Archive of Our Own

He was still coughing and wheezing while he pushed the boat into the water and helped her get on. He wasn't looking at her, no matter how she implored to look into his eyes to see he was truly well. She wasn’t sure where he was looking, only that he was distant.

When the Phantom’s cries echoed through the tunnels, Raoul merely flinched and pushed them along. The boat glided silently through the water, scaring away the darkness away with its lit lantern. As they went, Raoul’s rasped breaths slowly evened out until he wasn’t struggling to breathe whatsoever. Though there was a hitch in his breath every now and again—as if his lungs struggled to comprehend the air supplied to them.

Christine sat silent in the boat, her own mind racing as much as Raoul's seemed to do. She fiddled with her fingers, the ghost of a ring still cold on her skin.

When they reached the shore, Raoul took the lantern and Christine’s hand and walked them back upstairs. He did not rush them—no running or speedwalking. Just a regular walk with no urgency. After all, the Phantom had been left below.

Christine swallowed thickly and squeezed his hand. He did not return it.

Raoul guided them out the walls and back into the chaos that was the opera house. He pushed them through the astonished crowd and police, and shoved at people gasping and pointing at Christine. He was a man on a mission: get out of here.

Only when the cool air of night washed over them did he finally turn to take her by the shoulders and look her over. His eyes were… different. “Are you”—he coughed—“hurt?”

At a loss for words, Christine stared at him. There was still the lingering guilt of the kisses bestowed upon the Phantom—kisses that had pulled a harrowing whimper from Raoul. But what else could she have done?

Perhaps her returning the ring had been foolish.

“Christine.” He exhaled another wheezed breath. “Are you hurt?” he asked again, gently shaking her. But his fingers dug into her bare arms and he could hardly be comfortable in his wet clothes outside.

She stammered. “I— I am well.” Her gaze flitted down to his neck. The skin was red and angry—chafed where he’d fought against the noose that had almost killed him. She made a soft noise and put her hands on his chest. He flinched, and she wilfully ignored it. “A-And you?”

He merely shook his head and gently pushed her hands off him. Looked away, back out over the streets. “I’m fine.” He cleared his throat and grimaced. His breaths were short. “Let’s get a carriage to the estate and call a doctor. I want to make sure you're well.”

Her throat constricted. “Raoul, I just told you I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me. But your neck—”

“It’s nothing.”

The carriage ride was silent. Not awkward, but certainly not comfortable either.

In the silence it was very evident Raoul was not fine. Every breath sounded laboured and wheezy, and occasionally he settled in a coughing fit that left him with tears in his eyes. And yet he was staring outside, despite the dark of night, and bouncing his foot rapidly up and down.

Christine sat quietly opposite him, lost in thought. When she nudged her foot against his, wishing for a semblance of physical comfort, he pulled his foot away. Her heart clenched, but it was easy to write it off as stress. To consider his refusal to look at her as simply being overwhelmed.

God knows she could hardly look at herself in the reflection of the windows.

The estate was dark—the staff had already retired for the night.

Raoul was quick to wake Henri to get him to call for a doctor before he settled himself and Christine in the living room. There they sat in more silence, under the dim light of the lamps he’d lit just so they wouldn’t sit in the dark. Not that they could see much anyway.

Henri came by, in his dressing gown, and asked if they’d needed any drinks or sustenance. Discretion kept him from asking the questions undoubtedly on his mind.

Raoul requested a bottle of brandy and two glasses.

Normally not a drinker, Christine this time entertained her glass while Raoul downed his first two before ruminating on his third.

The doctor came by just when the light of dawn made it even more abundantly clear Raoul was not fine.

Christine stared in shock.

The doctor must have also considered him a more immediate priority, for the moment he entered the room he decisively went towards Raoul.

Raoul quickly got to his feet and shook his head. “Not me,” he wheezed, motioning towards Christine. “Her.”

The doctor clearly didn’t care for status or propriety. Not when he’d undoubtedly been woken by the call. “Boy, your neck is bruised in ways I’ve only ever seen gallow victims, not to mention your face. Sit down.” He put his bag on the side table and pointedly motioned at the chair behind Raoul.

For a brief moment there was a fire in Raoul’s eyes—an indignation puffing his chest and flaring his nostrils and making him ball his hands into fists.

Then, on a sharp inhale, he coughed and rasped and staggered back to the chair in defeat.

For he did look a terror.

His neck had the clear mark of rope burn seared into it, with the skin red and bruised and scratched up. But his face was the worst of all. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were blotches of red and purple all over his face.

Christine gasped and put her hands to her mouth. Had he truly been so close to death?

Raoul grimaced as he underwent the doctor’s check-up. When the old man pushed gently down the front of his neck, Raoul whimpered and jerked away.

The doctor pursed his lips and made him lean over to feel for his spine. “Any tenderness here?”

“I— I wasn’t hanged,” Raoul rasped, minutely shaking his head.

“And yet you have a rope burnt into your skin.” The doctor forced Raoul to sit back and shook his head. He kept Raoul’s eyes open to look into them with a candle and asked, “Any loss of sensations anywhere?” Then, to himself, “No noticeable face drooping… Eyes react well… Are you struggling to see well?”

“No,” Raoul muttered to both questions, his voice rough around the edges. “I feel fine.”

“You called for me.” The doctor straightened and critically looked Raoul over. “I see no immediate cause for concern, but I implore you to refrain from talking for at least two weeks. Rest your vocal chords as much as you can, they are definitely bruised. Likewise, try to eat mostly non-solid foods to prevent more damage or pain to the throat. How are the ears?”

Raoul grimaced. “Popped earlier, fine now.” A silent beat as he considered. “Actually, a… ringing?” He covered his mouth and coughed again. He reached for his glass of brandy.

“No alcohol,” the doctor said firmly, covering the glass with his hand. He met Raoul’s burning glare head-on. “Tea or other warm drinks preferred.”

With wheezing, rasping breaths Raoul sat back in the chair and nodded his agreement.

“As for you…” The doctor turned to face Christine. He softened. “You look frightened, but I see no immediate injuries. Is that correct?”

Wide-eyed, Christine looked up to him. She swallowed thickly and nodded. “I… I am unharmed. Physically, I mean.” Her gaze darted towards Raoul. “Is there… anything to keep in mind with his injuries?”

“Ah… Headaches, most likely. Feeling or being sick and throwing up. His voice, of course, may be rough for a while, and he may feel confused or irritable. It depends on how much the blood and air was cut off during the strangulation.” The doctor earnestly met Christine’s gaze. “If at any point his memory or personality changes to a severe degree, seek immediate medical help.”

Christine nodded. “Thank you, doctor.”

By the time Raoul handed the man his money and he left, it was properly light outside. Early morning with a gorgeous sunrise neither Raoul or Christine could particularly appreciate.

Exhaustion finally washed over her. The shock and terror of the events weighed her down and had her sag in her chair. She was trembling.

“The guest room is prepare,” Raoul whispered, his voice husky. He cleared his throat and reached for his brandy. Thought better of it. He closed his eyes. “Please, sleep. Rest.”

Christine exhaled a shaky breath as she looked at him. “And you?”

“In a bit.”

Unwilling to argue, she got to shaky feet and found her way to the guest room. She struggled taking the wedding dress off—the once pristine white fabric was now muddled with grime and dirt from where she’d been thrown around on the hard stone of the Phantom’s lair. Her knees were scraped and her body ached.

But she managed. Just like she managed to find some nightclothes from a pile of them in a wardrobe drawer.

As she crawled under the covers, she couldn’t help but worry about Raoul.

She’d never seen him so… dismissive and apathetic.

Hurt.

Sleep came with terrifying flashes of porcelain masks, menacing grins, and red rope cutting off limbs.

The next few days were like a blur.

Raoul was mostly silent, save for some choice words to staff—requesting brandy, specific food, or asking if Christine was seen to.

He hardly spoke to her, and she hardly spoke to him. They had breakfast, lunch, and dinner together, yet Raoul did not speak, and she did not mind. The silence was… all right. Perhaps better than putting what happened into words.

Staff did not ask about Raoul’s injuries, only asked him if he needed anything for alleviating pain or soothing bruises. The kind of discretion money and loyalty bought.

As the days passed, the bruises slowly faded back into his skin, but the red mark around his neck never faded. The chafed skin healed, but the scar remained. It was only visible in those moments where he reached for the salt on the table and his buttoned-up collar shifted down.

He hardly went out, not even for a ride through the gardens, something he’d always loved to do. Before, he’d often put Christine on Ophelia and guided them both around the luscious estate, talking his head off about everything and nothing. Reminiscing about the past, Gustave Daaé, and his and Christine’s future now that they were engaged.

Now, he hardly looked like himself. He ate as normal and gained nor lost any weight, but his eyes were… different. He hardly looked at her, but when he did, there was something in them she did not recognise, no matter how hard she tried to think of what it could be.

She tried very hard to convince herself it wasn’t regret or disdain. It wouldn’t track with how he held her hand when she slipped her fingers between his in those rare moments she did manage to get him to go for a walk.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she could ask him to bare his soul to her. Not with his vocal chords needing rest.

That changed when those two weeks passed.

He talked more again, to her and staff, and her heart thundered at the lovely timbre of his voice. Even if it was different. More hollow than she remembered.

It left a bitter taste in her mouth to think the Phantom had changed that about them as well.

But she persevered. During their breakfasts together she nudged her foot against his and asked him how he’d slept, and he gave her that slight smile and said it was fine. And he kept his foot by hers, and that was progress.

He picked his duties back up and spent days in his study, sipping a brandy while writing away on his many documents. He spent his time in the library, too, lounging in one of the comfortable chairs with his ever-present glass of drink.

Three weeks after that night in the basement, she finally mustered up the courage. After all, she’d practically moved in with him already after the whole affair—most unusual, but staff had the discretion not to speak of it.

She knocked on his study and walked in with the comfort of being a man’s soon-to-be wife.

Raoul looked up, and there was that look again for a brief moment, before it smoothed out into that general content he’d walked around with since the return of his voice. He wore his collars high up now. And cravats.

She missed when he wore them slightly loose and she could see more of his throat than was proper. Now he sat too straight and smiled too stiffly. Didn’t even allow her to press a kiss to his jaw.

“Christine, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked, laying down his pencil and sitting back in his chair.

For a moment she looked at him. Then she strode past the desk and leaned against it. There was an immense satisfaction at his noise of surprise at her proximity. “My dear Raoul, when do you think we will wed?” She hummed and cradled his cheek, touching him quickly before he could pull away.

But he did not pull away. In fact, he sighed and actually leaned in to her touch. He looked up to her and gave a smile—the sweetest one since they’d resurfaced. “I did not want to rush things after…” He motioned with his hand.

He hadn’t looked this loose in weeks.

Christine stared at him, wide-eyed and caught off-guard. She stammered, “I’m fine. I thought you…” She cleared her throat and shook her head. Forced a smile. “So, the wedding?” She leaned in and actually dared to brush their lips together. The first kiss since that fated evening.

Raoul… made a noise. He did not quite jerk away, but he certainly didn’t stay and return the kiss. He gently pushed her away, still smiling that damn smile. “What did you have in mind, Lotte?”

The name stung, and yet her heart fluttered all the same. She smiled—genuine. “I don’t want a big wedding,” she said simply. She idly twirled one of Raoul’s curls around her finger. “Just us is enough.”

“Then just us it is.” Raoul hummed as he reached for a paper and went to write down some notes. “When would you prefer?”

She ran her foot up his shin. “When are you available?”

His other hand went to her leg and gently wrapped around her stockinged ankle. Kept her in place. “What about next week? You’d need some time finding a wedding dress.”

Flashes of the Phantom’s wedding dress she’d discarded that evening rose bile to her mouth. She swallowed it back down and cleared her throat. “Sounds perfect.”

“Good. I love you.” Raoul was already looking back at the papers he’d been working on. He gently let her ankle go, though his fingertips did linger briefly before disappearing.

It was enough for a shiver to run down her spine. “I love you,” she parroted, hardly feeling like she meant the words like she once used to.

There was a moment, later that night, when staff had already retired and Christine was reading in the library by a lone lamp. A moment where she’d thought Raoul had retired for the night as well, but instead found him silently entering the library.

She looked up from her book and squinted to see him in the dark. “Raoul…? What are you doing?”

Raoul exhaled a shaky breath as he staggered over towards her. His collar was undone, his cravat pulled loose. His throat was visible. The scar was visible.

She thickly swallowed and closed her book. “Are you well?”

“I…” He took another shaky breath. He straightened and ran a hand through his curls before focusing on her. His gaze could be described as nothing but intense, even in the dark.

Then he fell to his knees before her and reached for her dress. He fisted the fabric and buried his face in the silk. “Christine…”

Her breath hitched. More concerned, she straightened and put a hand on his head. “Raoul, talk to me.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked up, and his eyes were glossy with tears. “For… all of this. I— Christ, I love you so much.” And he leaned up and pressed their lips gingerly together.

A soft noise escaped her. First of surprise, then of genuine want. For he kissed her like he once used to, and it lit the fire she’d committed to never burning again.

With desperate fervour she cupped his cheeks and deepened the kiss, leaning in before making another noise and pulling him over her.

He willingly went, groaning softly as their lips slid sinfully together and they breathed each other’s air and he was crawled over her on the too-small chair.

A leg hooked behind his waist and pulled him in, and a hardness pressed into her dressing gown that made her mind spin. “Raoul,” she gasped into his mouth, eyes heavy-lidded as she again reached for his lips. Her hands moved down his bare neck to his cravat and tugged on it—insistent.

That’s when, with a strangled noise of confusion and despair from them both, Raoul jerked suddenly away.

Gasping, he staggered back to his feet and wiped his mouth, wide-eyed and panting. His eyes were dark, yet his face paled evermore.

Equally breathless and with her legs spread wide, Christine stared at him from the chair. “R-Raoul?”

He was trembling. “I… I’m sorry….” And he stumbled backwards and fled the library, his hurried footsteps echoing down the hall.

The door slammed shut behind him.

The next day she went straight to the bridal boutique closest to the estate.

She needed out of the house—away from Raoul and his conflicting messages and her own heart pulsing with need and her veins colder than ice.

It didn’t matter that the sight of wedding dresses made her want to throw up. She entered, alone and with a sizable cheque from her fiancé, and demanded—asked politely—a wedding dress. If the shopkeep, Etiénne, had any problems with her being alone, the look in her eyes must have kept him firmly tight-lipped.

After the disastrous wedding dress the Phantom had picked for her, there was a sense of control in finally being able to choose her own. In being able to walk the shop and look through dozens upon dozens of wedding dresses all for different types of women.

She settled on a simple, elegant dress. Hardly any lace, nor an excessive train or anything else women usually liked. She much preferred this. Hell, she even chose some elbow-length gloves, just because she could.

The dress would need to be tailored, but it would be ready on time. She stood for the measurements as she’d done a million times for the opera house—do not think of that place now—and allowed time to pass by.

It was always brandy in his hand.

She’d come to recognise the smell of it. Not on his breath—she was hardly ever close enough to smell it—but it lingered in his clothes.

Her choice was a fine, red wine from 1875.

During dinner, they toasted to each other in silence and sipped their drinks of choice.

The wedding was hardly traditional. No other aristocracy—the Comte would turn in his grave—nor friends. They didn’t have any. It was just them in their finest before the door to the small, nearby church where the priest would officiate. In and out within perhaps thirty minutes.

They didn’t need much grandeur after all.

“You look beautiful,” Raoul said softly, his ocean blue eyes on her nothing short of adoring.

Her breath hitched at the look of them. That familiar, long-ago look that had made her fall in love with him. That boyish wonder and tenderness, like the world wasn’t so dark when he was around. She mirrored his smile—genuine. “Look at you, Raoul.” She allowed herself to laugh. “You look almost as handsome as when you first came into my dressing room.”

Raoul chuckled softly. “Hardly a fair comparison.” But there was that look in his eyes again.

Her heart clenched, and quickly she reached out and linked their arms. “I love you, Raoul. No matter what. I love all of you.” And, by God, she meant it. They were forever linked, and she would rather die than see them be unlinked.

Raoul’s eyes slid closed—as if he could hardly bear the truth. He exhaled a shuddering breath. Squeezed her arm. “Christine…” The way he said that was dangerous. So very close to picking at the scabs they’d both wilfully ignored for two months now.

But before she could tell him to stop, he shook his head and simply said, “You are everything for me.”

They had no vows written. She suspected this was the best either of them could manage.

“That’s…” Raoul frowned and earnestly looked up to meet her eyes. Truly meet her eyes, aware and full and beautiful. “I have no words for what you mean to me, Christine. Even when—” His voice broke, and again he cleared his throat. His hands trembled. “No matter what.” He raised her gloves hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to each of her knuckles. “I love you.”

It was difficult to breathe with this lump in her throat. It was the sweetest thing he’d said since… well. And he’d meant it, too, that much was obvious. He was in there, that boy she so adored. She could hardly fault him for the past two months when she had been that terrible catalyst of it.

She cleared her throat and nodded. “I’m ready.”

The priest was the same that had baptised Raoul, which did make the ceremony even sweeter.

They may have had their troubles, the ceremony felt like them. They shared glances and touches they hadn’t had in months, and she could fool herself in this being their normal. In always having those adoring eyes on her and those attentive, confident hands holding hers.

The kiss was the best in a long time. Better even than that library kiss. It was them confirming their love for each other, true even after all that’s transpired and was still going on. A love that floated through their hastily-constructed walls, built from pain and despair, and allowed them to momentarily forget everything but this.

The realest thing between them, when it seemed all they did was lie to each other.

And even the lying was out of love.

She was crying, and Raoul was, too. Just the better. She wasn’t sure whether it was from joy or despair, but the answer didn’t matter.

All that mattered was that Raoul held her hand and they walked out the church together and were smiling their real smiles.

The darkness of night brought with it the expectation of consummating their marriage. They were no strangers to the act, but Raoul nonetheless said, as he undid his bowtie, “We don’t have to, it’s all right.”

Christine looked at him from where she was unpinning her hair. For the first time they were in the master bedroom, prepared for them by staff. Their first night properly sharing a bed. “Why wouldn’t we?”

Grimacing, Raoul slipped the bowtie off his neck and put it on the desk. He did not look at her. “I do not want to pressure you.”

She sighed and put the pins carefully down. Considered. “And what if I want to?”

Raoul’s breath hitched, and he fisted the jacket in his hands until his knuckles turned white. “Christine…” He still wasn’t looking at her. He trembled.

“If you do not want to, that’s fine,” she said carefully, trying not to stare through the mirror as she undid the last of her pins. Her hair fell in luscious curls down her back—a wave to them that Raoul had always compliment right before they kissed like it was their last. “But I… would like to feel you again.”

The jacket fell to the floor with a soft thud. Raoul steadied himself on the desk, taking deep and heavy breaths. He covered his eyes with a hand and bit his lip.

She quietly watched him go through all he was feeling. She may not know exactly what he was thinking, the longing and guilt warring with each other was evident enough.

“You won’t hurt me,” she said, rising to stand. She took a shuddering breath as she gently walked towards him. “Raoul, look at me.”

“I…” Raoul grimaced, but he dropped his hand and slowly straightened. “Christine, I—”

“I know.” She reached out and gingerly took a wrist in hand.

His breath hitched.

“I have you. Just like I know you have me.” She dared a smile—an uncertain one, even if her heart told her this was right. She took his hand and settled it on her chest. Not her breasts exactly, but the space above. Enough of a hint. “Please touch me.”

The dam broke.

With a soft, broken whimper Raoul fully turned to face her. He cradled her cheeks and leaned in and they were kissing again. Not like in the church, but like the library—desperate and wanting with sliding lips and hands touching each other until they were both breathless.

But they did not proceed just yet. For a long while they stood there, embraced and kissing and truly rediscovering each other’s mouths after so long of nothing.

After another few minutes, Raoul's hands finally dipped below her breasts and found the bow of her nightgown. “Can I…?”

On his lips, she whispered, “Yes.”

With a soft groan he pulled the string loose. There was no more urgency in their movement now, and Christine couldn’t help but smile as she started unbuttoning Raoul’s shirt.

They took their time, enjoying each other in this honest moment they hadn’t had in ages. Layers fell to the floor until they were both bare and feeling each other’s skin.

He moved her to the bed, and it was assertive. The man she so loved, guiding her and making her feel safe with how he crawled over her and boxed her in with all of him. Warm and perfect.

“I love you,” he muttered on her lips, and the reverence of his truth was naked in his eyes. He moved to press his lips to her jaw and neck, and a hand dipped between her legs until she was arching into him and clawing at his back.

“I love you,” she said, meaning it, head thrown back in ecstasy and a leg hooked behind his waist.

Grumbling, Raoul reached between them for himself and lined up, and then he thrust forward and they both gasped in unison.

The pace was soft. Gentle and sweet with how he rolled into her and gasped out his shuddering breaths right in her mouth. Intimate like nothing else with his hands ghosting all over her skin, feeling her breasts and curves and dips until his gentle rolls turned more erratic.

“Yes…” She threw her head back and wrapped her legs firmly around him. She clawed at his shoulders and pulled him back down to her lips, desperately kissing him as they rutted together.

Until Raoul shuddered out a broken “Christine” and he stilled inside her, gasping for air with his eyes squeezed shut.

Her nails dug in his back and her toes curled. “Raoul…”

Panting, Raoul found her lips and kissed her once more—soft and sweet, like the boy on the rooftop so long ago now. “I love you… Let me…” He carefully pulled out of her, wincing softly, before he lowered himself between her legs.

The moment his mouth was on her, she tangled her fingers in his hair and arched into the pleasure. His tongue pressed against her, fingers pushed into her, and she was coming before she knew it.

Raoul crawled back up and lay beside her, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth from her slick.

A laugh bubbled from her chest before she could stop it. Then tears welled up and she was sobbing.

“H-Hey, what’s— Christine?” Raoul worriedly sat up and cupped her cheeks, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “What’s going on? Did I hurt you?”

There was such genuine worry in his voice and eyes. Evidence of his love for her, even if he struggled to show it the way she needed him to.

But this…

With a wet laugh she reached up to cup his cheeks and pull him back into another kiss. “No, Raoul. This was… perfect.”

And that was enough.

The next morning she woke to something warm wrapped around her.

Raoul was a morning person while she most decidedly wasn’t, so him still being here…

She carefully shifted to look at him, visible in the low light filtering through the gaps in the curtains.

He was still asleep, on his side facing her with his arms wrapped around her. Like this, he looked peaceful and unworried. Unburdened by what happened two months ago—just a young man newly married in bed with his now wife.

But there was the scar.

She hadn’t seen it in a bit, busy with the wedding planning and doing her own thing while they both found comfort in their own bottles.

Her throat constricted. She wormed a hand between their pressed-together bodies and gently ghosted her fingers over the reddened skin. It wasn’t particularly hotter—it was just skin. And yet her mouth dried and she struggled to breathe at the sight of it. That permanent reminder of that terrible night that had killed them both in their own ways.

They hadn’t lost their lives, but they had certainly lost something.

She swallowed and gently leaned in, into that sacred space between chin and chest where all their warmth was kept. She pressed a gentle kiss to the skin. The moment his steady pulse thrummed beneath her lips, tears welled in her eyes. She couldn’t tell whether they were regret, grief, or something else entirely, but she had given up classifying anything the past few months. She just… was.

Something she did know was that she would never let Raoul go again. Never again would her love waver the way it briefly did that night. Her own sinful confession she would take to her grave—buried beneath her conscience where only God could find it and she wouldn’t have to look at it.

Now there was only Raoul, and she had enough of wallowing in her own pity.

Decisively she rolled Raoul onto his back and quickly straddled him before she could change her mind.

The sheets fell off her, exposing her nude form in all its youthful glory. But also exposing Raoul to her—chiselled and beautiful and handsome. Hers. With a soft smile she settled her hands flat on his chest, feeling his heartbeat and heat all at once.

When her fingers tickled through the few blond hairs sprawled over his chest, he made a soft noise and his eyes fluttered open. It took a moment for his brain to catch on to what he was seeing. “C-Christine…?” he muttered, voice hoarse from his sleep. Or… the other thing.

“I want you, Raoul,” she whispered, as sultrily as she could. She rolled her hips over his and groped her own breasts. “Please…”

His nostrils flared and his eyes darkened. His hands settled on her waist and squeezed the supple skin. He nodded, and a hand curled around the back of her neck and pulled her in for a heated kiss.

No longer did she drink her wine. At least, not daily. Sometimes, when they were both in the library reading their own books in their respective chairs, she did have a glass for the taste. But no longer did she start with a glass at breakfast.

Likewise, she no longer saw the usually ever-present glass of brandy in Raoul’s hands. Nor did the smell linger on his clothes.

It’s like their wedding had changed something for the better for once. They shared the bed and kissed enough—willingly and wantonly, and not always with the intent of sex. They touched more, and not just because she initiated.

When they woke, Raoul was cuddled against her as if afraid she’d disappear. He caressed his fingers over her naked skin, drawing circles on her hip and pressing kisses to the nape of her neck after brushing her hair aside.

When they did make love, he was gentle and sweet. A certain desperation in how he took his time cataloguing all the noises and expressions he could pull from her. Always in bed, the lights dim so they could see each other, cherishing her in ways every girl dreamed of.

They did not speak of them both drinking less. Nor did they speak of that night, longer ago now.

Life moved on for them both. Life outside the estate, with aristocrats and people wanting to see the Vicomte and Vicomtesse, asking politely—but really, demanding—for their presence at soirees and business parties.

The first soiree they attended as a married couple—but also the first after that night—was actually enjoyable.

They stood arm in arm laughing at something the Baron said, his own wife on his arm rolling her eyes at him with a fondness that betrayed years of happy marriage. It was a hopeful and exciting prospect they could soon be like them—carefree enough that their biggest worry was the colours their roses should be next year.

They came home with laughter echoing down the halls, shushing each other so as not to wake the staff, but then giggling at needing to be quiet. Merry moments pulled naturally from having one glass of champagne too many.

Not from drinking themselves numb, but from enjoying life.

Sex that evening wasn’t a gentle affair, and both were laughing throughout it. Hands were rougher, leaving indents and red marks—but not for anything but simply feeling the other. Feeling free to enjoy life and each other.

That wasn’t to there weren’t moments like before.

Raoul was different from those first two months after that night, but he would never again be that carefree boy who’d blindly followed her into the opera house’s basement. There was still that look in his eyes at certain moments, but they happened less.

Just like her own thoughts wandered less to things they shouldn’t. She thought of Raoul now, and of their life together. The dress she’d wear tomorrow or the letter she wanted to write to Meg, asking how things were after all this time and apologising for her silence.

Picking their lives back up.

Raoul picked it up by coming home with flowers for her and a smile. That genuine one, the closest to the boyish man she once knew and had fallen in love with.

She surprised him with a new tie or bow tie. Never cravats, hoping to coax him into not wearing them anymore. Or at least, wearing them less. She missed seeing his neck, and it could hardly be comfortable having everything buttoned so tightly.

At least he humoured her by taking his cravats off when it was just them. Most often in the library. They’d pushed the chairs closer together and now often read close enough she could rest her feet in his lap and he was idly stroking his hand up and down her stockinged shin. An intimate gesture with no expectation for more.

Sometimes they moved to the sofa instead and he rested his head in her lap, and she ran her fingers through his curls.

And sometimes he fell asleep and she let him snore quietly away.

It’d been a year since.

They were seated in the library. It was dark and snowing outside, and the fire crackling inside was nothing short of cosy. They were bundled in blankets, for their dressing gowns were quite thin, and reading by the flickering flames.

They were sat in a comfortable silence—they hadn’t had an awkward one in a long time.

Raoul shut his book with a soft thump. Normally that signalled him going to the lavatory.

Not looking up from her book, Christine asked, “Do I need to move my feet?”

Hands took her feet and kept them firmly in his lap. A thumb caressed the arch of her foot. “No. I was… thinking.”

He said it in a way that made her blood run suddenly cold.

His voice had never quite recovered after that night, but he’d gotten good at talking normally and not being interrupted by coughing fits or voice cracks. By all intents and purposes, the only thing that had changed was his pitch—slightly hoarser than a regular man should be. But one could misconstrue it as him smoking too much, despite him not smoking at all.

Christine dared not look up from her book, but she wasn’t reading either. She was just staring at the paper, trying to get her body under control.

He took a deep, steadying breath. The one that still rasped his throat. “Christine, I must apologise.”

“What for?” She said it too quickly, too desperate. Her fingers clamped on the book and she clenched her jaw. Tears swam in her vision.

She’d thought they were fine.

Perhaps noticing her stress, Raoul smoothed his hand around her ankle and gently squeezed. “Lotte, my love, we have to talk about it at some point.” His voice betrayed him, though, wavering where his words were intending to be steady. His hand around her ankle trembled, and again he squeezed her, just because he could. Or to steady himself. “Not in detail. Not… like that, but… Christ, I can hardly look at myself those first few months…”

Her breath wasn’t coming out right. She shut the book, too harshly, and let it drop in her lap. “Raoul…”

“No, please… Let me just… I need it off my chest. Out of my mind,” Raoul rasped, frowning deeply. And still he waited for her permission, looking at her with those big blue eyes she could never say no to.

She nodded.

He exhaled a shuddering breath. “All right… good.” He patted her ankle and nodded, more to himself than her. He looked away, somewhere behind her. “Christine, I want you to know I do not blame you. I never— Still, I do not blame you. Not then, not now. It was never your fault.”

Something tightened in her chest. She grimaced and also looked away, unable to bear the look in his eyes, even when not aimed at her.

Shakily, he continued. “I wasn’t myself… I still aren’t, I know that. But I’m trying.” His voice wobbled, and he cleared his throat in that way he did when he was close to crying. “It’s not you, Christine. It never was. What… he did… the Phantom…” He shivered. The first time either one of them had named him. “I bear the physical scar, but the mental one feels innumerably heavier. And I’m trying to carry all its weight without burdening you with it, but still I’m dragging you down, and I don’t—”

“You aren’t dragging me down.” She didn’t mean to interrupt him, but she couldn’t not tell him. “I’m alive because of you.”

Raoul frowned. “How can you— No, Christine, you saved us both with what you did. If anything, I am alive because of you.”

She straightened, her feet flopping back to the floor as she earnestly leaned over towards him and looked him right in the eyes. “Raoul, I may have done what I did, but I fell apart after. You brought us to the estate and got the doctor and got us taken care of. You woke me the next day and offered me breakfast and a safe place to stay. And I never left because I did not want to.” She reached out and cupped his cheeks, her elbows on his armrests. “Raoul, I love you.”

Tears dripped down his cheeks, silent in the way he barely acknowledged them himself. He sniffled and leaned into her gentle hands. Took her by the wrist as his eyes slid closed. “I love you, Christine. More than words could ever do justice.” He leaned in and softly kissed her.

“I chose you, Raoul,” she whispered. “I need to you understand that. I may have kissed him, I chose you. I… I didn’t know what else to do with his… rage… At any moment he could have yanked that noose and he’d have killed you…” The despair of that night roared back alive—the desperation at seeing Raoul’s blue face and fading eyes.

Raoul tightened his hold on her wrists—grounding them both. “I know,” he muttered, eyes squeezed shut. “I know, and yet— I fall asleep and I see you looking at him the way you used to look at me, and I can’t bear it!”

Christine flinched. Her mind blanked. Out of everything he could’ve said, she hadn’t expected that. What does one say to that?

How could she ever begin to describe her once-complicated feelings for the Phantom that had nearly killed Raoul?

“I…”

Raoul pressed his palms into his eyes. “I know. God, I know. I’ve been agonising over this from the moment it happened. I know you did all you could. The only thing you could. And yet it plagues me. All of it does. And I do not blame you—I never could.” He grimaced, but he dropped his hands back in his lap. “For the past year I’ve been trying to make my head make sense, but I can’t. All I know is I do not truly blame you in any way. I love you—adore you. More than life itself. I count myself lucky every single day I wake up next to you.”

He abruptly got to his feet, Christine’s hands slipping off him, and paced around the room. “And I hate myself for envisioning what I saw every time I close my eyes. I hate that I can not let it go the way you deserve. That I am seemingly incapable of not resenting you for what’s happened.”

The words stung, no matter how hard he tried to reiterate he didn’t truly blame her. It only lit the fire of her own guilt. Her own resolve in blaming herself for putting them in that mess in the first place.

And perhaps…

Shakily, she got to her feet as well. “Raoul… Breathe. Listen to me.” She walked up to him, tears welling in her eyes. “I… I blame myself for it all.” Her hands dropped uselessly to her side. “All of it. My loneliness after Father’s death making the Phantom come to me, and me welcoming him. Allowing him to seep into every crevice of my life until all I knew and wanted was him.”

Now Raoul flinched, but he didn’t stop pacing.

Christine reached for his shoulder and took it, forcing him to stand still. “But then you came, and you pulled me from that despair that I was carrying with me, and everything was so light.” She gave a wet laugh. “And I fooled myself into thinking we would be fine, despite knowing the Phantom’s raging jealousy.” Her breath hitched. “I knew, and still I allowed you to court me. I wanted you to court me, because I wanted to be with you. Back then, during it all, and now. You were always my choice.”

She stepped closer, right into Raoul’s personal space to look up to him. “Raoul, all that happened down there… it’s ugly and disturbing and that wasn’t us. Not… anymore. We left something of us down there—sacrificed the light we were to get out. We would have died otherwise.” Her breath hitched at the realisation spoken at last. “The Phantom forced all of that from us. He forced us into that impossible choice, so that no matter what, he’ll have ruined us.” She exhaled a shaky breath and slid a hand up Raoul’s arm. It ghosted over his shirtsleeves and towards his neck.

Gasping, Raoul firmly took her by the wrist and halted her. “Don’t—”

“I’ve seen it a million times already,” she countered on a whisper. “I just… Stop burying it. We both have to. It’s killing us.”

Raoul made a soft noise most akin to a whimper. “Christine…” Yet his grip loosened. Resigned.

She looked up to meet his eyes, searching for his permission rather than his acquiescence.

He stiffly nodded and closed his eyes.

Gently she undid the tie—her gifted tie, the one with the lovely dots—and slipped it loose. Then she unbuttoned the first two buttons and carefully slipped her hands onto the warm skin of his neck.

He shuddered.

“Here we are, Raoul,” she whispered shakily, a tear falling from her eyes. “Right here, this is who we became.” Her fingertips ghosted over the scar, fainter now after the time already passed. “Do not let it kill us. Do not let him win.”

Raoul sagged, as if the weight of the past year came crashing down on him all at once. His knees wobbled, and with a terrible wail he almost collapsed.

She managed to catch him just in time and lowered them to the ground. She was properly crying herself, brushing back Raoul’s curls as he fisted her dress and buried himself right in her abdomen, his shoulders shaking with every harrowing sob rasping his throat.

Sniffling, she leaned down and buried her face into his hair and sobbed, her arms tight around him lest he’d break, and his arms equally tight around hers. A broken embrace, but theirs.

Raoul really had died down there, and she had married his ghost, just like he’d married hers.

Perhaps being ghosts together wouldn’t be so bad when it was like this.