A/N: Requested by both rjdaae and pinetree-of-the-opera, for this prompt "Strikhedonia - The pleasure of being able to say "to hell with it". "
But Erik. Erik. Erik is so different, infinitely older and more broken, and less experienced and he looks as if he might flinch if she so much as touched his cheek, though he has touched hers with trembling fingers. And if she kissed him, truly kissed him, her lips pressed to his thin ones, well not that it would kill him, but there is that small irrational part of her that half-thinks it might.
She is not certain if that would be a good thing or not, and she holds off, studies him. He is not any more attractive than he was before, but is it her imagination or does he truly seem tired? (Her heart stirs slightly at the thought.) He certainly seems perfectly content to just be close to her.
She could grow to love him, maybe. Not like Raoul, never like Raoul, but a little. Enough. He is not so very awful, and he does care for her, or at least sees to her comfort. No. He does care. She can see that, feels it in the light touch of his fingers. He cares for her, and there is some part of her that whispers, softly, and you care for him too. She should not. She should hate him, want him dead for what he's done, for how he's hurt her and Raoul and even the Persian, and more. But she cannot, not when she remembers the way his voice made her heart soar, how she looked forward to each lesson, longed to see him just once. She cannot hate him, but she is not certain that she can love him either, not quite the way he wants her to love him. And therein lies the problem.
Still. She could kiss him. It might not kill him, in fact it probably wouldn't and her fancy is running away with her to even imagine that it might. She might even like it. (She doubts it, but still, and not for the first time pushes away the thought of the knot her feelings would be in if he were handsome.) It need not be much. It need not last very long. She need only lean in and press her lips, very softly, to the corner of his and pull back then and consider how she feels. It would be easy.
(She clings to the word as if it is a talisman.)
It is a resolution, almost, and she braces herself, takes a breath. She has never been one to swear, but damn it all anyway.
"Erik." She murmurs his name, barely more than a whisper, and he looks up from his newspaper, eyes creased with worry.
"Yes, Christine?"
"I—" No. She must not speak. If she says something she'll lose her resolve, so she swallows a breath, and nods, and closes the gap between them.
His lips are surprisingly soft beneath hers.