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*-* Christine – VII - The Aftermath of the kiss
His hand had felt a bit cold, but she thought it was because her skin had been so warm from her high emotions. His lips were cold, too. But she couldn't dwell on that, because he caught her hands in his in a swift move and jumped back. He then let go as if she'd burnt him.
His eyes were glowing, like the points of light she'd seen from her roof.
The distance had come back.
"Why did you do that?" he almost hissed, like ice in her veins.
A bucket of cold water to her head.
"I…"
What could she say? Of course it was stupid, but… She'd been drunk on their singing, high from the ecstasy of their music, and she'd wanted to feel him, closer, skin against skin.
"I thought you wanted it too…" she whispered. "I'm sorry."
That rejection hurt. She didn't want to admit how much she'd wanted him, it was almost too silly now. But gods, why had she expected anything different? Why would he want her?
"I'm sorry," she said again, tears rising to her eyes. She still had his handkerchief in her pocket, that beautiful piece of silk that she'd brought with her on her expedition to find him, and she took it out, caressing her cheek with it, drying her eye.
What had she been thinking? Why had she kissed him? He'd been so surprised, so high from their singing together… He wanted to disappear and never look in her eyes again, for how stupid and ashamed and terrible he felt.
He had liked it, but his throat had risen to his mouth, fangs growing too fast, her blood so near…
And her hands had been so close to his mask, and a century of habit to protect it had pushed him to react and stop her before another great catastrophe.
Now she was crying again, her pulse beating hard against her skin, her scent a mixture of fear and shame, like acid in his non-existent nose.
He'd done it again. Made her cry.
He would never learn, now, would he? With everything he did, he found a way to bring tears on her lovely cheeks.
He had liked the kiss. The way her hands had reached for his mask, he'd panicked, too, but she had kissed his lips, her warmth so close to him… It was a repeat of her hug, but even better. More purposeful. And yet he hated it, because he knew where it had come from.
She was attracted to his voice and to his appeal as a vampire. Never to him, as a person.
But she could never know the truth.
And yet, what could he do?
She still had the handkerchief he'd given her in her hand, using it to dry the tears he'd brought down her bright eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I shouldn't have said that. You did nothing wrong, just… Surprised me. I'm not used to physical contact."
She said nothing, just sniffling softly, frozen in the middle of the room, next to his piano.
Words were failing him, as usual. When would he ever learn to use them as a normal being?
He sighed, and slowly walked to his harp, in the corner, not approaching her. He sat down, closed his eyes, and started playing something he'd created. A sweet, lovely lullaby he'd made for his old Christine, in the time where his hopes had been high, when he'd believed ardently she might fall in love with him, the way he'd loved her.
Perhaps, this new Christine could find it in her heart to forgive him his rudeness?
And along the way, he'd find how to be good enough for her?
She didn't move. Heard his words as if through a veil, echoing in her head but not really coming through to her brain.
Watched him go and sit at his harp, and his beautiful, elegant hands pluck at the cords. Suddenly the notes made sense, his words came to her, as clear as if he'd been whispering them to her ear and straight to her heart.
"I'm sorry," he was repeating over and over again.
She could understand the way he'd reacted, the fear and pain and attraction he'd felt for her, and how it had all overwhelmed him.
She understood it all.
And again, the music had her pinned to her place. She could only watch him, study the way he drew sound from the cords, the movements he made, so gentle and agile, how he'd closed his bright eyes and focused on the notes and what he wanted to tell her.
Music was his mother tongue, it seemed, words too unwieldy and difficult, a foreign concept to his brain.
Part of her understood him so well. And yet the other was a mystery to her.
He stopped, and looked back to her. There was such an apology in his eyes, in the curve of his mouth, in the hunching of his shoulders. Gone was the smooth talker he'd been as a teacher, the feline movements of his purposeful stride. Now, in front of her stood a child, unloved and fearful. Waiting for a strike and harsh words.
It broke her heart, even more than his music had done, when they'd first met. Even more than his raging at her, earlier.
"Will you forgive my outburst?" he whispered. "I understand if you wish to leave."
He was still looking at her, while she remained silent.
She didn't want to leave. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him tight, and hear him again. And kiss him again.
"You've been doing much better, by the way," he said, as an afterthought. "Your acting is tremendous, and you were the best Juliette I have ever heard. You won't need me anymore."
"I don't want to leave."
She had made up her mind, when his words had suggested she would leave, and he would stop teaching her. How could she go back to her silence when he was there?
Even if nothing ever happened between them, and she felt unsure now why the attraction had been so irresistible, she didn't want to be parted from him.
"Please tell me you'll teach me again."
"Of course I'll teach you, if you want me to."
What time was it? She couldn't know, from how dark the room was, the windows still obscured. But the candles had burnt low, and would soon go out.
It felt like a lifetime ago she'd been in his kitchen, eating with no troubles on her mind.
Things were different now.
She had to take things back into her control, the way she'd done when she'd arrived here.
"I will leave," she finally said. "But we can meet tomorrow, if you'd like. For another singing lesson."
And more, perhaps, her eyes were telling him.
He nodded, eyes bright.
"As you wish, my dear Christine."
How did he do that? Unmade her with a single utterance of her name? Her heart fluttered, and she almost raised a hand to her chest to still it.
"Thank you for the lesson, Erik. I am beyond grateful for your advice."
There were more things she'd left unsaid, but she hoped he could see them in her smile.
I am so glad we met. I'm so sorry for pushing you.
He nodded again, and led her to his porch. She was right. It must have been mid-afternoon, by now, the light of the sun golden, pink and red on the pine trees, the ground once more like blood under her feet. He was keeping to the door, not stepping out to accompany her. How odd.
She held out his handkerchief.
"I needed to give this back to you, too. It… It must be important to you."
His hand was trembling as he took it slowly. He'd stopped breathing entirely, as if bracing for something. Was it sorrow? Anger? Pain? She couldn't be sure.
"It is. But you needed it more than I do."
They remained there, locked in each other's eyes, feeling the unsaid things weighing on them. But there was no time for that today. Tomorrow, she would start digging. Building trust, getting to know him, for real. After all, the things she thought she knew about him were only small impressions she'd gotten from him.
"Good bye, Erik."
"Good bye, Christine. Have a safe journey home."
How final it felt, but it wasn't.
She'd make sure it wasn't.