Desecration

There was color. Not much, for his face lacked the flesh for that kind of blood flow, but… color. The flush had lasted the entire night, and little wonder. It's the most he's seen in years.

Action or color.

Erik left the mask off as long as he could and caught occasional glimpses as he passed the bathroom. It wasn't even a matter of being on some subjective scale, but at least he had some color today. Curious. He applied a second layer of cream, then settled the mask in place and grabbed his coat and scarf.

…

The ten minute walk from the courtyard had been awkward, shy, and full of torturous small talk.

The dog was fine now. She'd steamed her carpets three times in two days. Yes, he'd heard dog vomit was a real challenge for textiles. There were entire blogs devoted to how to clean things and wasn't the internet useful?

The cafe door welcomed them with a delicious gust.

Erik felt like an ass. He paid for her latte and his double whatever and they took seats that looked out a window. A handful of students had their laptops on the long wooden table, blearily tapping away. Christine folded her hands, crushing them white.

"This is stupid, isn't it?" Christine said as she glared out at the sidewalk.

"No," Erik answered. "It's painful. But now that it's out of the way-" It wasn't the smoothest line, but she turned her head to look at him and it was what he needed to dust a little kiss on her forehead.

Christine sighed and leaned closer. "I'm still sorry about last night."

The edge of the mask bumped her, and Erik adjusted. "I'm not. Not anymore."

Her fingers laced between his and stayed until their names were mispronounced by the barista.

…

Weather was sure to follow such a dreary sky so, once their drinks were adulterated according to taste, they decided to brave the chilly morning and continue walking. With Christine's hand in his, Erik took her around the corner that led to his second home. The futon in his office was a remnant from when it was his only home.

"I've never been down this way," she said, looking up at the main road storefronts. The street was Sunday morning silent despite recent revitalization. This kind of revitalization didn't do mornings, but it liked the theater scene, so Erik had no objections.

That wasn't quite true. He could always find objections.

"This way," he directed, and pulled heavy keys from his coat pocket. The side door was an unassuming metal affair with no markings beyond a few scratches, flaking paint, and a kick mark in his size.

Christine watched as he pushed the key home and did the jiggle-tug that opened the door. "What is this?" Her eyes were already trying to peer into the darkness.

Erik swallowed against the sudden flutter inside his ribs. "I said I wanted to show you something." He looked over his shoulder and took two steps in. "Well, this is the something." When he turned back, the little smile Christine had carried since the cafe was broader.

Erik held out his hand, an offer, a lure. An invitation to his beating heart, an oddly public place and yet the most personal part of his life. Her hand in his was electrifying and he led her in, past the short entry landing and up the stair, careful to guide her past all the hazards he had yet to correct, until they reached the stage floor landing.

It was nearly pitch black. Thin strips of safety lights on the floor were meant to direct backstage work during lights out, but you had to know their layout to use them. Updates took time and money.

"Come with me, watch your step." He guided her out to the stage. Erik knew every inch of the place, knew where every nail and panel was in the boards. Holding both her hands, he set her exactly where he wanted. "Don't move. Give me one minute!"

The wings and their assorted gear, crates, and the layers of curtains that hung to either side would be nearly invisible, alien, until lit.

"Really, Erik? It's pitch black in here!"

He ran as fast as he could to the lighting controls. The stage itself was modern, but the house lights, over the audience, were still controlled by a huge, clunky switch labeled 'mains'. Erik kind of loved it. It was just so tactile. From the switchplate in the pit, he released the clamp and swung the big handle up, eyes locked on Christine and the stage above as the lights above buzzed.

.

The theater drew breath.

.

"Oh!" Christine yelped. She tapped her feet on the boards and spun, trying to look at everything, her hands over her mouth. Erik stood at the control board and flipped on a few lights, just enough to illuminate the stage.

She turned again, a bright pillar in a sea of black, and looked up into the rigging, to the wings, and walked downstage. "What is this place?"

Erik unfastened the cover from the Steinway and pulled it back. "She seats two hundred in the seats; two-fifty if we get creative with folding chairs. She's got great acoustics and not much else going for her." He dropped his coat onto a chair and rested an arm on the glossy piano. "What do you think?"

"I think it's a theater. With a stage." She sniffed a bit. "And I'm… on it."

"Yes," he said softly, rolling up his cuffs. There was a blade of incandescent energy in his space. "Yes, you are." Erik opened the piano lid and, seeing that there were no surprises inside, set it on the prop and headed to the bench, caressing the curving case as he went. Christine tilted her head, watching his well-practiced routine, and glanced back at the dark passageways.

She looked down at him thoughtfully. "You're not just a musician here, are you?"

He stretched his hands and shrugged. "I'm a musician, and I'm here." The keys danced to his every touch as he ran through a little Bach, a little rock, and finally a few measures of last night's song because he needed to feel that way again.

She was perfect there, here. Here, so close, in the very heart of his everything. "I thought we'd start with warm ups," he said.

…

Christine's voice was not perfect. Her throat was not crystal set in a silver vase. She had skill, was obviously trained, but her transition from chest to head was catchy and she tended to rasp certain sounds.

With some retraining and intensive practice, that could be improved, but the scrape in her voice felt like fingernails scratching his scalp and no pure sound made him shiver like that. Disney voices were a dime a dozen, and every suburban kid who showed talent was shuttled to music lessons, polished until they shined, stage-ready and crisp.

Passionless little robots. They expected leads, but never gave the stage it's due. They didn't know how.

After warming up, Erik let her decide what to sing and she clung to her preferred standards. Shy at first, Erik lowered the lights and kept his eyes on Christine, locked on each other, just like they did every time.

If Christine's stage presence lacked, it was because no one had bothered to give her what she needed. Finding it was so easy Erik almost felt sorry for… New York. New York and all the teachers that tried to teach her precision over passion, pitch over purpose.

Thank god they failed.

Christine did not have a perfect voice, but she was an amazing performer. And she was here, with her eyes on him.

Four songs in, he needed a break. "Take five? My office fridge is dead but the breakroom has water."

Bright from effort and sparkling in the lights, Christine smirked at him. "Your office?"

…

Christine sat on the stage, her legs hanging off into the pit, as she sipped water they'd pilfered from the stagehands fridge. "You've had this place for four years? That's crazy."

He fiddled with a few notes, riffing random bits that came to mind like errant thoughts. "What's crazy is that we're still open."

"Sounds like you're doing pretty well."

"I've got a place to live and I can see a live show most days. Life is pretty good, even if I have to fix the plumbing myself sometimes." Erik laughed to himself. Funds were short and he'd rather spend them on productions when he could.

Christine swung her legs and looked up into the rafters. There it was again- that dreamy smile. She'd had it last night before she remembered all the things she'd abandoned. "It sounds like heaven."

Shit, she was waiting for him. If Erik kept dawdling, he'd miss this chance and fall further behind her. Like missing a cue and flailing to recapture the song.

"No," Erik swallowed when she looked back at him curiously. It was cheesy, but was what he could come up with. "You sound like heaven."

Her legs stopped swinging. It was strange, to be this far from her while at a piano. Maybe it was the night before- all the nights before. She'd never been more than a few feet away but here, in a half lit theater, she was across a cavern.

"Play me a song?" she asked, breathy and low.

Eric turned to the keys. "What song?" he whispered, and heard the sound of footsteps coming down the steps. He kept his hands at the ready while his entire body listened, waited, for her.

A trace of a touch on his neck. She was so close, right at his back. "You pick. One song."

Her warmth seeped through the slip of space and into Erik's back. After last night, this was a good day for coming full circle, for rebooting. With her tracing his edges, skimming over his shoulders and up to his jaw, Erik's hands pressed gently into the opening bars. He'd come to associate her with this piece, and nothing could be more fitting. It was fulfilling- simple, satisfyingly complete in every way.

Her first request.

Touch, at his neck again. Symphonic rhyme and cascading resolutions. Her fingertips traced downwards as he entered the second part of the song; dipped along his his collar. It had been years since he'd last missed a note in this piece, but Erik's hands juddered over a waterfall of notes as Christine tilted his head back and smoothed her hands over his throat, his chest.

"Christine." Her wrists were small, stilling as he held them in place under his palm. Erik turned his face to the soft warmth of her arm and breathed. What a picture they must make, he imagined, his too-thin self framed by her. In her.

A jolt up his spine. It had been abstract, this thought. Until last night he'd been content to bask in her voice and enthusiasm. Until last night he'd barely touched her. Couldn't. Complication.

Desecration.

Erik raised a hand, abandoning the pretense of the piano, and reached up Christine's arm until he cupped her shoulder. The knob of bone turned as she held him more tightly, slipping a hand from under his to trace his throat again, upwards to his jaw.

A trickle of fear passed through him, The mask. Erik swallowed roughly under her touch and gently stopped her at his jawline, kissing the pads of her fingers. "Not that. Let it be."

She paused. It was possible that was a deal breaker. It had been before. "Okay." Her fingertips skimmed the edge of his face, careful of the mask itself. Breath on his ear hazed his vision.

"Erik, please."

It was the please. Once he'd turned himself around she'd wasted no time getting close, and he'd wasted no time helping. Unfortunately, piano benches were awkward at best, and Christine's knee would be rubbed raw before long. In an act of sublime miscalculation, Erik hitched his pleasant lapful higher to shift the weight off Christine's knee.

Streams of blasphemy echoed through the backstage, punctuated by throaty laughter. The stair to his office was most certainly not where he'd left it.

...

A half hearted attempt at remodeling had occured in the 1980's. The result was a lazy melange of poorly installed flooring, paneling, chipping formica counters, and occasional glass-block windows throughout the offices and backstage areas of the theater.

While Erik generally ignored these things (why throw a fit over what could not be changed?) for the first time he grudgingly appreciated his window. The awkward four by eight block window, with it's flaking grout and leaky edges, broke up the late morning sun and threw wobbly light across the office.

It even made the decidedly unromantic futon almost appealing.

No, that was Christine.

Her breath on his neck, her shape in his hands, voice in his ears. She was everywhere and in reach. Erik reached and felt her heel by his knee and slid his hand up, pausing to feel her ankle bone and shin, the way her muscles flexed in counterpoint when he pressed up.

The shattered light scattered in her hair, and he raised a handful of coils, a curtain of intertwining rings. Crochet lace in backlit gold.

Her legs flexed and his vision blurred again. Every experience he'd ever had before faded like so many forgettable cello solos. Christine's curves, smooth and pulsing, smothered them and warmed the chilly void they'd left behind.

She took his hand and led it under her shirt; tendersoft and luscious. It wasn't long before he pushed her shirt up and had her in his mouth, his knees bent to prop her closer. When her fingernails dug into his shoulders, Erik reached down and slipped his hand between them. The pink in her cheeks went darker, staining her throat and chest.

The world went upside down, at once frantic, grinding, and tight. A stack of scripts and music splattered across the floor and the bookcases of scuffed patchwork bindings threatened to follow. In Erik's ears, incoherent rhapsodies competed with Christine's sighs and she's overwhelming. She's divine.

.

She's…

.

"Christine," he cried when she tightened into precious stillness above him, her head thrown back. Her curls tickled his knees and his knuckles taste like passion.

With breaths that caught in the same places as her singing voice, Christine loosened. "C'mere," she said and tucked herself under him, dragging him back, directly on top of her.

A moment of fear as she cupped his face in her hands and then only the thought that kissing is good, so very good and why had they stopped even for a moment? It should be now, now, only ever now because she is so good and soft and warm and

The bar over Christine's head creaked and the metal legs have long worn through the pads they came with. The legs scraped over the floor and Christine panted and rose up to meet him and yes that's it there that's how he will finish her song.

Her voice and his music. His ears rang for five minutes.

...

Limp and shaky. The light had changed and it had to be nearly noon. On Sunday. A quartet tonight.

"Look who's awake."

Erik tried to sit up and quickly abandoned the effort. "Come back. We can call for delivery."

Christine giggled and nudged his side with her toes. "There's people walking around the theater. Someone is going to come looking for you eventually. And I need to check on the dog soon."

A groan had never sounded so smug, even in his own ears. "Alright, but I don't have to like it." Erik hauled himself up and was well rewarded. He'd honestly forgotten how good kissing could be, and Christine's legs across his lap were just such a nice touch.

"Hey, we kind of made a mess," she said, gesturing around his office.

Erik looked down at the stacks of scripts spilled across his office floor, hand written notes in every place but where he's tucked them, and binders of music covered in sticky notes, dozens of which had found liberation from the compositions they had annotated.

With a shrug, Erik nudged Christine's cheek to turn for another kiss. "Yeah, well. They never had it so good."

...