"Sleep well, Christine,"Erik murmured gently.
It was a childlike desire to be read to that had lessons cut short. Just like the night prior they again indulged in the tale of Arabian Nights. She listened avidly, enthralled by the multitude of voices he used for the characters; always different, it was a range that she had never heard before. During the touching moment she drew closer, reading over the words as he held the book precariously within his long, thin fingers. Within the library's harem pit they laid; side by side among the wealth of pillows, her head rested upon the bend of her arm and one of her curled locks coiling around a singular bony finger. He brushed it back over her shoulder gently, watching her features as a fleeting smile crossed his own. She was still awake -- though he didn't notice -- and quite aware of the little ghost of a touch to the round of her shoulder. She shifted lightly, tilting her head to flatten her left cheek against her left forearm, causing the arch of her neck to be bared almost desperately for his eyes and fingers -- if he dared. Her skin looked so much more pure with all those coiling locks falling haphazardly about her. She looked like a little doll set gently to sleep. But the pulse against her throat was racing.
Moving his hand back when she shifted, his breath held a moment, awaiting for her to awaken and catch him so close. He had gathered the strength to do so before, give a bare caress along her skin, and with his cautious graze of fingertips over her hair, he was working up that courage again. It was as if she was made of delicate crystal, and one wrong touch would shatter everything. Closing his eyes to half lid, he brought the path of the slitted gaze to the line of her neck, and shifting the angle of his hand, he tucked his fingers just beneath her hair, fingertips gliding in a faint touch as he brushed the locks aside to be eased over her shoulder, further exposing the pale flesh.
They both knew very well that 'one wrong touch' could change everything for the good, and quite possibly shatter it in the process. Though over the past few days fear had been stirred into her mixed perception of Erik, there was still an undeniable throb that pulled her to him in moments like these where it was just the two of them and no outside disturbances. It was only his world and her being brought into it without any knowledge of what he expected from her other than what they had been before the boundaries were crossed beyond the mirror's frame. Christine could not deny whatever it was that Erik inspired in her, but it was a shame she couldn't understand it either. A soft sound came forth from her lips, goose-bumps tickling down her spine. She wanted to open her eyes and look at him but didn't, afraid that he would stop. Still, at the back of her mind, she believed that she should before her pulse drowned out the silence and gave her away.
"I wish you could see...," he spoke gently, trailing off intoa hushed whisper that was no louder than released breath, then silenced. His fingers hovered just above her cheek before he gave a stroke that never actually touched the skin, but once he had reached her jaw, it changed. The smooth pads of all four fingers followed the length of skin and bone until he came to the point of her chin, then in an ascent the paused just beneath her ear. Shifting his gaze to her back again, he studied its pattern of movement. As long as it remained languid he had no worries. Her light sound concerned him a moment, but when it had passed he moved his hand again, gliding along the side of her neck slowly with the back of his fingers.
Christine didn't understand. Not only did she lack understanding of his broken comment, but the way he was hesitant while Raoul's friendly touches or kisses were sure. She found herself longing for Erik's touch and reproaching herself for such raw passion at the same time --unable tocollect her confused emotions into one concrete feeling for him. Did she enjoy it or not? Damn it? Uncertainty and that tingle of anxious fear bubbling in the pit of her stomach brought the hint of tears to her eyes as she opened them slowly even though it might shock Erik that she was awake at all and allowing this. No, almost willing him on with the dip of her right shoulder so that her neck nearly bent into his touch. Looking at him, she studied his face in silence before a word escaped.
"Why?"
He hadn't anotion she was awake when she dipped her shoulder, easing into the faint, unsure touch. He took advantage of her movement, and made up the distance between the path of his fingers and the bending of her neck. His eyes had been so focused upon his hand that he didn't even notice when she opened her eyes.It was when she spoke that heflinched and yanked his hand back so quickly one would think he was burned. Why? Why what?Why was he touching her while she was sleeping? That was the first thing that came to his mind as he shifted back, bringing a shamed distance between them, all the while inwardly cursing himself.
"I .. didn't mean.. I am sorry."
Watching him flinch and draw away, she sat up slowly, touching the spot on her neck where his fingers had made cool contact with the heated flesh. Feeling utterly miserable for causing such a reaction, she shook her head slowly, brows furrowed. "No..." But she couldn't say don't be sorry or it's all right because it was strange, and she really didn't know what to say except to continue her question. "W-Why...or what did you wish I could see?" It came out half-stuttered and half-breathed, almost afraid to go on. It wasn't her intention to frighten him away, and now that he wasn't touching her, every inch of her body throbbed desperately for those ghost-like caresses.
She was awake the whole time.. He grimaced inwardly, but outwardly he looked away from her to the ground at his side. Having stopped within his retreat, he released a pent breath slowly, then turned his eyes to her again, searching her face. He had to think of some type of lie, something. Or find a way to distract her toward a different path. But there it was; that question settled right before him like some glaringly bright beacon, and for a moment he felt trapped. "That.." What did he wish she could see? He had been so vague with that comment that now he was struggling to come up with just one thing. "That you.." Another pause and sucking in a slow breath, he straightened his shoulders and looked her dead in the eye, as if somehow that would allow him the strength he needed.
It harmed more than helped.
She wished he would just go on, would just suck in a deep breath and tell her whatever he needed to say. But he looked so helpless, and Christine felt, for the second time, that their roles had been reversed. Offering the beginnings of a tired smile she shook her head, as if to keep him from going on any further if he didn't want to. "I'm sorry. I was only nearly asleep ... and I couldn't help hearing it." The smile widened, though a bit sadly as she sat up. Her fingersstill tracedalong the places he'd touched, absently trying to draw the heat into them again, to raise the same goose-bumps. "You don't have to answer..." she added, just in case he didn't understand that she wasn't forcing him.
She wasn't moving away from him, or making a hasty retreat into her room. It confused him a bit, but at the same time he was utterly relieved. And perhaps that's what gave him that extra little urging that he needed. "That you are more than just a student to me," he finally stated. It wasn't exactly what he had in mind, but to profess something so deeply? It was surely asking her to run away from him. Get away and go to that perfect looking young man, the Vicomte. He was a monster, and something so hideous as him shouldn't even dare to have such feelings for someone so beautiful.
It was not what she was expecting, and yet it answered everything to her. The question Raoul asked her on the day she'd returned from Erik came to her then what did Erik mean to her? What was she to him? And Erik wished she could see! Instead of flushing, her cheeks went white as she looked away from Erik, anywhere but into the eyes that seemed to see through her. Eyes that had briefly closed in pain as it felt as if his heart had dropped right into his stomach. Whatever she felt for him, she couldn't get past the horror that she had seen; his face. She wasn't sure if he was expecting an answer, but she could not give one. Stealing another glance up at him, lips parted wordlessly, her fingers dropped from the place on her neck, shoulders drooping softly. It was all she could do to release a few heavy breaths, tempted to tell him about Raoul and then veering away from it so quickly, lips forming words she would never say. So she was silent.
Wetting his lower lip, he gathered the book and pressed to a stand so he could put it away. If only he could retract those words, all of them, the touch as well. It had to be pathetic, how desperate he was for any sign of being wanted, any affection. You are changing, Erik, his conscious whispered. So strong and deadly, tamed by beautiful eyes and a lovely smile. Sliding the book back into place, he returned to the pillows and began quietly collecting the cups and saucers to be placed back upon the silvery tray.
Turning her face away from him as he moved to get up, she wrung her hands together gently, biting at her lower lip in childish anxiety. She couldn't very well tell Erik that Raoul had kissed her, that she loved him and had stayed with him in his chateau for the past four days. And yet, that would be the very best thing to do, to tell him everything and get it out in the open so their could be no more misunderstandings, no more confusion about what either of them meant to the other. But it wasn't so cut and dry. And she had already done much worse by saying nothing for so long that the words refused to come out. Erik had drawn near again, and all she could do was raise her own cup to place it on the tray for him, next to his own, looking up in hopes that she might meet his eye, though it would do no good, and it would be better if he kept his gaze averted.
Pausing within his reach for her cup, he pulled his hand back so he wouldn't touch her, then lowered his hand to the side of the tray. Instead of pushing up immediately, he looked upon the cups, then after a moment's pause he turned his head to look over toward her. Just.. shove it away. Act like nothing happened. There was no touch, you didn't just lay your heart on the line.. all is well. No matter how many times he repeated these words to himself, it was hard to believe. But he urged the corner of his mouth in a subtle smile. "Perhaps some dinner?" Pulling one hand from the side of the tray he shifted the cups and pot closer to the center to make sure they didn't shift and tip too much when he would rise.
It was back to square one between them, where he avoided all contact with her until it was absolutely necessary. No more lingering, innocent touches. There was something about the hesitant way in which Erik touched her -- or attempted to touch her most of the time -- that made her miss it already. If only she could figure out what she wanted without being guided into it. Shaking her head, she couldn't even manage to smile at him. For a long moment, she said nothing, unable to even give him any kind of answer as to why she didn't want dinner. And then, finally, "I'm very tired," was pushed past soft lips, her eyes searching his. If he only knew it was best to guide Christine into things, to give her that little push she needed, and then she would be fine. It was what Raoul did when he tipped her head up to kiss him that first time on the roof of Notre Dame.
He gave a nod to her explanation, and glancing briefly to the tray, he turned his gaze to her again before pressing to a stand. "A hot bath would do you well," he began, stepping out of the pit and off of the cushions. Carefully balancing the tray he leaned to pick up the candle. "It will relax you. Good night, Christine." There was barely veiled hurt within his voice. After confessing some of what she meant to him and having her pale in what he believed to be horror, he had a right to be hurt. Resting the candle upon the piano as he passed it so she could see, as well as blow it out when she left, he continued forth, exiting the library to enter the living room so the dishes could be taken to the kitchen.
Showers, dinner, and tea -- was that all Erik thought of? But he did have every right to be hurt, though Christine didn't wish to hurt him any more than she wished him to leave at that moment. Starting up to her feet, she stood silently as he moved away and disappeared into the main room and then the kitchen, she drew her fingers to her lips to hold in whatever noise she was about to make -- sob or scream, it would never be known, but both would have been in frustrated confusion. Toeing on her slippers, she moved to the piano and blew out the candle with a shaking exhale, watching through the dancing smoke to Erik's dim shadow coming from the kitchen. Unable to quite leave, she did make a few steps forward to the threshold of the door, only to stand there, watching his shadow move in and out.
Placing the tray upon the counter, he removed the cups to settle them into his sink, and pouring out the last of the tea, he took a moment to rinse out the vessels before putting them aside to dry. He almost considered making himself something to eat, but he lost his appetite -- what little there was of it. Wiping his hands off, he exited the kitchen to go into the living room. Upon passing the general area of the organ, he stepped upon the dias and collected his manuscript and rested to a sit upon the bench. Raising his head he glanced over toward the library where she was quietly standing. Nothing said, he wasn't even sure of what he wanted to say. One day he'll finally speak what was on his mind. But by then it would be too late, his luck ran that way.
She didn't quite jump as the shadow met with the wall and Erik's form caught her eye, but she did make a startled movement, as if she'd expected to stand there the rest of the night just watching his shadow without his knowing. Her eyes met with his as he sat down at the bench, and of course, she could say nothing either. What she wanted to do was either ask him to sing her to sleep or for him to read to her in the library again, where it was comfortable and peaceful, where it seemed like another world entirely. They could try it again -- she, laying as if asleep, and he could return to nearly tracing every contour of her neck. Only she wouldn't say anything this time and let him go on. Her body weakened visibly just recalling the feelings.
When she seemed to slacken he nearly placed the manuscript aside. Instead he kept it between his hands as his forearms rested across his thighs. She looked as if she were swooning from exhaustion. Easing aside the parchments at a slower pace than his refrained original, he laced his fingers together. "Would you like for me to sing you to sleep?" So much for keeping from singing at all. He wanted to find out, to know, if she would desire to remain if he didn't enchant her with his ethereal voice. There was just no way he would be able to do so. Music was far too ingrained into his soul. Tenting his thumbs, he then smoothed them down along with the rest of his hands. Perhaps.. he would end up getting some sleep as well. He felt tired, every minute of his age, to be precise.
Slowly, she found herself nodding, drawing her gaze down to Erik's fingers instead of his eyes. And then immediately back up again, because she didn't really want to look away. Her own delicate fingers lowered from her lips. "I'm exhausted ... even if I'd rather stay awake." Quite like her to stay up until she passed out, wasn't it? It was a strange thing to say, but she didn't know what else to say. Moving a step or two closer to him on those wobbly legs, she was forced to pause near the wall to lean her hip to it, fingers curled tenderly at her chest, where her heart beat lazily underneath.
It wasn't an answer to his question, but it would have to do. He didn't take it as a yes or no. He straightened slightly as she drew closer, then paused to weakly lean against the wall. She was exhausted, and appeared as if she were about to collapse at any given moment. Sliding his hands back, he dropped one to the bench and pressed to ease with boneless grace to a stand. Stepping own the duo of stairs from the dias, he apporached her with a glance to her door. The corner of his mouth gently lifted in some amusement. "I believe you are going in the wrong direction, my dear. Your room is over there," one hand lifted and he gestured with a singular finger over toward the dark doorway. Cheeks flushing with a little bit of color as she glanced to where he was pointing, her gaze was drawn to his small smile and a ghost of one mirrored on her own lips before she wetted them. "I ... I know," she murmured, half-thinking he was serious. "Would you mind singing to me?" she continued meekly, dropping her hand to press it to the wall, holding herself steady with a simple press as she lifted her hip from it.
"There is little you could ask of me that I would deny, Christine."
