"This will be what kills you, you know," Meg says, unable to keep a grin off her face. "Mr Y, struck down by heatstroke. A deadly case of stubbornness. What will the headlines say?"

"I'm fine," he grumbles. "I'll drink enough water. I've lived through summer before, Meg."

"Not in that suit, you haven't," she says. "And no, living in the cellars doesn't count. It was never summer down there."

"Trust me, we're all much more comfortable this way," Erik says, but she can already see the sweat trickling down his neck.

"This is non negotiable, Mr Y," she says. "I'm not letting you go out there in that." If his signature colour weren't black it might be a little less oppressive, but in a heatwave that makes her want to do nothing but lounge in a cold bath he must be dying under the classic cape, fedora, and suit.

"It's undignified," he protests, and she shrugs.

"Who'll see it?" she says. "We don't have any meetings today, and I know you can inspect the park without being seen. It'll just be me." He still won't meet her eye, and she thrusts the outfit at him with more insistence. "I don't have all day, Erik. And we're not going anywhere until I'm sure you're not going to keel over from heatstroke."

"I am not… it will not be pleasant," he says, and she shrugs.

"I'm not expecting a model, you know," she says. "Besides, you've seen me in far less." She gives him a wink and notices with satisfaction his reddening ears, the only visible part of his blush. "Since you were a gentlemen and didn't stare, I promise to return the favor." She places a hand over her heart in a mock oath, and she doesn't know whether it's to escape the conversation or the heat that he finally grabs the clothing and stalks out of the room.

She doesn't know what she's expecting, really. Ever since Erik had recovered enough to gain some interest in his surroundings he'd begun to wrap himself up in silk and cotton, layer upon layer hiding every possible bit of skin. It's a kind of armor but she's been slowly prying at the cracks, making a point of pulling his gloves off and ruffling his hair, hugging him as tightly as she can through the layers and wishing they'd diminish.

There have also been some more unwholesome thoughts, mainly about Erik entirely shirtless, mainly surfacing during nights when she can't help but think about how solid and firm his chest is under her hands, but this is entirely separate from that. It's the simple desire to see her friend comfortable, something she doesn't think he's been for a very long time, and this is a good step towards it.

He emerges wearing her selected outfit, patterned greys instead of his usual black. The material in the pants is more casual burlap, lighter and not as tailored to his form as the dress pants he prefers, but she can live with the loss for the gain of the shirt. Short sleeves, more of his skin than she's ever seen exposed. She takes a moment to admire the muscles, ropy veins winding up his arms, before her eyes widen and she realizes that's not the only thing running up his arms.

You promised not to stare, she reminds herself, and Erik's already drawing himself up and pointedly staring at her, daring her to comment. So she says nothing, only walks over to him and runs her hands over his arms, fingers lightly skimming past the scar tissue before she squeezes his shoulder and releases him.

"Much better," she says, focusing only on his wide eyes and giving him her brightest smile. "Shall we?"

It finally happens at night. All these conversations seem to take place in the dark, and Erik wonders if it's a universal human trait, to let the night soften the truth, or whether it's yet another thing that sets him apart.

Meg is going through their accounts again, and he's working on another piece of show music. He has yet to perfect the acoustics, but different soundtracks for different attractions will be yet another detail that makes Phantasma unique. Meg hasn't said anything, but he feels her gaze settle on him whenever she thinks he's not paying attention. Once, twice, and on the third glance she's progressed to biting her lip so he breaks the silence between them.

"Something on your mind?" he asks, and she nods but still hesitates to speak. Meg is always frank, but she can be coy as well as blunt; she wields her worlds according to the situation. Tonight she is as careful as a surgeon with a scalpel, and he dreads her reason.

"I'm worried about you," she says, and his first reaction is to scoff.

"There are far more worthy things to worry about," he says, raising an eyebrow at her paperwork. She doesn't take the exit, but he didn't expect her to.

"It doesn't work like that and you know it," she says, setting down her papers and walking over to sit next to him. They've only left two lamps on in their office, and her motion of abandoning her bubble of light to join his feels more significant than it should. He tenses as she reaches for his right arm, unbuttons the sleeve and rolls it down. Her fingers ghost over his wrist, over the pale and veiny flesh and the unnaturally even lines marking his skin.

"I'm surprised it took you this long to ask," he says, resisting the urge to pull his arm away. A full week, and he just now realizes he's been waiting for the blow to fall all this time.

"Do you want me to ask?" she says, her touch raising goosebumps. "It might hurt to talk about it."

"I wouldn't know," he says honestly. Before her nobody was around to ask, to even notice the ever accumulating scars.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," she says, and he stays silent. Meg is the navigator through this conversation, through the whole of their relationship, whatever it may be. It's safer this way, for her if not for him. He can't tell whether it's fear or anticipation that quickens his pulse as she lifts his hand closer, examining it in the light and pursing her lips in thought.

"These aren't the only ones," she says, and he nods. "How long?"

"Does it matter?" he asks, and she quirks her eyebrow in a look that clearly says why else would I have asked. "Years," he says. "I didn't keep track."

"How recent are they?"

"If that's your worry, you can rest easy," he says, his lips twitching in what might be the beginnings of a smile. "I stopped years ago." Her gaze flickers to his other hand, where a ring still sits upon his finger. She doesn't need to ask why, and he's pathetically relieved he doesn't need to explain.

Christine had cried that day, when he'd reprimanded her too harshly. It was one of their earliest lessons, when he'd still been learning to instruct rather than frighten. That night he'd been too angry, cut too deeply, and barely managed to staunch the blood. It left a jagged scar close to his elbow, one that reminds him of what he stands to lose if he goes too far. Then, it had been his protégé and her career. He doesn't want to examine what he could lose now.

"Why did you start?" Meg asks, and he looks away, shame burning a hole in his chest. "You don't need to answer."

"No," he says, shaking his head. She won't require an answer from him, but he resolves to give her the truth anyways. She's already saved him at his worst, and perhaps lancing the wound will allow the infection to escape.

"It was an accident, at first," he says. "Then it was about control. I had the power to make it stop, and start. I became quite an expert in pain, and I've always preferred to be self-taught." He can remember the pathetic thing he was, a half starved imp who stayed because it was wise enough to know it could never outrun itself. It hadn't been the beatings that had hurt the most, but rather the scorn. Not even worth their hatred, he'd lashed out the only way he could.

He feels a cool wetness on his arm and looks to see a teardrop. There's a moment of confusion until he realises it's from her, Meg's brown eyes shimmering and damp as she silently cries over his arm, and he flinches away. She doesn't let him go, and he can't fathom why.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't-"

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Meg says with ferocity, holding his arm and rubbing her hand over the scars, at first lightly and then more firmly, as if she could wipe them away. "I hate them," she says, and he shakes his head and reaches out, stills her hand on his arm by grasping it.

"Hatred is a heavy burden," he says. "You should let me shoulder it."

"Why, when you've already had to carry so much?" Meg protests. "I wish I could take this from you. Anything, to make it a little better."

There's so much he wants to say in response. He should explain how he was born to bear this load, nurtured and raised on hatred. He wonders if he could ever explain the fierce sense of right that came from those wounds, the satisfaction in delivering pain where it was deserved. The relief in seeing the blood, proof he was alive despite his face. Proof that he was still human enough to feel pain, despite what the entire world seemed to believe. Above all Erik wants to hide, to pull his sleeve back up and wave away her memory of this, and with it her tears. There's been enough tears in his past, and Meg deserves none of it, no share of the pain he so naturally brings.

Erik is a coward, so he settles for simply squeezing her hand before releasing it. It's selfish, but there's a childish part of him that's grateful someone cares enough to shed tears, even as he hates himself for it. The horror has been seen, and he dreams one day he'll be able to move past it.

"Don't pity me, Meg," he says, cupping her face with his free hand and brushing away one of those tears, both detestable and precious.

"I don't," she says. "Haven't you read your Persinette? Tears to heal." Then she lifts his arm, and he hardly hears her whispered "tell me if I should stop" over the hammering of his heart.

She places a light kiss on his wrist, right where the scars begin. It's soft and warm, and he barely registers it before she moves down to the second set of lines and kisses those. It's a tender baptism, and by her lips he believes he can hope to be redeemed. She doesn't stop until his elbow, her last kiss tingling on his skin as she looks up at him, and suddenly he's drowning in those dark eyes.

"Tell me if you ever want to again," she says. "Promise me." He nods, still scarcely able to breathe much less speak, but rouses himself at her raised eyebrow.

"I promise," he whispers, and she smiles and releases him. The memory of her kisses keeps the sudden absence of her touch from stinging.

"I don't want you to undo all my hard work," she says, and Erik can only stare at her as she stands and returns to her desk, tidying up before she likely intends to drag him home for some sleep. Erik wonders how many more times she'll need to save him, and if eventually he'll be whole enough to thank her for it.

For the curious, Persinette was the French version of Rapunzel written by Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de La Force in 1698, and was later adapted by the Brothers Grimm in 1812. It features Rapunzel crying tears over her love that heal his injuries.

Thank you for reading!