#door 10

By @smokeyloki

Wintertime Walks and Non-Existent Christmas Traditions

They went window-shopping together while snow began to fall in its silent way. Of all the weather conditions, Erik thought snow the most like a predator. How silently it came, creeping on unsuspecting people and towns; before you knew it, snow had piled into massive dunes on either side of you, and every bit of exposed clothing and skin was dusted with white powder.

He thought snow beautiful, for that reason, and because he saw it so rarely. The fake snow used in La Boheme– a wild success this time of year and slotted to play for the next few weeks as cold weather and the holidays encroached upon the real world – didn’t hold a candle flame to the real thing. When enough snow layered the roads and cobbled walkways, one’s footsteps would crunchdeliciously. It made nighttime excursions a little less secret, but Erik could excuse this drawback.

Gerard would walk with him sometimes, as they did this afternoon. He had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his oversized coat, and usually had a part of his face hidden behind a thick, green scarf. Erik owned a matching scarf, but he couldn’t remember if he or Gerard had it, first. When he was little, it took many of Erik’s squat, trotting strides to keep up with his father’s – er, Uncle’s– but now Gerard was older, and walked slower, because he said he had learned to stop and see the world instead of letting it pass him by.

Erik would roll his eyes.

“That’s a nice way of saying ‘my back pains are afflicting me in earnest nowadays’,” he would say, or some other comment of a similar nature. Gerard would hear him perfectly well, despite the scarf which muffled his words. He’d make a return remark, just as sharp, and they would continue in such a fashion, exchanging light verbal blows while bits of steam seeped through the edges of their scarves and mingled in the crisp, cold air.

Neither of them mentioned Christmas dinner.

Gerard lingered in the doorway of a winery, and Erik waited for him, curiously watching ladies across the street trundle out of the butcher’s shop, weighed down by boxes of mystery meats packaged like Christmas gifts. Turkey, or ham, or rump roast, maybe, to take back to their families. Neither addressed the dinner, but it would happen. The meat would be purchased, wine, breads, cheeses, assorted fruits and desserts provided. They ate the meal at Gerard’s house, and he would have everything set up nicely: dishes polished, a clean tablecloth laid out, an appropriately-festive setting arranged in-between the serving platters. They used to eat those kinds of meals at the opera house itself, and once or twice in the underground, but Gerard had argued that, since Erik was older, he could come as a visitor without any of the concerns or rumors that would have spread had Gerard taken a strange child to his home one cold evening. It made sense, though Erik strongly suspected Gerard disliked his underground palace for more reasons than ‘it was hard to transport food’ or ‘it got so drafty down there this time of year’.

Not that either of them was going to start that conversation.

Gerard said something, pointing to a display in a window, and Erik made some comment about a lady’s rather low-cut dress, breaking the silence. While Gerard perused gloves and cravats – he never wore them, himself – Erik stepped into a shop to examine the cases of cigars, though he didn’t smoke. He found it a deplorable habit, and was utterly convinced, no matter what anyone else said, that it hindered one’s ability to sing. Still, a case of costly cigars would find its way onto Gerard’s desk before Christmas morning. Erik would find, in some tucked-away corner of the opera house, a pair of spotless white gloves, or a crisp, new cravat. Some years, he would “stumble upon” a prop he had wanted for some months, or paints to decorate one of his many masks.

The silence itself seemed a part of the events. Some unspoken sacred seal that bound them both to a kind of deniability about their own affections for each other. And yet, and yet. Each year they went out, as snow fell, to silently prepare for a long-standing tradition neither wanted to address, nor break.

It finally reached a point during their when the snow began to fall thickly, or else Erik would notice how Gerard’s lips began to turn a pale bluish around the edge, or how his hands shook when he pulled them out of his huge pockets.

They turned around, then, and make their slow way back, exchanging soft words, or sometimes saying absolutely nothing at all, until they had reached the Opera Garnier one more. Or sometimes, sometimes, Gerard turned his feet toward his own home, and Erik let him lead them there. They went inside, Gerard going first and stamping snow off his boots, Erik following and closing the door against the cold. Gerard sat himself in a chair by a fire and Erik drifted to the pianoforte.

“You shouldn’t play when your hands are cold,” his father said. His gaze roved to look at Erik and Erik shook his head.

“Playing makes them warm,” he retorted. He would not say that looking at his father’s eyes was like looking into a mirror.

He played, and sometimes Gerard listened, and more often than not, he fell asleep. Once he had drifted, Erik paused, then rose gracefully, taking his gloves from where he had set them on the pianoforte. A final look at his father served as a farewell before he stepped into the chill of late afternoon.

By @shayminsebastianbraginsky

By @pianomanblaine

December had never been Christine’s favourite month. She by far preferred April, with the twittering birds and the flowers starting to bloom, the sun finally showing its face again after another cold and dreary winter. Erik, on the other hand, had his own reasons for enjoying the winter months. Winter meant that the dark had already set in by late afternoon, allowing him to venture outside earlier without having to worry about his mask drawing too much attention. On top of that, this year’s winter was particularly harsh and cold, keeping most people inside their houses and leaving the streets of Paris as good as empty.

Christine didn’t really feel inclined to go out tonight either, but as Erik had been looking forward to taking his wife on a nice evening stroll for quite some time, she had agreed to leave the relative warmth of their underground home for a while. And so they made their way up, Christine wrapped in her warmest cloak, Erik’s arm draped firmly around her for extra warmth. However, when they finally emerged on the Rue Scribe, Erik’s excitement seemed to vanish as soon as he took in their surroundings. The street was completely deserted, not a single person in sight, which was easily explained by the thick blanket of snow covering the cobblestones.  

‘Oh no. No no no no no,’ Erik groaned, turning around as if he suddenly couldn’t wait to return home.

‘Erik, what’s wrong?’ Christine asked. She gently pulled him back towards her by the sleeve of his coat. ‘It’s only a bit of snow. That doesn’t mean we have to go back immediately.’

‘It does, if I have anything to say about it,’ he grumbled, glaring at the snow as if it had somehow offended him. ‘Snow is slippery, and it makes this awful crunching sound when you step on it, and it slows you down to a snail-like pace, which is incredibly annoying if you actually want to get anything done.’

As Erik ranted on, Christine let go of his arm and carefully took a few steps onto the snow-covered street, watching the small foggy cloud that formed when she breathed out in the cold evening air. She was immediately reminded of the winters she had spent with her papa in Sweden when she was a child. When it snowed there, he used to take her out to go sledding and she would scream with delight as they sped down the hill, her papa chuckling in her ear as he held her close to him.

‘Are you quite finished complaining now?’ she asked Erik. ‘Because I’m actually enjoying myself and I would like to stay out here a little longer.’

‘But Christine, I truly can’t stand snow,’ he replied with a pout on his face that Christine found rather adorable, although he would most likely throw a fit if she ever called him adorable out loud.

When Erik turned around, presumably to head back the way they came, hoping she would give in and follow him, Christine bent down and scooped up a small heap of snow, pressing it into a ball. ‘We’ll see if I can’t change your mind about that,’ she mumbled to herself and threw the ball in Erik’s direction, aiming for his back but instead hitting him in the back of the head.

Erik froze and remained completely still for what felt like an eternity, and Christine began to panic. Maybe this was a mistake. She had only wanted to make him laugh, to help him see that snow could be fun too, but perhaps he couldn’t see the humour of it at all. Just as she was about to apologize, hoping she hadn’t angered him too much, he turned back towards her with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

‘I’m afraid you’ll regret that, my dear,’ he said and before she even had time to react he was already aiming his own snowball at her, which narrowly missed her shoulder. Christine shrieked in surprise and ran further up the road, trying to create more distance between them before gathering up more snow. They chased each other up and down the empty street, both of them squealing with laughter as they tossed snow at each other. Christine had to admit that her husband seemed to hit his target more often than she did, but she wasn’t really surprised that the Opera Ghost turned out to be rather competitive even at something as simple as a snowball fight.

She was delighted to see how much he was enjoying himself. It seemed she had succeeded in her mission. For a moment she just stood there, taking in the child-like grin on his face. How long had it been, she wondered, since he had last been this joyful and carefree? Christine tried to imagine a younger Erik, running around with other children his age, all of them covered in snow, their cheeks glowing red both from excitement and the cold. The image was a very pleasant one, until she remembered that Erik had never had such a happy childhood.

She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice the snowball flying in her direction until it hit her square in the cheek.

‘Oh God, Christine, are you all right?’ Erik cried out, rushing towards her immediately, concern etched across the visible side of his face. ‘I’m so sorry, my love. Did I hurt you? Please tell me you’re not hurt.’ He ghosted his hands over her face anxiously, checking for injuries, but Christine was more than fine and she couldn’t help the peal of laughter that burst out of her. Erik looked quite affronted.

‘I’m sorry, darling, I’m not laughing at you,’ she assured him, turning her head slightly to kiss the hand that was cupping her cheek in apology. ‘It’s just… That was so much fun!’

A slow smile crept across his face. ‘Maybe snow isn’t so bad after all,’ he agreed.

They didn’t go out again in the following weeks, but Christine couldn’t stop thinking about that evening, remembering with fondness how much they had both enjoyed themselves and desperately hoping they would repeat the experience soon. She kept dropping hints to Erik, bringing up the topic of their little outing in the snow whenever she saw the opportunity, but Erik didn’t appear to pay much attention to it. In fact, he hardly seemed to be listening to her at all nowadays.

A few days after their snowball fight he had started acting very strange. He spent more and more time in his study, the door locked firmly behind him. He was often joined there by the Daroga, whose visits were suddenly much more numerous than they had been in the past. They would spend several hours in there doing God knows what, and every time Christine saw them emerge, Nadir would leave with nothing but a ‘good evening’ and a polite nod in her direction, and Erik would staunchly refuse to tell her what they had been discussing. In the end she stopped asking because she knew she would not receive a satisfactory answer anytime soon, and he stopped talking to her altogether.

One afternoon, when she had finally had enough of his continued silence and simply had to know what was going on, she decided to confront him. She found him standing at the front door, her cloak draped over his arm, and before she could even open her mouth to demand an explanation for his behaviour, he handed her the cloak and told her to dress warmly and follow him outside. Her first thought was to ask him why, but as asking questions had gotten her nowhere in the past, she settled for letting out a frustrated growl and doing as she was told.

A carriage was waiting for them on the Rue Scribe, their travelling trunk already loaded onto it. How was that possible? She hadn’t even seen him packing! Erik gestured for her to get in, and for a moment she considered throwing a tantrum, stomping her foot on the snow-covered stones and simply refusing to go anywhere until he told her what the meaning of all of this was. However, as stubborn as she could be, she knew Erik was just as tenacious and would not give in until she did what he told her to do. She climbed inside the carriage, but not before glaring at her husband with an expression that clearly said ‘if looks could kill, you would be dead right now’.

‘Erik, I am getting really tired of this,’ she sighed when he pulled the door closed behind him. ‘Tell me where we are going.’ She didn’t want to admit it, but his refusal to give her any information about his plans truly unnerved her.

‘Patience, my dear. You’ll see when we get there.’ The smirk on his face made it abundantly clear that he was enjoying this far too much for her liking.

They left the city behind, and as Christine hadn’t travelled outside of Paris much over the past few years, she lost all sense of where she was pretty quickly. The next few hours were spent in complete silence and she grew more and more anxious. What in heaven’s name was going on with Erik? He had never treated her like this, never ignored her as if her wishes and feelings were completely irrelevant. When she thought back to the very first time he had brought her to his lair underneath the opera, she remembered how even back then he had made her comfort his absolute priority. That had not changed after they were married. Until now. This was so unlike him and not having the slightest idea of what was causing this sudden change in behaviour made her sick with worry.

It was growing dark outside and the carriage was now driving through a forest, apparently leaving civilisation completely behind. By now, Christine was truly frightened and couldn’t stop the tears she had felt pricking her eyes for the past hour from spilling over any longer. When Erik heard her sniffling, he looked at her with panic in his eyes.

‘Darling, whatever is the matter?’ he asked, his hands reaching out to wipe away her tears, but she batted them away.

‘What’s the matter?’ she cried, not caring if she sounded hysterical. ‘It’s dark, we’re in the middle of the woods, you won’t tell me where we are going, and you have refused to talk to me for days! I’m your wife, Erik. I have the right to know what is going on, and I need you to tell me right now because you’re scaring me.’ Her soft sniffling had turned into full body-wracking sobs by now and this time she did not slap his hands when he pulled her towards him to comfort her.

‘Oh my dear, I am so sorry,’ he whispered soothingly as he let her cry on his shoulder. He started rubbing gentle circles on her back with one hand, something he often did when he was trying to calm her down, while he buried the other hand in her hair, which was more likely meant to calm himself down. Seeing her in distress always made him nervous, even more so when he knew that he was the one who caused it. ‘I never meant to frighten you, truly,’ he swore. ‘I simply wished to surprise you.’

‘Surprise me?’ She pulled away a little, wiping her cheeks dry, and looked at him incredulously. ‘By forcing me to come away with you and not telling me where we’re going or what’s going to happen next?’ How could he possibly think that was an appropriate way of surprising her?

He flinched at her words, and she realized he must be flashing back to the last time he had taken her away like that, after the disastrous performance of Don Juan Triumphant.

‘When you say it like that, it does sound like an idiotic idea,’ he admitted, rubbing his neck in a gesture of uneasiness. ‘You’re right of course, I should have talked to you. I am really sorry, my love, please forgive me.’ He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, placing a feather-light kiss on her knuckles, and glanced at her with a pleading look on his face. He sounded genuinely remorseful and Christine allowed herself to relax a little, although she wasn’t inclined to forgive him for what he had put her through just yet.

‘I still don’t understand. What exactly were you trying to surprise me with?’

The moment the question had left her lips, the carriage came to a halt.

‘Allow me to show you,’ he replied, throwing open the door and extending his hand to her in invitation. She only hesitated for a second before she took it and followed him out of the carriage. The snow underneath her feet made that crunching sound Erik had claimed to hate so much the last time they were outside. She took a deep breath, relishing the fresh night air entering her lungs.

Until now she had believed they were deep in the forest, surrounded by nothing but trees, but to her utter surprise she now found herself standing in front of a beautiful little cottage. There was smoke rising from the chimney, so the house must be inhabited. She had to admit she was curious to learn who was living here, so far removed from everything and everyone, no other houses to be seen for miles, but more than anything she was extremely confused.

‘Erik, what are we doing here? Whose house is this?’

He grinned somewhat sheepishly at her as he replied. ‘Mine.’

‘Now you’ve truly lost me,’ Christine said, gaping at him in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean, it’s yours? And if it’s yours, then who is living here? And if someone else is living here, then why are we here?’

Erik squeezed her hand to stop her from spewing out any more questions. ‘If you can stop talking for a minute, I’ll explain,’ he chuckled. ‘I acquired the house only a few weeks ago. Before that, it had been empty for a long time. I had always meant it as a surprise for you, I was just waiting for the right occasion to show it to you.’

Christine felt tears threatening to fall again, but this time, they were not tears of sadness or fear. Erik had wanted to surprise her, and so he had bought her a house? He really didn’t do anything halfway, did he?

‘I had the Daroga help me to move in some furniture. He has been here earlier, stocking the kitchen with food and other supplies for our stay, lighting the fire, and so on,’ he explained, gesturing towards the smoking chimney. ‘I asked him to leave shortly before we arrived.’ So that is what all the late night conversations with Nadir had been about then. She would have to thank the man in person next time she saw him.

‘You seemed to enjoy our last outing in the snow so much,’ he continued when Christine remained silent. ‘It made me want to take you out more often, but I wanted to make certain we wouldn’t be bothered by any other people around, so this seemed like the ideal solution.’

Christine was at a loss for words. How was it possible that this man who had grown up without ever knowing any kindness, who had been shown so much hate and contempt in his life, could still be so sweet and thoughtful? Admittedly, he could have gone about it all in a different way, but since it was very unlikely he had any experience with being surprised like this himself, she supposed she could forgive him his error of judgment.

‘Please say something, love,’ Erik begged. ‘Do you not like it? We can return to Paris immediately if you wish, but maybe I could show you inside fi-‘

Christine’s mouth was on his before he could finish his sentence, her arms wrapped firmly around his neck. ‘It’s perfect, thank you,’ she whispered against his lips, ‘and I would love to see the inside.’

‘Your wish is my command,’ he murmured as he swept his giggling wife up in his arms and carried her across the threshold.

They stayed at the cottage in the woods for a couple of weeks, and it felt like absolute bliss to Christine. She got to spend more time outside over the course of the first few days than she had in the past couple of months and she savoured every second of it. Although Erik had never forbidden her from going outside, he was not particularly fond of going out during daylight hours himself, and she knew it made him uncomfortable when she left the house without him – she suspected a small part of him still believed that if she left, she would never return – so she had limited her excursions outside to a minimum. But now that she had the chance, she could not get enough of the fresh, crisp air of the forest.

On one of their walks exploring the grounds surrounding the house, they stumbled upon a small lake. Since it had been freezing continually for a while now, the lake was completely frozen over and Christine jumped up and down in excitement remembering the ice skates she had noticed among the supplies that Nadir had brought for them. After testing if the ice was solid and strong enough to hold them, Erik reluctantly agreed to fetch the skates.

Erik had never ice skated before, but Christine had enough experience to guide him through his first steps onto the ice. Once he had managed to make his way onto the ice without falling over, she took his hand and slowly started skating around the edge of the lake. He had a look of utmost concentration on his face and held out his free arm to keep his balance, but managed to follow her without incident.

‘See, this is fun, isn’t it?’ Christine said after a few laps around the lake, and although his answering smile was still somewhat hesitant, he seemed to be growing more and more sure-footed. After another lap he felt confident enough to try it on his own. Christine let go of his hand and watched as he went off, his smile growing with every step, obviously satisfied at having mastered another skill. He must have gained a bit too much confidence, because the moment she took her eyes off him, she heard him cursing and looked back just in time to see him stumble and fall, landing flat on his bottom.

She sucked in a breath and grimaced in sympathy. She had fallen over enough times herself in the past to know how much that could hurt. He didn’t seem to be injured too badly though, as he struggled back on his feet within seconds, but the smile had been wiped off of his face. Christine hurried over to make sure he was okay, but she couldn’t convince him to stay on the ice any longer. He sulked all the way back to the cottage, muttering that he had hurt his wrist in the fall, but his mood lightened significantly when she promised to kiss it better.

Erik did not always join her outside. Sometimes the need to compose would simply grow too strong and he would withdraw to the piano in the music room (of course the cottage had a music room, he would probably have refused to stay in the house if it didn’t).  On these occasions, Christine set out on her own, always promising not to stray too far away from the house, and by the time she returned, Erik often had a new piece of music to play for her.

Their evenings however were invariably spent together. Sometimes they would sing. ‘Being away from home should never be an excuse to neglect your voice, Christine, you need to keep it in shape,’ Erik never failed to remind her. Other times she would listen to Erik reading aloud from one of her favourite novels, letting his rich, seductive voice wash over her and lull her to sleep. But her favourite evenings were those they would just spend by the fire in companionable silence, Christine lying down on the couch with her head resting in her husband’s lap, his long fingers combing through her hair, which she loved so much that if she were a cat, she was sure she would be purring.  

Sooner than she would have liked, the last day of their little winter holiday arrived. Erik had business at the Opera to attend to, but he promised her they would return before long. Christine was determined to make the most of their final moments here, and as they had woken up to find the earth covered in a fresh layer of snow, they decided to go out one last time and make a snowman together. The morning sped by, and as Christine stepped back to take in the final result, she burst out laughing when she noticed the uncanny resemblance their creation bore to Monsieur Firmin, one of the two fools who ran the Opera, as Erik described them. Now she understood why he had insisted on finding some twigs to give the snowman a moustache.

That night they decided to retire early, as the carriage would be there to pick them up early the next morning. Christine was changing into her nightgown while Erik added another log to the fire.  She knew he did not do that for his own benefit, as he didn’t mind the cold much, but was thinking of her comfort, for which she was extremely grateful. It had been freezing outside and her fingers and toes had still not warmed up properly. She smiled gratefully at him, glad that he had already taken off his mask for the night so she could see his face as he gazed back at her lovingly. If his love for her could warm her physically, she would never be cold again.

Alas, that was wishful thinking. She shivered as she finished undressing and hurried to join Erik in bed, almost stumbling over her own feet in her haste to get under the covers. She sighed happily as she settled into his arms, rubbing her ice cold feet against his, causing him to yelp in indignation.

‘My love, even to my eternally cold skin, your little feet feel like icicles,’ he complained.

‘I know, I’m sorry darling,’ she replied, ‘but I simply haven’t managed to get warm all evening. My hands are still cold too.’ She placed her hands on his cheeks to prove her point.

He was prepared this time and flinched only slightly at her icy touch. He let her keep her hands there for a few seconds more before covering them with his own and bringing them to his mouth. ‘Allow me to warm them, then,’ he murmured, the sound of his voice sending shivers down her spine that had nothing at all to do with the temperature in the room. He began peppering her hands with kisses, starting at the tips of her fingers and making his way down over her palm to her wrist. He pressed a more lingering kiss there, caressing her skin with his lips, looking up at her with an expression that spoke both of adoration and desire.

Christine felt her mouth turn dry and pressed her arm a little closer to his mouth, unable to resist the sensation of his lips on her skin. She licked her lips unconsciously and noticed how his eyes immediately flickered to her mouth to follow the movement of her tongue.

‘You know what else feels cold?’ she whispered.

‘Do tell,’ he breathed against her skin, smirking at her, fully aware of the effect his touch had on her.

‘My lips. My lips are cold.’