Erik stared up at the grey sky with a frown. Big, fluffy, fat snowflakes floated down slowly and he eyed them with disdain, wrapping his arms around his middle and hunching under his sweatshirt. It was early this year. The leaves hadn't quite finished falling yet, so he was almost certain there was a chance of a slight reprieve before it came to stay.

He was fairly sure that there had been a time when he enjoyed the snow. He wondered what it had been like.

It didn't really matter, he thought. He complained to himself just as obnoxiously when it was too hot in the summer. It was Spring that he actually enjoyed, cool but just warm enough coming out of the harsher months.

In the Spring, he would complain about the rain. So really, he thought, it was just that he couldn't be happy.

When he expressed any sort of emotion as a child, his mother would tell him to count his blessings. Sometimes he tried to. One of them was that he didn't get quite as wet with the snow as he did with the rain.

Another was that he was fairly sure that the heavy ring that he had swiped off of the counter in a bathroom in one of the many parks that dotted the city would get him a real bed for at least one night. It might even be enough for a bed and an entire bouquet of magenta lilacs if he was smart enough.

There were very few places that would do any sort of business with him. He knew of only three pawn shops that would let him get through the door, and only one that would accept his wares. He wasn't sure what exactly they would do with them; everything he brought in was stolen, or lost, and the only thing that they had ever rejected was a cell phone that he had been placing a bit too much hope in. In the end, the man had a soft heart and gave him a twenty dollar bill to dispose of it.

The door chimed when he pushed it open and he was greeted customarily by the middle eastern man that always seemed to occupy the shop. "What treasures have you brought us today?"

The man had a kind smile and green eyes. Erik didn't know much about him at all, only that he owned the shop and was happily married to someone he had never met. Erik produced the ring and laid it on the counter as he undid the watch that had been rubbing uncomfortably against his wrist for a few days.

"It isn't off a dead man, is it?"

Erik huffed a laugh. "No," he answered. "Not yet. Though we'll see how harsh this winter gets."

"Desperation is for innovation, not murder," the man murmured as he picked the ring up and turned it over in his palm.

"Do you know any florists?"

"Not that sell poppy," he answered, frowning suspiciously. "You will blow yourself up before you actually manage to make anything usable."

"I'm not cooking drugs," Erik laughed. "Though again, we will see how harsh the winter gets… there is a woman, and I require a florist."

"A woman!" he echoed, sounding pleasantly surprised as he placed the ring back onto the countertop. "I'm afraid I'm not close with any particular florists… there's one two blocks west that may be able to help you. I can do three hundred. For both."

Though Erik had hoped for more, fool as he was, it was a higher price than he had actually expected and he found himself nodding in agreement. If he managed it right, it might even buy him a few days out of the cold.

"Tell me about the woman," the man said as he shuffled the ring into a display case.

"She is very beautiful," Erik answered vaguely. "She sings, and she could make the angels cry."

"Infatuation is a wonderful thing," he answered, sliding the display case back into place and pulling an envelope from under the counter. "You should enjoy it."

He made a show of it as he counted twenty dollar bills out one by one, placing them on the counter top. "I very much will," Erik said, collecting the bills nervously.

"I would very much like to hear more about the woman," his strange acquaintance said. "When I see you next week, as I'm sure I will."

Erik frowned, tucking the bills safely away in a pocket. "Me too," he answered honestly.

His first stop, of course, would be the florist.

This time, when she stepped out into the alleyway, she didn't seem particularly surprised to see him. She only pulled her jacket a little tighter as she eyed him from a few feet away. "Did you bring my flower?"

"Of course," he answered easily, holding the single, fat lilac out toward her.

She stared at it for a long moment with a slight frown, and when she took it from him her fingers brushed against his almost purposely. "Did you clip it yourself?"

"Yes," he lied lightly. "It was very difficult to find."

For the first time since he had met her, she actually looked like she might cry. She lifted the bunch of flowers up to her nose and closed her eyes. "I love lilacs," she murmured, her voice soft, as though it might shake if she spoke any louder.

"It wasn't supposed to make you sad."

She blinked, and when she lifted her head to look at him the shine was gone from them. "I'm not sad," she answered. "I just didn't think you would find them. I can't hardly find them even in the flower shops this time of year."

"Have you forgotten my name?"

Her smile was slightly strained. "I told you I would."

For the first time, he dared to touch her on his own, the tips of his cold fingers brushing against her high, warm cheek. "It doesn't matter anyway."

She looked at him strangely, chewing the inside of her bottom lip. "You're right, you know," she said slowly. "You aren't like most men. You're very strange."

He wasn't sure whether the words were meant as an insult or a compliment but she didn't pull away from his touch, so he thought it might not matter so much either way. "I suppose I am."

"Erik?"

He didn't point out that she had not, in fact, forgotten his name. He wondered if she ever actually had in the first place. "What?"

"I want you to take me home," she confessed, the words quiet and almost warm.

He only stared at her, halfway holding his breath. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to answer her.

"Right," she said, forcing a laugh as she pulled away from him. "Silly, isn't it? It's just that you were right, is all. I got a splinter."

He watched helplessly as she dug through the pocket of her jacket and emerged with a pack of cigarettes, turning away from him slightly as she lit one and took a slow drag.

"I'll take you home," he said, hardly even knowing that he was speaking.

"No," she said, the word half a laugh. "It's silly. Just a passing thought, it isn't - I will use my jacket this time, and I won't get a splinter."

"I want to take you home," he insisted, the words coming faster than his mind could even determine where exactly that was. "I'll take you home, Christine."

She looked at him curiously. "You mean it?"

He nodded. It was decently warm out. It wasn't a day that he would have used to justify spending any of the money in his pocket under normal circumstances, but if it would keep that hurt frown off of her face, he would spend it all.

She took another drag from her cigarette and then she tossed it out toward the center of the alleyway, as she always did, and made a show of tucking the magenta flower into her curls just as she had with the dying perennial the week before. "I have to sing," she said simply.

"That is why I've come," he reminded her.

She rocked up on her toes, and pressed a quick kiss to his chin. "You will have to wait here an hour."

"I will wait two," he answered, hand lingering near her elbow.

Her smile was almost shy, and he watched as she disappeared back into the building without another word.

He was remarkably nervous when she joined him again, silently wrapping her too warm hand around his arm without a word.

He had promised to take her home, and he had no home to take her to. He knew exactly where they would go. It was the only place that would let him through the door. But it didn't ease his nervousness. Some days, when he had enough money in his pocket to give him the coveted privacy, he wondered if the amenities in the park weren't a better option.

If she wanted him to give her four walls and a bed, he would give her four walls and a bed as best as he could.

She didn't say much of anything as they made their way through the chilly streets, she only tucked herself closer against his side when the wind picked up particularly harshly. It was a ten block walk and she never uttered a word through the entirety of it, never asked where he was taking her, never so much as asked what he thought of her performance.

He thought that perhaps it was because she already knew what his answer would be. Lovely. It wasn't a lie. It was always lovely.

"Wait here," he said softly when they finally stood outside of the old, ramshackled hotel. "I need to take care of something. I'll only be a minute."

"I'll wait," she said easily.

He went in ahead. The staff was familiar enough with him, or word of him, that it was never a particular fight. One hundred and fifty a night and he wasn't completely convinced that they actually washed all of the sheets. The building had an odd odor to it that he had never really been able to place, but it was an oasis on the days that it was the only shelter he could find. Occasionally the cost was worth it simply to take his mask off for a few hours.

He held the electronic key-card nervously in his hand when he rejoined her, and she wordlessly put out the cigarette she had lit in his absence.

She made no comment as he led her through the building and up two flights of stairs. She didn't flinch or even acknowledge the shouting coming from somewhere far down the tar-stained hallway.

204. The card worked flawlessly and he flipped on the lightswitch near the door, taking her jacket for her as she gazed around the hotel room.

Everything about it had an odd yellow look to it, stained with nicotine and years of poor cleaning, but the carpet looked clean enough and there was no visible dust on the dresser. He hung her jacket on one of the three wire hangers in the small cutout coat closet, opting to hang his own on the back of the chair across the room.

"You live here?"

Her voice was lacking the judgement and disappointment he might have expected to hear. It was a soft question as she lingered somewhere near the door, fingers pulling gently at the pleating of her dress. "I'm afraid the chateau is being remodeled," he answered noncommittally. "It may be another decade or so, before it's ready."

"Erik," she said, her voice halfway serious. "Do you live here?"

When he looked at her, there was a striking realization. She didn't belong. She didn't fit in with her silky skirts and her pretty pout, her sad blue eyes. "No," he answered eventually. "I don't."

"Then where do you live?"

Slowly, he approached her. When the tips of his fingers slipped under her jaw, she let him tilt her chin up. "I live in a castle," he murmured. "If you close your eyes, I will show you."

"Erik-"

"Close your eyes," he repeated softly. "Please."

She sighed, but she obeyed him, her eyes slipping closed. "Okay."

"What do you smell?"

"Urine."

He chuckled, brushing his thumb gently against her cheek. "You are peeking," he said softly. "If you peek, it won't work. You must close your eyes, Christine."

She huffed and blinked her eyes open. "I'm not a child," she gruffed.

"I should very much hope not," he answered easily. "Close your eyes, Christine."

To his surprise, she did, her frown seeming to deepen just the slightest bit.

"I smell lilacs," he murmured. "And roses. There are dozens of bushes. It always smells of lilac. What do you see, Christine?"

"Carpet," she answered, her brow furrowing. "The plush kind that your toes sink in."

"Of course," he murmured. "It gets quite cold, you know, near winter. There must be carpet. What color?"

"Red," she murmured, her hand finding his wrist. "Is it in the mountains?"

He dared to press his lips gently to her warm forehead, closing his eyes for a moment, too. "Of course," he answered slowly. "On the highest peak, where none of those troubles you have can touch you."

Her nails dug into his wrist, and when he opened his eyes, she was staring at him intensely. "I will break your heart," she breathed.

"And I will build you a castle," he answered simply, searching her eyes. "Do you say it because you want to?"

She swallowed as she stared back at him and he watched the shine gathering in her blue eyes as she did.

"I'll let you," he said eventually. "It doesn't matter."

"Where do you live, Erik?" she whispered, the words shaky.

"Everywhere," he answered softly. "And no where."

She blinked quickly, almost like she was trying to blink away the vague tears that had been threatening her. "Are you homeless, then?"

"I suppose that would be the word for it."

She only frowned, pulling away from him as she wiped at her own cheek. "Right," she said softly. "Where do you stay?"

"Wherever I can," he answered simply. From the moment she had made the breathless request he knew that she would find out and he had desperately leaned on the hope that she would be too concerned about maintaining the aloofness she had to truly question him on it. "Some nights, like tonight, I am very lucky and it's a place like this."

"Do you work?"

"It is notoriously difficult to find employment in a mask," he murmured. And it wasn't a lie. He would gladly have worked four jobs if anyone would react to him with anything other than fear - he had found very few that did, and he had found no one that acted the way that Christine did with him, so free and fearless as she was. When she was around, he could nearly convince himself that he was normal. "I'm a magician of sorts."

"A magician," she echoed, and for the first time her laugh didn't sound forced.

"Of sorts," he repeated, finding himself slightly encouraged. "I am very good at making things vanish."

"You're a thief."

His smile was slightly strained. "I'm a transient magician, Christine."

"You're a heartsick fool is what you are," she said, lifting her chin as she gazed at him.

"Perhaps I am," he agreed lightly.

"And I'm not," she said thoughtfully. "That is why I'll break your heart… I'd like you to kiss me, Erik."

So he did, because it was a request he couldn't resist, and when she pulled away, she sighed.

"I had a lover once," she murmured, biting her lip. "Wealthy, much older than you, I think. Promised me diamonds and gold."

He wasn't sure why she said it but he didn't mind. She so rarely shared anything that she could have told him about a childhood pet and he would find himself satisfied. He brushed his thumb gently against her cheek. "What happened?"

"His wife tried to kill me," she said with a light laugh. "Imagine my surprise… no one is who they seem, Erik. No one."

"Are you?"

"Everyone is a liar," she murmured vaguely, her hands running up his chest and her arms snaking around his neck. "I want you to kiss me."

So he did, and he let himself touch her pretty, carefully pinned curls. They were just as soft and silky as he imagined. Her hands slid down his arms, pausing on his biceps.

"I'm not," he murmured, pressing his masked forehead to hers. "I will build you a castle, Christine."

"I want you to undress me," she said, her voice quiet. "I want you to fuck me in a bed, and I want you to keep lying to me."

"I'm not lying."

"Of course," she answered breathily.

He ran his fingers through her hair, against her pale, delicate throat, he let them ghost over the straps of her dress. "I will make your dreams come true," he murmured, however ridiculous it sounded. "Whatever they cost."

Christine rocked up on her toes and rewarded him with a gentle kiss, tugging at the hem of his stolen t-shirt. "I want you to fuck me like you love me," she said, the words quiet and low.

He didn't dare to point out that he very much thought he might.

There were more kisses, more sighs, her hands against his chest were gentle, her kisses warm, and he thought that if he died that night, he would have been satisfied with it. Warm, in her company, with her lips against his.

She pressed him back toward the two double beds and his hands wandered with a new confidence against her silky dress, around her back. When he found the zipper, she made no complaint about him undoing it. His cold, slightly shaky fingers slid the straps down her arms, and she let the dress drop to the floor, stepping back slightly as though to let him examine her.

There was a sort of fear as he looked at her, at her padded bra that was a bit too tight, at the visible outline of her ribs and the pink scars that marred her pale skin, some long and thin, others small and round, seemingly distributed randomly, all faded and old but quite easily visible.

He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed just how thin she was. He dared to allow himself the excuse of distraction with the frilly, silky things that she wore.

She only stood there, staring back at him steadily as though she were awaiting some sort of judgement, and the only thing he could do was kiss her and swallow the odd, halfway distressed sound that she made when he did.

It only seemed to take her a moment before she remembered herself, pulling at his shirt meaningfully, and he didn't feel quite as uncomfortable with stripping his shirt over his head as he thought he might, didn't feel as offput with the way her fingers traced against his cool skin as he thought he would with any other person.

Off came her bra, her breasts seeming to shrink two sizes.

Where he might have felt tricked, he only found himself intrigued with her. Her and her hidden scars, her unshakable bravado, the lengths she seemed to go to hide everything about herself from anyone that might give her a passing glance when she was all dolled up on that little stage.

He found himself wondering who she actually was, and as she stood there, bare and flushed and scarred, he thought that perhaps there was hope that he would draw it out of her with some patience.

Her back found the uncomfortably hard mattress, her legs opened to welcome him in a way very similar to the way they had the week before, and he slipped into place with just a bit more confidence.

It was fine, easy, it felt incredibly right as her soft lips brushed against his, as she made breathless sounds and her heels dug against his sides.

And then, suddenly, it wasn't.

He wasn't sure what exactly happened, only that she suddenly tensed, suddenly seemed to be holding her breath, digging her nails in painfully against his arms, and he couldn't do anything but pause, trying to catch his breath for a moment.

"What's wrong?" he murmured, looking closely at her tensed jaw and suddenly guarded eyes.

"On top," she breathed after a long moment, seeming to release the breath she had been holding. "I need on top. Now."

Her hands pressed insistently against his chest, her fingers curling, and he moved as quickly as he could seeing the sudden panic lingering in her eyes.

When she did roll over, climbing atop him, everything was different.

She didn't kiss him again. Instead she closed her eyes and she moved with a practised ease, hands resting against the center of his chest as she did.

There was no hesitation. She moved with purpose and she knew exactly what she was doing as his hands rested uselessly against her hips.

He felt it building, he blinked, and before he could even realize that he had finished she was climbing off of him, gathering her discarded clothing off of the floor with trembling fingers.

"Christine," he said breathlessly.

She gave no acknowledgement, bending down with her back to him to step back into her thong, pulling it back up quickly.

He lifted himself on his elbows, watching her and the urgency she seemed to be moving with. "Christine."

"Don't bring me flowers anymore," she said, her voice trembling.

"Tell me what's wrong," he said, trying to keep his voice soft even though he couldn't catch his breath and he was still fighting through the fog hazing his brain.

"I don't want you to come again," she said, back still turned to him as she attempted to fasten her bra behind her. "I don't want you to come hear me sing."

He was standing, and he caught one of her arms easily. "Tell me what I've done," he murmured as she finally turned toward him. "Tell me what's wrong."

It wasn't until she lifted her chin to look up at him that he saw the fat tears leaking from her eyes, pulling a black streak of mascara down her cheek with them.

He sighed, lifting his free hand and wiping one away with his thumb, strangely fascinated with the freckles that began to appear under his touch. "I don't know what happened," he said softly. "If that's what you want, you have to tell me why."

She swallowed, her lip trembled, and he thought it was just about the most vulnerable she had ever let herself look in front of him. "I don't want to do this anymore," she breathed.

"You never had to," he said softly, hoping that the words were at least somewhat comforting. "I would happily only listen to you sing, Christine. Anything more - it's wonderful but you don't have to do it. I will still bring you flowers either way."

There was a new flood of tears and she closed her eyes, almost as though she thought he couldn't see them if she simply couldn't see him. "I don't want you to be nice to me," she whispered shakily.

With her insistence on being cryptic, he did the only thing he could. He held her silky curls and pressed his lips against her forehead gently. "I don't know what's happened to you," he said slowly. "Or what's happened tonight. But I know that you are beautiful, talented, and I want to bring you flowers, Christine."

When she leaned against him, pressing her wet face against his chest and wrapping her arms around him tightly, he thought it might've been permission.

He smoothed her hair gently. "Will you lay with me for a minute, at least, before you run away again?" he murmured.

She sniffed and slowly, she nodded against him.