#phiclet

There was a quiet, threatening presence hovering in the sky above Metropolis.

But it wasn’t threatening to the citizens.

It wasn’t threatening to Clark, either.

It was a teenager, bulky but still on the slim side, floating in front of an oncoming storm. The threat was in the way he held himself, tense and stiff. His eyes were glowing a faint red, his brows furrowed, arms crossed and fingers tearing into his hoodie sleeves.

A kid that looked more familiar than Clark would like.

A kid that was possibly a Super.

A kid that was on the verge of snapping.

challenging myself to write phiclets based on a single randomly generated word: pt 1 / ?

word: arrange

tags: wad era, hurt/comfort

lil disclaimer - I write for vibes, not facts. if anything within this fic is factually inaccurate, please treat it as "canon" divergence and simply enjoy the ride ✌🏼🫶🏼

also on ao3 for your reading pleasure

-

After two joint tours with Phil, Dan knows how to troubleshoot on the road. Venue cancellation? He's spending the night adjusting his stage blocking to the new venue dimensions based on grainy Google Images. Stomach issues on the bus? No problem, there's a little pharmacy in the back pocket of his duffel waiting to be abused. Problems with ticketing agencies? If there's one thing two tours has taught him, it's that being a Karen is both a learned skill and sometimes absolutely necessary to avoid a total event collapse two hours before a show.

All this to say, he's become adaptable through his significant experience over the years. He can adjust.

But there's one thing he simply would not have been able to suffer going wrong on the We're All Doomed tour.

Missing Phil's birthday.

It wasn’t supposed to be so angsty, but here we are I guess XD

"It's not the same kind of love I have for you," she'd promised, her voice more confident than she truly felt. "It's not the same at all!"

She'd kissed him, though perhaps to reassure herself more than him.

It hadn't worked.

Christine stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep, and not for the first time. Phillippe snored quietly beside her, as he did every night, completely deaf to the music that seemed to fill the room whenever she closed her eyes. The music always seemed to wait for him to fall asleep, before it began its lonely serenade.

It didn't matter how often she reminded herself the soft sounds of a flute were just in her head, the products of a grieving mind, or how often she listened to Phillippe's or Gerard's gentle reassurances that her Maestro was sleeping quietly five stories below the Opera House, she simply couldn't hear anything else but that terrible music, music so soft and sweet it plunged daggers into her heart over and over until she wept silent tears into her pillow.

Gerard was usually more patient with her when she told him of the dreadful flute of the night. He sat with her as she described the careful notes and calm, gentlemanly rhythm that only her Maestro could create. Sometimes, his tears would join hers and they would weep together for the lost genius, teacher, friend, son. Phillippe tried, he truly did, but he would often times grow weary of her mourning and ask her desperately, usually on his knees before her, to try and cheer up, to perhaps distract herself from the memories of the man who looked at her with all the admiration she'd ever seen a human being possess.

It was such suggestions of distractions that saw Phillippe leading her to a spare room one day, pressing her on from behind with his hands over her eyes. That was how she came to sit daily before an easel with a brush, dipped in a mix of coppery auburn, poised over the canvas.

She always painted the deep blue eyes first, always added the white flicks of light through them, and therefore added life. His eyes kept her company as she painted, for he was all she painted now; the vase of marigolds set on the table before her had long since wilted away into thin stalks over the past three months.

A tear rolled down her cheek.

She closed her eyes and pushed herself up from the mattress, as slowly and quietly as she could, as not to wake Phillippe. Amid the darkness, she found her dressing gown and flat shoes and tiptoed to the door.

Phillippe stirred as she crept out and shut it behind her, but she was already gone, and he slipped back into the thick, cloudy confines of sleep.

Christine knew her way to her little painting room even through the pitch of night by now, as though she'd worn the carpet down and followed the same trail every night. It wasn't too far from the bedroom, just two corridors away and the third room down. She pushed the door open and within minutes the little, converted salon was awash with candlelight.

She set herself before the easel and eased the cover from the canvas. Her breath caught; she'd never get used to meeting those impossibly intelligent, shimmering eyes. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. It was no use denying that she missed him, that his death had shattered something so deep within her that it had taken a month or two for her grief to show upon her face. No use denying she often thought of nothing but his voice or music or dreamt of him when she, at last, managed to sleep.

Or that she loved him.

Even Phillippe knew that.

A deep breath to calm her racing heart. Christine found her brush and paints in the little artist's box Gerard had presented her with.

"A friend's," he'd explained when she unwrapped it that sad, terrible Christmas. But the look in his eyes when they caught hers gave it all away.

She treasured that artist's box now. It never, ever left her salon, and woe to any servant who dared enter the dusty confines without her permission.

She hummed as she dabbed some copper into his fluffy hair, hoping the melody would raise her spirits somewhat.

She didn't have the heart to paint his mask. It was always the last addition to the paintings, a begrudging feature she felt she simply had to add out of respect; her Maestro would utterly detest any portrait where he was unmasked. She could never give him an unmarred face, for that simply wasn't him. And yet, she could not bear to detail his true visage, and therefore set in stone his accursed ugliness. And so, the mask must be added, she'd decided unhappily.

Bit by bit, she brought her lost Maestro back to life on the canvas, first by finishing his eyes and hair, then adding the detestable outline of his mask, followed by his ever-pristine clothes, for she would never see him in any less than expensive tailcoats and finely sewn trousers, with newly-polished boots. It was just his noble head and shoulders on the canvas tonight, with perhaps the top of his pocket square peeping from his coat.

"You have nothing to be concerned about," she could imagine him saying, his voice close and soft by her ear. Despite her sorrow, a smile tugged at the corners of her lips and she felt her cheeks go a warm, rosy red. "I have faith; I promise you you're going to be fine."

This had not been the sort of distraction Phillippe meant when he'd funded all the paints and canvases, but what did it matter? Her heart had slowed to a steady pace and her tears had dried on her cheeks.

By now, her Maestro smiled proudly back at her from the confines of his fabricy realm, contained forever in his little prison, unageing, unchanging, undying, and eternally hers.

It was dawn by the time she finished. Servants had long since begun their daily bustling about outside, but still, she sat before the easel, adding carefully placed, colourful marks to the mask and hair. The sun peered over the horizon and almost through window and slowly lit the canvas from top to bottom with its gentle, golden caress. Christine bit her lip. Moving her hand away, the light fell upon her Maestro's eyes. It was as though, for a split second, it had never gone out in the first place.

Someone passed in the corridor, humming, and she jumped. Another voice that sounded too much like her Maestro's, only noticeable for its untrained melody.

A wash of fatigue reminded her that she hadn't slept one wink. She slouched on her stool, washing the brush yet again and setting it aside to dry, free of its colourful stains.

Her eyes almost flitted back to the canvas as she stood to cover it once more and put it away. But no. However long she spent painting, she could never look at the final product, and she feared she would die of guilt if she did. Any finished piece would be covered and put away in the cupboard, one on top of the other in a neat pile, never to be regarded again.

Perhaps if she looked closely, she would notice that the pile never grew.

A yawn. She made sure to lock the door firmly behind her.

Phillippe had already risen when she returned to bed and flopped into the silky sheets in the most unladylike way she could manage. For that brief, sweet moment, she forgot her husband, forgot her duties and forgot her Maestro. Instead, she gazed through heavy-lidded eyes at a pair of stars that the morning light had not yet faded, for the bedroom faced west and the sun had not yet illuminated the shaded tree just yet, and would not for another few minutes.

Her eyes closed, and, at long last, her breaths shallowed.

But what Christine did not realise, was that the stars that peered through the branches of the old oak outside her window, the ones she always watched rise in the night sky as a means to find sleep, could themselves blink. She fell asleep that morning to the same thing that kept her up throughout the night: the soft, lonely sound of a flute.

“Phil?”

He almost didn’t hear his name as lost as he was in the novel he was reading. Looking up and marking his page with the flap of the hardcover book in a way that always annoyed his roommate, Phil smiled. “Hey.”

Dan was standing in the doorway of the moon room with Phil’s duvet wrapped around his shoulders. He had that sad look in his eyes that always made Phil want to rage against the world. The younger man didn’t have to say much--his eyes communicated clearly that it was One of Those Days. Phil set his book down and stood, stretching.

“How did your filming go?” he asked gently, walking over and brushing a hand casually through Dan’s perfectly styled curly hair. He loved that his dear friend now chose to embrace his precious curls. Before the older man had treasured their warm days of tangled limbs and slow kisses in which Dan never cared to straighten his natural hair. Phil had thousands of photos of those moments between all his old phones and computer hard drives.

“It went well,” his husband’s voice was soft, nearly too quiet to hear. He smiled as Dan let himself lean forward, his forehead slumping against Phil’s shoulder as the other man wrapped his arms tenderly around Dan’s body. “I can’t believe I’ve just told the world I’m depressed.” He scoffed, a bitter sound, "Not that they didn't guess."

“I’m proud of you,” Phil murmured against Dan’s ear before placing a light kiss to the side of his face. “What do you say we get some tea and watch something?”

Dan turned his face to nuzzle against Phil’s neck, making his husband smile at the feeling of him inhaling. “Can we cuddle while we do that?”

A chuckle rumbled in Phil’s chest, and judging by the way Dan seemed to relax against him, it soothed the other man. “Of course. Climb in the bed and I’ll grab us some tea.” He let Dan pull away first, watching the younger man shuffle over the bed after sniffing discontentedly.

Making the tea didn’t take long--he turned the kettle on while he dug in the cabinet to find some soothing, loose-leaf camomile. After seeping it for a couple minutes he carried two mugs back to the bedroom, walking softly and slowly as not to spill the cups in some sort of typical Phil clumsiness fit. Due to this, Dan did not hear his return, and thus Phil was able to pause in the doorway and peek at his husband. Dan was curled upright on the bed, the bright coloured duvet still wrapped around him. He had fetched the pastel, light-up unicorn from a container under the bed where they stored a lot of their stuffed animals that they weren’t displaying. His head was rested on its glowing body as he browsed his phone with heavy eyes. It was such a cute site that Phil mourned having left his phone by the bed rendering him incapable of snapping a shot. Unable to immortalize Daniel’s precious state he let out a sigh, entering the room and causing Dan to look up at him with a small smile. He passed a cup to Dan and the younger man replaced his phone with the mug, closing his eyes at the warmth while Phil settled himself on the bed, working his way under the duvet while dragging his laptop over to them.

“What should we watch?” He spoke softly as not to disturb the calm air around them.

“Doublemeat Palace.” Dan sipped his tea, scooting closer to Phil who laughed again before cuing up the Buffy episode.

“Nice choice.”

Happy Birthday, @mazandaroga . For your special day and the upcoming next year all the best, Marco!

In honor of your birthday, I wrote this little piece for you. I hope you like it.

What he has in mind is risky, maybe even dangerous. Erik is incalculable and Nadir knows that. Yet he can’t help that his heart is beating unnaturally fast inside his chest, not because of fear, but because of excitement. Oh, it has been a very long time since he has felt like this, like a trembling teenage boy who tries to get close to his crush. The risk of confessing his love to somebody back then would have basically been rejection, that the other one wouldn’t feel the same for him in return. But today is different. He is certain … at least as certain as someone can be when it comes to Erik, that the great magician sees more in him than an ordinary friend. His behaviour when Nadir is around speaks volumes. Nonetheless he can’t estimate how Erik will react when he tries to get close to him in that way, revealing that he feels the same. Nadir can’t say how long he has fought with himself to reach this point where he now stands, ready to let Erik know, sure that he would never dare to make the first step.

Nadir has watched Erik for several days now, maybe weeks. So he has found out that almost every night Erik comes to the secluded bay, which is sheltered from view by rocks, to bathe. He wonders if Erik has ever been aware of the times he had followed him and simply hadn’t told. It is something Nadir isn’t able to estimate. He likes to think, that Erik had always noticed when he had watched him, not saying anything, because he secretly hoped for something to happen – but these are just Nadir’s thoughts … wishes. The truth is that he knows nothing about what is going on in Erik’s head. And this is why he is so nervous now. A part of him tries to convince him to choose a better time, that this here is too offensive. But he has played the scene so many times in his fantasy. He has come here during this ungodly hour for only this one reason. He can’t go back now. He doesn’t want to find a better time. Deep inside he knowas that, though he is a bit afraid of how this will end.

He begins to take off his clothes until his pants are the last thing left on him. The sand is cold under his feet, but not uncomfortable since the air is still warm. His toes claw into it, feeling the mass while a soft breeze strokes his naked skin and the scent of the ocean fills his nose. Moonlight illuminates everything and Nadir isn’t sure if that is a good thing or not. Allah, his heart is so loud by now that he fears Erik will hear it beating. It doesn’t matter how many deep breaths he takes - they don’t help him to calm down. A while passes, an eternity to be honest, full of doubts and hesitation, but finally he starts to move to the place where Erik has entered the water about twenty minutes ago, ready to do the same. It’s now or never, Nadir says silently to himself to find the final impulse to actually step forward into the dark, liquid coolness.

* * *

“Lost in thoughts again, my love?”

A blanket is laid around Nadir’s shoulders and the vivid memory fades, giving room for the environment around him. Golden rays of a sinking autumn sun break through the red leaves of the big maple tree. The breeze is cold and so is the bench on which he sits and only now he realizes that he freezes, how the wind has crept into his old bones. With crossed arms, he grabs the blanket and pulls it tighter around his body, when he feels a kiss upon his black hair which by now shows wisps of silver and grey, sparkling in the light. He can’t help but smile and the wrinkles around his mouth, though hidden by his thick beard, crinkle. Erik’s skinny arms loop around him from behind. His long hair has been gone for decades now, but Nadir still remembers the feeling of how it had always tickled his neck, when he had been blessed with such an embrace. Erik bends down and gently his thin lips touch his cheek. Still, after all these years the slightest show of affection from his beloved one brings him pleasant chills and he closes his eyes to feel the soft caressing more intensely.

“I am.” He finally says, still smiling, and he adds, “And once again I’ve come to the conclusion what luck it was that I could find the courage that one night to join you in the water.”

He leans his face against Erik’s tender lips. And his skin is stroked by a warm breath when Erik whispers:

“I couldn’t agree more, my dearest.” And his embrace gets tighter, telling stories of love and thankfulness.

He still ages because the universe wouldn't believe he was dead even when he carried his own corpse around

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha wait what?

I couldn’t help it! Just a note, school has made me a ball of angst and I seem to be taking it out on my (few and far between) written pieces, but Cherik is Cherik, right? Read the first ficlet here

It was, perhaps, only the cracking of twigs that shook her from her cloudy dreams, from vague haunting images of folded, yellow skin and dark holes that were supposed to hold a nose and cheeks. Through the haze, her eyes managed to wedge themselves open.

A bird stared down at her from a high branch, unmoving, unseeing. Her breath hitched. She sat bolt upright, her heart pounding against her ribs.

How had she landed herself here? Her memory had clouded the last few moments before she passed out, and now all that remained through the fog were...

Those eyes....

Eyes so blue and sharp, they could very well cut a piece of her soul out and present it to her on a platter, so intelligent she found herself childishly stupid, but so generously and soothingly polite that such a feeling never lasted very long.

She raked a hand through her hair, pulling an array of grasses and twigs from her curls. The forest was exactly as it had been before — the open picnic basket, its contents only half packed away, the blanket ruffled from their seated positions, the same towering trees and unblinking eyes staring at their master's guest.

And there! She had to stare for a long moment before she realised what it was: his mask. The mask which hid the face of her honest Maestro, now abandoned to the mercy of her consciousness. She reached out a quaking hand.

The material was cold and heavy in her fingers, and a small but surprisingly painful part of her sank at the thought of having to wear it near constantly. The ties fluttered against her bare arm with wispy breaths and only made her heart strain further against its tether. The forest was exactly the same, she thought, but for the disappearance of her shy Maestro.

Maestro... Ah! Yes, she remembered it all now! A smile graced her lips at the thought of her arm threaded through his. How strange it had been, to see her exquisitely distinguished, elegant Maestro so far below ground, surrounded by old sets, props, trinkets, and now a forest of dreams. And how happy he'd seemed to live such a fairytale, as opposed to his stiff, business-like demeanour he'd presented this past month. It was so... unlike him.

Or perhaps it isn't...

He had been speaking of dreams coming true, after all. Perhaps this was his dream, and he was one of the few fortunate ones to see it come to life.

And she had been the one to shatter it.

A glum guilt settled in her chest, and she cast sorrow-lidded eyes to the mask in her hand. She hadn't seen his reaction to her fainting, but it couldn't have been good; as calm and genteel as her Maestro was with their music lessons, as lovingly as he played the piano in the music hall and, sometimes, his own flute, he was just as easily distressed over matters of the heart.

And so, she decided against the anxiety that had been blooming within her chest for a while now, he must be found and apologised to. She pushed herself from the blanket to quivering legs and took a ginger step, hardly daring to trust her balance. A dark cloud tunnelled her vision, but she pressed on, rather aimlessly, into the forest, ignoring the glassy eyes that followed her.

Somehow, she found her way back to the underground music room and pushed the doors open, biting her lip until she felt sure it would bleed.

Somewhere up ahead, a smash echoed through the house, followed by the violent crashings and bangings of wood on stone. She froze on the threshold.

Her eyes wandered once more to the mask in her hand. Was it worth approaching him right now? Wise, even? Another smash of china, or perhaps mediocre porcelain, made her jump. Her feet rooted to the floor.

But try as she might to imagine it, she simply couldn't picture her kind Maestro causing such a ruckus. Perhaps he had a pet, a dog maybe, that he hadn't mentioned before? One with wild, untrained tendencies to chase its own hysterical tail around his home.

She didn't let herself pause long enough to think through the various reasons why that would certainly not be so, but nodded firmly and crossed the floor to the next door.

She drew it open with a soft creak and peered outside, into what she'd assumed upon arrival was a little porch of some description.

She wished afterwards she hadn't.

He tore around his magical home in a rage, tearing and annihilating the furnishings that once gave it such a wonderful feeling of living a real-life fairy tale, like the ones her Papa had told her as a child. Everything came down: shredded, smashed or knocked over, it seemed nothing could stand in his fiery path.

She retreated from the door, shutting it as softly as she could and gnawing at her lip with newly affrighted vigour. How could she ever look at him again, knowing she had the power to send him into such a fit of rage? She had turned her chivalrous, altruistic teacher into the abhorrent ghoul he believed himself to be; for he was, she forced herself to admit to Gerard's warnings, the Phantom of the Opera.

She placed the mask on a nearby vanity table, where another thousand masks stared at her from their hooks on the walls or meticulous settings on the table, cluttered with powders and puffs; perhaps the horrors of his accursed visage were not simply confined to the areas he covered during their lessons, she wondered. Perhaps his chin and mouth were equally as grotesque. She shuddered. How could she not have guessed? Why had she bought his obvious lie of wishing for anonymity? She knew for a fact he had not believed her little fibs!

Each mask was set an equal distance from each other, lined neatly in order of colour, or perhaps date. It made the gap between a tearful Pierrot mask and a shimmering gold one even more obvious. So entranced was she by the masks that she didn't realise the commotion outside had died.

She studied the display with a frown; it seemed he had a mask for every emotion and season. Transfixed, she reached to touch the teardrops on the Pierrot mask.

The door flew open, slamming against the chest along the wall with an almighty crack. She jumped, retracting her hand, and stared.

There, upon the threshold, stood her Maestro, his temper as enflamed as his burning, copper hair. His breaths were ragged in his throat and his chest rose and fell in quick succession. His sharp eyes cut deep into her skin, filling her with a chilling discomfort.

He took a step forward and, at the same time, she retreated to the other side of the table. It only made him snarl and go after her.

With no thought to it, she fled for the parlour door, for the safety of the wider space. A roar from behind her seemingly rocked the entire opera house on its foundations, and a hand snaked around her wrist, squeezing tight. A sharp yank cut off her stride just before she could reach the door.

A scream ripped its way from her throat. Her eyes were bleary with tears now as she wrestled, kicked, shoved and shouted for all she was worth. Somewhere in the haze of terror, the vague familiarity of his voice rushed through her mind, his words a tangle, intertwined with hers. So different from their harmonious music lessons, so wild, brash, vulgar even.

"You made this happen!" she faintly heard him say as she battled for freedom. She cast her eyes over her shoulders at the door. A sob racked her body and only now did she realise she was crying like a child.

"Please," she managed to rasp, turning back to him as he wrestled her towards a different door, not to the woods, nor to the safety of the parlour and exit, but towards a place she didn't recognise. "Please, I want to go home!"

"No!" His fingers dug into her shoulders through the dress and for a moment she clung to him, her eyes screwed shut, fearing the shaking she might receive. But it never came.

"You've seen my face," he snarled through the darkness. His hands gripped her arms tighter, but they didn't shake or push. She dared to peer at him through one eye. "No one who sees my face is allowed to leave; I thought everybody knew that!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to!" she rattled off, trying to dig her heels into the floor.

"Oh, sure!" He feigned amusement, but it faded back into the scowl and he tugged her along with him with a newly found strength. "Do you know what happens to people who see my face, my dear? You don't even realise how great a favour I'm doing you!"

"Maestro—!"

But he scowled and shook her words from his ears. "People return without their lives, you know, when they see! Count yourself lucky that I shall spare yours! You can never return, woman, do you hear me? Never! Ahh! Not so curious now, are you? No, no, put those tears away, for pity's sakes! Yes, yes indeed; your freedom in exchange for your life!"

Somewhere in her nonsensical pleas, Philippe's name tumbled from her lips. Her Maestro said nothing but scowled harder and clutched her closer, tighter, as he tried to open the third door.

"Erik, I—" She forced her eyes up as he tried to kick the door open. He paused to glare at her as she grasped his dress-shirt sleeves into thick balls. "Please..."

"Please what?" he snapped. She felt his breath rush over her face, hot and close, too close. Only now did she realise their impolite proximity to each other. His fingers still dug into her arms, tense and quivering with rage. She swallowed.

"Don't shake me."

Silence. For a long moment, neither person moved. She hardly dared to breathe as his eyes raked over her face, but then she lifted her gaze to meet his, praying her quiet plea would speak just as loudly as her screams, and his widened ever so slightly.

One by one, his fingers uncurled themselves from her dress sleeves and he removed his hands tentatively.

"Shake you, Christine?" he muttered, only the tips of his fingers lingering on the fabric now. He stared at them, as if he couldn't understand what he'd just done. She prayed he couldn't hear her thundering heartbeats. A rickety gasp escaped her before she could stop it. He retreated by a step. "Keep you here, I will; shake you, I will not."

She tried to swallow again, her only comfort against the hoarseness building in her throat. Her arms wrapped around herself in an attempt to control an onset of little quakes.

Her Maestro had turned away, his head bowed. She watched as he glanced up, wondering if he felt the same discomfort she did. But to her surprise, he chuckled. It was a terrible sound, that little laugh, full of disdain and self-hatred; he'd spotted himself in the vanity table mirror.

"Why did you do it?" he asked, looking back at her from his slouched stance. She tried not to notice how old he suddenly looked, his eyes tired and broken.

"I..." Her words died in her throat. Why had she done it? It all seemed so silly now; perhaps it had been the thrill of the fairytale, or the magic of it all. She must have forgotten that he was still only a man.

How disappointing that realisation was. It stole her words from her. She could only look at him, hoping he'd somehow read her thoughts, for she'd die of embarrassment if she confessed to them.

Ah, but she forgot: he was only a man.

"For God's sakes, Christine, why?" he roared, his voice cracking. His fingers found her dress sleeves again, catching her off guard. Her mouth hung open at that. He hissed at himself and drew back, as if stung, tucking his hands firmly beneath his arms. "Christine, why?"

His shouts died on the air, leaving only the sound of ringing tuning forks and a pair of racing hearts. Unable to help herself, she found her eyes roaming his face, where there sat a menacing black façade. So unused to it, she oggled it a moment too long.

He sprung away, pressing his face into his hands as if it would ward off her searing gaze. A whimper. A sniff. And then—

"Christine..." he whined, like a lost, wounded dog whines for his master in the hopes he might be rescued. Her heart clenched. "Oh Christine, why were you so curious? It wasn't enough just to hear me, no, no, you had to see too."

A scornful chuckle, not directed at her. He sank to his knees and let his hands fall uselessly into his lap.

"But it was not your fault, my dear. No, how could it ever be your fault? You are simply... curious."

From somewhere deep within her throat, pulled from the murky, silent ponds of horror, a sound left her lips.

"Maestro..."

His shoulders went rigid. She waited for his reply. None came.

Instead, he began to shake, as if he was freezing to death. In a moment of fright, she stepped towards him and reached for him. But then he caught her hand before it could land upon his person, and turned on his knees with slow, painful movements, to face her.

His eyes did not meet hers as he clutched the fabric of her dress and sobbed into it.

Overwhelmed by it all, she found herself stroking his hair and offering little comforts, but soon her own tears were dribbling down her cheeks and she ached for her lost father's strong, weathered arms around her and his song in her ears. It only made her sob anew.

Her Maestro had rested his cheek against her stomach, but now he looked up.

Oh no, she scolded herself, looking away from his concerned eyes. Now he'd never look at her as anything but a child missing her deceased father. But of course, he'd already noticed and had sprung to his feet before her.

"Christine—"

She shook her head and offered a teary smile, sniffing it all away. "It's alright."

She went to dry her eyes, but he was already unfurling his handkerchief and nudging her hand away to dab at her eyes himself. She didn't fail to notice the redness of his own behind the mask.

"Here, let me," she said, finding his hand as he wiped the last of her tears. She reached her other hand for his mask and—

"No!" He caught her before she could go near his face again and backed off, pocketing his handkerchief. "No."

"Maestro, you've been crying! Don't ask me to believe it isn't uncomfortable!"

"Of course it's uncomfortable, you— you...!"

She held her ground as his eyes met hers and kept them captive with his own.

A sigh. "I... I shall take you home." He must have spotted her minuscule expression of surprise, because he quickly added, "To your room. No further."

And so it was that, no more than fifteen minutes later, he was guiding her back through the tunnels. A heavy silence hung over them as they went, neither person daring to lift it.

As she reached what seemed to be the hundredth flight of stairs, she noticed that he'd begun to hang back. A frown crossed her brow of its own accord.

"Maestro?"

"You go ahead," he assured quietly, fidgeting with his sleeve and faking nonchalance. "The exit is just up these stairs and to the left. You'll find yourself in the Rotunda."

Another silence. She watched him sadly as he drew a breath, caught her eye and tried a smile.

"Go, Christine." It was one of the quietest voices she'd ever heard, so beautiful and melodic, she found herself moving up the stairs as if he'd put her under a trance. She walked for a century, up and up and up—

And suddenly, there were no more steps to take. She turned at the top of the flight, ripped from the spell with a bolt of shock.

"Erik—!"