Sundays.
He was absolutely intrigued. For the first time, when he pushed through the streets, simple survival wasn't the only thing on his mind.
Or do you come to fantasize about my legs wrapped around your neck later?
The thought was one that struck him deep to his core. The truth was, he hadn't had that image in his head. Not until she said it, and now it was lodged deep there and he simply couldn't shake it out. He found himself wondering if she would sing just as sadly for him under those circumstances as she did from the short stage.
She would. He was almost certain of it.
Sundays. Every Sunday. The thought looped through his mind every so often, a gentle reminder to himself so that he wouldn't forget.
He spent the majority of the week lingering outside of shops, nonchalantly glancing through the windows and at the clothing lining the racks. He had no washer or dryer, and even with a handful of quarters he couldn't very well run a load of laundry when he had nothing to wear in the meantime. Usually it was fairly low on his list of priorities, but he was nearly certain that he was at least beginning to smell, and he only had until Sunday to make some small miracle occur. In his distraction, he lost focus, and he only had the smallest amount of cash tucked deep in his pocket, the bills wrinkled and torn. He couldn't afford a replacement, and so he would simply have to take it.
It was beyond time anyway, he thought. His jacket was well-worn and he needed something thicker desperately.
The larger, and cheaper, the store, the easier. He was under no illusion that he was going to work enough of a miracle to impress her, but he would happily settle for being clean. His emaciation was sometimes helpful; he could fit quite a bit under the sweatshirt that was far too large for him and so long as they were long enough, just about anything could fit with a belt. Not well, he wasn't even sure that clothing was actually made in his size, but well enough to get by.
It was a shower that was the true challenge. At times he had gotten particularly creative, finding single-person restrooms that he could lock himself in and utilize whatever was there for the taking, but on occasion that wasn't enough even for himself. This was one of those occasions.
The south loop was particularly dangerous and he did his best to avoid the area, but for what he needed, it was the best option. He wouldn't dare to try to pocket anything in the convenience stores, or reach into the purse of a stranger, he would keep to himself and let his feet carry him to the shitty hotel that he had learned could be an oasis for smaller needs.
It wasn't particularly clean, but the water ran hot and the housekeeping staff was particularly negligent.
He slipped into the first propped open door he found, hanging the do not disturb sign on the outside handle and locking the door behind him. There was an open suitcase on one of the double beds and a watch on the counter in the bathroom.
He took no longer than was necessary to scrub himself, using the small complimentary bottles to scrub his greasy hair and a towel that was still neatly folded, hoping that meant it was unused.
It was always a heart-pounding experience. He had yet to be caught, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't be and it was a particularly vulnerable position to put himself in.
He sniffed the tube of deodorant on the counter before he used it, nearly gagging at the fake flower scent. It would have to do. The watch found its way to his wrist. It was a bit too big and he wasn't sure that it was actually worth anything, but he would find out.
He slipped out as easily as he slipped in, feeling just a bit more human as he made his way back north, pausing at a food stand and handing over the last wrinkled five dollar bill in his pocket.
Sunday.
Or do you come to fantasize about my legs wrapped around your neck later?
When the door swung open, he was already there, clutching a half-dead flower stupidly in his hand. "Christine," he greeted the moment he caught sight of her golden hair.
"Oh!" she breathed, pausing a moment before she stepped out into the alleyway with him, hand clutching that same long black jacket closed. "Jesus Christ, you scared me."
He only held the flower up between them, looking at her closely. He wasn't sure why he hadn't noticed that she had freckles before. They peppered her nose and cheeks, dulled but not quite hidden beneath a thin layer of foundation. Vaguely, he wondered what other secrets she was trying to hide.
She bit her plump bottom lip and stared at the flower. "What's that?"
"A flower," he answered dumbly, as though she didn't have eyes to see it for herself. He wondered if she meant to ask about the kind of flower but the truth was, he didn't have the slightest idea what it was. He only knew that it was a pretty gentle pink, it was still blooming, and when he had seen it, he thought only of her. "For you."
"Most men bring diamonds, you know," she murmured. But she took it anyway, and when she lifted it to her nose, she couldn't hide her sad smile.
"But you do not want diamonds," he chanced, tilting his head slightly as though he could decipher her if only he looked at her from the right angle. "And I am not most men."
She stared fully into the slightly wilting bloom of the flower, twirling the stem slowly between her thumb and forefinger. "I've forgotten your name."
"Erik," he supplied easily.
"Right," she breathed, the words almost a whisper. "Erik, then."
"I will not forget your name."
She blinked, and then she was finally looking up from the flower and at him. "You shouldn't buy me flowers, Erik," she said slowly.
"Then it's good that I didn't buy it," he answered, wishing that he could understand what it was that lingered in her eyes. "I clipped it myself."
He hoped to hear that same breathy laugh or perhaps some sarcastic quip, but neither came. She simply stared at him, and then she swallowed. "You shouldn't bring me flowers, then," she said, trying again. "You shouldn't bring me flowers because I will break your heart."
"If you have no soul, I have no heart," he answered slowly, drawing closer to her. When he lifted his hand, she didn't flinch away. He let his thumb ghost over her cheek, not daring to actually touch her. "I will continue to bring you flowers."
Her brows drew together as she stared up at him. "You smell like women's deodorant," she mumbled.
"I imagine I do."
Finally, he was rewarded with that breathy laugh that he had been hoping to hear. "Will you stay to hear me sing, Erik?"
"I come for your voice," he answered, withdrawing his hand in fear that he might actually touch her if he let it linger too long. "I will stay to listen."
She gave the flower another thoughtful twirl as she stared into his eyes. "Then I will sing for you tonight… and your flowers," she murmured. "And afterwards, you can tell me whether you still have no heart."