stride and didn’t press her to reply.
He pulled the trap up outside the little church adjacent to the graveyard and helped Christine down. The priest was venturing outside to greet the visitors to his doorstep, so Raoul told Christine to go ahead without him.
"I’ll catch up with you," he said kindly, and briefly laid a hand on her shoulder.
Christine recognized it as a ploy to give her time alone with her father’s memory, and was grateful for it. She gave him a tiny but genuine smile before turning away.
The iron gate opened easily despite the freezing conditions, and Christine left it open as she moved forward into the orderly rows of gray headstones. Charles Daae’s final resting place was on the fourth row, thirty paces to the left from the lane that cut through the center of the graveyard. It was a simple stone, unadorned save for his name and the years of his birth and death. The remains of the flowers Christine had brought on her last visit were still in place at the base, brittle and fragile with time and frost.
She had no flowers with her this time. Kneeling carefully in front of the grave, she made the sign of the cross and then bowed her head. Her heart, again, felt like a lead weight in her chest.
"Please lend me your strength, Papa," she whispered. "I just-I don’t know what to do now."
As with every time she had pleaded for guidance before, there was no answer forthcoming from the impassive stone in front of her.
Her father, Christine thought, might have liked Monsieur Reyer, despite all his shortcomings--and he had a plethora of them. Certainly he would have had something helpful to say about the predicament she’d found herself in with her erstwhile teacher. And he would have been very happy that she’d rekindled her friendship with Raoul. He’d known that their lifestyle hadn’t always been the best for making and keeping friends, and how her shyness had made that task even more daunting. That the one friendship she’d made had been with a boy well above her station had never mattered to him.
Christine knelt alone with her thoughts for what seemed like hours, but must have been only minutes, before the crunch of boots on snow-dusted gravel signaled Raoul’s approach. She gathered herself back to her feet, knees creaking in protest, and stepped back a pace as he joined her in front of the grave. He made the sign of the cross and bowed his head as she had done, and they both stood silently while he mentally recited whatever prayer he had to offer to the spirit of his mentor and friend.
At length, Raoul placed a hand at her elbow and looked down at her. "All you all right?" he asked seriously.
Christine bit her lip and stared ahead as she considered her answer. "No," she finally replied, her voice sounding tiny and distraught to her ears.
Concern blanketed Raoul’s face, and he turned so he could take both of her hands in his. "Whatever is the matter?"
It might have seemed an absurd question, given the circumstances, but he had intuited that her distress was due to more than just the day’s reminder of her father’s absence. Christine had hoped to keep that from him, but perhaps she ought to have known better. He had always been able to read her so well.
"It’s--" she gulped. "The papers. And Monsieur Reyer. He’s been terrible to me about them. I wish he wouldn’t! He’s so unreasonable when it comes to my friendship with you, and I wish he would see--It would be nice to have his support now, rather than his condemnation. I had thought--oh, it doesn’t matter now what I thought, does it?" Her lower lip was trembling despite her best efforts to keep it still, and she felt wretched. She really hadn’t wanted to speak of her troubles with Monsieur Reyer to Raoul. It felt... dishonest, somehow, as much as that made no sense. But the words had just come tumbling out, heedless of her wants. "He is absolutely intractable."
"Oh, Christine." Raoul released one of her hands to tilt her face upwards, and she was so startled by the unexpectedly intimate gesture that her lip ceased its trembling. "You oughtn’t allow him to upset you so, him or the papers. One thing you must understand about the aristocracy is that we really have more leisure time than is healthy, and so we must constantly find new ways to amuse ourselves. The women adore idle gossip. I am truly sorry for the pain it has caused you... but I refuse to give up your friendship due to the bored speculation of a handful of over-stuffed matrons."
Christine was just staring at him. The juxtaposition of force and tenderness with which he’d just spoken had frozen her in place much more effectively than any amount of snow ever could have. She felt like she was seeing someone new in her old friend’s place, and it was disorienting, piled on top of the grief and hurt and loneliness she was already feeling.
"You’re very dear to me, Christine," he continued, and she thought if she took one step forward--if she could take one step forward--she might very well fall into the comfort and familiarity and love she could see in his eyes, and if that happened she might never want to climb back out. Her stomach was suddenly fluttering and vaulting and turns. "You always have been. I hope you know that."
"I do," she managed to say, and was faintly dismayed to hear the words come out in something of a croak. A croak--and her stomach took an extra vault at the unhappy association.
"Never forget it," he replied softly.
When he closed the distance between them and kissed her gently, Christine didn’t know whether to exult or burst into tears. So she did neither, and allowed Raoul de Chagny to kiss her, and tried not to feel like she’d just closed a door and turned the key.
Title: Teacher of Music, 14/20(?)
Fandom: The Phantom of the Opera
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I'm just playing with someone else's toys. Please don't hurt me.
Author's Note: Thanks muchly, as always, to [info]eclecticmuse for thebeta.
Summary: On the anniversary of her father's death, Christine and Raoul go to Perros.
Snow slashed past the train window in unending gray lines as Christine stared sightlessly out at the passing countryside. Tomorrow was the anniversary of her father’s death, so she was traveling to the little village of Perros, where he had been buried, to honor his memory. Raoul had expressed a desire to accompany her to pay his respects as well. He was now sitting on the seat across from her in their private compartment, leafing through a novel.
She had briefly considered declining his request. The fall-out and subsequent aftermath of her debut in the gossip columns of every Parisian newspaper in print had left Christine extremely reluctant to be seen in public with Raoul again. But in the end, she had relented. It would have been grossly unfair to Raoul to deny him a goodbye to a dear friend because she was feeling selfish. And while traveling with him would doubtlessly cause tongues to wag anew, it would perhaps have been more unseemly for her to travel alone. Thus she had allowed him to come with her, and he had quietly made their arrangements.
So far during their trip Christine had been quiet and withdrawn and Raoul, in his gently understanding way, had tacitly assumed she was somber in remembrance of her father. This was true--she was--but it was also not the entire truth. She was still quite disturbed by her last encounter with Monsieur Reyer. It had been some considerable time since their blowout in his office but Christine still felt as if her heart had been ripped out and stomped upon.
Il Muto had closed out its limited run with Christine still performing the lead role. It was unprecedented--it had been several seasons since anyone besides Carlotta had headlined a production at the Populaire, as Monsieur Lefevre had consistently chosen to stage operas that showcased his star to the fullest. But the diva, now believing Il Muto to be cursed, had patently refused to return to it. To the new managers’ relief, her loss did not result in the drastic drop in ticket sales they had despaired of. There were losses--that was inevitable. But they were minimal. As pleased as was possible for a man of his temperament, Firmin had even added a bonus to Christine’s salary for the month.
Thus Christine experienced her first true taste of life as a leading lady. She had her own dressing room, her own dressers, a raise in pay, and she took her bows every night to enthusiastic applause. Elaborate arrangements of flowers were delivered to her dressing room before and after every performance. She had determined to be realistic about the whole thing since she knew, as they had all believed regarding her appearance in the Hannibal gala, Carlotta would never permit it to happen again. She honestly believed most of the audience came to get a glimpse of the little chorus girl who had the Vicomte de Chagny so besotted. Even so, her friends encouraged her to enjoy the experience while it lasted.
"Carpe diem, and all that," Joseph had said.
But try as she might, Christine had found that her heart just wasn’t in the enjoyment.
Reyer was too near, his face closed off and blank like a cold stone wall. Every note she sang, she was reminded of the hours they’d spent together perfecting them; every flower from Raoul left on her dressing table before a performance brought back the choking, suffocating sensation she’d felt in her throat as Reyer had stabbed his finger down on the hated column in the paper. That was always followed by a heavy sense of betrayal mixed with guilt. Why should she feel betrayed by his behavior and accusations? What had there been to betray? There was nothing, on either side. But she had thought she and Reyer were at least friends. She had thought... a lot of things. None of which seemed to matter anymore.
She was so hurt and angry that she couldn’t even bear to look at him in the days immediately after; that was only compounded by the fact that he made not a single overture of peace towards her. A tiny little voice in the rational part of Christine’s mind tried to argue that this was how he behaved--he would never be the first to apologize, if he even apologized at all. But her emotional side remained staunchly resolute. She would not give him quarter until he showed remorse.
But he never did. He seemed as determined to ignore her as she was to ignore him.
It sat like a leaden weight in her chest, heavy where her heart had been. She’d taken the toe shoes off her vanity table at home and hidden them away in a drawer, because seeing them every morning and every night made it curiously hard to breathe.
Glancing down at the colored wool twined in her fingers, Christine sighed. Despite her efforts to banish all reminders of her teacher from her life, she hadn’t been able to part from Reyer’s birthday gift to her.
**
Raoul secured them rooms--separate, of course--at the little inn in Perros, and the innkeeper’s wife served them a simple meal of stew and bread in the common room. As night had already fallen, they decided to retire early and go to the graveyard in the morning.
She couldn’t be certain if it was only her imagination, but Christine felt sure the innkeeper’s wife had stared at her and Raoul while they ate. Surely she had paid them more attention than was necessary for the amount of politeness required for her position? Perhaps it was just her newly-acquired paranoia making her see things that weren’t there, read more into actions than she should.
She shouldn’t feel guilty. She had no reason, no logical reason, to feel that way. She wasn’t betraying anyone; she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was only bringing an old friend to pay his respects to her dead father. There was no way Reyer--anyone, she angrily corrected herself--could possibly view the situation in the wrong light. She shouldn’t have to feel so defensive. But she did. She felt nervous and lonely and deeply unhappy.
She sat for a long time at the window in her room, watching what little snowfall she could see in the glow from the inn’s lights until the innkeeper extinguished them.
In the morning, Christine was first down to the common room. The innkeeper’s wife served her and Raoul again, and afterward Raoul spoke to the innkeeper about acquiring a horse and trap. It wasn’t such a long walk to the church and graveyard, but the snow would make it a slow and uncomfortable one. The man agreed to lend them his own and once the horse was harnessed and brought around, Raoul solicitously handed Christine up into the seat and made sure the heavy wool blanket was wrapped securely around her legs before seating himself. With a flick of the reins, they were off.
They spoke very little during the ride. Raoul needed only a few reminders for directions, and Christine felt no inclination towards making small talk. As it was, they had never required it to comfortably pass the time; at present their mutual silence wasn’t content, but neither was it awkward. Raoul remarked once or twice on landmarks he recognized, but took Christine’s unresponsiveness in stride and didn’t press her to reply.
He pulled the trap up outside the little church adjacent to the graveyard and helped Christine down. The priest was venturing outside to greet the visitors to his doorstep, so Raoul told Christine to go ahead without him.
"I’ll catch up with you," he said kindly, and briefly laid a hand on her shoulder.
Christine recognized it as a ploy to give her time alone with her father’s memory, and was grateful for it. She gave him a tiny but genuine smile before turning away.
The iron gate opened easily despite the freezing conditions, and Christine left it open as she moved forward into the orderly rows of gray headstones. Charles Daae’s final resting place was on the fourth row, thirty paces to the left from the lane that cut through the center of the graveyard. It was a simple stone, unadorned save for his name and the years of his birth and death. The remains of the flowers Christine had brought on her last visit were still in place at the base, brittle and fragile with time and frost.
She had no flowers with her this time. Kneeling carefully in front of the grave, she made the sign of the cross and then bowed her head. Her heart, again, felt like a lead weight in her chest.
"Please lend me your strength, Papa," she whispered. "I just-I don’t know what to do now."
As with every time she had pleaded for guidance before, there was no answer forthcoming from the impassive stone in front of her.
Her father, Christine thought, might have liked Monsieur Reyer, despite all his shortcomings--and he had a plethora of them. Certainly he would have had something helpful to say about the predicament she’d found herself in with her erstwhile teacher. And he would have been very happy that she’d rekindled her friendship with Raoul. He’d known that their lifestyle hadn’t always been the best for making and keeping friends, and how her shyness had made that task even more daunting. That the one friendship she’d made had been with a boy well above her station had never mattered to him.
Christine knelt alone with her thoughts for what seemed like hours, but must have been only minutes, before the crunch of boots on snow-dusted gravel signaled Raoul’s approach. She gathered herself back to her feet, knees creaking in protest, and stepped back a pace as he joined her in front of the grave. He made the sign of the cross and bowed his head as she had done, and they both stood silently while he mentally recited whatever prayer he had to offer to the spirit of his mentor and friend.
At length, Raoul placed a hand at her elbow and looked down at her. "All you all right?" he asked seriously.
Christine bit her lip and stared ahead as she considered her answer. "No," she finally replied, her voice sounding tiny and distraught to her ears.
Concern blanketed Raoul’s face, and he turned so he could take both of her hands in his. "Whatever is the matter?"
It might have seemed an absurd question, given the circumstances, but he had intuited that her distress was due to more than just the day’s reminder of her father’s absence. Christine had hoped to keep that from him, but perhaps she ought to have known better. He had always been able to read her so well.
"It’s--" she gulped. "The papers. And Monsieur Reyer. He’s been terrible to me about them. I wish he wouldn’t! He’s so unreasonable when it comes to my friendship with you, and I wish he would see--It would be nice to have his support now, rather than his condemnation. I had thought--oh, it doesn’t matter now what I thought, does it?" Her lower lip was trembling despite her best efforts to keep it still, and she felt wretched. She really hadn’t wanted to speak of her troubles with Monsieur Reyer to Raoul. It felt... dishonest, somehow, as much as that made no sense. But the words had just come tumbling out, heedless of her wants. "He is absolutely intractable."
"Oh, Christine." Raoul released one of her hands to tilt her face upwards, and she was so startled by the unexpectedly intimate gesture that her lip ceased its trembling. "You oughtn’t allow him to upset you so, him or the papers. One thing you must understand about the aristocracy is that we really have more leisure time than is healthy, and so we must constantly find new ways to amuse ourselves. The women adore idle gossip. I am truly sorry for the pain it has caused you... but I refuse to give up your friendship due to the bored speculation of a handful of over-stuffed matrons."
Christine was just staring at him. The juxtaposition of force and tenderness with which he’d just spoken had frozen her in place much more effectively than any amount of snow ever could have. She felt like she was seeing someone new in her old friend’s place, and it was disorienting, piled on top of the grief and hurt and loneliness she was already feeling.
"You’re very dear to me, Christine," he continued, and she thought if she took one step forward--if she could take one step forward--she might very well fall into the comfort and familiarity and love she could see in his eyes, and if that happened she might never want to climb back out. Her stomach was suddenly fluttering and vaulting and turns. "You always have been. I hope you know that."
"I do," she managed to say, and was faintly dismayed to hear the words come out in something of a croak. A croak--and her stomach took an extra vault at the unhappy association.
"Never forget it," he replied softly.
When he closed the distance between them and kissed her gently, Christine didn’t know whether to exult or burst into tears. So she did neither, and allowed Raoul de Chagny to kiss her, and tried not to feel like she’d just closed a door and turned the key.