A/N—From a Tumblr Writing Prompt, sent by derpity-does-stuff, #49—A kiss out of necessity
If by chance you also think of Muirin007's wonderful art piece, A Wife to Take Out on Sundays, well, that's no coincidence.
A Kiss Out of Necessity
2018, Riene
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"They are awful, awful women." Christine tucked her hand more firmly in the crook of Erik's elbow, spots of high color riding on her cheeks. Her dainty boots, new ones with bronze toes, tapped a staccato sound of fury on the smooth flagstone pathway.
"I am sorry to be the cause of your distress," he said eventually, when she had slowed, and Christine blinked back angry tears at his soft, pained tone.
"They are jealous hags," she said viciously.
Erik did not answer, and they continued their Sunday walk in the Bois. It was a lovely sunny afternoon in April, a rare spring-filled day in Paris. The rains of overnight had cleared, leaving soft blue skies and the barest hint of green shading the trees and and grounds. Hopeful birds chattered among the branches, and ducks paddled lazily around the pond. On such a day his Christine should be smiling, her delight in the park warming his soul with her obvious pleasure.
The gossiping women had spoiled their lovely venture. He'd seen them ahead in their large ornate hats with bobbing feathers, puffs, absurd little stuffed birds and trailing ribbons, women wearing the latest caprices of fashion, but took no notice until Christine's steps had faltered. It was a barely perceptible change, but Erik was highly attuned to his wife's every mood and motion. She'd continued on and he'd not been surprised when the cluster of women had called out a greeting.
Christine had nodded coolly at them. They exchanged pleasantries and she had introduced him as her husband. The words were polite, but there was an entire undercurrent of conversation that he sensed but had no understanding thereof. They'd raked her with hard eyes but found nothing with which to criticize, for his Christine was as always sensibly and beautifully dressed, with her own innate style and grace.
Instead they'd stared at him, and he'd become uncomfortably aware of how malapropos he looked beside her, gaunt as a scarecrow, his stiffly formal black out of place on this perfect spring afternoon, towering over his beautiful wife. He had not missed they way their eyes widened over this, his most realistic mask. One had tittered behind her handkerchief, another had flicked out a fan, her eyes darting up and down his bony frame. Even he had caught the subtle tone of malice in the most buxom matron's drawling "How very nice to meet you at last! I quite see why our dear little singer has kept you hidden!" He had nodded politely and turned away, dull color suffusing his sallow skin.
It had simply never occurred to Erik that she might be ashamed of him.
Christine threw her hat with rather more force than necessary onto the sideboard in their entryway, and stalked to the washroom to splash her hot face with cold water. How dare those biddies leer and snicker about her husband!
Emmeline's husband frequently drank, leaving their small family impoverished. Her dress was twice-turned, at least! Marron's husband struck her in temperamental rages, though she lightly explained the bruises and scrapes away as clumsiness. And Suzette was rumored to have had to seek the advice of a private personal doctor, for her husband was known to spend his evenings among the back alleys and women near the docks.
And yet they dared judge her!
Oh, she knew what they saw, what they thought. She too had once been so ignorant.
But Christine had long since learned to see the man behind the mask, knowing that she was most fortunate among women, for her husband worshiped her. If she let him, Erik would lavish upon her jewels, trinkets, and the finest wines and choicest foods. New dresses, gloves, hats, and furs were hers for the asking. Erik was a tender and considerate lover, never demanding, and always being sure she reached her pleasure in his arms before seeking his own. And each night, he sang with her, their voices blending in glorious harmony or twining about each other in duet, as his talented hands pulled music from piano, violin, or lute.
"I love you," she said fiercely. "I do not care what they think!"
"I am glad to hear that," Erik said quietly behind her, and she glanced up, finding him reflected in the mirror. He slowly stripped off the thin kidskin gloves, but did not meet her eyes.
Christine dried her hands and face and followed him into the bedroom, where Erik sat heavily upon the end of their bed. "My dear," he began.
She laid two fingers against his thin, dry lips. "Hush. I love you, Erik." There were tears in her eyes. "Do you know why I hurried away? It's because they are horrible people, with small manners and even smaller minds, with nothing to do but gossip." She reached toward his face, fingers trailing gently down the sides of his mask, but Erik flinched and turned away. Christine cupped his cheek and turned him back toward her, grieving to see the pain dulling his dark gold eyes, and slid her fingers through the silvery streaks above his temples, stroking back to untie the mask and toss it aside.
He shut his eyes as her fingers touched his ruined flesh, gently tracing every line, every indentation, every scar, then followed her fingertips with her lips. "I love you," she breathed against his skin, "and you must never never forget that. You are more dear to me than life itself, and I would be lost without you. I am the most blessed of women, to have you for my husband."
Christine hiked her skirts up around her hips and straddled the silent man on the bed. Erik sighed and allowed her to pull his hideous head against her chest, listening to her heartbeat. Slowly his arms came up around her trim waist, and he leaned into her embrace. "How can I doubt it," he said quietly, "when you tell me with such fierceness? You are my Angel, my love."
She pulled back, searching his eyes, but found only peace there. "Erik," she whispered, and he smiled faintly, and touched his lips to hers.
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