Faint laughter and merriment could be heard at this hour, but no souls wandered so far as the river, choosing instead to drink and converse in the glowing warmth of the streets. While the masses grew rowdy with wine, a man and a woman quietly made their way past them, seeking only each other's company. Sheltered under the night sky, the two opposing figures walked side by side along the bank of the Seine, their shadows dawdling behind them, teasing and merging with one another. Silently, they walked under the moonlight, a breath apart, neither daring to touch nor move away.

Erik kept both hands tensed. If his hat failed to shield his face properly or they were met with unwanted attention, he steadily held one hand in his pocket, poised to wrap his fingers either around the hat's brim or the weapon he had concealed in his jacket. His other hand, however, remained tense for an entirely different reason. As he walked, he could not stop himself from peering down at his side to see how closely his companion's hand dangled to his and how easy it would have been for him to reach out and claim it. The temptation was great, and yet he did not stray. It was not the first time he had suffered in silence.

Christine was as unaware of what lurked in Erik's jacket as she was of his glances. Gnawing on her lip, she set a steady pace for the two of them, strolling idly as his presence brought about a question she was afraid to answer.

"Are you warm enough?" he suddenly asked her, his voice filling the night air with its quiet resonance.

"Yes, quite warm, thank you," she answered, reassuring him with a brisk smile before turning towards him fully in concern after he wandered over to the wall on the bank. "Are you comfortable being out here, Erik?" she asked, stopping in her tracks. "We can return if you wish—"

"No," he said, holding up a hand to silence her compromise. "You are happy out here, I can see it. This is what you need and I will not deny you it."

"Even at the risk of being seen?" she asked, trying to decipher his mood by the subtly of his movements, the structure of his words. He was so very hard to read and sometimes she wished that he would just simply let her in.

"Not if we are careful, and careful is what we are," he replied, appearing as though he were drilling the words into his mind.

"Very well," she said, "but must you stand there? From the way you are looking at me, I feel as though I am expected to put on a show of some kind."

An uncharacteristic grin shone on Erik's face, despite the mask, as he called to her, "Are you to keep your audience waiting then?"

Christine stared at him in disbelief, but as she then threw her head back in mirth, Erik reminded himself to make her laugh more often. He was such a pitiful thing, he had almost forgotten what it was like to feel... happy.

"You are serious," she concluded and yet, with a gentle nod, she crept towards the edge of the bank.

One leg rose under her skirts and, curiously, it began to move forward and then back, as if it had a mind of its own and could not decide what direction it wanted to go in. A sudden impulse overtook her and she began to walk along the edge as though she were braving a tightrope. Her arms stretched out on either side of her as she stepped carefully and wobbled a little. A childish grin spread across her face then, and she bit her lip to contain it.

The tiny movement of her teeth catching her lower lip managed to draw a shaky breath from Erik as he watched her from the wall. In moonlight, she was quite ethereal and she appeared so youthful to him at that moment, so at peace with herself and with the world. How he envied her.

Christine was yet again unaware of Erik's eyes on her as she ceased her movements and allowed the distant rumble of laughter to fill her ears and warm her heart. She did not know whether it was the atmosphere or simply her giddiness catching up to her, but she felt as though she could do anything she wanted. She even considered skipping down the steps on the bank and dipping her foot into the Seine. How queer, she thought to herself, and she raised a hand to her mouth as a laugh escaped. What had come over her?

That was when she turned her attention to Erik, the smile slipping from her face as she looked at him.

"Christine?" he said, straightening against the wall after having noticed the sobering of her mood. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she mumbled slowly as she frowned. "Yes, quite... quite all right."

Coming away from the water, Christine's movements were almost slurred, her feet dragging themselves across the ground as she attempted to make sense of what was happening to her. Looking back at Erik, she saw that he, too, was studying her. What an enigma this man was, she thought. One minute he would be as pleasant as any other man, and the next he would fall back into this brooding state. His moods changed so rapidly that she found herself struggling to keep up.

He was like a puzzle, one she had tried and failed to solve, like a lone gust of wind on a warm evening's night, like a... No. No, he was not any of those things, she realised. He was beyond analogies and comparisons. He simply... was. Freeing her mind of such convoluted thoughts, she allowed her senses to guide her next move.

Gazing at the damp ground on either side of him, she slowly began to edge closer, swaying lightly on each foot as she moved her body forward. Not a single word left her mouth as she stopped but an inch in front of him, lips parted, her own hands poised at her sides. Her eyes roamed the steady stillness of his jacket and she stared at the intricate threading, wondering why her own life could not be like his stitching—perfect and neatly formed, with no loose ends. Anchoring herself to the thought and to him, she boldly leaned forward and rested her head in the crook of his neck, her hands sliding up his chest to curl themselves around his shoulders.

At the sudden feeling of her body against him, Erik fell back against the wall and, astounded that she followed suit, he gave into her, allowing himself the pleasure of her friendly embrace. Only in his moments of wretched vulnerability had she touched him with such ease, but now, here she stood, holding him, willingly holding him, and it broke his heart. How delicately she was pressed to him, almost as if... as if she was a figment of his imagination. He had had hallucinations before; it was not uncommon. Perhaps she was just another one. But no, no, she could not be. Leaning his head back against the cold stone, he was instantly cemented in time and as the coldness bit at his neck, he knew that she was indeed real.

Trembling fingers sought her shoulders, ready to push her away, but they didn't, they simply needed proof of her existence, something tangible that could be reached out to and touched. As Christine breathed out a tremulous sigh, she pressed herself against him more, relishing in the feeling of his acceptance.

But something deeper was driving her now, something foreign yet incorrigible, and it made her... unafraid. Her smile was crooked as she closed her eyes and leaned her face closer to his shirt. She whispered words of confusion into him, seeking answers for her troubled mind, as if she believed that the sound of her voice alone could penetrate his cold and guarded exterior.

She spoke so softly and quietly, almost to his larynx itself, but coherency was lost to him for with each word came the tantalisingly accidental brush of her lips over his collar. These muted vowels and consonants were formed against his skin, her breath light yet warm, and Erik found his eyes closing at their touch. With callous thoughts, his body betrayed him and he shamelessly succumbed to the precious feeling of her lips.

And it was heaven.

"Vad är du?" she mumbled in her native tongue, her breath an innocent tease at his throat. "Du förvirrar mig, fascinera mig. Varför vill du att jag nära dig, men du rör mig aldrig? Jag borde inte vill den här... du. Varför vill jag vara nära dig? Jag... jag vill röra dig."

At the sound of these unfamiliar words, Erik reluctantly opened his eyes and tilted his head down to regard her curiously, secretly berating himself for not having learned her language. "Christine?"

"Håll mig."

"I... do not understand."

Veiled eyes peered up at him and he ceased to breathe as her nose bumped into the cold exterior of the mask. She was so close to him now, so very close. "Neither do I," she whispered into its edge.

Amongst the distant vociferous crowds, she heard a slight intake of breath beside her, sharp and strangled, and she drew back far enough to meet Erik eye to eye.

Treading these unfamiliar waters carefully, he slipped one hand from her shoulder and deftly stroked her rosy cheek with his fingers. Breathing raggedly, Christine welcomed his touch as her eyes flickered back and forth between his face and his hand, her mouth parting at the unfamiliar sensations caused by his gentleness. Before he could withdraw, she experimentally leaned her head into his palm, earning her another sharp intake of breath from him.

Once Erik had regained control over his poor nerves, he curled his free fingers into her shoulder and around her upper arm, afraid to hold her but loath to let her go. His back had stiffened against the wall behind him and he inwardly murmured a string of 'thank you's for its ability to keep him upright. His knees would have given way beneath him long ago, otherwise.

She smiled sweetly at him then and his treacherous eyes dropped to her mouth, staring at it through a haze. His fingers at her face twitched before his thumb ghosted over her lips, his entire body trembling as he felt her delicate breath land on his skin in soft pants. Without even thinking, he languidly slid his thumb down and over her lower lip, gently pulling at it, coating it, wetting...

"Erik?" she whispered, frowning as his eyes snapped up to meet hers with such intensity that she could almost hear the beat of her own heart ringing in her ears.

Words hung on the tip of his tongue, but as he opened his mouth to speak, he found that he could not. Rendered speechless and nearly immobile, he could do nothing but draw nearer, bringing his head down to rest his mask on her forehead. The coolness sent a shiver down her spine and as Erik's fingers trailed down her cheek to her neck, her eyes slid shut in defeat.

"A curious thing," Christine heard herself saying.

"What is?" he replied, his voice curt and raspy, as he tried to block out the torturous sensation of how warm she felt beneath his fingertips.

"What wine can do..."

Wine?

Every limb on his inflamed body ceased to work, freezing and then recoiling as miserable messages were sent through his nerves. He retracted his hands and, with such rigidity that rivalled the wall behind him, he pushed past the demure creature in front of him to stand alone in the shadows. Without looking back at her, he merely stared out into the river, silently digging his fingers into his palm. But he hardly noticed the pain, not even when his nails began to claw at his dry skin.

A sudden breeze sauntered by them, blowing a few of Christine's hairs across her face and it was in that moment, when the coolness reached her cheeks and soothed her burning curiosity, that she understood his behaviour... and her own.

"You have been drinking," he said, wishing to drive his fingers into his ears to forever silence the deafening sound of the voices of hope that whispered so intently to him. "Yes. Yes, all is clear now. I thought I could smell something on your breath, but I... I tried to ignore it. You are intoxicated."

For a brief moment, Christine thought about surrendering to his belief. To allow him to accept this conclusion meant that she had been offered an escape—an excuse that she could very well believe. But, she knew now that this was not the case. The wine, though a factor in her behaviour, had merely encouraged her, had given her the courage to explore her confusion in a way that would normally have made her cheeks burn. Even now, she stood before him, flushed at the memory of her brazenness, and yet she could not condemn her actions. But neither could she blame them entirely on an excess of spirits.

"I am not intoxicated," she defended righteously, knowing that it was the truth and that she would be damned before he would think her so low. "I know my own mind."

"Of course you do," he said gently, but his words dripped with dry humour and an undeniable sense of self-deprecation. Walking briskly back to their sheltered spot, he looked to her and then to the ground, feeling the open air suddenly constricting, as though it were clasping a hold of his lungs. Casting his eye around them to make sure they were quite alone, he leaned his masked face down to her ear and spoke in vile softness. "Do you mean to say that you are truly aware of your actions, that they were not... under another influence?"

"Why do you say this?" she asked, now wishing that she could turn back time, if only a few seconds, so that she would have had the sense to think before the words had slipped so easily from her mouth.

"Because I do not think you so reckless a woman as to... behave the way you did." He was choosing his words carefully; plucking them strategically. "Without spirits, you would have never—"

"I would never have what, Erik?" she challenged, pushing herself to the limit of her own knowledge and understanding. Confusion still ran amuck throughout her body, but she did as much to understand it as she did to ignore it. "Do you really think so little of yourself?" She swallowed thickly. "And of me?"

"I think you have had too much to drink and are in need of rest."

"Oh?" she said, raising her eyebrow. "And what if I were to tell you that the wine—"

"Yes?" he pried gently, turning his head close to hers. He had tried to keep his voice steady to alleviate the frantic whirling of his blood, but after years of only being able to hear him, Christine had come to know his tones well and was able to sense the slight tremor which hid, pulsating at the back of his throat.

"No," she said, an obnoxious grin spreading across her face. "No, I do not think I shall tell you after all."

With one last glance up at him, she began to walk back the way they came, adamant that she would behave as stubbornly as he was, and though she did not hear anything above the nearby crowds, she knew that Erik was tailing along behind her.

Matching her pace after a short pause, Erik remained in the shadows, the brim of his hat shielding the view of her face from his inquisitive eyes. "Are all women so maddening?" he grumbled when he could no longer bear the silence between them.

"Some are known to be," Christine quipped heartily, though nothing about her expression would have told him that she was jesting. "Shall we return to the carriage?" she continued sombrely, unconsciously picking up her speed. "I seem to have caught a sudden chill."

"If that is what you wish," he complied before risking a glance at her face and thoroughly regretting it. Her eyes! By God, he felt as though their ambiguity was enough to put a curse on him, that he would be forced to suffer forever without ever knowing the true meaning of the light which now sparkled within them.

As the hour grew late, they entered the carriage and allowed their weary bodies to tumble gently side to side under the uneven terrain. Unlike before, when Erik had sat beside her, he now resided in the seat opposite her, stoically keeping his head trained to the window.

In the dim light, Christine studied him. His posture was fixed, too formal, and his back lined up perfectly with that of the seat—he appeared more like a statue at times like this. His jaw was locked, his hands were clenched tightly, held over his knees, and her gaze seemed to linger there, on his long and spindly fingers.

In the quiet of the carriage, she recalled their touch, the soft way they had caressed her skin... and the way his skin had felt against her quivering lips. It would have been too much now if she were to lean forward and seize his hand, though.

What was this dangerous and yet irresistible pull that had always drawn her near him and which was now making her wish that he would reach over and take hold of her hand, her face, her waist? Such intimacy was taboo between them. At least, that was what it had always felt like.

Breathing deeply, Christine struggled to maintain control over her unchaste thoughts, but it was only after his dark eyes had flickered to hers that she finally looked away.

She had once thought that wine would dull her mind, that it would turn the rational into incoherent nonsense and that she would simply take leave of her senses. This experience had been altogether different, however. Her senses had, in fact, been heightened and a strength had flowed through her warm body, both foreign and illicit. Never before had she been so compelled to act upon an impulse, despite how intrepid and brazen it appeared to be, and it had given her the courage to be so bold.

Silence continued to flood the small space surrounding them for the remainder of the journey, following them still as they walked back through the endless growth. Once they arrived underground, and all too anxious to retreat into her bedchamber, Christine began to swiftly haul herself and her gifts across the rug until his voice pierced the air.

"Your evening was pleasant, I hope?" he asked, leaning against the piano lid with his tailored back to her.

"Very pleasant, yes," she replied truthfully, the sweet remnants of wine still tickling her tongue. "Thank you."

"Good," he whispered, nodding his head slightly. "That is good."

Why did he not turn and look at her? She wondered this hopelessly as she stood staring at his slouched figure. And then, suddenly, he did turn, his shoulders hunched and his mouth a thin, pale line.

"Christine—"

"Yes?"

His hand began to twitch and stretch out in front of him and the urge to drop her gifts and run to him overcame her. Slowly, so slowly, did his body begin to lean forward, as if he, too, were fighting the impulse to come closer. And propriety be damned because she wished that he would have come to her in that moment. Her memory alone was not enough to satisfy her and she silently begged for his sinful embrace once more.

But when he did move, his actions were no more than a retraction of his hand, and he resolved himself, trailing his aching fingers along the keys of the piano, hating himself for not being contented with their coolness after he had touched such softness.

"Goodnight, Christine," he finally said, sitting down and allowing his hands to pour out countless adagios. He continued this way until he did not feel her presence anymore and the gentle sound of a door closing reached his ears before he spoke again, his voice one with the notes he created. "Goodnight... my love."

A/N: I hope this slightly early chapter didn't disappoint! I also don't pretend to know Swedish, so if anyone knows the language and can see a mistake, please tell me.

"Vad är du?"= "What are you?"

"Du förvirrar mig, fascinera mig. Varför vill du att jag nära dig, men du rör mig aldrig? Jag borde inte vill den här... du. Varför vill jag vara nära dig? Jag... jag vill röra dig." = "You confuse me, fascinate me. Why do you want me near you, but you never touch me? I should not want this... you. Why do I want to be close to you? I... I want to touch you."

"Håll mig." = "Hold me."