Chapter Thirty-One
Wanting Too Much, Or Appreciating What Is
A/N: Imagine dealing with the full unleashing of a tsunami of Erik's pent-up angst and passion before you've even had your morning coffee yet. Poor Erik...but also please chill a little bit, my guy.
The next morning, Éponine awoke to the sound of the piano. She couldn't complain because it was past nine o'clock. Rubbing her fists over her still-sleepy eyes, she entered the drawing room in her dressing gown and went and sat next to Erik—who was already fully dressed and wearing his mask—at the piano bench. He abruptly stopped playing and slid off the other side of the bench, scrambling to his feet. Away from her.
"Good morning," she said, choosing to ignore whatever was going on with him.
"Coffee?" He seemed agitated.
Quirking an eyebrow, she nodded. She stood up from the bench and joined him beside the table where the breakfast tray waited, accepting a coffee cup from his trembling hands. She thanked him and took a seat by the fire.
He continued to stand, and seemed to be wrestling with something. Finally, he cleared his throat. "I need to speak with you."
"What about?"
"About last night."
She put down her coffee cup. She hadn't really thought there was anything else to discuss. He had a past which she knew little about, but which was certainly long and storied and not very happy. Full of dark deeds. The Daroga had said something about how, if he had wished, there would be no more Erik. This, along with his living furtively underground despite apparently owning a very grand building, hinted that perhaps Erik had people who wished him dead. Certainly, he seemed not to have many friends. So, while it would bring him no pleasure to drown someone, he must do whatever was necessary where an intruder was concerned, and that was that. It made sense to her, and they didn't need to talk any more about it.
So she said, "I don't really want to talk about that."
"I know," he said sadly. "I understand that I must horrify you. But that is why it is necessary to discuss this."
She opened her mouth, but he rushed ahead, cutting her off.
"I understand that, for you, such things are probably not as—er, as serious a matter."
Éponine furrowed her brow, trying to make sense of that statement. "Excuse me?"
"I am not trying to cast aspersions as to your character, I'm only saying that, for you, something like that might be rather trivial—"
She stood up, her disbelief giving way to shame, which served as a deadly accelerant to the flames of rage. What, because she'd been two weeks in jail, because Maman had died in prison, because she hung about with the likes of Montparnasse—he really thought murder somehow was inconsequential to her? "Is that really what you think of me?"
He looked agitated and uncomfortable, but his voice struggled to remain calm. "I apologise. I understand my choice of words was likely poor, and might be seen as calling your virtue as a lady into question—"
As a lady. Well of course, murder wasn't very ladylike, was it? Was he so removed from humanity after all, so as to think that she would object to murder only on the basis of her sex? The idea caused her to choke out a bitter laugh. "Oh, I assure you, my sensibilities are not that delicate! Listen Erik. I understand you need to do whatever needs to be done, and I can forgive that. But it does upset me very much, the idea of taking someone's life."
Now it was Erik's turn to be stunned. "Taking someone's life?"
Éponine nodded, but as his words registered, she said, "Oh. You weren't talking about that?"
"About whether I would have drowned the Daroga? That's what you thought this was about?"
She nodded again.
"No," he said, with a dismissive gesture of his hand. "There's nothing to talk about there. I share your objections. It isn't a pleasant thing to talk about. No, I'm talking about what happened after."
"Oh." Éponine blushed slightly at the recollection of that moment when her lips brushed against his. But then, her mind went back over the conversation. Him saying that perhaps such things were trivial to her. Now, she felt a different kind of shame that was accompanied by less outrage and more hurt. In a low, careful voice, she said, "I know I'm not respectable. I may not be much of a lady. But I..." She couldn't even find the words.
Perhaps she shouldn't have shown affection toward him so freely and easily. Because now, what could she do? She couldn't make him understand that these actions were far from trivial where she was concerned—not without betraying something she wasn't ready to voice yet, and which he probably was not ready to hear yet. Something that was too fragile even for herself to think about too much. But if instead, she just allowed him to believe she didn't mean anything by it, he would think she was the kind of girl who was far too loose with such displays. And it bothered her—not because she had some reputation to uphold. She had no respectability left—that had all been taken from her. And certainly no need to fear bringing shame to her family, when their name was already dirt. Thénardier. A collection of syllables that seemed to invite a sneer by their very pronunciation. No, reputation certainly wasn't why she didn't want Erik to believe those affectionate expressions meant nothing to her.
But in the midst of this flurry of thoughts, Erik spoke: "No, no. I used the wrong words. Please let me explain."
Éponine waited.
"When I said that, I meant... It's not just you who might find it comparatively trivial, it's anybody with an ordinary face. A beautiful face, even, like yours. An ordinary person can never understand. How can I explain it? Éponine, you know—that is, I've told you—that my father never saw me? That my own mother never even let me kiss her? Not one affectionate human touch as a child. Can you understand?"
No. Éponine could not understand, and try as she might, she never would. Whatever else could be said about her own childhood, she had never been wholly deprived of love and affection.
She thought back to the night that Gavroche was born. Maman had wanted nothing to do with him because he was a boy. He had been so small, so cold, so helpless. She remembered—in fact, could almost hear—the unbridled desperation of his tiny voice, holding nothing back. His entire little body was wracked with the effort of those screams. Crying as though his life depended on those cries—because it did. He was just a tiny baby, and he needed love and warmth like plants need the sun. Éponine had been there, and she had loved him fiercely. Unloved by his Maman, yes, but he had been loved nonetheless.
And she tried to imagine baby Erik, crying and screaming like that—putting the entirety of his tiny body and soul into it...but with absolutely no one to care. No one.
She just looked at him, hoping her eyes could convey the pain she felt at just imagining such a childhood.
"I...I'm just a person like any other person. I want—I desire—I need love. But this face." He gestured to his masked face with a resigned sigh. "An insurmountable obstacle, this hideous face of mine. No one has ever been able to look past—no woman has ever... When Christine kissed me on the forehead, that was the very first time anyone had ever done such a thing. Ever."
Éponine bit her lip. What was she even supposed to say? Was he saying that accidental brush of their lips was his first kiss, or, at least the closest he had ever come to that?
"I've been playing with fire, and we must have this out now, before it gets out of hand. Éponine, I cannot tell you...You have absolutely no idea how profoundly moved I am at the slightest..." He started pacing up and down, as he continued to rave madly. He was trembling uncontrollably. "It is too much—too much. And there must be no more of that between us. I shall never be content—oh, I am a wretched man, Éponine. A wretched, wretched man, who, granted a kiss, only wants more. I want what I can never have. I want...I want what any other man wants—I want a wife. I want a wife to love. I want a wife who loves me and does not try to kill herself when she sees my face." He started crying.
The urge to hold him close and give him all the warmth and affection he had ever been denied all of his life was almost overwhelming, but she couldn't do that, and she wasn't necessarily the person for that, and she didn't know what else she could do.
This was such a very heavy conversation to be had first thing in the morning.
She sighed. "Erik. Look at me."
He stopped his pacing and turned to face her, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. He was still trembling.
"Take off your mask. Please."
He hesitated.
She stepped over to him, and placed her fingertips on the edge of the mask, looking into his eyes for permission. He did not protest, so she slowly lifted the mask away from his face. She tossed it onto a chair.
"You don't have to wear that here—unless you want to. I've told you: I like it better when you don't." Unthinkingly, she almost reached up to touch his face, before she caught herself.
He looked at her through his tears with an expression that said he didn't quite believe her.
"Erik. I care about you more than I know how to say. But we've only known each other...a month? Not even that. I may never understand what it's like for you, but it must hurt. I can see." And then, in a firm voice: "But Erik, you're not being fair."
His expression became confused and slightly wounded.
"It isn't fair for you to say, 'Either give me everything, or else nothing at all.' You want too much too soon, and that isn't how it works, Erik. It isn't how it works for anybody, no matter what their face looks like. And it's not fair to either of us."
Erik looked down at the floor.
"You have a choice. If you want me to, I'll behave myself more. I guess. I'll be less familiar with you. And I suppose that soon I'll be recovered, and it will be time for me to leave. And you'll still be here, alone. I don't like thinking about that, but if that's what you want, we can do that. Or..." She swallowed.
Erik's eyes tentatively met hers.
"Or. Don't rush me... And let's see."
A/N: These innocent fluffy tropes like the accidental kiss cause Erik to completely malfunction. Send help.
Also I should mention this just in case for anyone who is primarily a musical fan: that wasn't me weirdly deciding to demote Christine's kiss to a forehead kiss, lol. This fic is largely Leroux based, with some select influences from the musical (such as Erik's deformity). And in the novel, Christine allows him to kiss her on the forehead, and then she ends up also kissing him on the forehead. Just clearing up in case you think that was an odd choice made by me.
