The elephant in the room.
Erik had many regrets. He regretted that he skipped so many classes in school. He regretted not seeing his mother before she passed. He regretted wasting years searching for a treatment for the untreatable. Then again, he always had perfect grades, his mother refused to see him, and he managed to save enough to buy a theater so, all in all, he probably had fewer regrets than most.
However, sitting at the upright piano in the recital room, Erik regretted every time he ever raised an eyebrow and told one of his staff to 'just rewrite that part', or 'edit that bit'. He'd furiously pitched a handful of crumpled papers over the piano an hour ago.
He'd forgotten how hard this was. Little wonder, it had been years since he'd last written something original, and now he was fighting to find that rhythm again, slip his mind into that groove. He was just so rusty at this.
Erik paused. He'd been rusty at a lot of things, but Christine hadn't minded. The lines of faint scratches on his shoulders and the little lurch his insides did every time he thought about them could attest to that. That and the afternoon kiss in the courtyard as the first cold rains began. And the text.
Rusty, but still capable despite the years of neglect at that, too. No regrets there either, really, though he had forgotten about the chafing.
…
Tired after a another long day, Erik dragged himself home Monday evening after the regular show was underway. It was a low stakes variety show of local singers and dancers for a small but devoted crowd of theater subscribers who never failed to help promote their favorites. A few subscribers were prominent influencers, so Erik did all he knew to keep them happy.
A text came during lunch.
.
Will you play for me tonight?
.
He'd spent the day alternating between a frenzy of paperwork and finances and climbing the dizzying heights of the rafters and rigging. It wouldn't have been half so bad if he'd had some sleep, but he'd be damned if he let a first year intern run the lines alone. Once he was back on the ground, the first subscribers had arrived and he had to dash to his office and change into a suit. Dust never settled on his stage.
.
I want nothing more.
.
…
It took three tries to get his keys in the door, but he finally managed.
Whiskey. It was a whiskey night. His reply wasn't quite true. He wanted more, but satisfaction came in puzzle pieces and it was up to you to solve. If he needed to wait, Christine was worth every second.
A quick shower and a layer of cream. Erik grimaced. The tops of ridges, cheekbones, and his brow were a little red. Not bad, he'd just been under the mask more than usual lately, but it was trouble brewing.
He smoothed his damp hair down and settled the mask into place just in time to hear a light tap at the door. After a few seconds there was another tap, so Erik went to the door,
"It's always unlocked for you, you know," he said as he leaned against the frame.
Christine looked sheepish. "I didn't know if anything had… changed."
Erik drew her close and locked the door behind her. She was warm and sweet and it was just so easy to kiss the top of her head, feel the curls spring against his chin. Blankets draped on his sofa, a stepstool in his kitchen. Balcony light brightening the shadows.
"Yes, things have changed, Christine."
She pulled back and looked up at him, her face scrunching a bit. "I, Erik if-"
"I've got two bottles of your favorite white wine, and I usually stick to reds and liquor so yeah… things have changed."
…
They never made it to the piano.
It was strange, this circling, orbiting each of other. Erik pretended to look over music while Christine pretended to get ready. Both of them in the kitchen, no need for two people to make tea.
Need two to kiss, though.
It takes two to kiss, to breathe the same air. Touch with one is good but with two it was splendor. Christine pulled up his shirt and slid her hand along his back. She smiled against his lips when he shuddered.
When two can touch, tea is forgotten.
Christine liked soft things; her clothes, her speech, and her manners spoke of kindness. Outward kindness was a product of inward softness, and a willingness to remain so. The world was out to make hard, dull golems of everyone, and it was only through sheer will that she had refused.
Being a golem himself, Erik had a certain appreciation for that, and he nudged the neck of her shirt aside to tongue her shoulder. Pressure at his back, sharp points. Her blunt fingernails dug into him for a moment, leaving impressions on him. A reminder that he, too, is soft, and not the machine he has become these last few years.
Christine pushed him lightly against the counter and set herself astride his thigh, her heat melting. "Hey," she whispered against his neck.
They'd taken each other by surprise last time, ended up being chased rather than chasing something together. Erik wasn't going to let that happen again, so he braced his body against the counter and planted his foot between hers.
"Hey," he said back, and swallowed hard when Christine pressed herself to his thigh. Her eyes fluttered, half closed, so Erik held her close and delicately plucked her glasses off and set them on the counter.
Saturday had been good. Very good. But composers know beauty isn't all crescendo and crash. Erik was a composer. Admittedly, as a lover he was a little untried, but Christine blinked darkened eyes up at him with a loose smile and tugged his arm to follow. She passed the sofa, thankfully, and let him take the lead to his bedroom.
The balcony light did not reach here, and the sun had set and taken the last of twilight with it. No gold illumination to set her edges on fire, but a cool glow from the window helped in the dark room. She found the bed and he found her arms, stretching out beside her. As a parade of doubt began to creep into his mind, Christine wrapped an arm over him and kissed him, her tongue darting along his lips.
Not a golem. A golem's heart does not beat so fast. "Christine,"
"Shhh," she sighed, and plundered him. It was slow, aching, and perfect. Her leg slid up and over him, and his hands found purchase at the dip of her waist. He toyed with the tight cord at the back of her knee, plucking a bow.
Fabric makes a strangely comforting sound when it flies in the dark, crumpling in a heap that might be a nudged blanket or a shirt. Underthings are not to be thrown, but slipped away and set aside. The satin linings of instrument cases held precious things and so did these.
Christine's breaths are cool on Erik's shoulder and she is tender on his tongue. Alternating softness and angles, yielding and hot. Her moans above him vibrate in his mouth. When her voice broke, her fingers raked his scalp and he climbed back to her, over her legs, for a kiss.
"Oh god, your mask," she panted.
It was still there, he'd checked. Oh. Oh.
"It's seen worse," he dismissed, and dipped low for her lips as he settled.
Eyes full of fog stared back, confused.
Erik grinned. "Spaghetti. I'll never make that mistake again."
As far as Erik was concerned, when loving and laughter meet, both are improved. Christine laughed until she clutched his sides and threw her head back, shaking. Then her giggles returned. It was a little strange until her throaty laughter caused her to tighten in the best way. When Erik could think again, he resolved to be a jester in their bed.
…
As they hummed, kissed, and petted each other, Christine's eyes regained their focus. Erik found himself the target of her attention as well as her affections. Her touch was cool on his hairline.
"You're red."
Erik cracked open an eye. "I'm blushing."
Christine frowned. "You need more breaks from this," she lightly tapped the porcelain.
Erik gently batted her hand away and tucked her head under his chin. "I promise. As soon as you go to that repulsive rat-dog, I'll take it off."
A fingertip traced his collarbone. Slowly, a tiny point of cold in their warm nest.
"You don't have to wear it," Christine whispered, lips grazing him. "Not around me."
He swallowed hard to stop harsh words. She didn't know, didn't deserve them. He was older now, had been here before. Had practiced for this. "Christine, I'd prefer if your first look at me didn't involve us being naked. I'm not sure I can handle your reaction."
The cool trailing on his chest stopped. "I loved my first look at you."
He was going to be sick. He broke into a sweat under the mask and felt flush rise, then run to ice. "What? What did you say, Christine?"
She propped her chin on his chest, just below his sternum. If he had a nose, she'd be looking right up it. "I said, I loved my first look at you." She was bouncing up and down a bit. He was starting to hyperventilate.
"I never… never…"
"Shhhh," she said as she crept up for a kiss, and Erik's breath came in slower. Still panting, but slower.
Erik thought, but came up empty. All those sessions in his apartment and… nothing. "I never took it off for you."
Christine smiled down at him. "You applauded me, you goof." She kissed the tip of his chin. "You ran onto your balcony, and I guess you forgot it."
Oh. He'd been mortified and confused that night, but didn't really connect all those dots. One small humiliation gets lost in a sea of them, and he'd been busy since then. Busy with the wiring, plumbing, finances, insurance, music, and sort of, maybe, falling in love.
Love. Wild things lived in that word.
He drew a shuddering breath.
Christine brushed her lips against his jaw. "So now you know. What's under that mask cheered for me. No one else has. So when you're ready, that's what I'll be thinking of."
…
The mask was off once Christine left to tend Mr. Pretty and her current project. Once Erik finished carefully patted his face, a thought struck him. If they could get past the mask, she could spend the night.
Wait, the dog.
She wouldn't have to leave if she brought the dog with her.
A dog? If he kept the bedroom door closed, it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe.
And the dog was very ugly. Really ugly. Erik laughed as he collapsed back into bed and buried his face in a Christine-scented pillow.
Maybe the dog could wear a mask.
...