You pull Erik along behind you, excitement racing through you as your feet hit the cobblestone streets of Paris. Puddles are starting to form in the dips and depressions in the streets and as you quickly drag Erik behind you, you find yourself gravitating towards the small pools of water. You let out a squeal as the rain starts coming down even harder. You tip your face up towards the sky, letting go of Erik’s hand to spin around, your cloak flaring out around you as you speed up, the world around you becoming a dizzying array of soft, cloud touched colors. 

“Mon amour (my love), you are getting soaked.” Erik’s voice breaks through the sounds of pattering rain on the rooftops and the soft drops of rain hitting the streets below.

A giddy laugh bubbled up in your chest, your spinning circles slowly coming to a stop. You close your eyes, allowing the world to come to a stop as you say, “Why, mon ange de la musique (my angel of music), have you never heard of dancing in the rain?” You open your eyes then, closing the distance between you and Erik in only a few strides. 

You throw your arms around his neck, looping them together softly as your fingers move to find the short hair at the nape of his neck. “Dance with my amour (love)?” You breathe out, a puff of warm air filling the space between you. 

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer as he begins to slowly sway with you. “Mon amour, we are getting absolutely drenched.” He says, a tone of mirth coloring his words.

You let out an airy laugh as you tip your head up towards the sky, allowing the large drops of water to land softly on your face, causing a light shiver to pass down your spine. “Why, that’s the joy of it mon fantôme (my phantom).” His warm hand comes to cup your face, his thumb tracing soft lines along your cheekbone. 

You turn your face just enough to press a soft kiss to the palm of his hand before you spin out and away from him. “The rain washes it all away, mon amour.” You say softly, savoring the feeling of water dripping down the back of your neck, wetting your eyelashes and soaking your hair. “Everything is fresh and clean after the rain.” 

Erik doesn’t say anything as he walks towards you, lacing a hand with one of yours. “Well then, ma chérie (my dear), we shall stay out here as long as it takes until it all washes away.” His voice is quiet as he leans in to give you a soft kiss. 

Dark, thunderous music greets you as you enter the dimly lit cavernous room of the Phantom. You untie your cloak, laying it over the back of one of the chairs near you before making your way over to the organ. You watch quietly as his fingers fly over the ivory keys, a certain unrestrained anger flowing out of him into the music. 

“Mon ange (my angel).” You say just loud enough to catch his attention. He plays for a beat or two longer before turning towards you, his gaze meeting yours. 

“Ma chérie (my dearest), how was you walk?” He asks, reaching out to gently grab your hand and pull you closer. You let him, a soft smile on your face as you look at him. 

“It was lovely. The sunset cast a beautiful, soft orange glow on the buildings as I walked back. It truly was a work of art.” You recall, a lightness settling over you as you thought of the beauty the setting sun had created.

“It sounds refreshing ma chérie. I am glad you were able to enjoy yourself.” He says, still not letting go of your hand as he stands. He wraps his other arm around your lower back, lifting up the hand that was holding yours. You unconsciously bring up your hand to rest on his shoulder as he brings you even closer to him.

“Danse avec moi (dance with me).” His voice is tender as he moves to rest his forehead against yours. You hum in agreement, slowly swaying along with him to the music only the two of you can hear. A long time passes as the two of you dance in front of the organ, alternating between stepping quickly along with some unknown beat and moving slowly as you hold onto each other tightly. 

You lift your head from his shoulder to look him in the eyes. “Let’s go to bed, mon amour (my love).” You whisper, fighting back a yawn. He lifts a hand to gently run down the side of your face, his thumb delicately tracing your lips. Then he is lifting you up and carrying you over to the bed. He lowers you onto the red satin sheets, placing a light kiss on your lips before standing up.

“I’ll be back in a moment ma chérie.” His whispers, his voice low and husky. You sit up, pulling the pins from your hair as you watch him walk away. You can’t see him after he passes the wall of the niche the two of you called a bedroom but you knew he was blowing out the candles, as he did every night. A few minutes later he walks back into the room, his cloak and his mask gone, leaving him looking far more casual and relaxed than he had when he’d left. 

He puts out the candles on the large, intricate candelabra, leaving the room in near darkness before climbing into bed beside you. You turn on your side so you are facing him, the details of his face barely visible in the low light. You feel, more than see, his hand coming to rest on your hip. 

“Can I hold you ma chérie?” His voice is so quiet you almost don’t hear it. You don’t say anything, instead you close the distance between the two of you until you are flush against him, your head tucked in against his chest. You bring a hand to his face, your fingers lightly tracing the deep set scars on his face. You lift your chin enough to press a kiss onto the underside of his jaw. His arms tighten around you and you feel him bury his face in your hair. 

“Tu es tout pour moi (you are my everything).” You hear him whisper. 

Fantôme de l'opéra (as you are known),

Of all the people I have seen and met in this world, I have yet to meet someone who deserves to have all the love this world has to offer more than you. Yet, the world has cruelly denied you of this love. You are a man worth loving. You are a man of mystery, a man of undeniable intelligence and musical ability.

You deserve so much more than what she gave you. She loved you with only part of her heart, the rest of it belonging to that fool. You deserve someone who can give their whole heart, who can love every part of you without holding back.

I freely give you my whole heart and someday, I hope that I can show you that. I hope I can love you the way you deserve, in person rather than in hiding. One day, I’ll find you and take you into my arms and tell you the words you truly are worthy of hearing.

With all of my heart, Y/N

You fold up the piece of parchment and place it delicately in the envelope before sealing the envelope closed. You pick up the red rose resting on your small desk along with the envelope and move to the small door near the corner of your room which leads to the tunnels beneath the opera house. 

You follow the path you knew by heart, having travelled it many times to hear the wondrous compositions of the Phantom. This time however, you’d be entering into that room and you’d be leaving him something, instead of taking the music he unknowingly had been giving you.

“You didn't deserve that... You deserve so much better.” You whisper, your hand ghosting over his black cloak, sprawled out and abandoned on the crimson red ottoman. 

Your eyes find his sleeping form on the ornate swan bed, the black of the sheets contrasting sharply with his pale skin. Every fiber of your being, every particle of your body yearned to be beside him in that bed, with his head resting on your chest and your fingers woven into his hair.

You start to take a step in his direction, your fingers itching to feel the softness of his hair and the slightly stubbled texture of his jaw, but instead, you set the red rose and the letter down on the only clear surface you could find, a small wooden side table aside the organ. 

You stand, giving him one last longing look before turning and quietly leaving. A part of you breaks at the thought of leaving without having told him how you truly feel, but that other part of you clings to the hope that someday Christine will fade from his memory, leaving a space open for the love you long to give him.

———

—Chapter 1—

You wake up in the middle of the night, shivering and wondering where you were. Feeling around with your hands you could tell it wasn’t in your bed. You were on the ground, which not only was cold and hard, but also damp.

Memories of the night before came crashing back to you. You remember finding your way into the tunnels, following the call of your musical angel, and finding the master behind the notes that were never just in your head. Your heart started beating quicker at the thought that you had a real angel, albeit one dressed in entirely black but an angel nonetheless, that had created music that seemingly only you could hear. A musical angel solely for you. The thought alone had your cheeks heating up rapidly.

You cringe at the stiffness in your joints from sleeping on the ground as you pull yourself up, bringing your apron with you. Something is urging you to look into the cavern and you do.

A tight feeling seizes in your chest as you see the figure you have dubbed your angel asleep on the four poster bed, half covered in shadows as many of the candles have been diminished. He was lying flat on his back, his arms strewn out at strange angles, but the only part of him that looks relaxed, even in sleep. Lying in a pile of broken glass and wood fragments, half hidden in the shadows is the mask. Even though he isn’t wearing it, you are too far away to make out any features of his face, which disappoints you, but also intrigues you further. His cape is hanging from one of the posts at the end of the bed, like a satin covered ghost.

After another long, lingering look at the man, you turn and try to find your way back to the well-lit chambers of the Opera Populaire. You don’t struggle as you find you remember the trip through the tunnels quite clearly. As you come to the small, weathered door separating your reality from your angelic dreams, you heave out a soft sigh. You wonder if it would be possible to stay here in this place where your music lives, and where you aren’t alone. You deeply wish you could shut that door, keeping your days of lonely darkness locked away. Alas, you could not, and with your trouble keeping track of time, you must return to reality, for tardiness could mean the loss of your job, however much you disliked it. 

You pull the rickety door open slowly, not wanting to reveal this secret passage to anyone who may be on the other side. After reentering the opera house you see that the door is virtually undetectable from the other side, causing you to wonder if you stumbling upon it was merely the accident it seemed. 

Nonetheless, you hurried back to your room, which was now much easier to find as the early gray light of the morning was seeping in through the skylights of backstage. You enter your room, revealing one of your still sleeping roommates, which means you were on time, as she was always a bit slow at waking in the morning, regardless of possible unemployment. You grab your only other apron, casting aside your dirty, damp one from the day prior before hustling to check-in with your work overseer. 

The day drags by slowly as your mind is consumed with the music of your angel. You feel the music within you, dancing along your bones, twinkling along your nerves, mingling with your soul. The music holds so much more meaning to you now that you know someone was creating it just for you.

You’d been caught daydreaming multiple times by the time you were finished for the day. Your overseer wasn’t happy and had told you quite plainly to get your head out of the clouds and come with a clear mind for work the next day. 

Being a weekend evening, the opera house was currently packed as droves of people, dressed in their finest clothes came to see the beloved soprano, performing not only one or two, but three solos in the performance. The crowd was buzzing with anticipation and created the perfect distraction for you to sneak back into the tunnels.

You had been vibrating with excitement the entire day, knowing that that evening you’d be returning to a concert performed just for you. And as you maneuvered through the tunnels, you could barely keep yourself from running in unrestrained exhilaration.

You finally reached the small cave that you dubbed the ‘balcony’, as you felt like a socialite in your private viewing balcony as you watched your angel perform.

The music was different today even though the core of the composition remained the same. There was a jarring contrast between the rhythms and the key in which it was being played. Instead of being consumed by feelings of joy, comfort, and warmth, the song now left you cold, melancholy, and lonely. 

A hand to your cheek had you realizing that tears were streaming down your cheeks. Seeing the hunched over form on the organ, much different than the confident, almost frightening figure that had sat there the day before.

It was as if everything inside you was calling you to his side, to take him in your arms and say sweet nothings in his ear. To let him rest his head in your lap as you sing to him. To take away the sorrow that was infecting him in such a way, it was bleeding through to his music. You didn’t stay long as the tone of his music effectively doused your excitement and it physically hurt you to see him so dejected, so you had left after only an hour. 

That night you lay in bed, silent tears falling as the pain, both physical and emotional, kept you awake. 

——

You didn’t return to the tunnels for days after that. You couldn’t bring yourself to see the pain your angel was in and not do something about it. And you knew, if you went from hiding in the shadows to revealing yourself to him, you would lose him.

When you finally decide to return, you bring an old journal you had received from your parents before they passed, as well as your favorite fountain pen. You also bring your cloak, as both times you were in your ‘balcony’ room, you were quite chilled in your dress alone. 

It doesn’t take you long to get settled, and once you are, you watch your angel as he plays. This composition is new. The melody is dark and full of hate, entwined with a rhythm reminiscent of the sorrow filled notes you had last heard him play. His apparent pain has your heart aching and before you know it, your feelings are flowing out of you and onto the paper.

My angel,

Your pain is my pain. The darkness and melancholy you are emanating through your music, I can feel deep into my soul. I feel like I have suffered the agony and insults that you have.

I may never have met you but I feel that I know you. Your soul is connected to mine, through some magical force. I’m drawn to you because I have seen that you could be, nay, you are my future. All I want is for you to see me in your future as well.

I feel that your music is my driving force. All I have heard since I have arrived at the opera house is your music. It lingers in my mind and I can hear you in everything I do. Your music is there when I clean the soprano’s chambers. It is there when I trudge through the long dark tunnels to you. It is there when I slowly make my way back to my room at night. I realize that I am never alone because you are there, inside my mind. 

You may never know I exist, but I feel you. You have become a part of me.

Forever and always

You fold the letter up and place it gently in one of the envelopes you brought along. You return your attention to the music, listening and memorizing each individual note. It is not long before the music lulls you asleep.

----

Hours later you wake, warmer than you had ever felt in the tunnels before. You slowly rise up, analyzing your surroundings as you do. You can tell it is later in the night because the lighting from the cavern is a dim soft glow. You notice nothing different in the room you are in, but when you strain your hearing, you hear it. The music, which is noticeably quieter than before, is something you recognize. Your angel is playing the composition that he had been the first time you travelled through the tunnels. 

It is the composition that dances intimately around in your head each and every day. It is not the remade, dark toned version that you had heard the day after, the version that had kept you away for days. 

After observing your angel play the composition you have begun to call your own, you reach towards your feet, looking for the letter you had written prior to you drowsing off for a short time. The more you search, with no luck, the more frantic you become. You rip off your cloak in an futile attempt to see if the letter was sticking to you as a result of static. 

Coming up empty handed yet again, you huff out a heavy sigh. You begin to wonder if you had even written the letter, or if it was all a dream. You still haven’t found it after five minutes of looking and are starting to feel the lack of a good night’s rest. You reluctantly give up on finding the letter before heading back through the tunnels in hopes of catching another hour of sleep before work. 

----

----Chapter 2----

You spent every day tirelessly working in the opera house, scrubbing floors, dusting fixtures, and hand washing delicate costumes.

You spend every evening in the tunnels, relaxing to the wondrous music your angel composes. You had noticed a change in his music, one that you rather enjoyed. No longer was his music dark and full of melancholy, but it had become bright and inspiring and full of hope. You were unaware of what brought about this change, but it warmed you nonetheless. You finally felt as though your angel was no longer in constant darkness and pain.

As the music got more hopeful, you started staying longer and longer in the tunnels. Many a night you spent wrapped in your warmest winter cloak, the music of your angel lulling you into soft and dreamless sleep. You had even written a few more letters for your angel, proclaiming your deepening feelings for the phantom figure.

My angel,

The nights I have spent here in this balcony, listening to the music you create, has been some of the best of my life. I cannot imagine a future without you in it. You have brought a certain light into my life that I had not known I had been missing.

It’s like you hold the missing piece of my heart, the piece that reveals who I truly am and whenever I am near you, I feel whole. I feel that I am the truest, most honest version of myself when I am around you. It’s as if your music is a reflection of my soul, entwined forever with yours. Forever and always

This was the only letter you had managed to keep track of because for some reason you always manage to misplace them. Regardless, you continued to write them, each one revealing more of your feelings than the last.

-PHANTOM-

The letters always seemed to appear as if by magic. After he had found the first one, he had been quite sure it was all in his imagination, because who with a sane mind would have such deep feelings for him. He was after all a true monster with a rock cold heart, a man who was obsessed with the idea of a soprano of his own, a ghost who would not even look at his own reflection in the mirror.

Yet, the letters kept coming, all appearing in random places. He had found one wedged underneath the edge of his organ and another stuck to the damp shore of the underground river in his cavern. There had even been one precariously hanging near the flame of a candle by his bed. A few he had found had been ruined to the point that they were unsalvageable. Finding those letters had hurt. Everything in him had ached to read the words that those letters had contained. He felt connected to the writer of these letters, even though he didn’t know her. Every letter, every word melted his long dead heart just a little bit more, making him feel more human for the first time in years.

His warming feelings translated over into his music. New melodies swirled around in his head, completely obliterating the dark motifs that had dominated much, if not all, of his musical compositions. His music since reading those letters had taken on an almost giocoso tone, something he had never thought would happen in his music.

Now, he spent the time he was not composing, which oddly had become more frequent as of late, looking for this mysterious admirer. He still did not know where this celestial being was hiding or even when she was listening, but the mere thought that she was listening made each moment at the organ that much more intriguing.

The time he spent in the shadows became less about watching those running his opera house, and more about observing those in the Opera Populaire in hopes of finding his admirer. Everything inside him, that was not committed to music, was devoted to finding his angel. Even just knowing her from her letters had made him protective of her. He knew when he met her, he would feel connected to her in a way he never had with anyone else.

Although his life felt brighter for the first time in what seemed like forever, the wicked gloom of doubt and self-hatred still overtook his thoughts. Time and time again, the words of those letters would enter his thoughts and he would be ridden with a sick twisted feeling of uncertainty and suspicion.

An all consuming rage usually followed and was accompanied by the smashing of mirrors in disgust, the burning of half-finished compositions and even an explosive burst of funry in which he had run straight into the underground river to destroy his elaborate candelabras. He felt such intense anger with these thoughts because he could not fathom in these moments, why anyone would feel for him so intensely.

----

There had been a time before this, before the letters, when he had thought that maybe he was deserving of the love of a beautiful young woman. A woman who was his star pupil and lived to sing his music. A woman who lived for the opera as he did.

Yet he had been wrong then. Christine had been deeply in love with Raoul and finding out that she would do anything to live her life with him had crushed him. He had been devoted to her, to showing her what she meant to him.

He had not come out of the Christine - Raoul fiasco with just insecurities of the human nature. He had become a darker, colder version of himself with even the mere thought of either Christine or Raoul giving him an intense mix of burning hatred and rage and a crushing feeling of inadequacy. He also had developed a very deep lack of faith in the concept of love.

Her rejection was a large part of why he struggled to believe the words in the letters. He could hardly believe having the opportunity to fall in love with one woman of such beauty and grace but to become connected with another, who saw him for who he truly was, and have her love, well he found that nearly impossible.

Reading the letters also had him questioning if he was even good enough to have the love of such an understanding woman. Although he had yet to meet his admirer, he felt that he would never be good enough for anyone to love him.

----

He spent many a night on the organ, practicing and perfecting the compositions that he created. This was one of those nights, but it felt different somehow. There was a charge in the air, crawling over his skin and pricking his nerves. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, sending his heart into overdrive and causing him to play with an intense frenzy. Music he had never played before, music he had not even written, was flying from his fingertips. Sweat was dripping down his brow, causing his face under his mask to itch. He rips it off, irritated by the distraction, and continues to play with fever.

— YOUR POV —

The music he played that night was phenomenal. The emotions raging through the phrases and dynamic changes had your heart pounding. You could barely breathe as the music tapered off into a gentle melody that you were straining to hear. Only a moment later, he was back to rapidly pounding on the keys, causing your heart to jump into your throat.

That night you listen to him play for hours, never feeling the slightest bit tired and when he finally stops, you stand, your body moving without you telling it to. You are moving towards the cavern, or where you believe the cavern to be, as you have never actually been in it. It is as if a string is tied tightly around your heart and pulling you directly towards your angel, you other half, and the only person you had ever felt so strongly connected to.

Even though you have no idea where you are going, you are in the cavern only a few short moments later. You slowly make your way towards your angel, who is currently sitting at the organ and furiously writing.

This was it. For the first time in a very long time, it felt as though you were home. The sound of a pen scribbling on parchment felt normal. The coolness of the air in the cavern felt natural. The musk of damp earth and burning wax felt homey. Never had you felt so comfortable and at home in a place you had just entered. But, walking into this place felt like coming home after being away for days, months, years. If this was the last place you ever came to in your life, you would be complete. You quickly come to the conclusion that the person who was in this place with you was what really made it home. You felt as though your heart was beating in time with his, even though you could not hear it, pulling your soul even closer to his.

You allow yourself one breath to steel your nerves before you clear your throat and call, “My angel of music.”

The man whirls around, clutching a desperate hand to one side of his face. Peeking through his fingers are glimpses of angry red, scarred flesh. You watch as he swiftly picks up his mask and pulls it tight against his face.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” His voice floats over you like thick, smooth velvet, causing you to let out a deep sigh of appreciation.

After an awkward moment of silence, you realize that the man is waiting for your response. “You are my angel. Your music dominates my mind and has since the day I arrived here. You are the one my soul is connected to and I wish to spend every day I have left in your presence.” Your heart is thudding against your chest as you wait for a response.

He searches your face, his eyes locking with yours for several beats. He takes a tentative step towards you, his hand hovering nervously near your face, as if he is unsure whether he should touch you or not.

You take a small step closer to him, gently grabbing his gloved hand and pulling it in towards your chest, resting it against your racing heart.

“You wrote the letters.” It is not a question, but rather an observation. You slowly nod your head, afraid of what he would say next.

He does not speak for a long while, simply watching you instead. When he does speak, he pulls his hand away from you. Your heart is in your throat as you struggle to tamp down the anxiety that is starting to consume you. “You wrote that you feel I am a part of you. Why? You do not know who I am.” His voice is deep, darkness lingering behind his words and his eyes flash.

Everything inside you wants to cringe away from him in fear, but you know that is what he is expecting you to do. Instead, you straighten up, your eyes locked on his as you respond.

“I wrote that because your music is thrumming through my veins and has become a part of me.” You pause for a moment, steeling your confidence before continuing. “It is more than your music. I feel connected with you. What you feel, I feel. Your soul is entwined with mine.” As you finish, you close the distance between the two of you. You slowly move to pick up one of his hands, placing it over your heart before taking the other and placing it over his own heart.

“Our hearts, they beat in unison.” You whisper as you study him.

“Mon cher, I feel it.” His voice is gentle as he hesitantly moves his hand from your heart to your cheek. “Tu es à moi, mon cher.” His switch to French has your heart growing in your chest.

“Play for me my angel.” You whisper, clasping his hand in yours as you move towards the organ.

You look over your carefully curated shopping list, double-checking it against the scattered pile of different recipes you had chosen for Christmas dinner. Admittedly, you may be taking on too much, considering the dinner would be for two, but you couldn’t bring yourself to simplify anything. After all, this was not only your first Christmas living with Erik, in a Paris apartment the two of you picked out together, but it was also the first Christmas with just the two of you since you’d started dating. The last few Christmases the two of you had spent together had been with friends. And because of that, you wanted nothing more than to make it a Christmas with memories that would last a lifetime.

“Ma chérie, you have checked that list three times. I am sure we will get everything we need. And if we do not, I know an incredible individual who can improvise rather well.” You can hear the smirk he must have on his face reflecting in his words as he comes up behind you. 

A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back into a warm chiseled chest. You let out a hum of appreciation as you let his closeness chase away the chill in your body. He, in turn, starts humming the melody of one of his own creations in your ear, causing you to close your eyes as you let the music entwine with your soul. The two of you stay that way for an indefinite amount of time before the chiming of the grandfather clock in your living room makes you pull away from him.

“We should get going, Erik. I don’t want to do Christmas shopping with the late crowd.” You say, turning around to press a light kiss to his lips, stepping away from him with a laugh before he could kiss you back. He lets out a low growl, grabbing your wrist and spinning you into his chest. “Ma chérie, do not tease me like that.” He gives you a hard kiss on the lips before letting go of you, staying connected only by the linking of your hand through his. 

You lead the way out of the apartment, down to the first floor of the building, and out onto the streets of Paris. The brisk wind, combined with a steady drizzle, has you pulling up your collar and leaning into Erik to fight off the chill. Erik wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in close. 

The two of you walk quickly to the small market a few blocks away from your apartment. A blast of warm air and tinny Christmas music. You wipe away the water dripping down your face from your head as you search for the shopping list. When you finally find it, shoved deep into the pocket of your coat, you see that Erik has already grabbed a shopping basket and is analyzing items on the shelf nearest the entrance. Seeing your tall, dark, brooding figure of a man carrying a small, bright red shopping basket and holding a small, delicate Christmas figurine has you bitting back a laugh.  

“Erik?” You ask, a smirk growing on your face as you catch his attention. “Having fun?”

He sets down the figurine, coming up to grab your hand. “I am now.” He says smugly, pulling you in close to give you a quick kiss on the lips. “Shall we? I do recall someone saying they wanted to get the shopping done.” You let out a giggle as you nod. He hands you the shopping basket and looking at your list, you decide to start in the baking aisle of the market. Erik follows along, not saying anything, simply holding his hand in yours. 

You are so intent on finding the ingredients you need that you hardly even notice when Erik takes the basket from your hands. However, when he manages to spin you around into his chest, your attention is completely shifted. 

“Erik? What are you-” You start, but he lays a gentle finger against your lips. 

“Shhh.” He places a hand against your lower back, taking your other hand in his. He closes the space between the two of you as he leads you in a slow dance. After a moment of confusion, you lean your head against his chest, taking in the moment. A jazzy Christmas tune is playing over the market speakers as the two of you sway slowly in the empty aisle. 

As the two of you move slowly, you can’t help but think that your Christmas couldn’t get any better. Here you were, getting to spend your holidays with the man of your dreams, relishing in a moment of closeness.

“Thank you, Erik.” You whisper softly. 

“For what?” He asks quietly.

“For giving me a Christmas to remember. For helping me to remember what the holidays are truly about.” You say as you look into his eyes.