Enjoy!

Nico

Erik watched Christine from his seat at the piano, making certain his fingers kept their slow, steady pace so as not to disrupt the music and draw her attention to him.

She was delicately admiring a particularly messy workspace of Erik's. All across a table covered in black velvet lay scattered pieces of various projects he had started. He watched as Christine's eyes and face lit up as she plucked a small spring that produced a delightfully unique sound Erik himself had appreciated before.

Then, he watched with horrified fascination as Christine came upon a small figurine Erik had meticulously carved from a single block of wood.

He watched as she recognized the tiny figure as none other than herself.

She lifted her eyes to see him, but he had already lowered his gaze, trying to appear buried in his composition.

Christine looked down to the tiny image of herself that she held in her hand. There was something incredibly moving about the little statue, but also something that frightened her to her very bones.

He had even managed to recreate the tiny mole on her forehead…a mole that often went unnoticed by even her dearest of friends.

But what startled her the most was the outfit the figurine was clothed in...

white lace, complete with veil and silken gloves that presumably covered slender fingers.

Still clutching the piece, Christine slowly made her way over to where Erik sat. When she finally stood behind him, she noticed his back stiffen and the notes he was producing edge slightly darker.

Wordlessly, she placed the small carving on top of the piano, directly in his line of vision.

Erik briefly lifted his eyes to the figure, then plunged into a new measure of music, knowing that Christine's action was her way of asking for an explanation.

When he didn't acknowledge her immediately, Christine grew impatient, finally placing her hand on Erik's forearm, which was exposed as he had rolled up his sleeves immediately upon settling in front of his precious piano.

Her touch instantly silenced the music.

Erik looked up at her. Her hand was freezing.

Then, noticing she was still clad in just a nightshift, he rose, silently wrapping his discarded cape about her shoulders.

Christine smiled, clutching the material around her weary, battered body.

Erik couldn't help the pang of guilt that nearly tore him in two as he watched her wince under the pain of her own smile.

Quickly, he moved away from her, pulling his handkerchief from his front pocket and dipping it into the icy waters of the lake.

Then he brought it back to her, holding it in his hand, looking somewhat nervous.

"If you'll permit me," he said thickly, gesturing to the cloth, "I believe this will help the swelling."

Christine nodded slowly. Erik extended his hand, which she took. Without speaking, he led her to a surprisingly plush chaise lounge, motioning for her to sit.

She did.

Tensely, Erik sat beside her. He brought the cold cloth to her cheek, cursing silently as she inhaled sharply against the pain.

Her eyes fixated directly on his.

Damn those eyes! Why did she insist on staring at him like that? Why, with such intensity…an intensity Erik was tempted to take as longing!

"Thank you," Christine whispered suddenly.

She was so innocent…so trusting. The tiny bit of conscience that remained within his heart demanded he tell her that he had caused the flat to fall…that it was he who had almost cost her her life.

Yet, as she gazed at him with childlike appreciation, he could not bring himself to tell her the truth.

He quickly and mechanically brought her hand to the cloth so that he would no longer have to hold it there.

Christine watched confusedly as Erik stood once more, looking down at her, his face unreadable behind the mask.

And as he always did, Erik built back up his guard, replacing his feelings of guilt and yearning with coldness and hate.

"One would think that the Vicomte would take better care of his precious consort," he commended, his voice full of condescension.

Christine looked up at him, her eyes narrowing. "Consort?" She repeated. "What are you insinuating?"

Erik stared at her, his eyes dark and full of apparent anger. "Well, nobody wants a marred lover to share their bed."

His statement had two meanings, and Christine caught them both.

"How dare you?" Christine rose as well. "How dare you insinuate that my relationship with the Vicomte is anything but proper?"

Erik scoffed.

This did nothing but further enrage Christine. "He is a childhood friend," she said, throwing down the cloth and sounding surprisingly strong. "And not that it is any of your business, but I enjoy being around him!"

"I'm certain you do," Erik replied slowly. "As I am certain he enjoys being inside you."

Christine gasped, reeling back and slapping him with all her might. "Bastard!" She spat, tears rolling down her face.

His face stung where her hand had come into contact with it, but Erik refused to give her the satisfaction of wincing.

She sat back onto the chaise, weeping into her hands. After several uncomfortable moments filled with the sound of her sobs, she spoke.

"Why do you say such horrible things," she asked him, her voice dull and defeated.

Erik felt as if she had punched him in the stomach.

He walked over to stand before her again.

"It does not matter what I say," he said quietly.

Christine lifted her bruised, puffy face to him. "Of course it matters!" She rasped. "It matters to me!"

Erik stared at her. "Why?" He demanded.

Christine held his glare for a moment before dropping her head.

Then, overwhelmed by the need for an answer to his question, Erik pressed. "If you cared what I said, you would not have permitted the Vicomte to pull you behind those curtains."

"Allow him? I didn't have a chance to react…he was there so quickly and…"

Suddenly, Christine's mouth fell open.

And even before she spoke, Erik knew he had betrayed himself.

Christine rose slowly before addressing him, her voice cold and fearful. "Erik," she whispered, "How did you know he pulled me behind the curtains?"