He never understood why he was this way. Even at a young age, he had convinced himself that the "great man" in the sky hated him. That was why he looked this way; that was why he could never belong.
She had loved him. Surely she had. Why else would she had craved his touch? His music? His presence?
She convinced herself she wanted to see it—the horrors beneath his mask that not even he could bear on his own. But she didn't understand his reality, and she needed to know. She had to. Right?
He wasn't quite sure anymore. He tried convincing himself it was for the best. He had always been on his own. That was what society wanted; what God wanted.
Still. He couldn't help but be angry. Angry at himself, angry at society, angry at God.
The bathroom mirror was the only mirror he kept in the house. If he could maintain what little of himself was bearable to look at—his teeth, his hair, the cleanliness of his clothes—he would do it. But not without a quick glance in the mirror.
This, however, was not one of those quick glances, and not for self-grooming. His teeth had not been brushed; his hair had not been washed nor combed; his clothes had not been pressed or changed. He wore no mask either. It was just him—Erik in his rawest, ugliest form.
His eyes roamed over every detail of his face. He had made an effort to memorize every imperfection before, but those efforts had fallen flat in the face of denial. He couldn't look this way. No man could look this way.
Then came the question: Was he a man?
He had never felt like a man. The world believed he was not; the world did not think he deserved what all other men deserved. Love, affection, acceptance: these were the things he could never know.
But then she came. Christine. Beauty and innocence and normality. Everything he had ever wanted all in one real, tangible woman. And she gave herself to him; allowed him to share music with her in a way he never thought possible for himself. And he pushed her out. God had given him one chance—a chance to have everything he ever desired—and now even he denied himself that. Now he was no better than anyone else.
He slammed his fist into the mirror where his face was, breaking the glass into multiple fragments. When he pulled away, he noticed the blood spilling down his knuckle and his wrist. Another glance up and his face was still there, broken and fragmented but still there. He slammed his other fist into the mirror, sending the center shattering into his sink.
It took a moment for the pulsing ache to begin, the adrenaline of the moment wearing off. He sank to the floor as his hands began to shake, eyes roaming over the bloodied ridges of his knuckles. The idea of running off to treat his wounds was far beyond him. This is it, he thought.
Tears strained his eyes, exhaustion becoming more evident within him. He thought he could fight everything off with music—he always had—but this time he could not. It didn't matter what he played. He couldn't stop thinking of her.
Her name was on his lips now, ugly and broken between sobs. He pounded his head back against the wall, stopping when her name caught in his throat mid-sob.
He would die, he thought. He would surely die. This is it.
How much time had passed before the doorbell rang, he was unsure. His crying had slowed with the call for sleep, and he wasn't even quite sure if it had been his doorbell he'd heard or some sound from Heaven.
No. It was not Heaven. He could not be going to Heaven.
The doorbell rang again and his eyes flung open. He used the sink to steady himself as he stood, being careful not to cut his hands any further with any broken fragments of glass. Not that it would've mattered anyway.
His eyes shot to the kitchen clock as he rushed through the living room. Far too late in the night for an appropriate visit, he realized. The doorbell rang again as he neared it. Twice now, more impatient.
He paused. Whoever it was, at this hour, they were unwanted. He had intended for his night to end alone, without disturbance, yet here someone was... bothering him.
He would scare them off, he decided. Once they'd see his face, they'd run and warn everyone about the horrible thing that lives inside the house. It would further justify himself continuing the night as it had been going. Maybe they'd catch the blood on his hands and call the police. Or perhaps it would be some time before the police would come to investigate, and they'd find him dead. If he were lucky, it'd be months later; when his body was supposed to look like a skeleton.
He twisted the deadbolt of his door and threw it open in an instant, managing the most wicked expression he could.
His expression dissolved in a flash at the sight of her: the girl he'd already scared off, drenched from the rain that was pouring outside.
"Ch-Christine?"
She smiled a bit. Oh, even the tiniest, most unsure raise of her lips was enough to send his heart racing.
Panic ensued as he remembered what he'd done, the sharp pain rushing back through as if it had gotten jealous at the fact that he had deviated his attention away from it even for just a moment. Unsure of what else to do, he lifted his hands for her viewing.
Her smile faded in an instant, her face becoming a reflection of his own internal horror.
Christine pushed her way in without invitation, setting the violin case he'd not seen strapped around her back on the floor along with an overnight bag. She ran into the kitchen where she knew she hung his keys and pulled him out of the house by the shoulder of his dress shirt, leading him into his vehicle without so much as a word.
She was driving fast, he knew, but he could not take his eyes off of her and her beautiful, worried little face. He was still stunned. Surely he had died. But where had he gone? This was not Heaven, not Hell either. This was something in-between; real and not real at the same time.
"When did you do that, Erik?"
Her question sliced clean through the burning silence. Erik looked back down at his hands, blood still slowly trickling out around shards of glass. "Tonight."
He fixed his gaze back on her as tears began to roll down her cheeks. "Why?" Her question was strangled, almost silent.
There was no direct answer, he knew. A lifetime of anger, possibly. But he wasn't sure what to point at first, and explaining would be useless in both their states of mind.
He remained silent.
Christine blinked away her tears, trying to maintain her focus on the road. "Erik-" she choked. "I-I'm sorry. If I knew... I wouldn't have-"
"Please, Christine," he cried. "Do not apologize for something that is not your doing. You have been through so much. I am sorry that I..." his voice trailed off. If he could apologize for everything in a few short words, he could. "I'm sorry that I cannot control myself. I-I should've refused to touch you when you first asked me because I knew..." he shook his head in frustration. "I knew I would fall in love."
Her knuckles went white on the steering wheel, her heart churning with a million thoughts—all which she wanted to say, none which she knew to say first.
"I've never known that, Christine. I've never known what it is to be loved, to be wanted. I've only been able to replicate those feelings through music, but I've realized that what I've understood—what I thought I understood—of love all my life has been nothing but false. It is so much more."
His eyes shot to the ring on her finger. "You kept it," he whispered, mostly to himself, a small smile forming on his face.
She shot a quick glance in his direction to see what he was looking at and smiled realizing it was the ring. "Of course," she said. "You think I'd give up on loving you so easily?"
He frowned. "It has been two weeks. I thought maybe..." he trailed off, realizing how foolish he'd been.
She shook her head. "No, Erik. Not after everything you've given me."
Silence swelled between them.
"I have not given you enough. I have given you my music, my love, and I have taken you out to dinner once, but there is so much more. I know it." He swallowed as his eyes roamed back over her face, darting to that stray little freckle on the side of her jaw. "Tell me everything you want, Christine. I will make it happen."
They finally made it to bed after an hour of cleaning the bathroom. In spite of Christine's protests in consideration of his new stitches, Erik insisted he brush her matted, frizzy hair after she changed into one of his shirts for the night—her bag of clean clothes was much too drenched for her to wear to bed.
Christine smiled and hummed blissfully as she felt the bristles of her hairbrush stroke her scalp, easing out the tangles that had formed from her walk between the bus stop and his house in the rain. It was nice for once to be able to relax after everything that had occurred in the night, knowing he was safe and okay and she was just as well.
Slipping one of his bandaged hands under her arm and around her abdomen, he set her brush aside at the foot of the bed, pushing back a few curls from her neck for better access. Her humming ceased as his lips skimmed along the curve of her neck, planting a few loving, wet kisses there in a jagged line.
He lifted his lips once more, reaching to pull back the collar of her buttondown shirt so that he could dip his fingers beneath it and trace the protruding bone that was her clavicle.
A small, easy hand against his wrist stopped him in his tracks, and his heart leaped with anxiety. "Not tonight," she said. "I'm tired, and all I want to do right now is fall asleep in your arms."
Erik smiled at her whisper of words and happily folded her into an embrace. He had turned up the thermostat just enough to know she'd be comfortable without a blanket around her and worked their limbs into a tangled mess, hoping their bodies would not part in the night.
A/N: This isn't the final chapter, by the way. :)