No one came into her dressing room.
It was a happy, unintentional discovery.
Erik had taken to napping in the room; it seemed the best choice, secluded as it was. No one had any reason to be in there, and so he decided that if he was going to hedge his bets, that was the surest option.
In the end, it worked out.
He wasn't much used to schedules, and time seemed like an unimportant thing in his life. Weather, seasons, those had always been important, but the actual time was largely irrelevant to him and when he closed himself in the building and kept away from the windows, as he had been instructed, it seemed to pass in a way that was impossible to track. So when he woke to the sound of voices late Friday evening, he found that his best option was to keep himself barricaded in the small room and hope for the best.
It worked out. And so, come Sunday night, he decided to stay just where he was.
In hindsight, he could acknowledge that it was far from the best decision he could have made.
He could hear her voice as she came up the small hallway. He couldn't make out what she was saying, but it sounded pleasant enough and her laugh told him that it was.
The door swung open, and almost the moment her eyes met him, lurking in the back corner near her vanity, she pulled it closed again. There was a long moment before the door pushed itself back open and she slipped inside, pushing it closed firmly but gently behind her and lingering there in her street clothes, a dress bag casually slung over her shoulder.
"You can't do that," she said, her voice hushed but the words still sharpened to a point. "You have to warn me."
"Sorry." And there should have been more to it, he knew that, but he was left without words.
She said nothing, just moved past him to hang her dress bag in the little open closet, pausing there as though she had to collect her thoughts.
"I've had really bad dressing room experiences," she offered, the words small. "You scared me."
He stood awkwardly where he was, thumb playing at the edge of his sleeve. It wasn't anything he had taken the time to really consider. There was a lot of trauma bubbling beneath her fearlessness, he was sure of that, but she always seemed so at ease with him that it wasn't something that he really considered he could spark.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "I can -"
"No you can't," she said quickly. "There are too many people. You have to wait and I - I don't mind, really. Sit down. Just. Warn me next time."
He sat, hesitantly, on the little loveseat that had quickly become his makeshift bed. He wasn't sure what to say; any apology seemed to fall flat in his own head. She had already seemed to move on herself, rummaging through the little open closet, hangers scraping as she frowned.
"Red or black, what do you think?" she asked, pulling one of the dress bags between her thumb and forefinger thoughtfully.
"I think both look beautiful on you," he answered after a moment of thought. "The red is my favorite."
With his answer she was pulling one of the bags down, laying it across the back of her vanity chair. "Well, at least you gave an answer," she murmured.
"I don't understand what we're doing," he confessed in reply, watching her back and the tension that came into her shoulders. "I'm sorry if I'm crossing boundaries. I need you to tell me, Christine. I'm not good at these things."
"There's nothing to be good or bad at," she said in a half answer. "We're just enjoying, Erik. That's all. I like you and you like me. Why do you want to overcomplicate everything so badly?"
He could only shake his head, fingers pulling nervously at his pant leg over his bony knee. "I don't know," he admitted honestly. "I just wish I knew where we stood."
Instead of answering him, she reached for the hem of her t-shirt, pulling it over her head as she approached him. Sometimes he felt like he was being hunted by her, a deer too stupid to run when the headlights were staring it down.
He couldn't seem to move and she slipped into his lap with ease, her hands sliding over his gently. "You need to let yourself be distracted sometimes," she murmured, guiding his hand to the cup of her nude-colored bra. "It's okay to let yourself have something that isn't life or death."
He let his hand curve around the contour of her breast, staring at his terribly grey skin beside her slight tan. "Why do I feel like it is?"
"Is what?"
"Life or death," he answered, not daring to look at her.
She hummed and her hands were warm, even through the layer of his shirt and sweatshirt. "Because that's all you know how to feel," she answered softly. "I can understand that much."
He leaned his head back, forcing himself to look up at her. "Do you think so?"
"Maybe not exactly the same," she admitted, frowning contemplatively. "I'm lucky enough that I was never on the streets, but I came pretty close… I've been in some bad spots, too. I can understand the anxiety. It seeps into everything."
"How do you let it go?" he asked softly.
She stared at him for a long moment, and then she smiled gently. "It's your turn," she murmured. "Close your eyes."
So he did. It seemed there wasn't any other choice to make. When she shifted in his lap, he forced himself to keep his eyes closed, forced himself to stay silent, to keep his hands just where they rested against her hips.
Her kiss was soft and warm and he couldn't do anything other than kiss her back. When she pulled back, she stayed close. He knew because he could feel her warm breath against his chin. "I'm here," she murmured, kissing him again gently. "With you… there's no danger and nothing to be afraid of." A pause, another slow kiss. "How does this feel?"
He swallowed, his hand finally shifting, up to her waist. "It feels good," he admitted.
He was rewarded with another slow kiss, with her sliding suggestively in his lap. "And this?" she murmured.
"Very good," he murmured in answer, shifting slightly himself.
Her sigh was soft. "I'm right here with you because I want to be. There's nothing to worry about. We're right here together."
He pressed his mask to her forehead, taking a shaky breath. "I can't figure you out."
"Good," she laughed lightly. "If you did it would ruin the fun of it, don't you think?"
"No," he answered, finally opening his eyes and looking into hers. "I don't think it would."
The only thing he earned for himself was a breathy laugh as she slipped out of his lap. "Then you've never gotten past the chase," she answered, making her way across the room and selecting one of the pots of make up on the vanity. "If you had, you'd know how boring the other side of it is."
He watched as she pulled the chair out and sat at the vanity, reaching for a makeup brush. Her back, too, was dotted with those strange, circular little scars, scattered randomly like stars. He was fascinated by the way they pulled as she moved, dancing across her skin, rippling over muscle and the sharp ridges of her bone. "I think that's only true when it's the wrong person," he offered.
Her lips pulled into a thin line as she gazed at her own reflection, pressing dots of foundation randomly along her skin. "And what if we're the wrong people?" she asked, using the brush to blend the make up along her skin. "Wouldn't you rather just enjoy it while it lasts?"
"I suppose," he allowed himself to agree. "But I don't think we're the wrong people."
She pursed her lips, swiping the brush along her cheek. "I want to introduce you to someone," she murmured. "Tomorrow. We'll have to go southside."
"Who?"
She paused for a moment, frowning as she found his eyes in the reflection of the mirror. "You want a job but can't find work, right?" she asked. "Let me help you."