"You did very well last night, Christine." Erik was the first to break the silence, his voice plain. "I am very proud."
"Thank you," she replied softly, the blush returning to her cheeks. "I don't remember most of it, to be honest. I stepped onto the stage and it was all over…"
"That tends to happen," he replied humorously. "It is natural, I assure you. When you start to perform more, the adrenaline won't take over as much."
She nodded, simply hoping that what he said was true. As it was, it was several bouts of anxiety and crying before she finally went on stage, and she didn't know how many more times she could do that, especially for a performance longer than ten minutes. While she thought to herself, he pulled into the valet parking of his apartment building, which made her realize that they had spent the majority of the drive in silence. She was being a very bad guest.
"Sorry," she apologized nervously. "I'm not being very interesting."
"Thank goodness, then, that I am not expecting you to be." His voice was lighthearted and reassuring, and despite his casual words, it took on the melt-y quality that she loved so much. This caused her to relax a little in her own skin, which Erik noticed, but did not mention. He hated how anxious she was, and he was determined to change that. He concluded that he could, mainly because it seemed she was mostly nervous, but not afraid. She had no reason to fear him.
"Make yourself at home," he told her kindly as he showed her into the large penthouse. Of course, she had been there a few times now, and she knew where everything was. "Fireplace?"
She nodded, and with a small smile followed him into the kitchen, inviting herself to sit at one of the stools in the bar. She allowed herself to indulge in some surface conversation, which mainly consisted of Erik asking her about her day, if she slept well, and all of his usual questions that broke the silence between the two.
"I went to Mass this morning," she told him, smiling at the thought. "We go every Sunday, but sometimes we don't make it to morning service and go in the evening. But we made it today, and I could sing with the choir. I missed last week."
"You sing with your church choir?" He asked curiously, turning his head to look at her from the fridge.
"Yeah, it's been fun. I know that it probably wasn't great for me to sing so early after last night, but… I don't know. It seemed like the right thing to do."
"Your speech sounds just fine, so you most likely did not strain anything," he reassured her, starting to pull ingredients from the fridge and placing them on the counter.
"You're… cooking?" She asked suddenly, a little surprised. Okay, a lot surprised. "You know how to cook?"
"I have a recipe," he replied, not really answering the question. "How hard can it be?"
"Do you want help?"
"Of course not!" He exclaimed, though it was clear he wasn't angry. "You're my guest, Christine. You should be relaxing and sipping tea and… well, whatever else guests do. Speaking of which…"
The kettle that he had put on was just starting to scream, and he took it off the heat to pour her a cup of tea. She thanked him, though it seemed like she had gone slightly back into herself. She was thinking, and it looked like she was going to say something. Luckily, she did not need prompting before she was finally out with it.
"Um… Erik?" He turned to face her then, from his place at the stove. "You… You don't have to wear that. The mask, I mean… if you don't want to. I've seen now, and it's okay. I don't want you to be uncomfortable, and this is your home."
Erik simply stared at her for a moment, simply because this was not what he was expecting. At worst, he was expecting questions about why his face looked like a corpse, and at best, maybe she wanted to know how his day went. But never did he expect for her to…
"Really?" The hopeful, almost childish question escaped from his lips before he could stop himself. He mentally kicked himself instantly. Stupid Erik! She was surely hoping for you to politely decline, which you will do right now. "Oh, but dear Christine, you do not know what you are asking."
"I… I'm not asking for anything. If you feel better with it on, then that's fine. I just didn't want you to think you were obligated to cover yourself for me."
All he wanted to do was to take that damn mask off. The thought tempted him painfully, taunted him until he could barely hear himself think. He pushed some of the uncomfortable feelings down, simply turning back to the stove to start adding things to the heated pan. Yes, a distraction. Good.
"I won't make you look at me," he mumbled, so low that he doubted she would be able to hear. "Especially not while you eat. It's cruel."
Christine opened her mouth to reply, but she didn't find the point in arguing. She did not want to make him upset by making him think she was forcing his hand, and she knew that if he felt comfortable, he would take it off in due course.
He was not planning on taking off the mask, but there was a factor he was not expecting. The area around the stove had become exceptionally hot and steamy, and for normal people, this would not have been a problem. But, with the mask… it was torture. Several times, making sure that his back was to her and she was not looking, he would swipe the mask off to pat his face dry, only for a moment before replacing it. But there was only so much longer he could do this, he found, and the need was becoming more frequent. Damn it! He could never win, could he? Even cooking dinner for someone he admired, he could not win just this once. Perhaps, she would allow him… He didn't even want to ask…
"Christine?" His voice, normally so confident and enchanting, was now soft and timid. He sounded like a child, a desperate child, seeking comfort from the impending darkness. It broke her heart. "I… I know I said I wouldn't, and you can still say no-"
"Of course, Erik." She cut him off the moment she understood what he was asking, trying her best to make her voice sound reassuring. "Of course you can."
His only response to her was the smallest of nods, and slowly he turned his back on her again, tending to the contents of his pan. Cooking, no pun intended, had kind of been put on the back burner, and now he wasn't even sure what step he was on. No matter, there were more important things that needed his attention.
With painful slowness, a trembling hand reached to the back of his head, tugging free the ribbon the secured the mask onto his face. He hesitated another few moments before finally removing it from his face, and even though he knew she couldn't see, he could not help but shudder. She didn't deserve this. She was trying to be strong for him, to be a good guest, and he was taking advantage of her kindness. Even still, he felt a thousand times better once the mask was off, a burst of fresh air hitting his face in the most wonderful way. He had forced himself to become used to the feeling of confinement, but the reality was that no one was meant to live life behind a mask.
"So, how long have you lived here?" Christine asked cheerily, knowing painfully well that he needed all of her support at the moment. How strange: the formidable, illustrious headmaster of the most selective conservatory in the world needed her reassurance. Even so, she was determined to give it to him, especially after she watched him set the mask on the counter.
"I have lived in Paris for about a decade now," he replied softly, fighting to steady his voice. For the first time, it didn't want to cooperate. "But I moved into this apartment about two years ago. It has been good to me."
"It's really spacious, and the acoustics are wonderful," Christine commented, directing the attention away from his face. Thankfully, it seemed to be working, but something else caught her attention. "Erik, something is burning."
This finally snapped him out of his daze, and he let out several choice curses as he realized that yes, something was burning. He grabbed a spatula or something off of the counter, anything to try to salvage this mess. He continued to mutter curses under his breath, until he noticed… something, to his left in his peripheral vision. Something blonde.
Christine had come to help, bless her. He immediately turned a little to his right, trying to save her from the sight of his face, but it was too late. She had seen, again. He immediately reached for his mask, but he had not accounted for her reflexes. Something small, soft, and so incredibly warm caught hold of his wrist, and for a moment, Christine had not even realized what she had done. Slowly this time, her other hand came to wrap around Erik's, although it was much too small to get any firm grasp on it. Just his fingers were the length of her entire hand. His skin was cool to the touch, which was a little alarming, though not uncomfortable. She stroked his knuckles for a moment, in a gesture of amazing absent-minded tenderness, finding the skin there soft, but heavily calloused. Piano hands. After a moment or two, no more, she had let go of him. Erik initially worried that his hands had distressed her, and he was once again mentally kicking himself until he realized her true reason for leaving his hand. She was turning off the knobs to the stove, looking down at… well, whatever was in the pan. So much for a romantic gesture.
"Um… What was it supposed to be?" She asked, hoping she was not offending him. To her relief, once she had let go of him, he did not continue to reach for the mask. Progress.
"Ankbröst med lingonsås," he replied sheepishly, his face visibly turning pink. "Duck with lingonberry sauce… I… wanted to make something special. For you."
He was absolutely mortified now, especially because of the depth of his gesture, suddenly feeling very stupid. Of course she would not appreciate a butchered version of her native cuisine, you dolt! He would have been much better off ordering something from a restaurant, he realized much too late. What were they to do now?
"Oh, Erik…" The sound of his name was enough to shake him from himself, and instinctively he turned to look down at her. She was looking back up to him, and suddenly he remembered that he was very, very bare. Mercifully, there was not a single inkling of distress on her lovely features, but even so he felt a painful pang of guilt strike his chest. Oh, Christine… "That was so sweet of you. Do you have any extra ingredients?"
"Uh, yes, though I probably won't get it right the second time either," he murmured quickly, before realization dawned on him. "Christine… you don't need to cook for me. I would never ask you to-"
"It's okay," was all she said, and with a little smile, she went to the fridge.
He had extra of all the ingredients she needed, which was fortunate, and after she pulled everything out she started to scrape Erik's attempt into the bin. She would have tried to salvage it, if it had not been for the fact that it was quite burnt and sad-looking. She started over, and Erik noticed that she did not glance once at the recipe that was pulled up on his laptop. When he asked absentmindedly about it, desperate to pull the attention away from his face, she only smiled. Did she even care that she was in the company of a monster?
"Every good Swede knows how to make lingonberry sauce," she joked, stirring the pot and turning it down to simmer. "Actually, would you like to help me?"
"Of course, anything you need." He had been sitting on a stool at the island, feeling quite guilty that he was forcing her to make them dinner. This was not how he envisioned the night going, and he did not want her getting the idea that she was only there to serve him. How rude of him!
"Wash the potatoes, then chop them into cubes, if you could," she instructed him. As he did so, she stirred her sauce again, heating another pan on the stove for the duck. She seemed to be in full capability of what she was doing, which helped Erik to calm down dramatically. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, he could feel grateful that dinner was no longer his responsibility.
Time seemed to go by in a leisurely way now, and most of the cooking period was spent in light conversation. Once, there was a long stretch of silence, during which Erik's heart nearly melted when he heard Christine softly humming to herself as she cooked. He had put the mask back on by this point, which Christine had noticed, but not commented on, and he seemed to feel much better when he was not exposed. He had invited a siren into his home, a thing of pure, unmatched beauty. And he was not going to force her to stare at a gargoyle.
Her humming soon turned into soft singing, which she had a tendency to do when she was concentrating on something. This time, it was the duck, which was now seasoned and cooking in the pan, making a delightful hissing sound as it crisped. She was singing a little French folk song, which Erik found sounded incredibly beautiful in her comfortable upper register. Then again, her voice was always beautiful to him.
Hier matin je m'y levai
Laissez-moi planter le mai
Vers le bois je m'en allai
En riant tout en riant
Laissez-moi planter le mai
Moi qui suis gentil galant.
"You sound beautiful," he plucked up the courage to say, once again taking a seat on the stool. This caused her to look up, a blush creeping across her ivory cheeks.
"Oh, I didn't even realize I was singing," she murmured, turning back to the stove in an attempt to hide the rose hue of her skin. God, Christine, pull yourself together.
"You never do." He stated simply, his soft baritone sounding like pure velvet. "Music runs in your blood, Christine. I am certain you would perish without it. We are the same, in that regard."
She didn't say anything, though it was clear that she had heard what he said. He was not upset in the slightest, simply watching her with guarded affection as she made two plates of dinner. When she picked them up and turned around, he was right behind her, causing her to jump a little in surprise and nearly drop the plates. His movements were absolutely silent, and she was under the impression that he was still sitting down. With a little chuckle, he took the plates from her, leading her to the dining room.