#firstsorrow

it is a shock when her small, warm hands slip into his, gripping them with surprising strength. Erik almost pulls his own away at her complaint, but Christine makes no move to release them, despite her protest. a small, almost chagrined smile twists the corner of his already twisted lips as his hands squeeze hers in return.

“ apologies, my dear. they've always been like that. ” his hands tremble in hers, overwhelmed by the contact. “ it's why I usually wear gloves, you see. ”

"Mademoiselle Daae?" The fine chain of silver felt cool against his skin as curious eyes settled on the retreating form of the dancer. Paris had been lovely thus far for a new settlement to start a life and enjoy the pension he received on behalf of his service to Russia under Tsar Alexander II. He didn't have vices and stayed far from the red district and their tenements much to the chagrin of his comrades who would visit and ask after the area. Libraries, cafes and the opera was where he spent his time though the latter had been a more recent development. He found himself forgetting much of the world watching the performances though he never cared much for the music in particular.

But there was a girl...

A brief moment in passing during the daylight hours as he sought to secure a box. She had floated through the foyer like a feather; light, airy and soft. It didn't take much questioning to discover her name and recall the twist of her features and form in pirouettes. For a moment he had scoffed at himself. He was an accomplished general in the Imperial Army- he shouldn't be turned by a ballet girl and yet... polished boots quickly strode across the marble flooring before his stiff frame swept into a slight bend to snatch up the necklace. Simple, silver and bearing a cross. Fingers briefly rubbed the chain over tips before he righted himself and called out to her taking a step closer, but stopping at the base of the stairs.

@firstsorrow PENNED: “   i  love  it  when  you  call  me  that .   ”

deep breath. shaky exhale. first one, then another. staring into those trusting eyes: wide, warm, full of . . . something he doesn't dare to name. his bones feel hollow, muscles so taut he fears he may crumble into dust. there is an ingrained fear within him, so deep-set he cannot decipher where it lies. it lives in the base of his skull, it paralyses him, it takes all the strength he possesses to twitch his fingers toward his face. it's a battle against every instinct, every hard-won lesson, an entire lifetime that has served as nothing but a dire warning against this very action he's attempting to commit.

but he looks upon her — Christine — looks into the depth of her soul and knows deep down that there is nothing he would not do if she asked it of him. he would KILL, LIVE, or DIE at her command. surely he can do this, whatever the outcome may be. the rejection, if it comes, could kill him. but he cannot think of a better end.

( in some corner of his mind he cannot help but laugh at himself ; a grown man approaching his middle age who has lived his whole life according to his own design, becoming little more than a dog begging to be kicked in the presence of this young diva. but then, love has never been something that made much sense to this phantom . . . )