Chapter Text
The de Chagnys do not come to the wedding. In fact, the only actual de Chagnys present are Raoul, Philippe, and his sisters- Aimee, Charlotte, Isabelle, Marie, Marie, and Marie. It makes Christine the slightest bit angry (only the slightest, or so she says) that they do not show. Raoul had so hoped that they would, that for at least one day, they’d put aside their disdain for him and be the family he hoped they were.
Christine still remembers the way Raoul’s face had fallen when his uncles and aunts and cousins responded to the invitation, a resounding NO in their letters. Raoul is like a puppy, she’s come to understand, ever enthusiastic and sometimes overbearing but only because he’s so eager to share. And it did break her heart to see him so disappointed.
“There will be so many other guests,” she told him, “we won’t even notice.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose,” he’d agreed, “and we’ll have each other! That’s all that matters!”
She’d smiled and kissed him then.
But she had no idea how true that statement was. They have their wedding on the beach, a memento to their first meeting. She’d imagined sea shells and parasols and whatever else a wedding by the sea would entail.
Instead, Philippe has managed to purchase an abandoned pirate ship, said to be cursed by a witch from two centuries past. He’s hired men to dismantle and rebuild it piece by piece on their chosen beach. Lovely decor, he’d called it, only the best for his brother and Christine (he was still not keen on calling her “sister”). There was also something about making the guests hunt and kill their own food.
And on the day of the wedding, no other de Chagnys show. But the Addams clan files in one by one, a never-ending lineup of people dressed for a funeral. They are all as pale as Raoul and as ghoulish to behold, as bizarre and misshapen as the family album had promised. And their gifts pile up-- skulls, dynamite, medieval maces, witches' brooms, great uncle Edgar’s skeleton, a mundane looking knife that Christine has no desire to know more about, and even more.
Christine’s own guests have brought champagne, wine glasses and china plates. Halfway through introductions, Mama Valerius fainted and needed to be resuscitated by Marie, Marie, and Marie. Sorelli and the others stay huddled in a corner despite Christine’s best reassurances that they’re surrounded by friends.
And as soon as she calls the others, “harmless,” Philippe jumps to his feet and cries, “It is time for the bridal duel!”
“The what?” Christine asks.
“No need to worry, dear,” Aimee tells her, “you just sit and enjoy yourself.”
Philippe saunters to the top of the ship and clears his throat. “As you all know, it’s custom for the bride and groom to engage in a duel to little death.”
“Little what!?” Mama cries, nearly collapsing in Marie and Marie’s arms again.
“Little death!” Philippe repeats. “We call it ‘little death’ because it gives each party the thrill of dying but does not, in fact, kill them. But seeing as our bride-to-be is not familiar with this custom, we shall not force her.”
There’s a note of disdain in that last line but Christine is too busy trying to wrap her head around the concept to notice.
“So I, the best man,” Philippe says, “will stand in her place and challenge the groom!”
With a swish, he draws a rapier and points its tip at Raoul. “Come, brother!”
Christine’s about to stop Raoul from taking part in this insanity when Aimee grabs her wrist. “No, dear! It’s bad luck to interact with the groom now!”
“He’s being challenged to a duel to the death!” Christine cries, “he could be hurt or worse or-”
“It’s only ‘little death,’” Aimee says, “Raoul will be fine!”
Raoul climbs up to the poop deck, shouting, “Watch me, Christine!”
Someone hands Raoul a weapon, and as the family cheers, the brothers de Chagny engage in their duel. And Philippe shows Raoul zero mercy, to Christine’s horror. For his part, Raoul has never looked prouder, and as their blades clash and clash again, Christine wants to shout for them to stop. She almost screams when Philippe’s sword nicks the hair on Raoul’s head.
“Oh I remember my little death,” Charlotte sighs behind Christine, “my dear Vincent- his guts all spilled out. Two hundred stitches!”
“That’s terrible!” Christine says.
“Thank you!”
A noise like shears tearing through cloth almost rips out Christine’s heart. Her legs move. She’s halfway to the ship, when Philippe drops his sword, a cut across the bridge of his nose. Grinning, he pulls Raoul into a hug.
“Our winner!” he says, “my brother!”
Applause thunders through the crowd. From Raoul’s crowd at least. Christine’s guests are less enthusiastic.
When Raoul climbs back to shore, Christine’s relieved to see no wounds on him, though she does panic at the little spot of blood on his cheek, no doubt a poke from Philippe’s blade. But before she can get to him, the Addams surge around him and lift him atop their shoulders.
And then, in the midst of all that attention, Raoul’s eyes nearly pop out. He leaps from the crowd and rushes away. Two old women step into view- no, the heads of two women on one body.
“Gertrand!” he cries, “Gertrude! You made it!”
Raoul’s governesses hug him tightly, showering him with kisses as if he was a babe again. “Oh! Raoul dear, we’re so proud of you!”
“Yes, our little Raoul all grown up!”
And once the shock of that terrible duel has passed, Christine laughs. She suddenly remembers the summers by the sea, her father trying and failing to make small talk with Gertrand and Gertrude. She’s missed them too, she realizes, and she’s all too happy to exchange kisses once they turn from Raoul.
But just when she’s sure anything that can happen has already taken place, Raoul hops to his feet again.
“You, you!” he says, “you came! You came!”
Christine turns. And almost falls back again. She’d nearly forgotten who else Raoul had invited.
The Persian shakes Raoul’s hand, awkwardly holding a bouquet of flowers in his other. And beside him is a figure Christine cannot forget, even if she wanted to. Erik. Suddenly much less intimidating in the daylight. Even with his black hat and mask, he looks no different than the rest of Raoul’s relatives-- in fact, for a moment Christine actually wonders if this was another Addams instead.
“I am sorry we’re late,” the Persian says, casting Erik an accusing look.
But those yellow eyes do not meet his. They’re staring at Christine and as the memories of their last meeting return, she knows there’s no point in avoiding the elephant in the room. Once Raoul’s done clapping Erik on the back and for lack of better word, drooling over his arrival, Christine takes his place.
“Hello Erik,” she says behind her veil.
He freezes. And Christine almost pities him. Almost.
“Hello,” he says at last, “I- I hope you’re in good spirits today.”
“I am,” she replies, “I am to marry the man I love.”
He says nothing. And then, slowly says, “Christine. I- I am sorry for what I’ve done. Thank you for having me here.”
“You are here on Raoul’s account. Not mine.” And then to make sure he understands, she says, “I still have not forgiven you and you’ve no right to demand it from me. But for my husband’s sake, I will allow amends. I will allow you another chance but if you do anything to ruin our happiness, to hurt Raoul, Erik, I will never forgive you.”
She doesn’t care if it sounds cold. If anything, she thinks she’s allowed him too much mercy already. But her gut says Erik will not dare cause trouble anymore.
“I understand,” he says, rather forlorn.
Christine nods curtly and walks away. It feels good.
The priest had only agreed to oversee the wedding because it was a de Chagny affair. Had he known it had anything to do with the Addamses, he would never have agreed. Christine knows this information because the priest tells her himself, right before she and Raoul exchange wedding vows.
Then they kiss, and it’s the happiest she’s ever been. She can taste the wax on Raoul’s mustache, smell the mint in his breath, feel the sunlight and sand on his too-pale face. Her goblin of a boy. Her delightfully odd Raoul.
And she loves his family, every single one of them just by virtue of sharing his blood.
During the reception, she sits by Raoul while he slurps crab meat directly from the shell. Mama Valerius holds her hand, trying her best to appear happy. Gertrude and Gertrand pour their table wine. And once Raoul’s done with his crab, Philippe stands, holding a spoon to his glass.
“I would like to make a toast to the new couple!” he says.
The guests cheer.
Philippe levels the volume with a gesture of his hand. “Raoul is my darling brother. Why, I had no idea Maman would ever conceive again! Then Raoul came along. He was the baby of our family, more than a brother to me- he is my son, my friend, my life.”
Then he looks to Christine. “Now, I only wish the best for Raoul and if the best involves a woman like Christine, then who am I to stand between them? Christine, you are- forgive me for saying so, but it’s what we all think- an absolutely lovely girl, mundane and normal and not at all de Chagny nor Addams material.”
There’s a collective gasp in the crowd, though Christine’s unsure if she should be insulted, so she only lets Raoul squeeze her hand.
“However,” Philippe finishes, “you make my brother happy and for that, I thank you. For that alone, you are an Addams at heart!”
“Hear, hear!” Raoul cries.
The tables break into applause and Christine blushes. Once Philippe sits down, another figure rises from the next table over.
Oh no, Christine thinks.
Erik holds not a glass of wine, but an entire bottle- emptied. Beside him, the Persian tries in vain to pull him back down.
“Don’t do this, you wretch!” she hears the Persian say, “Erik, stop-”
“I have a toast to make!” Erik says, ripping off his mask to prove his point.
Aimee swoons, though Christine hopes that’s not the case.
“Christine,” Erik goes on, tears running freely down his face, “I love you. I loved you! You were the only good part of Erik’s life and he ruined it- I am but a dog at your feet, unworthy of your grace!”
If you’re so unworthy, then please sit down! Christine wants to say. She grits her teeth.
“I should never have pretended to be something I was not! There is nothing I regret more than betraying your trust! But the Vicomte de Chagny- he has brought you happiness I could never provide- I see how much he loves and you him, and it brings me so much joy but pains me so!”
“Erik, please sit down,” the Persian mumbles.
Erik yanks free from the Persian’s grip. “I had once planned to abduct you from the stage, knowing full well the Vicomte would come to your rescue! I would have kept him in the torture chamber and threatened you with a scorpion and grasshopper- turn the scorpion and marry me! Turn the grasshopper and send him- and the rest of the Opera- to the grave! How terrible of me, how dreadfully wrong!”
“Why would you say that!?” the Persian says, “Why!?”
“The Vicomte is a much worther man than I! A truly kind young man who will cherish you as you deserve!”
And sobbing, he adds, “Raoul, I love you!”
“I love you too!” Raoul says, moved to tears by that mess of a speech.
When Erik finally sits down, Christine’s so mortified she can no longer speak. The guests are silent for a good moment. And then, someone- perhaps Aunt Margaret- says, dumbfounded, “Christine, you gave up that for Raoul?”
“You must truly love Raoul,” Aimee says.
“To Christine!” Uncle Hugo, or whoever it is, chirps, “to the bride and the sacrifices she made! A weaker woman could never!”
Philippe raises his glass. “Hear, hear!”
And then, everyone toasts to the bride and groom. It’s all so ridiculous that Christine can no longer find it in her to be mad at Erik. She only laughs along, moved by Raoul- her husband’s cheer.
The reception lasts well past sunset and into the night. Christine is waltzing with Raoul by the sea when she sees Aimee and Aunt Margaret approach Erik from the corner of her eye. He’s still at the table with the Persian, perhaps having finally realized what a fool he made of himself.
“Were you the living corpse?” Aunt Margaret asks him, as giddy as a schoolgirl, “I’ve collected all your memorabilia.”
“Memorabilia?” Erik repeats.
“Oh yes, the flyers! I wanted to come to your shows but I was always a step too late. I followed you all the way to Russia once, but you were gone by then. I wanted to marry you, you know, as a girl.”
“Ah, but Aunt Margaret is married now,” Aimee says, “I- however- have no such concerns. Erik- Erik, is it?”
Christine doesn’t catch what Erik says, but she does hear the Persian cough, having choked on a comment. And as the night draws on, the fawning crowd around Erik grows, until he’s neck deep in papers, addresses and names and telegram requests from… suitors, apparently.
“Leave him alone!” Raoul calls to the crowd. “Control yourselves!”
And then turning back to Christine, he asks, “Say, where would you like to go for our honeymoon? I was thinking of some tombs!”
Christine giggles. “Wherever you go, I will go too.”
“Ah, but Lotte, I would go anywhere to see you smile.”
She yelps when he dips her, and then he grins again before catching her mouth in a kiss. Christine shoves her hands into his hair and pushes him into the water. She tastes his mouth again, heart as light as sea breeze.
This is the man she will spend the rest of her life with. And she does not mind it one bit. As far as they’re both concerned, this is better than happily ever after.