Where… Where am I? He opened his eyes. It was dark, but there was light coming from somewhere, just…where? There was a sensation of something, he didn't know quite what. He was breathing, he was at a comfortable temperature. His gloved hand reached to pinch a bit of loose skin from the opposite wrist. He was alive, judging by the pain.
But I'm not supposed to be alive. With a jolt, he remembered the pain, the gasping for breath, the sudden inability to move. No one had found him, there in the studio flat, and then the sky had almost opened to accept him. Here, then was the answer.
He sat up and looked about him. He could see himself, though something was very off about everything. Then he looked to his right: there was something clear there, something that suspended the dust on its smooth surface.
That was mildly interesting, but what was far more engaging was the figure behind the near-invisible barrier. Christine! He had not seen her for a month before…before he died. But how could he have died? Was this the afterlife?
His frantic, solid hands pounded against the barrier. The sound echoed, and something repulsed him, pushing him back several feet. Christine turned around, eyes wide. He saw his reflection and immediately turned away. This is very wrong. I don't look like that.
But he turned around, for once not focused on his love in life and death, and examined himself further. In the slight glare of the warm, white light that reflected off the barrier, he saw himself. The deformity that had cursed his life was gone. There was his face, as normal as could be, and there was something different about it.
It reflected intelligence, yes, and so many conflicting emotions that he wasn't quite sure if it really was his own face. This certainly felt like his body. He was wan and skinny as ever, as sure in his movements as ever. I am dead. This is the afterlife and this is what I was supposed to look like.
Christine had turned around and now was staring at him, examining with the same fervour. Only, she wasn't staring at him, she was staring at herself, at her own face. She looked sad, and thin, and fearful. She looked kind, and loving, and innocent. Everything she saw was what she was at the moment she died. It was still her, only…different. Truthful.
Her fingers brushed the glassy space between them, and her lips moved.
"Where are we?"
Erik tried desperately not to weep. He wasn't sure what exactly why he would cry now. Was it joy at seeing Christine again, at hearing her voice? Was it sadness? For if she was here with him, was she now dead?
"I don't know, exactly. I know I'm dead."
"I'm dead too." Almost as in remembrance of their old lives, he pressed his hand as close to hers as he could. Then he checked the pulse that was supposed to be thrumming in his jugular. He was warm, but there was no beat.
"You're right." Then, with almost clinical bluntness, he asked: "Do you remember how you died?" He was unable to hide his fear, however.
"I was alone, at night. My heart…it stopped." He froze.
"You're looking at me strangely, and I know why. My face is different, and you're staring." He shook his head. "What now? There has to be something to this."
She tilted her head, and he savoured the sound of her wild, charming locks rustling. They could not touch, but they could see and hear just fine. Now, she heard him talking too fast and too much, a sign of inward panic, and she could see it on his face now, too, something that she had always been unable to read. "Erik, I think I know what's happened."
"What?" He stopped pacing and muttering.
"Don't you see? This is a…a second chance. We died the same way, and now we are in the same place, just…" Her hand made a fist against the barrier.
"I know." The familiar sting set in, but it was dulled as he ran a hand over his face and found it smooth and unmarred. "But don't you see, Christine, this changes everything."
She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, everything has been changed."
"You can look at me without flinching now! It…it doesn't hurt me anymore."
"That's not true, and you know it." Here he had to pause.
"I know. We hurt each other."
"You sent me away! You know I loved you and you sent me away!" she exploded, feeling that she should have ween crying by now. Perhaps bodily functions, like them, were suspended in this limbo that they inhabited.
"You had to go, Christine, you know that. You had such a career ahead of you, a successful and happy one! You could have easily gone with someone else," he finished, softly. "I wanted the best life for you."
"And now we're both dead."
"I know that now, no need to rub it in," he muttered. The white shirt he always wore was comfortable, and, having become less than attentive to his appearance, he was clothed in just the shirt and loose pyjama pants, black, of course. It was a testament to just how far he'd slipped since she had left. "You could have stayed," he said, as a rather sprained, hobbling excuse.
Christine crossed her arms. "You pushed me onto a boat with a one-way ticket."
"I wanted you to be happy!"
"I was crying that night!" She put her head in her hands. "I swear, sometimes for all your genius, you are the most frustrating, ignorant- ugh!" She would have torn a few hairs out, but the strange effects of limbo on her body prevented it.
"If you had stayed with me, you would have lived in my less-than-adequate domicile with a grumpy cat and no hot water or fresh food. And then, with both of us unemployed, we would have had to live on the streets."
"If I had stayed, I would have been with you," she murmured. "That was all that mattered to me. We'd have been happy. Why, Erik? Why have you killed us both?"
"Because I thought I was sending you to life." Suddenly he couldn't stand to look at her anymore, so he sat with his back to their invisible wall. "And now we're stuck here, and it's my fault." It took him a moment to compose himself. "I…I'm sorry."
Christine sat back against the wall and curled up tight. She kind of hated that she wanted him to hold her now.
…
Their next conversation was some time later, though how much later neither knew. It must have been hours, though nothing had changed in their transparent prisons. Seconds, days, what did it matter? There was no sleep or hunger or thirst, and no way to fill up the silence or break down the wall between them, literally.
At last, though, Christine queried, rather irritably: "What, no singing?" Her head knocked against the barrier, and she could feel it push her back a little bit in response. Then she could hear Erik shift a little bit.
"There has been no music."
Her eyes narrowed. This surprised her, coming from Erik. She had thought he would compose an angry march or a mournful, tear-jerking fugue in her absence. "Since when?"
"Since…the day I pushed you away." The coincidences were startling.
"I haven't sung," she confessed suddenly. And why not? The only barrier between them that mattered was the invisible physical one. They were stuck here for the foreseeable future. "I couldn't. But you, why no music? You live and breathe music."
"I wasn't alive."
"Erik, don't tell me you-" She turned her head, though it really didn't matter. His face was just his face now, not deformed or damaged.
"No, I didn't, though I know you wouldn't put suicide past me." She heard skin rubbing over skin and knew he was touching his face, feeling the unfamiliarly even contours. "We died the same way, you know: broken heart syndrome."
She laughed, and it was not her usual beautiful, genuine laughed. Erik found himself missing that laugh quite intensely. "Thank you, universe, for such an ironic death!"
Christine felt a bit like screaming, but of course that wouldn't have done any good. It would have made Erik's ears hurt, too. If she had screamed, she would not have heard the next sound.
Erik was chuckling. "You have such a wonderful sense of humour when you're frustrated, you know." Her mouth dropped open in mock indignation.
"What? As opposed to my sense of humour when I'm not frustrated?"
"Yes."
She huffed and slapped the barrier between them. "Shut up…" But she wasn't really upset. Not for the jokes, anyway. She sighed. "Since we'll be here forever…" It took more courage than she'd expected to ask. "Sing?"
He eyed her cautiously. "What's the point?" Music connected them bodily in the living world, and now that they could not touch… It was unfulfilling.
"It's been such a long time, Erik. Please?" He didn't answer. She knocked her head against the wall again with a resounding echo. "Erik, I'm bored!"
"It's not my duty to assuage your boredom," he proclaimed.
"You are incredibly stubborn."
"Thank you."
"Fine." Her clothes, equally plain and pouty, rustled as she stood up and stretched. She filled her lungs to their full capacity and began a famous musical number, a newer one. It was nothing like the classical operas he'd taught her, but of course he knew the song from the many times she'd belted out along with the tracks in their one-week-shared apartment.
This wasn't a lively, belting song, though. It was a sweet one, a simple one. She remembered, as she started into the lyrics, that he had commented on the lack of technical skill required. At that, her chest ached.
It was a song about falling in love, and now as she sang, she saw the parallels more clearly than ever. After the first few measures, another voice was supposed to come in, and she wavered. She was used to that second voice as a harmony, but Erik did not join her.
Words fall through me, and always fool me
And I can't react…
She came to the bridge and began to cross it, figuratively and literally. Come on, Erik. I know you. She kept on singing, refusing to let her voice shake again.
Then, on the chorus, at last, his voice joined hers.
Take this sinking boat and point it home,
We've still got time…
She had to smile. They were back together now, that was what mattered. Not life, not death, not breadth, nor height, nor depth would separate them now.
Erik stood up. Even in this other world, he did not forget technique. He leaned back against the wall. It was strange, leaning on nothing, but it was good, having music again, hearing Christine and himself, voices tangled and knitted together as if they'd never been parted.
Afterwards, there was so much to say, and no words to convey it.
"Am I forgiven?"
"Yes." They turned to face each other, and Christine noticed for the first time how beautiful he really was, inwardly. He had his flaws, and his insecurities, but she did too. It had been silly, what they'd fought over. She had pushed him when he was afraid. "Am I forgiven?"
"Yes, though I don't see what there is to forgive," he said, still smiling. They stepped closer, closer maybe (oh heavens above!) the wall was gone now, maybe, maybe…
Thunk.
Their foreheads knocked against the barrier. It was thinner than before, and didn't make as much noise, still, they couldn't… "Erik…" she sighed hopelessly. She glanced down, bewildered. "Erik, are you still wearing those gloves?"
He frowned. "Obviously."
"Why?"
"I never got used to not wearing them, if you recall. And they came in handy when working with the blowtorch." She raised an arch eyebrow at him.
"Am I unsanitary?"
"No." He grinned, just as mischievous. "Mostly."
"That was once! And to be fair, you had that blowtorch out. How was I supposed to keep the bowl steady when you didn't warn me?"
"I promise you, I would not have burned your fingers." She stuck her tongue out at him, and it left a smudge on the invisible wall.
"You also promised me you'd get to adopting a puppy."
"Christine, you know that was highly impractical."
"Pfft. You just hate dogs." He held up his hand in defence.
"Untrue. Ayesha hates dogs. And do you really think the landlord would have let us own a dog? They're so…messy."
Christine laughed, and he savoured the sound. It had been over a month since he'd heard her laugh. "Seriously, Erik, take off the gloves. It's not like you need them here." He started to peel them off. "And they look weird with a t-shirt and sweats, just saying." He just eyed her and shucked the other glove off. "Look at us…just us. Bickering back and forth like an old married couple."
"We did live together for a while."
"Yeah, like, a month. And you were unbearable most of the time."
"Can you blame me? I kidnapped you and was feeling very guilty for it."
"Erik, are you actually regretting my moving it?" she teased.
"Never! I simply wish I'd gone about it in a more…legal way."
"Yes, without stalking me. But you did save my life, so…thanks." She tilted her head thoughtfully, and the sound of her hair moving was pleasant. "You know, I never really thanked you for that."
"You were too focused on analysing me."
"Well, I had to wonder how you vacillated from adept conversationalist to clingy stalker and back again. Then I just gave up and went with it."
He gazed at her peculiarly. "Do you regret that?"
"What?" Christine started, confused by the question. "Regret meeting you?"
"No." He had to take a deep breath. "Do you regret…'going with it'? Do you regret loving me?" He ducked his head. "I mean to say, I could hardly believe you loved me, and I would never ask for more if you didn't want more- I mean- we're dead now. If you hadn't loved me, I would have let you go. You wouldn't have died."
"I…" she breathed. It was true. If she hadn't fallen for him, if she had left, she would be alive. Probably with a stable job, and back at her little place on the edge of the downtown. But he had changed her irrevocably, and she had changed him. There had been good times, and bad ones. They had grown together like two trees, inseparable.
What was there to regret in that? "No. I don't regret anything. I would not have been so happy without you, Erik. I would have been alone." Her eyes met his, and they were shining with happiness. She already knew the answer, but she loved to hear it. "And you? Do you regret meeting me? Even if you are dead?"
"Never, Christine. If I could live again, I would change nothing but my own fear."
"Erik, I want to kiss you," she said very bluntly. Then she pushed against the wall, and found that it bent. "It moved," she gasped. She touched it again, and it was viscous in her hand. "Help me!"
There was a mad struggle as their hands met but didn't. They clawed at the thing frantically, the space between them was becoming smaller. For an instant, their fingers touched-
…
Christine sat up with a gasp, heart thundering in her chest, battering her ribcage. It was dark in the room, and there were people outside, and the sounds of bawdy music and clinking glasses. Then she remembered: the cruise, the misery and unwillingness to do anything. We touched hands, and then…
I'm alive! Erik must be alive too, he must be! I have to get back!
But she was a month into the voyage already. She scrambled for her belongings, shoved what little she had away, dressed, and exited her room. An attendant scurried by. "Excuse me, when's the next stop?"
"London, in about two hours. It's the last stop, you know."
In two hours, I will be home!
…
Erik breathed again. He was back on the cold floor, in his cold apartment, with the cold sky pouring in through the windows. I'm back. Christine! He stood, and he was warm with life again. The clothes he had were the same as they had been, and his gloves were still on. He pulled them off hurriedly, dressed for the cold, and headed for the port.
If he was correct, the cruise would be there in just a few hours, and on it would be the love of his life and his death.
…
The port was busy, of course it was busy, late at night. There were shipments of food from around the world, fuelling England's culinary education, there were several cruises, but Erik looked for only one, the Risquer. It, of course, was the largest and most luxurious one. There was no time for pride over his choice of boat, so he hurried towards it. There were many people waiting to greet their loved ones, but he shoved past them all.
"Christine!"
There she was, as beautiful as ever, and he as deformed as ever, and they were rushing towards each other. Her feet touched the stable, worn wood of the dock. "Erik!" Then she was weaving through the throng towards him.
At last, there was a space and they filled it with a tight, warm embrace. She could feel him breathing, and beneath their heavy clothes, there were two vibrant heartbeats. Gradually, they slowed. His hands held hers, and their pulses synchronised.
"Let's go home."