There was a battle within; desire and guilt warring against each other. One of them defeated the other the moment he heard a choking sob pour from her throat. Closing his eyes against the pain that shot through his chest, he turned his head away, inwardly cursing himself - his weakness, his very existence.
All was still again as disgust twisted her stomach so deeply that she suddenly wasn't able even to cry. What had he done? What had she done? She jerked her hands away as if seared by her own skin, thrusting the cloth down to again conceal herself, curling in upon herself with a heavy shudder. How could something so good feel as though it had violated her very soul?
"I..." what was there to say? There was only one thing he could think of. "I... I am so sorry." No you're not. You enjoyed it. He had- but, as always, any bliss he'd ever found was destroyed one way or another.
Her eyes opened, glancing slowly up, finding only his tense back as he slumped helplessly over the bench. Humiliated, she looked away. Could she answer him with anything other than a quiet, tearless sob?
He couldn't tear his mind from the image of her sprawled helpless on the floor. What would she do now? Even thinking of her pleading to go home made his stomach twist and his heart splinter. Lowering his hands, he clasped them on the outside of his biceps, clenching so tightly that his nails bit into the skin. He swallowed again, working down the knot building in his throat. He had to go, to get up and go into his room, and lock himself within. Or have her do so, and bolt herself inside. But he couldn't move; discomfort and the painful tension of his muscles paralysed him.
She tried so stand, but her thighs trembled in protest and she sank down again, her hands fisted in the crumpled fabric of the once-innocent dress. Another glance at him made her stomach tighten. Afraid of the desire she had felt for him in those breathless moments, she still couldn't bring herself to speak, maintaining her silence even as he drew into himself. Terrible, awful music!
Stiffly, he loosened his hold, prying his hands from his arms, bringing them down to the sides of the bench. Pushing up slowly, he kept his face turned away from her as he made his way from the library into the oppressively empty living room. Turning toward her right now building… just wasn't an option. He knew she surely felt disgusted with him now- something that he was sure would increase tenfold if she saw the evidence of his desire. His overpowering guilt was such that he couldn't even glance back at her. He pressed open his door, but instead of entering, he stood, resting a shoulder against the frame. A single glass of brandy had calmed his nerves before; he felt now as if a whole bottle might be a good idea. He wouldn't, though. That would be the move of an alcoholic, trying to drown his problems, and he just wasn't like that. Oh, but you can sit there and rape her with song, can't you? Where just minutes ago that teasing little voice had been urging him on, it now laughed at him. He winced sharply.
With her eyes focused on Erik's strong back and the line of his shoulders, Christine watched him go. Loneliness replaced disgust, and she felt sicker for his leaving than if he had stayed there in that tense position at least until she had calmed. Her tears came on suddenly, and she bowed her head into her palms to muffle the sound. Too many feelings wracked her small body and her shuddering mind. In a flash her thoughts were on Raoul and his chaste kisses, the easy way his fingers twined in hers without asking anything more, which only made her sob harder. Raoul! How could she have forgotten him for so long? Would he freeze waiting for her every afternoon on the rooftop, their only refuge from the bustle of the opera house and this darkness? Would he forgive her- if she could even begin to describe what had happened?
His shoulders flinched at her muted sobs, and he pressed further into the room, closing the door behind him. Though she sought to muffle it, his keen ears could still pick up the sounds of her despair. Having been so long alone in this lair, he was in tune to every single sound, and that one echoed the loudest. Pain shifted toward anger - not at her, but at himself. He couldn't believe he had done such a thing, touched her without her consent, then proceeded to rape her with his music. She couldn't have told him to stop, not while he had such a hold upon her. Or could she? That was a thought that would plague his mind forever. He would never know unless he asked - and that was something he would never bring himself to do. Settling at his desk, he placed his elbows against its surface, buried amidst piles of parchment, settling his face again within his hands. Mockingly cold, the mask pressed firmly against his distorted flesh.
Every sob, every choked breath, drove the nail deeper into his heart, until he loathed himself so much that he was unable to meet his own reflection within the mirror. That particular problem was shattered easily enough. The sobbing continued for half an hour, during which time Christine was unable to move. She simply sat there like a doll that had been carelessly tossed aside and left for days. Soon, however, the tears ceased. She realized that she couldn't sit there forever. The dress felt tainted, poisoned, against her skin- her undergarments, too - and she wanted to change. And to bathe again first; though how many baths would it take to cleanse her? She knew that wasn't it. What she really wanted was for Erik to come back in, to say, Let me make you some tea, my dear, and go without any further words. Couldn't it all be forgotten? Or would they both spiral helplessly, drowning in obsession over the acts of these past few days? Certainly, the latter.
Stifling her sniffling, Christine stood, leaning for a moment against the piano for support, eyes closed. Opening them again, she sought her way out of the library, down the small hallway that led to her own room.
She paused, glancing at his closed door with a frown, her mind churning. Why had she agreed to stay here with him for a week? With this caged-up passion boiling her blood only when he was around? It burned, scorched her virgin flesh. Slipping into her own room and pulling the door closed, she stared a long while at the bolt- the bolt she had wondered about on her first night here. With much hesitation, she drew it, then unbolted it again, chewing at her lower lip. She bolted it again. She returned to it again two minutes later, drawing it a final time, then sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. The reflected image in the mirrors startled her - three mirrors, offering every unflattering angle of her tears, reddened eyes and pale cheeks, and the tell-tale disheveled skirts. It was within that moment that the cry of abused glass echoed through the cavern. The bottle of brandy went into one, also shattering; the other had a more fleshy bludgeoning.
It seemed an eternity before he left his room, feigning a calm he did not feel. Slipping into the kitchen, he attempted to fix his disheveled appearance, to no avail. His shirt was rumpled, untucked from his slacks; his belt hung free. He buckled it, then lifted his fingers to press them through the bedraggled strands of his wig, adjusting and shifting it. Dragging in a deep breath, he set to work preparing the water for some tea. Tea made everything all better, didn't it? He wished that were so. Once finished, he carried the tray to the door, setting it off to the side so she wouldn't inadvertently step on the cup when she finally left the room. He carried his own cup over to the couch and sat stiffly, back stiff, cradling the cup in his long fingers. He stared absently stared into the fire, watching the flames dance and writhe against the captive stones. What would he do if she asked to be taken back? Would he let her go, knowing she would run straight to Raoul and his comforting embrace? His innocent kisses that soothed all her fears? Or would he keep her here for the remainder of their week together - because, after all, she had insisted she should stay?
It was some time before Christine emerged from the silence of her room. She had heard him settle the tray outside her door and thought perhaps that was a hint that it was all right to come out. The promise of tea for her dry throat was another thing that lured her out. She took the time to wash her face and hands first, cool water soothing her tear-streaked cheeks. She doubted they would remain so unblushed upon looking at him. Donning a heavier, more modest gown, reddish in color, she emerged slowly, stooping to pick up the tray. She carried it into the main room, settling it upon the table. Sitting carefully, studiously trying not to look at him, bringing the tea immediately to her lips swollen lips. As she had feared, her cheeks burned, tinged pink.
His silent reverie was broken the moment she entered his line of sight. Focusing on her instead of the flames, his shoulders slumped slightly in defeat. His guilt doubled - not only because of what had taken place, but for of the color of her dress. Did she think she was stained now? A harlot? Faintly he shook his head, forcing himself to stop looking too deeply into things. She had left her room and come to him when she could have just as easily picked up the tray and went right back into her room, bolting the door. Raising his cup, he tipped it slowly, drinking down the tea, his eyes drifting back to the fire. He should have stuck with his first idea, to refrain from singing for her. Now he felt as if he had no other choice.
"Are you hurt, Erik?" she asked, focusing suddenly on his arms, then the fingers of his hands, searching for blood or bruising, remembering how the second crash had been more muffled than the first. She knew it had been glass - one of his mirrors, likely - just by the sound.
Hurt? Oh...of course. "No. I am quite fine, my dear." Even those words felt tainted now. His arms were fine. The bruises were covered by the linen. His hands – that was a different matter altogether. It wasn't his knuckles that had been splintered with pieces of glass, but the sides of his hands - invisible, at least until he lifted his hand to take a drink from the tea. The cuts were small and fine, and he'd cleaned them up quickly enough, needing something to do to occupy himself. He shifted the cup, hooking a finger into the handle and exhaling slowly.
Erik was used to silence, though at times like this, it felt stronger than usual. Resting back, he crossed one leg over the other and looked down into his half-filled cup. Swirling the contents slowly, he brought it up again, swallowing down the last of the tea. Cradling the cup, he curled his fingers around the delicate porcelain in a striking contrast to the iron grip he'd had upon his arms earlier. Brushing the tips of his fingers against the smooth surface, he did his best to keep from remembering the way her skin felt. It was easy, for the time being - because along with that sensation came the gut-twisting guilt.
Christine looked away, swallowing another sip of tea, and curled her legs beneath her, warming her fingers along the lip of the cup. She was not so used to the silence, and it grated slowly on her nerves. As she sipped, she glanced to him, taking in the droop of his proud shoulders, following the sloped lines down the length of his arms, to the very tips of his long fingers. Guilt didn't begin to describe what she felt. Nothing could describe the sensations – those that had swept her earlier or those swirling within her now. She could not come with a single thing to say as she studied him.
"Erik…", she finally said, her voice no more than a gentle whisper. He lifted his eyes from his cup and turned their dulled gold to her.
"I… I want to go home."
