Christine did her best to tread carefully where Erik was involved. He had grown restless and weary, sometimes pacing along the wall of his music room as though he were a caged animal. If she dared to say that it didn't make her nervous she would have been lying. If she dared to say anything he did didn't make her nervous she would have been lying.
She determined to bringing him his tea in what she had declared to be early afternoon. She had no way of telling what time it actually was. Once that may have bothered her - now she simply did her best to not think about it. It didn't matter anyway, not really, not when her world consisted of endless night. There was no point in trying to trace the passage of time when she had no sun to seek out anyway.
Lighting the samovar had proved to be a talent she lacked. She wasted match after match as she attempted to find the right spot in the intricate design of it's base - it was only after her sixth match that she found the little hinged door and suddenly she was grateful for Erik's self imposed solitude; she already felt stupid enough without his gaze on her, looking as though he were trying to decide whether to laugh at her or scold her.
She lit the coal easily, rolling her eyes as she shut the compartment and moved the whole contraption onto a tea tray. Two teacups, one small bowl full of sugar, one small cream pitcher and two spoons - one for the sugar and one for her tea. Erik always took his tea plain - and scolded her for the sugar in hers.
It will ruin your voice.
He took the tray from her at the door of the music room, setting it carefully on the end table.
"You should not be carrying this," he scolded, bidding her to sit on the sofa in the music room. "It is heavy and if you slip you will burn yourself."
She gave a halfhearted shrug, opening the valve on the samovar and filling one cup, handing it to him before she began on her own. "You've had yourself shut away in here for hours," she said, glancing up at him as she stirred her tea. "I've been worried about you."
He sat cautiously beside her, his hands wrapped around the steaming cup. "You should not worry for me."
"I do anyway," she said, glancing at him over the rim of her teacup.
He looked thoughtful for a moment as he stared into his tea, watching as the steam rose and twisted in on itself in the cold, damp air. "I want to take you somewhere."
"Like a vacation?" she asked, perking up just the slightest bit as she remembered their conversation that seemed so very long ago.
"No," he said softly. "Although I suppose you could consider it such - do you still crave the sun, Christine?"
"I do," she answered cautiously, watching him closely as he stiffened just the slightest bit at her words.
"Of course you do," he sighed, setting his cup on the end table and turning to look at her. "I want to take you somewhere where there is sun."
She nodded slowly, trying her best not to flinch when his hand found her knee, resting there cold and gentle.
"It is not a vacation, not really," he said slowly, as though he were doing his best to choose his words carefully. "I want to take you to Perros."
"Perros," she echoed, wondering if she had heard him right.
He nodded slowly. "You visit your father's grave twice a year - up until now, at least. I will not deny that my behavior has been rather… ungentlemanly. I stole your last visit from you. I've been terribly selfish. I would like to take you to Perros; I would like a chance to do this right, to let you have an uninterrupted visit."
"Oh," she answered, unsure what else to say in answer of his plea. Perros? Last time she had been in Perros it had been with Raoul; he had shaken her by the shoulders and insisted that there was no Angel. She was sure she knew that - even then she was sure she did, but her willful ignorance and blind hope had been far too strong to admit it even to herself.
"If you do not want to go -"
"No, Erik," she said softly, cutting him off as she forced herself to smile at him. "I do, I want to go. I want to go to Perros with you."
He was looking at her so closely, as though he were searching for some sense of dishonesty, some hesitation that would give her away. "I will travel with you," he said slowly. "But I will not intrude. I will give you privacy there, at his grave. I will not steal it from you again."
She set her own teacup to the side, finding his hand on her knee and forcing her fingers under his. "I will show you where I grew up," she said with a soft smile. "The shop with the keeper that used to sneak me sweets when papa was distracted, the sea. We can make it into a vacation."
"Is that what you want?" he asked, giving her that same frustratingly scrutinizing look. "Do you want to share those things with me, Christine?"
She worried her lip as she looked straight back at him, contemplating it. Did she want to share those things with him? She had shared them with Raoul. She had loved Raoul, she had seen a future with him. He knew her and she knew him and it had seemed natural. Even if she did not love him as she loved Raoul he was her husband. It seemed only natural to share those things with the person she had committed her life to. "You are my husband."
"I am," he confirmed, his fingers finally curling around hers. "That doesn't mean that you want to share those things with me - that doesn't mean that I deserve for you to share those things with me."
"You are my husband," she repeated, the phrase growing firmer along with her resolve. "That means that we've made promises. I have vowed to stand beside you - you have vowed to care for me. This is our future, together. You are my husband and I want to share those things with you - I have to."
"We never made any vows," he answered, his eyes flicking over her face as though he were searching for something. His gaze was softer now, caught somewhere between hope and disbelief. The hope she saw in his eyes sometimes made her nervous and this was no exception.
"I, Christine Daae -" she began softly, her lips pulling themselves into a sad smile "- take you, Erik, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part."
His breath caught and his eyes slid away, down to where their hands rested entwined in her lap. "Why are you so kind to me?" he whispered.
She reached out with her free hand, letting it rest cautiously against the side of his mask. "Because you are my husband," she answered. "Perhaps it is not what I've dreamt, or what you have, even, but you are my husband and I am your wife. There is no use in holding on to the anger anymore, or the hurt. There's no use in it. I don't want to hold on to it anymore, Erik. I do not want to hurt you anymore."
"Do you mean that?"
She nodded slowly. "I mean it. It doesn't mean that it won't be difficult. It doesn't mean that I love you. It just means that I am ready to try. I am ready to try to be a proper wife to you - I am ready to try to love you."
"Do you think that you could-" he faltered here, pausing as he searched her eyes. "That you could love me?"
"I could try to," she answered carefully. She always did her best to tread carefully with him, always tried not to make promises when she was not sure she could keep them, to not incite the desperate hope that still lived within him. She couldn't bear his disappointment, seeing that deep, soul crushing sadness that it would bring with it. His cracking soul was far too much to shoulder, the painful disappointment that always came with the end of his hope.
"I have a surprise for you in Perros," he said slowly. "I hope that you will like it - I think that you will."
"I'm excited to see it," she answered with a smile.
"I do love you."
"I know that you do," she answered softly. "And I do care for you, Erik. Even if I cannot say that I love you, I care about you deeply. I do not want you to be in pain anymore."
When he pulled her tightly against him she did not complain. She was absently grateful that she had set her teacup down as she wrapped her arms around him in return, her fingers gently stroking his hair.
He had held her as she cried and she supposed it was only right that she return the favor. She held him close, not even complaining as the shoulder of her dress grew damp with his tears, not even complaining for his tight grip on her.
She did not shush him, she did not speak. Instead she silently pressed her lips to the crown of his head as she held him close and rocked him like a child. It was the only thing that she could offer him for comfort. There were no words to scratch even the surface of his pain, there were no apologies that she could offer him, no reassurance that she could openly offer.
So she said nothing instead, wondering if they would ever be able to move past this strange place they found themselves in, if this war of self pity, grief and regret could ever possibly have a happy ending for either of them.