A/N: Additional content warning for emetophobia in this chapter. Thank you for reading! If you enjoy it- or hate it, I guess- please leave a review!

We had both left the parlor shortly after our decision, and when I woke in the morning, I found he had left a long wooden box just inside my door, accompanied by a number of vials. I knew immediately what was inside the box, but I felt it must be confirmed- and so it was. I felt a rush to my head at the sight of it. It was an ornate instrument in a fine case- I would have expected no less of Erik- but I could not find it beautiful. The needle was larger than I expected, and I found my eyes drawn to it despite my repulsion. It had been beneath his skin, inside his veins- closer than any person would ever be to him, it had dispensed his warm euphoria. I felt for a moment that I knew what it meant, when men compared morphine to a lover. It knew him beneath his flesh, inside the fragile tubes that pushed blood through him- straight to his heart, to the very core of his being, he and the needle had been one.
I hadn't even seen him yet, and I wanted more than anything to run.
I dragged my eyes away and shut the lid of the box, taking in a breath to collect myself. I couldn't take it back; I reminded myself that I wanted to take this on. I had chosen to try. Aware that these were my last few minutes of peace before the entire ordeal began, I slid the box, along with the vials, underneath my bed- out of sight and out of mind. I dressed simply, but spent more time than usual brushing out my hair, hungrily cherishing each moment I had before the inevitable- going out to see what state he was in. I had wondered whether he would behave differently so soon, but that much was obvious- I could hear him. His footsteps were generally catlike, so quiet that his presence could go completely undetected until he was directly behind me- and that was when he wasn't trying to be stealthy. I could hear the dull thud of his feet on the boards out in the parlor today, from behind my closed door. They were incessant, as if he were pacing. I couldn't help but test him, setting my hand on the knob so that it shifted and made a small noise. I listened, and the footsteps stopped the moment he heard me.
I pulled open the door before I could think too hard about it, or before he could notice my hesitation, and before I could even see him, his anxiety struck me. It felt like the air before a storm- heavy and imposing, utterly inescapable. He stared at me openly for a moment, but seemed to catch himself and looked pointedly away- at the walls, at the furniture, anything and seeming everything but me. Already, I didn't know what to say; I automatically mumbled a "good morning" and he nodded in response, standing in the middle of the room as though he were in somebody else's home, afraid to sit down or touch anything. His hands trembled.
"Have you eaten today?" I asked. I crossed my arms in front of me; I couldn't figure out what to do with my hands.
"No- not today, no," he answered distantly. He continued to avoid looking at me.
"Are you going to?"
"Are you telling me to?"
It took enormous restraint to contain the irritated sigh that threatened to emerge from my mouth. "I'm saying you should," I replied, my voice low and calm. "You should eat every day."
"Erik is not hungry every day," he retorted. "And it seems a waste- to eat when one isn't hungry- and right now, I don't think so… there is certainly food for you."
I was silent, considering him carefully. He was being ambiguous. For what little I knew about him, ambiguity was not a trait I would assign- so why no clear answers? It was a simple enough question. Even now, at this fragile point, we were playing the game- but his was messy, and easy to see through. There was no subtlety; once I thought about it, I reached my conclusion. He wanted me to take control. We had not laid out the rules of this endeavor last night; we were playing by ear, and he was unwilling- possibly unable- to be the responsible party. I nodded, quite slowly as I thought of how to move.
"I'll make something for myself," I said, my voice more decisive than my thoughts. "Something for you, too."
I could see the hesitation in his eyes.
"Something small," I insisted. "At the very least, bread and water."
He gave a noncommittal shrug in response, crossing his arms so that he could tap his fingers just above each elbow. I took it as agreement, whether or not he meant it, and moved back into the kitchen without another word. He trailed me, and set about preparing a kettle.
"You want tea, then?" I asked.
"Ginger," he muttered, utterly absorbed in the seemingly simple task of filling the kettle with water. "Perhaps it will help a bit…"
When he produced a knife- to slice the ginger root, I assumed- I intervened. He couldn't keep his hands steady- or any part of him, really. His movements were erratic, without their usual grace, and he seemed to flinch often, as though some invisible person kept running their hands up his back. Allowing him to work with sharp instruments seemed unwise. "Erik- I've set aside bread for you, go eat. I'll do this," I told him, gently reaching over and setting my hand on top of his. He stared at it for a moment, taking in a sharp breath, then set the knife down, backing away.
"If that's how you would have it," he murmured. He continued avoiding my eyes, and I wasn't facing him full-on, but I could feel him watching me. It was unnerving; I did my best to ignore him as I sliced the ginger thin.
He was wearing a different mask than usual, one that exposed his lips and chin. He sat where I had set a plate on the table for him, one piece of bread which he picked at with his long fingers- as though, by pulling it apart, he could trick me into thinking he had eaten it. His foot was tapping, and his posture was odd. He sat like he was ready to run, tilted towards one side of the chair and tense in the shoulders, eyes darting around the room.
"Are you looking for something?" I asked.
His focus centered on me. He seemed startled. "What do you mean?"
"You're nervous."
He shook his head, denying it. I didn't believe him. He was aware of this, but said nothing further to correct me, which only validated me further.
He would do anything to avoid admitting that he was afraid.
Of course, I knew. And he was aware that I knew. Still, admitting it to himself was an utterly different story; it meant acknowledging that first weakness, the first sign of his deterioration.
I considered how to approach this. There was no way that this could continue, no way it could be successful when he refused to talk to me. I had a moment to think, to plan my next move; he was preoccupied, and I pretended to focus on the ginger, which went straight into the kettle to be strained out later. I swallowed my nerves, set the knife back in its drawer, and sat wordlessly across the table from him.
"Erik," I said. My voice was a command, and, incredibly enough, he listened, looking straight at me. His focus wouldn't hold long; I reached across the table and set one of my hands on top of his. He flinched as though I had moved to strike him, and his breath rattled.
"This is going to get more difficult," I said. We both stared at the table, unable to maintain the combination of eye contact and physical contact at the same time. "As it gets worse, you have to be honest with me. I can't do anything at all if you're not honest."
"Erik does not need any favors- he can take care of himself-"
"Please stop that," I said, curling my fingers over the top of his hand. "You're already uncomfortable, it's obvious. You need help- you can admit that, Erik."
He met my eyes for a long moment, and another shiver seemed to run through him before he stood abruptly, turned on his heel, and strode away. The door to his room closed behind him, and I sat there with my hand still outstretched, staring at nothing. I sighed, a long noise of frustrated despair; it took so little to drive him away. I sat unmoving until the kettle boiled, considering whether to follow him. This gave me an excuse, at least. I strained some of the liquid and approached his door with a cupful. If he truly didn't want me there, he could always ignore me, but it was my sense that he was simply overwhelmed. He reluctantly opened the door when I knocked, and I held the cup out to him.
"Do you know how it happens?" he asked as he took the cup.
"I know you'll be sick. You already are. I know you'll want to go back to it," I answered. "Telling me what to expect would be helpful."
He nodded slowly and walked past me, back into the parlor where I could follow him. The tremor in his hands sent some of the tea spilling over the edge of the mug, but he didn't seem to notice, even as the water scorched his skin, which seemed to have become, if possible, even paler than the night before.
"It will look like a flu," he told me, as calmly as he could manage. "I have a fever, which will go up. My stomach will not accept food- eating is useless. Ginger will help the nausea a bit. And that's how I'll feel. How I do feel. Nauseous. Disoriented. Tired, but- my muscles won't stop. It's bright, and loud, and- cold. Very cold."
He had spoken quickly, and his breath was shallow. In the dim light of the parlor, I could see sweat glistening on his neck- some of the only skin I could see. It was absurd, how he had dressed himself for the day. I wondered briefly if he was sweating like that under the mask- he couldn't keep it on through everything… but mentioning it would drive him away for certain. I nodded my understanding.
"If you're going to be that ill, there's no reason to be dressed so- ornately," I said. "You are in your own home."
He shrugged. "It would be better- perhaps- it's habit, but it may be a bit much."
"You should find something simpler."
A robe delicately embroidered with a great golden Persian lion was hardly what I was thinking, but he wore it over a loose and simple cotton shirt and pants, so I refrained from comment when he emerged from his room again a few minutes later.
His decline was rapid, and terrible to witness. I could see him fighting to appear at least somewhat normal whenever he was conscious of me watching him, but his frustration grew more and more evident as his body defied him. More and more often, he disappeared into his room; we had compromised on him drinking water and tea, not necessarily eating anything, but even on that, I could hear him retching and gagging when he disappeared into his bathroom. Following him into his room, in addition to going against every instinct I had concerning Erik, would have been pointless. What could I do for him? My frustration grew with his. Being there was all I could do, and most of the time, it was kinder to pretend I hadn't noticed something than to try and help him- the way his breath became short and eyes brightened with pain when he tried to move effectively. It was in his muscles and his bones, he had told me- deep and burning pain, mostly in his legs, which he could not stop shifting and moving. Even when he sat down, he alternated between curling and extending his legs.
I could keep getting him water and hot tea, pile blankets on him, and observe the physical symptoms- there was no way to know the chaos in his head. I tried to distract him by maintaining conversations, but his attention was too short. Even when he held a book open, I noticed his eyes growing distant. With little surprise, I noted that the only thing that seemed to soothe him was music. The tremors in his hands were too violent to play an instrument, which frustrated him beyond reason. I had listened to him in his room for a good hour, trying to get through increasingly simple pieces- and then a cry of frustration and a great, harrowing silence which hung heavy in the air. I had not asked him about the organ when he finally emerged from his room, but after a while, had begun to sing quietly, as if to myself as I read in a chair next to the couch that he had settled himself on for most of the day. I had watched out of the corner of my eye, and it caught his interest. If he thought I was doing it for his benefit, he would refuse to be comforted by it; so I raised my volume gradually, pretending to still be reading. I had been very careful to seem absent-minded, and he was easier to fool than usual. After the first song, the pretense wasn't as necessary. I had started for myself- or so he believed- and he did not stop me when I continued for his sake.
When I sang, his eyes faded shut and his breathing grew deeper. I knew he wasn't asleep, couldn't sleep right now, but it was the most I could do to get him to relax a bit, even if his legs still spasmed, and cold sweat ran down his neck.
He coughed- only a bit at first, but more violently as the day went on. It was wretched to listen to, and left him panting and holding his throat. I kept the hot tea next to him- always with ginger, although it didn't seem to be doing much. He went to his room frequently, about every quarter-hour, and from the sound of it, threw up about half as often. His purpose for going in his room when he wasn't vomiting didn't become clear until the late evening.
His regular disappearances into his room were not something I intruded upon- that was his space. But a heavy thud followed by a resounding crash and Erik's cry of pained shock drew me from my seat without thinking- I was at his door in heartbeats, and found him curled on his side on the ground, next to an end table which had tipped over and spilled its contents onto the floor around him. He hadn't noticed my entrance, and was reaching for the edge of his coffin, something to pull himself up on- I approached to offer my hand, but he cringed at the sound of my footsteps and turned towards the wall.
"Don't," he warned. I stopped, confused; realization dawned on me when I saw his mask among the objects that had spilled off of the table. There was a damp towel in his hand, and more tossed in a basket on the opposite side of the room. That was what it had been- each time he pulled his shivering body out from under the mass of blankets he had accumulated, each time he had forced his protesting muscles to bring him across the house, it had been to remove his mask and rinse the sweat from his face. I knelt next to him, taking care not to look at him, and placed a hand on his shoulder; guilt overwhelmed me, despite my not knowing.
"Erik," I said, as gently as I could. "Please. Tell me what happened."
He took a long breath before speaking. "A spasm in my knee- I fell. Tried to hold onto the table, but…" he trailed off. That part was obvious enough. We were silent for a moment, him still curled away from me on the floor, me kneeling next to him. I picked up his mask with my other hand, and spoke.
"You can't keep this up, Erik."
"It was a mistake to begin," he murmured, shuddering. I felt my own muscles tense.
"That's not what I meant," I said. "Neither of us can be afraid of the other."
"This does not have to continue," he insisted. He attempted to sound in control, but his voice broke. He wanted to go back; I could feel it in the constant spasm of his shoulder, and he curled further into himself, his trembling becoming more obvious. He had given me partial control over the situation, and this signaled what needed to be done- I had to take the rest, however much he may protest it.
"Look at me," I said, pulling on his shoulder. He resisted, but he was weak; I rolled him onto his back and took the towel from his hand. He had shut his eyes, but I could see tears gathering in their corners- of frustration, grief, desperation, fear, everything he felt so overwhelmingly; the sight of it struck me, and I steeled my nerve. I had seen his face before, and terrifying as it was, the situation at hand made it seem almost insignificant. There was so much more to be frightened by- real things, that could hurt both of us. I passed the towel over his forehead, wiping sweat off of his brow; he opened his eyes and, groaning with the effort and the burning in his muscles, raised himself on his elbows.
"You can stand," I told him. He nodded wordlessly, and I ducked, putting one of his arms around my neck. Slowly, I helped him regain his footing. With his height, having his arm around my shoulders was impractical after a certain point, but he kept a hand on me for balance. The simple act of standing up left him unable to draw a deep breath, panting as desperately as though he had run miles. It was going to get worse. I knew it would. He stood trembling on his long legs like a fawn taking its first steps, but I doubted whether he would be able to walk at all in a few hours.
"You have to trust me, Erik," I said gently, encouraging to take a step forward. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, maskless and out of breath. His hand was freezing on my shoulder; if it was any indication of how cold he felt, I wanted him back under blankets as quickly as possible. I had to know first. "Are you going to trust me?"
He moved with me uncertainly, silent until we were out of his room, then seemed to steel himself- his muscles tensed under my hand before he turned to look me full in the eyes.
"I trust you."