Thank you all for the lovely reviews on my Raoul chapter. I know he's not everyone's favorite character—including mine!—but I did want to spend a little time on him in these vignettes.
This vignette will be all about Gavin and Marisol. Just kidding! I hope you enjoy the E/C. Thanks to MadLizzy for editing.
Read and Review!!
Her first semester back to college started off on a bad note. Well, not bad…just….
"Group number four will be Christine, Ivan, David E., and Matt. Group five will be…."
Christine stared at the professor teaching the Sociology class, her mouth dropping open in dismay. Three boys in her group? Weren't they old enough to pick their own groups? Before she could complain, one guy spoke from the side of her. "Hey. You're Christine?" She turned her head. He actually looked a little like Raoul, except that his hair was longer, and he was skinnier.
"Hi. Yes. That's me."
"Hey. I'm David. Or Dave." Matt and Ivan soon joined them. They all shook hands and introduced themselves before settling down in a circle to prepare for the first group assignment. And what was she going to do? I'm sorry, Professor. My husband says I'm not allowed to be in a group with three boys. Maybe it wasn't a big deal.
They were nice boys. Dave seemed to be the smartest and most studious--the one to go to for homework help. Ivan was friendly but relaxed, his legs stretched out in front of him and his hands behind his head. Matt was sort of a flirt, but he appeared more interested in the Japanese girl sitting behind him. The only hard part came when, after class, Dave said, "We have four tests and two group projects. You guys want to study or work in the evenings sometimes?"
"How about the mornings or afternoons?" Christine suggested.
"Evenings are better for me," said Ivan. "I work."
"Same here," said Matt.
"Evenings, then," she murmured.
"If you can't always come, it's cool," said Dave with a nod at her. "This is casual."
"Yeah. We'll even go to the bar afterward," said Matt.
"Dude. Have you seen the bars around here?" asked Ivan. "They suck."
"Charlie's doesn't suck," Matt protested. "They have one-dollar Wednesday."
Christine gathered up her belongings, told them goodbye, and headed off to find her next class. She'd forgotten what it was like to be around guys that age. At one time, they'd seemed a little intimidating with their smug, playful grins. Now, they seemed harmless. If only she could convince Erik of that.
When she got home early in the afternoon, Erik appeared delighted. Even if her time at home would be spent studying, she would be spending fewer hours physically away from him. Naturally, Erik's first question was, "Did anyone bother you?"
"No," she replied with a soft laugh. "It went well. I even managed not to get lost."
He wrapped an arm tightly around her shoulders and tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as though he could almost smell the young men who had been near her. Christine stood on her tiptoes and kissed him soundly as though to say, Yes. There were boys around. So what?
Some of the tension was eased when they went to the opera that weekend. It was freezing outside, but the night air was fresh, and the moon was full. She dressed up in a lavender evening gown and decorated herself with jewelry and makeup; Erik wore his best suit. Some people sat near them during the performance, but Erik managed to stay calm, his grip only tightening around her hand. He even allowed her to remove his hat, although he grumbled about it for several minutes.
The story of Rusalka was a romantic but heartbreaking fairy tale. Christine wondered why so many operas had to be that way; maybe she could convince Erik to write a happy opera. He'd probably laugh at her if she asked.
"Did you enjoy it?" inquired Erik as they returned to the car.
"Yes. It was beautiful, especially the singing. I'd love to learn "Song to the Moon." But…I like the ending to the cartoon version better."
He stared down at her. "The what?"
"So you know Shakespeare but not Disney?" she teased.
"He is the one who created that mouse, no?" Erik glared slightly. "I despised that mouse's voice."
She rested her head on his shoulder. "Don't worry. I won't make you watch The Little Mermaid."
It was one of the happiest nights of the semester. After she returned to school the following week, each day was like another coil in a tightly wound spring. It was difficult to say what caused the tension. Christine became stressed with some classes and was occasionally irritable over her grades. Still, she tried to complain to her classmates instead of to Erik; she didn't want him becoming angry with her professors. At home, she spent a lot of time reading textbooks, but Erik didn't seem to mind as long as she was with him. And their nights were always spent in each other's arms.
Maybe individual incidents built the tension. Or maybe the problems were in Erik's mind rather than in their relationship. An occasional crisis might have been inevitable.
It started when she and Matt began a long e-mail conversation in February. Christine had refused to give out her phone number and told her group members to contact her over the computer, which seemed safer for a variety of reasons. Matt e-mailed her with homework questions, explaining that the other guys weren't home and that he was completely lost on the assignment.
Wanting to be of help, she grabbed her notebook and wrote: Yeah. Number two and six were confusing. I made up a bunch of stuff for the second one. See what you think. She included her answer.
He almost instantly replied: Yeah. Those questions made no sense. But your answer looked okay. He went on to make some other suggestions and asked for her opinion. Matt was smarter than he originally seemed to be.
She wrote: Looks good. After all this work, watch the professor just check for completion. Like last time. Lol.
He said: Tell me about it. That class drives me up a wall.
The conversation finished a few minutes later after they'd discussed the two questions and managed to come up with a few half-baked answers. With a satisfied sigh, Christine started to turn around and put her notebook away. And then she blinked in surprise because Erik was standing right behind her. He still had that ability to be completely silent.
"That was a boy." It was half a statement and half an accusation.
"Yes," she agreed. "It was a guy from my group. He needed a little help and couldn't reach anyone else."
"I will give him help."
She tensed and stood up, taking both of his hands with her own. He stared down at her, waiting. "Erik. Don't be like this. You knew I was going to have to work with them when you suggested I go back to school. All we're doing is homework."
"I should have insisted on an all-female institution." Erik glanced to the side as though seriously considering this possibility.
"Well, it's too late for that now," she quickly declared. "But you know you don't have anything to worry about. Tell me that you know that." He grunted. She stared right into those yellow eyes. "Erik, tell me that you trust me."
"You are faithful to me," he finally relented, his shoulders slouching.
"I am." She kissed him. "I love you."
He allowed her to pull him to bed, but she had a feeling that the matter still wasn't quite settled.
Over the rest of the semester, she avoided the evening study sessions, knowing that Erik would want to go with her at the more dangerous late hour. And he would likely watch from a hidden corner as she casually laughed with boys over stupid homework answers or one of the rude teaching assistants. That environment would not be good for Erik. And those three boys deserved to survive college.
Still, Erik seemed to sense her interaction with them, and he desired to counteract any influence they had over her. One evening, she was reclining on the couch doing her homework, and Erik was staring over her shoulder. Usually, she liked having him near her; he would stroke her back while she worked. Lately, though, he had been continuously correcting her answers, everything from punctuation to word choice.
"Erik," she gently began after the tenth interruption that night. "It's okay if everything isn't perfect. I just need to get it done."
"Do you wish to get a good mark on your assignment?" he harshly asked. "Or do you wish to be contrary for the mere sake of it?"
"Contrary for the sake of it," she replied, half-joking. "It's not worth that many points. I want to get it finished."
He suddenly snatched the notebook from her, along with her pen, and started writing something into the blank space.
"Erik!" she exclaimed, whirling around and reaching a hand outwards. "Give that back!"
"Erik will give you the correct answer," he calmly explained.
"But…" Knowing that it was useless to fight him for it, she sighed and waited. When he handed the notebook back to her, Christine looked down and frowned. "I can't read your handwriting."
"It is perfectly legible," he stated.
"Well, I can't read it."
"You are not even trying."
She held the notebook three inches from her face and squinted. "It's a bunch of squiggly lines. I can't read it."
"You sound like my mother."
Christine sharply glanced up, first surprised and then rather offended. Erik was frozen, his yellow eyes widening with uncharacteristic horror. "Forgive me," he nearly stuttered. "You are nothing like that. Nothing like her. It is…she simply used to hate my handwriting. But you are not like her."
"I…oh," she murmured, turning her back to him as tears stung her eyes. She needed a moment to compose herself. After all, her beloved had compared her to the woman who wouldn't let her son celebrate Christmas…to the mother who had made her only child fear sunlight.
"You are so very good to me," he said. "Not like her at all." Erik grabbed her hand and caused her to turn back around; he was nearly shaking. "You forgive your husband, don't you?"
"I do," she replied. Her heart was still stinging, but she didn't want to punish him more than he was already punishing himself. She swallowed the thickness in her throat. "It's all right."
"Erik should be skinned alive for saying such a thing to his precious wife."
"No. It's okay."
Erik wouldn't let her out of his sight for the rest of the evening, as though he were afraid his words might cause her to leave. She'd honestly gotten over it after a few hours. And maybe she had been a little cranky over school lately, which would remind Erik of his short-tempered mother. Still, Christine didn't think she'd ever been that bad.
That night, as she rested with her head on his shoulder, she asked, "Are you okay? Do you want to talk about anything?"
"I…no," he murmured.
"Are you sure? Are you mad at me for something?"
"No. I am not mad at my wife. I only say idiotic things to her. My wife makes me happy."
"You make me happy, too," she replied, and that seemed to bring a shine to his pained eyes. Still, she had a feeling that the heart of the problem hadn't been revealed.
The final incident came one week later, toward the end of March and right before Spring Break. She wanted to get with a study group before a big exam in an elective Biology class; science had always been her weakest subject. To her relief, the group agreed to meet in the afternoon, which meant she didn't have to convince Erik that nothing was going to jump out of the dark and grab her. She told her husband where she was going and promised to be back within a few hours. He didn't say anything, and, because she was already running late, Christine hastily decided that all was fine.
If she remembered right, the study session was productive. When she got back home, though, everything she'd learned nearly evaporated from her mind. The apartment was eerily quiet. Erik was sitting straight up on the couch, his hands resting on his knees and his head tilted downward as he stared at the floor. She started to greet him. But then she noticed a pile of white…stuff on the carpet, right beside the wall. Christine walked over and stared down, her heart jumping as she realized that the mess was the remains of several broken plates.
She took a shaky breath. They weren't antiques or particularly special dishes; it was the act itself that disturbed her. Erik remained silent while she stared between him and the plates.
Her first question was, "Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Good." She swallowed. "Is anyone else hurt?"
"No."
She didn't fear the answer to the third question nearly as much. "Is anything else broken?"
"No."
She took a deep breath of relief and waited for her heart to stop hammering. "Good." Christine walked to the couch and took a cautious seat beside him. "Erik?" She attempted to keep her tone calm. "What happened? Did you break them?"
He grunted and refused to look at her.
"Did you get mad at something or someone? I need to know what's wrong." A little desperation seeped into her voice.
"Nothing."
Realizing that she still had the heavy backpack on her shoulders, Christine shrugged it off and set it to the side. She then rested a hand on his leg. "I need to know," she said. "So we can fix it."
He said nothing for another minute. And then he muttered, "Erik thinks about them looking at you…smiling at you…helping you. Erik hates them. Erik tries not to, but he hates them so much, Christine. He wants them to die, but Erik knows he cannot kill them."
"You're Erik," she said, wanting to establish that fact before they went any further. "You hate them."
"I do not wish to be Erik right now. Erik broke plates."
"Are you sorry that you broke them?" she asked.
"Now you will have to buy more."
She rubbed his leg. "That's not a big deal. But Erik! I wish that you could understand that I don't feel anything for these people outside of…maybe very casual friendship at the most. How can I convince you of that? Have I done something to make you think otherwise?"
"No." His fingers curled around his knees. "But you will grow and bloom and shine, as I wish you to do. From the first time I heard you sing, I wanted you to have the world. And they will do the same. They will receive their degrees and their jobs. I will stay the same, like a weed. Nevertheless, I am your ugly weed, and they cannot have you. I hate them."
"You're not a weed! How can you say that you've stayed the same?"
"I can refrain from killing and stealing for you," he half-agreed. "There are many things I can not do for you. But I also do nothing for you."
They'd been through this before. And she supposed it wouldn't get better until something changed. It was time to make him take that step.
"Write some music," she commanded, letting her head rest on his shoulder. "Write me something that I can show to someone else. But do it for yourself. I've never been ashamed of you; you're smarter than everyone in my classes, including the professors. But you…don't…seem to feel very good about yourself." She looked up. "Write me music to share."
"It is pointless."
"It is not. I want you to--"
"I have done so," Erik interrupted. Her eyes widened in surprise. "I finished it over a month ago. But it seemed useless. Silly notes scribbled on a page and going nowhere."
"Can I see it?"
He hesitated and then stood without a word. Within a few seconds, he was back, holding the six-paged composition. She took it and looked down at the red notes. The writing was a little messy but still readable, and Christine thought the slower piece would be beautiful. "Will you play it?" she asked.
"Perhaps another time. But I will kill anyone else if I see them touch my music. So you had best take it and do as you like with it. Do not tell me if it is enjoyed or despised; I do not care. It is yours now."
She held the music with both hands, feeling her eyes tear up with a mixture of joy and sadness and stress. Only his next statement made her softly laugh instead of cry.
"I threw plates at the wall," he stated with disgust. "I am an idiot."
She hesitated as a darker possibility crossed her mind. "Do you remember breaking them?"
"Oh, yes! I spun them clockwise as hard as I could into the wall. And the sound was pleasant-- like a musical explosion! But...it was not good to break my wife's plates."
She felt relieved that he remembered, preferring anger to insanity. "I've thrown things across the room before."
He turned to stare at her. "When?"
"Mm. Years ago. Stuffed animals…." She laughed. "When I was eleven, I threw my old radio across the room because my dad said we couldn't afford a new one with a CD player. It left a giant mark on my wall."
"As a child, then," he stated with self-disgust.
"Yes. But it doesn't matter," she replied. "Maybe next time you could…stomp your feet instead…or…yeah…." He only stared at her with his head tilted. She patted his leg, stood, and moved to clean up the mess.
"I will do it," he said, gently touching her arm. "Let me do it."
"We'll both do it. Let me find a broom."
As they worked, Christine realized that she couldn't expect him to simply forget his jealousy. Even if he didn't violently act on the feelings, he still had them. So now what?
If he could make money off his music, it might help him feel better. Although Erik told her not to tell him if his compositions were successful, she'd find some way to let him know. Erik deserved to have that feeling of accomplishment. But what else?
Her weeklong break gave them some quiet time together. Erik continued to be regretful; he even got her flowers, and she was fairly sure they weren't from someone else's yard. One night, as she sat on the bed and stretched, Christine felt a pair of cold hands nearly encircle her bare neck. She blinked. "Erik?"
"You will have to tell me if I do this right," he stated, his soft voice right beside her ear. "Tell me if I hurt you." His hands separated slightly, and he began to massage her neck and shoulders. "You do it for your husband often, and now I must do it for my wife."
After a few directions from her, he was doing quite well. In fact, Christine fell asleep during the massage, and, when she awoke, she found herself tucked into bed. Life was peaceful when they were alone. It was dealing with the rest of the world that caused them problems.
After school started up again, Christine decided to try calling Erik between classes, especially when she would be gone for awhile. Toward the beginning of the semester, she'd bought caller ID. Her hours were going to be very irregular, and Christine knew she might need to occasionally phone Erik to tell him that she would be a little late. She didn't want to call twice every time she needed to talk to him. Plus, caller ID helped her avoid all the telemarketers that Erik wanted to kill.
She hadn't needed to phone him too many times that semester. So the first time that Christine called Erik just to check up on him, he sounded a little bewildered.
"Why did you call?" he asked.
She laughed. "Just to say 'hello.'"
"Is someone bothering you?" He sounded ready to attack them.
"No! I'm only calling to talk to you."
"If someone is bothering you, say the word 'music.'"
"Erik! No one is bothering me."
"Oh."
She called him every day over the next few weeks. Erik never sounded too enthusiastic over her calls, and so, one day, Christine decided not to phone him. The second she got home, though, he asked, "Why did you not call me?"
"Do you want me to call you?" she asked with a puzzled frown.
"…Yes."
"Then I will." Sometimes he confused her. But, even if her calls didn't thrill Erik, maybe they kept his anger level lower. At least no more of her dishes suffered his wrath.
She also managed to find several companies over the Internet that might look at Erik's music. He never asked about the compositions, which was good because Christine was having a difficult time figuring out how to get them published. She finally asked a professor who said it would be best to find a trustworthy publisher through the Music Publishers' Association. The professor also told her to copyright the music so that no one would take advantage of her.
Finally—and maybe this was just as much for her as for Erik—she wanted him to get used to something else living in the house. The apartment allowed fish, one cat, or one dog. Someday Christine hoped to buy a cat, but Erik would likely get jealous, especially if it crawled into their bed.
Still, she hoped to get Erik used to the idea of having company; maybe it would even help him when she wasn't home. And what better way to start than two shiny, new goldfish? She bought them at a pet store and named them Romeo and Juliet. After driving home, she placed the bloated plastic bag with the fish into her purse and sneaked them inside.
While Erik was in the shower, she ran out to the car to grab the tank and other equipment. Christine released the fish from the bag and into the water-filled tank, complete with a little castle and plastic scuba diver. It was precious! After feeding the fish and placing the small tank on a table beside the couch, she tiptoed out of the living room and went into their bedroom. She innocently sat on the bed.
Erik emerged fully clothed from the bathroom and nodded at her. "I will be to bed in a moment," he stated, heading into the living area.
She bit her lip and waited.
"Christine!"
She cringed. "That's Romeo and Juliet!"
"Ah. Those will certainly be fitting names in a moment," was the sarcastic reply.
She dashed out of bed to make sure the fish survived the next twenty-four hours. It took hugs and kisses and reassurances. Of course, she promised to take full responsibility for feeding and cleaning the tank. Her winning argument came when she said, "They're a couple just like us. They won't interfere because they love each other. They don't care about us." Actually, she didn't know the gender of the fish, but…some details weren't that important.
But this was the point of a practice pet, right? Erik would soon understand that the fish were a happy addition to the household…she hoped.
She was given reason for optimism when, as she prepared for school one week later, Christine asked, "Can I get you anything while I'm out?"
"No. We are fine," Erik replied.
"We?" Had he gone from speaking in third person to first-person-plural?
He side-glanced the two fish. "I am fine."
She managed not to smile until she was out the door.
