Necrophilia
By Roberta Giarrettiere
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Summery: Necrophilia is loving a corpse. I do not love a dead man. I love a man who is very much alive.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Christine Deea sat beside his fire, cat at her feet book in her hands, tea beside her on a small table. Ayesha wasn't near her out of loyalty, but hate. If she was on Christine's feet, Christine couldn't move, thus get close to Erik. The cause of this silent catfight sat across the hart upon the sofa also reading. Well, perhaps 'reading' wasn't the best term, forcing domesticity was more apt. His mind was too busy to focus on the upside down novel in his hands. Every time his mask slipped, his anger grew and his mind buzzed. She had made another attempt to remove his mask; their joint struggle had resulted in a broken strap. Anyone else they would be dead, but allowances were made for Christine. He sighted and gave up on Hamlet. For the millionth time he adjusted his mask.
"If you had listened to me, mon cher, we would not be having this problem." Christine said looking over her novel. Erik remembered her version of 'talking'.
It was their music time, he sat at the piano, she stood behind him. They were trying the piece she had written, the duet. He had finally convened her to let him put it to music. It was perfect and he was in ecstasy. But then he felt his mask go and it ended.
"I am not speaking to you." Erik said giving her a serious look of almost indifference (a credit to his theatrical skills).
"A blatant contradiction." Christine said, Erik continued his glower.
"Fine, do not speak; I shall talk, and you will listen." He nodded faintly, pleasing her.
"I hate that mask Erik, I don't like it. I want to see you, the man I sing for, when I raise my voice. That mask is like a cold façade, not something I enjoy spending time with. And I love my time with you. So please, do not wear that around me." Christine said. Her sweet voice was gentle but despite the soft presentation she was firm.
"This is a façade Christine! I am only masquerading as a man. I am not more than a beast." Erik replied virtolly.
"No!" Christine cried springing to her feet sending Ayesha away annoyed and insulted. "Beast is NOT my word Erik. My word is man. You are a man – only a man." She was angry, furious. Her blue eyes spat hell fire. "Beast I hate that word more than I hate your mask. I see no beast in this room now that your cat is gone. There is no need for a cage when there are only people. Don't you want to be free?" Christine said still standing in the middle of the room. Erik shot from his seat and stood toe to toe with her.
"Of course I want to be free! I dream of feeling air on my skin but…"
"But you never acted on it. I acted on my dream…" Christine spat at him. They were treading on each other's lines.
"Nightmare!" He roared. "Your nightmare. I saw your reaction to the sight, Do Not Deny!"
"My reaction was not what you are resigned to. That was a mistake."
"You saw the angel of hell and regret…"
"No! Erik I saw a face that I have dreamed of every night since. A face that evokes passion within my. But I hid from your anger. I was in a play of my own." Christine passionate, he did not believe, she was naïve using words she didn't understand.
"You don't believe me." Christine said flatly.
"Then enlighten me, mon cher." Erik said skeptically.
"Everyone thinks little Christine has a little mind. You were the first to give me that respect. That's why I hate Raoul's attention he treats me as the same child who lost her scarf. I am not that girl." Christine said looking from here to there and pacing slightly. He couldn't speak before she began again. "I am a woman of one and twenty and all that time I have been in the world. Is it preposterous that I have passion? For a kingdom I grew up in the theater. I know passion! And I feel it. Oh I feel it. Like a raging fire fills my whole soul with its curse burning with primitive fire berserk and perverse. This fire burns in my soul and runs got in my veins, and molten in my core. Erik when I think of you my temperature leaps and I get hotter than before. And since I've seen your face and had if appear every night before my eyes my dreams have been more volcanic than ever. I explode with a new plane of passion." She looked him in the chest as she said this or at times at his feet. She blushed for a majority of her speech. She does not despise my face – but finds it exciting? My face excites her? There must be something wrong. He couldn't believe.
"That's called necrophilia." Erik said dryly. Christine drew closer.
"Necrophilia is loving a corpse. I do not love a dead man. I love a man who is very much alive." She said, her voice was huskier, pitched as he had never heard before. She reached up and brought his face to hers, kissing him square on the lips. She held on to him even as he was gripped with shock. But that soon passed and he allowed her fire to consume him. Eventually they pulled away to breath and Christine reached for his mask.
"No Erik." She said as he stopped her. That tone of voice was to be respected and he dropped her hand. He kept his eyes closed as he felt the ceramic leave and heard it be set on an end table.
"Look at me Erik." Christine said softly he did and she kissed him again and again and again.
Fins
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: Written around the phrase "That's called necrophilia" which popped into my head while watching Criminal Minds. I quickly enjoyed my muse before she left for the free lance rounds. Grr. haven't seen her since. Anyway I also think you will notice the fact Christine is 20 in this, in my mind Erik is also only like 30 tops because screwing your father is gross no matter what. So I propose a smaller age difference.