I discovered the idiom "a month of Sundays": a long, unspecified period of time; eternity the other day, and became giddy with how perfect a title it would make for an E/C fic because "i WaNt tO hAvE a wIfE LikE eVErYbOdy eLsE aNd tAke hEr oUt oN SuNdaYs, dArOGa".

So, have something a tad more light and fluffy than my usual stuff. Or is it? xD I swear, one quarter of the total time that it took me to complete this (writing + researching) was me googling 'églises près du Bois de Boulogne'.

This is chapter 1 out of 4 (as your standard month consists of four weeks, therefore four Sundays). Partly inspired by my own panic attacks. Oh, and while I'm at it, TW: descriptions of panic attacks/anxiety.

Please R&R :)

A Month of Sundays

In the late morning light, an unlikely twosome is walking down the Bois de Boulogne.

"We should have waited for the afternoon, the place is always packed after la Notre-Dame du Saint Sacrement has its dismissal. Which is," the man dressed in black pulls out his pocket watch, "was," he rushes to correct himself, "ten minutes ago."

"Will you please stop being so tense?" Says the woman beside him, resolute gaze roving over his covered features, as they saunter along the water.

"I am not tense." Stomach in knots, heart in mouth, said mouth dry and fingers twitching inside the pockets of his coat, he attempts to retain some semblance of mental poise. Yet she sees through him, crystal clear, like their reflection in the Lower Lake, which he is quick to turn from.

"Bear in mind, it was you who wanted this." She tightens her grip, arm in arm as they are, in an effort to reassure him. He only flinches, almost losing his footing.

"I think," he stammers, "I think that my..." he fumbles for the word, but only its Persian counterpart reaches for him. "My keravat*, I think it's too tight."

"Your what?" Her eyes crinkle at the corners in confusion, one eyebrow rising, freckled nose wrinkling, and he presses a palm into his masked forehead, shaking his head. He can't remember a plain, every-day word, in a language he knows better than the back of the hand that is rubbing his temple as they speak.

He can't stop stumbling. "This." Clicking his tongue, he gestures to the expanse of fabric that flowers from his collar and disappears inside his vest. "This thing. I have forgotten what it's called."

"Ta lavallière*." She articulates the word for his sake.

"Yes, of course, la lavallière." The hand from before covers his eyes, kneading the hard material of the mask. "I'm sorry, I genuinely don't know what is wrong with me today, but I swear, this thing is choking me."

"Erik." She calls, the soothing resonance of her voice alleviating the ringing hum that is starting to manifest in his ears. "You need to relax. You will collapse if you keep being so agitated."

"How many times do I have to tell you, I am not–" She covers the cavity that exposes his lips with her hand, leading to the word being muffled into its mushy twin, 'ah-geh-taw-tawd'.

"Are you done?" She snaps, removing her hand.

"Christine, I swear to God–"

"God is not on your side, I paid my respects just this morning." She declares, smoothing down her skirt. "Now, tell dear Christine; why you are acting like a chicken before slaughter?"

Erik grimaces behind the mask. "Lord, what grisly turn of phrase is this?"

"One that Mama would attribute to me, whenever I was jittery before performing." She chuckles under her breath, and immediately goes on with her interrogation. "What is wrong?"

He puffs. "I have no idea. I am constantly worried that someone might see us–"

"So, what if they do?" She interrupts. "Even though it's just us and the ducks, at this early hour."

Exhaling deeply, he thumbs his collar.

"Does it still feel tight?" She halts, and turns to examine him. He nods.

Biting her lips, brisk eyes evaluating what needs to be done, she takes his gloved hand in hers, guiding him to a nearby bench and forcing him to sit down, then settling beside him.

"Your skin is suffocating, what made you muffle up like that?" She pulls off his gloves, and loosens the keravat, the lavallière, whatever you wish to call it.

"I refuse to ignore the possibility of an April downpour. You know how intense these can get."

"I do, but not when the sky above is spotless!" She chides.

He straightens his spine, looking around like an alarmed deer that knows it's being hunted. "Someone's coming!"

"Calm down, all we have to do is act normal." She occupies his hand in a tight grip.

The gravel behind the trees shifts and grinds under the weight of feet.

Quack.

Laughter bubbles out of her as the white waterbird comes into view, and he buries his face in his hands, trying to hide away the crimson tint of shame that is rising to his cheeks, fearing it will bleed through the copper.

She elbows him, her sweet, gleeful sounds drowning out the frantic bells that chime inside his head. He accompanies her with a scoff at first, which then blooms into a reluctant giggle, and a full-on head-thrown-back belly-laugh by the time the duck has neared them.

"You damnable little thing." He smiles as he steadies his breathing, as does Christine, and the two sit in silence. The duck comes closer, stares at Erik, then waddles away. The smile is instantly wiped from his lips.

He brings his knees together, and his elbows recline on them. His head follows, resting on his wrists. "It feels as if everyone can see past the mask. Even aquatic birds."

Christine leans forward. A soft palm on his left cheek, and he is facing her. "You are being paranoid. I can barely tell you're wearing it." She examines his face. "Well, almost; I can see the edges. But, unlike everyone else, I know it's there. I am certain that it will be undetectable by the rest. They won't be able to see it, let alone see past it."

It's true; he had formulated it that way, but to him, it's as if it's made of glass, all the same.

He hears the hum of pairs and pairs of feet approaching; the believers have left Saint Sacrement, and are arriving for their Sunday morning walk. And amongst them, he will lose his God anew.

The choking feeling is back for more, and he thinks his chest is burning. "Christine."

She hears, and knows. The first wave of people, in ones and twos, or entire groups, is sallying forth in their direction.

She pulls him to his feet, and drags him towards the trees, leaving his gloves behind.

He is panting, heart thudding, feet buckling under him.

Sheathed behind the large masses of green, she grabs his shoulders. "Erik, listen to me, please."

He nods, swallowing hard.

"Breathe. From the diaphragm, the way you taught me. Breathe." Vomit rises to his throat, and black is splashed along his peripheral vision. Heavy-lidded and shaking, he chokes out; "I can't."

At this point, he starts to fear a stroke. His chest is growing tighter by the second.

"Erik."

She clutches his heaving form, hands cementing on his back. His lips are numb, but somehow he feels her mouth through the gap in the mask, and the few particles of air that he is desperately holding on to are knocked out of him as they kiss.

His hands slowly creep around her waist, for balance more than anything, and she pulls him closer. Bodies fixed together and blending into each other behind the trees, they go unnoticed.

He can't tell how long they stay like this. He'd loathe to have to let go in order to reach for his pocket watch and check. When she releases him, he is light-headed, but this is a light-headedness distinctly different from the one before.

She smiles. And again, she knows; she always does.

Even though his breathing has been ruthlessly assaulted, he finds that somehow, at long last, he can breathe again.

*
keravat (tr. Farsi): cravat, neck-tie
lavallière (tr. French): a fluffy cravat, essentially