A/N—This is a one-shot short piece, unconnected to any of my other writing. Hopefully Second Chance will be back next week with an update!

The Usual Disclaimer—These characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.

Thank you for reading, and please be awesome and leave a review!


A Living Husband

Copyright 2016 by Riene

He made certain to never come to bed until after he was sure she was asleep. At the most he would brush his scarred lips across her forehead, a chaste kiss, and would try not to see the smudged bruises under her eyes, or the tracks of dried tears. She, sweet girl, would always leave candles lit for him, one in their bedroom, one in the bathroom. Their bedroom, their bed…for the one thing she had insisted on changing was his sleeping in the coffin. She simply could not bear to think of it.

He gathered his nightclothes, a bridal gift from her, black silk buttoned top and drawstring pants, and retreated to the bathroom to change, lest she glimpse his gaunt, scarred torso, then slipped into bed, as far from her as he could manage. He shoved the cold bony hands which "stank of death" under the covers and lay there, and ached for her. And he cursed fate, fate which had seemingly brought him everything he had ever desired, then left it in ruins.

For he had no idea how to love her, how to woo her. When other men had been learning of gentle words and soft kisses, he had been fleeing across Europe from the horrors of his past. When other men had been learning the art of making love, of giving and receiving, he had been perfecting his skills as a destroyer. In his life there had been no one to show him affection, love, or pleasure. Pain was what he knew of human touch, human companionship.

Christine, though, was used to affection. Her papa and mama had kissed and cuddled her. The Valeriuses had embraced and praised her. The little ballet girls were like a pile of kittens, playing with each other's hair and holding hands. Raoul had been romance and roses, sweetness and light. Even Madame Giry dispensed a rough affection of in the form of caresses and cuffs. Her timid overtures toward her new husband were rejected, as he alternately flinched or shuddered from her touch, and the loneliness of isolation was nearly unbearable. Christine feared his black moods. He feared the overpowering urges her touch aroused.

In her sleep she sighed and rolled over and pressed against him, a welcome warmth in the cold marriage bed. Erik froze, every nerve suddenly aflame, eyes staring blindly at the wall, hating his wretched grotesque body for wanting her, hating it for having failed him.

He had demanded a living bride, and she, dear sweet loving girl, had agreed. He had had no idea how to be a living husband.