Chapter 7: Pressure
"Erik?" a soft voice called. He cursed mentally and scrambled for his coat, which he'd take off, expecting privacy for the next few hours. In his haste, he knocked over a stack of books he'd retrieved on musicology, his pleasure reading. She must not see me. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," he answered, carefully keeping his tone even. The curtains were drawn and the lights were out, but he still felt the need to hide. He could not reveal the frantic storm of thoughts inside. Those sadists have found three more freaks like me. They have likely cut them open, too, hurt them. All he wanted was to curl in on himself and lose himself to oblivion. It was easier than trying to deal with humanity.
He began rearranging the books, but his mind was still on Christine at the door. She was there, waiting for him. "I- I'm fine, really," he called, then berated himself. He sounded like a rambling lunatic. The stack of books grew too high and fell again, this time taking the table lamp with it. The metallic clatter made him wince.
"No, you're not. I'm coming in…"
"No! Don't come in!" His wings flapped anxiously and fanned the pages of the fallen tomes as he whirled about and spotted his leather coat on the floor, just out of reach. He wanted to crawl to retrieve it, but there was no time.
The door opened. He heard Christine's soft gasp. "Oh…" For a third time, he cursed himself, this time for forgoing a shirt under the coat. It had been warm out, and he did not fancy using utilities when he was in someone else's home. She saw everything, and he was exposed.
Anger grew in his chest like a snake readying to strike. "'Oh'? Is that all?"
Christine flinched at his tone. She had intruded, uninvited, and now he was still, like stone.
She surveyed him with a mixture of grief and fear. The muscles of his back were defined in the light cast from the doorway. There were scars and shadows of scars matted over his skin, all of them too precise to be from one accident or even violence. His wings were huge, thin membranes stretched over spiny bones, bones formatted almost like human hands, with a grasping, opposable claw near the wrists. They were not the soft, feathered wings she was used to, and his was not the soft, curved form she was used to.
He's so thin…almost skeletal. His vertebrae showed, and his ribs were prominent. He was bent over the desk, slumped but tense. From the corner of her eye, she could see the coat and its shelter of deception. Those eyes began to sting with tears. Her chest was tight, she could barely breathe past the lump in her throat.
"Go on. Revile me, Christine. Tell me how monstrous and abnormal I am."
I have to say something! He is still so cold! "I- no! You…" Meg's voice sounded from the front room.
"Everything all right? Christine?" Erik laughed, but it was not a laugh. It was a masochistic cackle.
"Go, call her and let her see what a demon you've let into your home!" His eyes flashed their mirrors of gold at her, hard and unyielding.
"No!" Christine fumbled with the door, disentangling her digits from the handle to turn around.
"Running so soon? I'd have expected a scream, no?" She clenched her eyes shut for a moment. I can't let him think he is monstrous. He believes himself so because they hurt him, because there is no one like him. She had to keep her nerve now. Erik was her friend, and now it was her turn to help him. He's like a wounded animal. It was hard to believe that minutes earlier, this man had been joking and laughing with her.
"Meg, it'll be fine. Go back to the dorms, please." She fought to keep her voice steady. There was an uncertain pause, and then Meg responded.
"Are you sure?" She knew something was up, and that Christine wanted to talk about it later.
"I'm sure. Just go, I'll catch up with you later."
"…Alright. Just be careful back there, and don't break your other wing." There was a few seconds of shuffling and rustling bags, then the door opened and closed. Christine sighed.
Erik gritted his teeth. His eyes were closed. He hated to even see his wings. Why hadn't she run? Was she going to pick apart everything he felt and take some extra time to cause him pain, when Meg was absent and could not judge? She was coming closer, he could feel it, hear her steps on the thick carpet.
He saw her in his mind's eye, with her sweet smile and wild curls. But she's not smiling now. She will want to hurt me. She was unbearably close now. He could hear her soft, staggered breathing. I am so horrific that she weeps. He forced himself not to move. Whatever punishment she would exact on him for breaking the fantasy, he would take.
He was ready for her to dig her nails deep into him, carve seeping furrows into his flesh.
Instead, her fingertips stroked gently, and he shook as if she had clawed him deep and long. Maybe she had.
"Erik… Erik, you're shaking." Her touch strengthened to a hold, and he had to move. He pulled back as far as he could, but the table was in the way, and he truly hated to do any more damage to the books on the floor. "Look at me." He couldn't. "Please?" But he couldn't say no.
So, he steeled himself and slowly opened his eyes. The air was cool on his uncomfortably exposed skin. Her fingertips were on the muscle and tendon that kept his wings attached, and he just felt like collapsing and crying at her feet. But she asked me to look at her. He lifted his head.
"Christine…" Slowly, he began to formulate an apology. "…I'm sorry you had to see this. I never wanted you to see this, but now you know… So now, I'll go." But he couldn't move, because she was still touching him. At last, his eyes met hers.
She smiling and crying at the same time. Her hand retreated and went up, into the small ruffle of messy black hair at his nape. "You see?" She didn't say anything more. Her other hand found his, and she wove their fingers together in a tiny embrace. "It isn't so bad…" The flow of tears was stemmed somewhat as she felt him return the hold, almost too tightly.
"But it is!" he gasped. "Do you see? These…things…made them come for me, made my flesh and blood hate me!" He felt his vision obscured by irritating saltwater.
"What?" And oh, how he loved that hint of anger, for it sounded like she was angry for him, and not at him. "But look, Erik… You have a gift! You are a genius," she breathed. "I've only known you for a week, and here…here you are." It was so hard to say more, but she wanted to.
He blinked, and his vision cleared. He felt as if he were watching the scene, not taking part in it. The wetness made its way down his skin, trailing cold in its wake. "Look at me," he echoed her desolately. "I see nothing worth keeping. You should make me leave, since now…I wouldn't have the will to do so." She wasn't moving, she was just looking at him with those lovely, tearstained eyes. Her thumb rubbed a small circle on his own bony hand and thin skin. "Say something, dammit!" he shouted, and she flinched again.
"Erik-"
"Stop looking at me that way! I- I don't know what it means!" he tore his gaze from hers, trembling violently. His hand loosened its grip on hers, but did not let go completely.
"No Erik, please, look at me." Christine fought to keep it together, but there was a sob caught somewhere between her gut and her throat that seemed determined to prevent her from speaking. His cheek was wet and rough as she held it and turned his eyes to hers again. To her relief, he did not attempt to rip himself away again. The tremors that shook his frame lessened. At last, she knew what to say.
"Look closely; memorise this. This is compassion, Erik. That's what it means."
All at once, he was weak, and pulling her down with him, tangled arms and wings pressed close. Erik was pulled back to his body, wracked with sobs. She was right; it had only been a week, and already she was closer than anyone had ever been.
She stumbled down with him, and her cheek was pressed against his. In fact, everything was pressed against him. She would have been embarrassed, but he was still crying, and there was no room for embarrassment when he cried. Is this the way we will always be? Vacillating between happiness and trauma? Why…I've already thought of him as being permanent.
And maybe he was. As they sat together and hugged on the floor of her apartment's library, she thought maybe he was very permanent and very precious.
…
They got up from the floor later, reluctant and emotionally exhausted. Erik wanted to return to that embrace, because now, without her face tucked against his neck, she could see his wings. He stood up first, slowly, careful to set the girl down as lightly as possible. He was about to pick up his coat when those soft, borderline magical fingers touched him again.
"Do you really need that?"
"I don't want you to look at me."
"Why? I know what you look like, and it can't possibly be comfortable having your wings squished under there." She slid her arm so she could hold his hand. "You have scales," she observed, "like jewels."
He jolted away and picked up the garment, stepping over the wreckage of books he'd created. "Yours is welcome feedback, but how can I believe it when all they've done is bring me pain and insult?" His wings folded up tight against his back, creating the illusion of a more fleshed-out figure.
"Give me a chance." He had the coat on his arms now, hanging so the tops and joints of his wings were still exposed. The scales that covered them glinted like miniature mirrors.
"What chance?" She paused, then stood up, busying herself with the perfunctory stacking of books.
"A chance to get used to…you; to get used to seeing you as you are. And if I just see you, then your wings won't matter."
"Then…it would just be you…you and me," Erik said softly. "You tempt me."
"How so? And take the coat off, it's unbecoming." He did his cynical bark-laugh and made no move to shrug the jacket off, though it still hung at his elbows.
"I dream of things that everyone wants, but things also that I can never have." He turned to face her, and suddenly she hated the weight in those eyes. "Don't you understand? You have bound me to you, intentionally or unintentionally. You have made me want you."
"But I haven't made you do anything," she reasoned. He tilted his head to the side.
"'She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd, and I lov'd her that she did pity them,'" he quoted. "You have made me do many things."
"Erik…" she breathed. Then she shook her head and tried to clear it. "Listen, Erik, I don't know exactly how to say this, but-"
"You cannot love me." He seemed so certain, and it broke her already burdened heart.
"No! That's not true, I can; but I need a chance, I need time." She clasped her arms, not quite crossing them, but holding them like meagre shelter against the storm that had brought them together. "And I need space to think."
"Very well, Christine. I will wait for you, however long it takes." She backed up, dropping her gaze. She did not want to see his eyes, so she reached for her open laptop and started packing her bag.
"I have to go. I'll be back, and we can talk then…"
"When?"
"Tomorrow. But please, just remember: if I can't love you, someone else can." Then she was gone, and Erik was more determined than ever that he would have her as his.
…
"Let me see her."
"See who?" Carlotta teased maliciously. "The girl? She's just fine, you know. And she doesn't want to see you." Philippe gritted his teeth. He hadn't seen Ciara in days, and she couldn't be having a nice time stuck in the pantry, only coming out for water and the restroom.
"I don't believe you."
"Say please." She eyed him while leisurely filing her nails. The soft grating paused. "Well?"
"No." He had been forced to let her stay in his home, with the love of his life locked up in a cramped food closet.
Carlotta didn't like that response. She leaned over to him, over the desk in the study that she'd taken over. Her voice was soft, like a serpent slithering into his ear. "Must I remind you that you have no power over me? With a word, I can kill you."
Philippe scowled angrily. "You need me. You can't kill me."
Here, the woman smiled. "But I don't need the girl. You do, and that is why you answer to me."
"At least let her out of the closet. She needs air."
"Of course, but I have my conditions."
"What conditions?"
"I'm prepared to be quite generous, provided you do as I ask." Philippe was fast losing his patience, but the bodyguards were still in the room. He stood his ground.
"Again, what conditions?"
"Be my girl's chaperone. She's been awfully troublesome lately. I can't have her injuring another of my scientists without making another sizeable dent in our finances."
At this, he was relieved, though he did his best not to show it. "Chaperone? As in legal guardian?"
"Oh no, I only want a babysitter. You know, take her out for the paparazzi to see, take her out shopping, just so it looks like she's well treated. I'm thinking of making a reality show off her and the boys, actually, just so it looks like she's enjoying herself. Her life will the dream of every other teenage girl."
"This can't be just for the money. You want people to want what she has."
Carlotta smiled. Philippe couldn't help but think that she looked an awful lot like Dr. Seuss's Grinch. "Correct. I want everyone to want that extra set of wings. After all, we can't have civilisation spiralling downwards in the hands of a bunch of layabout infidels." He ignored the elitist comment in favour of haggling.
"Then Ciara will have free run of the grounds?" The woman waved her hand dismissively.
"Fine, fine. But if she leaves, my guards will open fire." This was a better bargain than he'd expected.
"Deal." Carlotta left, presumably to release Ciara from her prison. "You'd better arm yourself well, de Chagny. That girl is violent."
"By your own doing, I'm sure," he shot back, but she was already gone.
…
Eveline sat in her assigned room, legs crossed and back straight. She had to sit straight because everything she did had to be perfect, otherwise the scientists would come back and try to alter her. Wasn't she good enough? Why couldn't they just let her alone, let her live a natural life?
Their alterations had all been incompatible with her body, thankfully, but each time they tried, it was painful. For most of her sixteen years, she'd been with them, tested, nurtured, though not in her best interest. They wanted a superhuman, and then she was born.
Why had she been born this way?
The bed was comfortable enough, at least, and the room was nicely lit, though bare of anything she might use as a weapon. She had changed from her black dress to a more comfortable, extremely low-backed top to accommodate for her unique physiology, and her hair was up now, off her neck and face.
The lock clicked, and the door opened. There was a caretaker there, one of the nicer ones. "Come on Eveline. We're moving you to new quarters."
She snorted in reply. "And of course you'd decide to move me right after I get settled in." It had only been about a week since she'd been moved to the de Chagny estate with everyone she'd ever known, none of whom she considered peers.
The woman shook her head, and her eyes were pitying, as her . "I didn't decide that, he did." She stepped out of the way. Eveline narrowed her eyes at the man in the doorway. Perhaps she should have cared more about her appearance, but for now, she concerned herself with his. It was the coward from the institute, the one who claimed Dr. Guidicelli was threatening someone he loved.
His eyes were on her, uncertain and glancing away every now and then. He obviously would rather be elsewhere, though for what, she knew not. "Well? Are you coming?"
"Why?" Her caretaker tried to interrupt.
"Eveline, don't be rude-"
"It's all right. She has every right to question." The girl froze. Then she tried to wipe the blatant astonishment from her face. I've never had any right to question. I might as well take advantage of this 'right' then.
"I made a deal so that Guidicelli would let my…girlfriend…out of the pantry, where she's been locked up at gunpoint." He paused on the word, as if 'girlfriend' was far too shallow a word to label the person. Eveline had to consciously stop herself from smiling. It had been so long since anyone had willingly answered to something she'd said.
"What does this have to do with me?" The question left her mouth almost too eagerly.
"The deal was that I take you places, make you famous, etcetera."
"Ah, you want me to promote my body." Philippe was too tired to flinch at her vicious tone. "I won't do it."
But he was determined. "Maybe you won't, but I will. I would do anything for Ciara, anything at all to keep her safe and happy. And if that means forcing you to do things, then I will."
She gave him the side-eye. Still, something in her expression looked interested. "Good luck. I do what I want."
And now she will see my reasoning. "You do what you want? Then why are you still here?" Her eyes dropped promptly. "I know you don't want to be here, locked up in a room with no company. So why not come with me for a taste of the outside world?" Even though I am weak, I might be able to do some good.
She was still looking down, but he heard her clearly. "The twins." She met his probing gaze. "I am the closest thing to family that they have."
"Then I will take them with me too. Ciara will want company." Then, very quietly: "We always did plan for a family."
"I do not have family." She looked at him curiously. "Do you…want to be my family? I know, it's only for a while-"
"An indefinite while." His eyes were kind to her tentative offer. This girl has never had a home. She has never had people to love her but those two boys. People care for her physically, but not emotionally. He smiled. Some good would come of this, he was sure of it. "We would be happy to take you in."
…
Meg looked up from her notes as Christine came in, looking fairly haggard. She winced as she saw the way the pinfeathers of her broken wing had begun to grow out, crooked around the splint. They would straighten eventually, and then she would have to learn to fly.
Christine flopped down on her bed, slumping against the many downy pillows she'd collected in adolescence, and groaned.
"So, what happened…?" Meg asked expectantly.
"I don't know if I should tell you." Her voice was muffled by a stuffed elephant whose trunk was bent under her weight. "He's so…damaged."
"Chris, you know you can tell me anything." She raised a sculpted eyebrow. "What do you mean by 'damaged'? Is he emotionally manipulative?"
"Yes- but no- I don't know!" She took a deep breath. "He showed me his wings."
Meg's eyes shot wide open "What the hell?! He has wings?!"
"I know, I was amazed too. He's just so thin that when he tucks them under the coat, it seems like he has a fairly normal body." Christine swallowed against the lump that was reforming in her throat. "Someone's hurt him. He seemed so certain I would hurt him too…"
Meg got up and sat beside her friend, placing a comforting hand on her back. "But I know you. You couldn't hurt an ant if you tried." She said nothing. "I take it his wings are different, then?"
"They're like giant, emaciated, webbed hands. With scales." She turned her head and looked at Meg. "The way I grasp it, he was tortured. It had something to do with those people on TV." Her eyes were wet again, and she wished she wasn't such a crybaby. "So, after a well-timed quote from Othello, we sat there and hugged for a while." Her breathing grew unsteady as she remembered the moment.
"He quoted Shakespeare to you? That's gotta mean something."
"He wants me to be his girlfriend."
"…What?!" She stood up indignantly. "You've only been talking for what, a week?"
"Well, more like he wants me to be his one eternal love, but…"
"That is too much pressure for one person! I wish I could give him a piece of mind…"
"Exactly!" Christine shoved against the pillows and sat up. "I told him I needed time to think, and time to actually get to know him. It's all too much." Meg let out a long huff.
"Well, good luck. It seems like he really needs someone. Don't get me wrong, I don't condone his whole pity party attitude about it, but he needs to get out there. Someone's going to realise sooner or later that he's a dateable genius." She stretched to reach her phone and checked the latest notifications. "Hey…check this out."
"What is it? You know I don't pay attention to trends." Even so, she leaned over and looked at the screen.
"It's about those people on TV, the ones with extra wings." Meg scrolled down the feed and her eyebrows climbed up. "Look, someone's already spotted them in public. Well, kind of; they were at the de Chagny mansion." Christine looked at the slightly blurred picture.
"Wait a minute, isn't that Mr. de Chagny's girlfriend? The blind one?" The figures in the picture were standing at the edge of a fountain on the green. One was holding a white cane and an umbrella over her abnormally white skin. The other was quite clearly the girl from the show, with her four wings. They looked rather upset, but not violent.
"Yeah. Something weird's going on, though. If he's promoting this whole 'winged is healthier' thing, why is he still with his girlfriend?" Christine shrugged.
"Maybe they're staying together and plan to adopt. I mean, if he doesn't want biological offspring that might turn out wingless." She frowned. "Actually, doesn't Erik have this special gene if his wings are so different?"
"Maybe that's the reason for his genius, then," Meg said. They were silent for a bit. Eventually, Meg went back to her notes.
"Whatever," she sighed. "Maybe if I just keep acting decent to him he'll see that not everyone is so hateful, and that there is someone for him." Her roommate snorted.
"Who knows? That someone might be you."
"Yeah, right." She didn't feel very sarcastic about it either.
