Chapter 17 - Interlude

Erik hadn't even said goodbye to Christine.

At the Rue Scribe gate, their clasped hands pulled apart, suddenly severing all connection, and Erik watched silently as she left with her boy. He didn't feel sad or jealous or anything at all, really, apart from slightly disoriented and somewhat detached, like he'd woken from a dream that felt too solid to be made of fantasy, but nevertheless vanished into nothingness at the reluctant opening of his eyes.

It was a quiet journey back underground. As he gripped the pole and shoved off into the dark waters of his lake, he noticed that his hand felt strange, uncomfortably cold, and no amount of flexing his fingers or rubbing his hands together could change that. It was likely, he suspected, that it would stay that way until next time that hand was no longer empty.

Once he was again enclosed in his home, Erik paced for a good half hour, trying to make sense out of the utterly nonsensical past hour. It was an exercise in futility. During the entire lead up to this night, he'd been so focused on the possibility of getting to see Christine again that he'd given no consideration to what it would mean if it happened — what it might mean she wanted, what it meant she was potentially willing to do.

Figuring out what she wanted, that had been easy; the minute she'd said the words "more than anything," he knew she was only parroting the boy's wishes, had suppressed her own, true wants and convinced herself that she wanted what she'd been told she wanted — it was simple enough to remind her of what that really was. His methods might have been regrettable, but it had been for the best in the end.

The part that Erik could not seem to make sense of was why she would have agreed to the plan if she was not, in fact, as desperate for a child as the vicomte had insisted. Yes, it was possible she might also want a child, as she'd said, but certainly not more than music, and certainly not enough to stoop this low.

How could he focus on logic and sense, though, when his thoughts kept snapping back to that moment just before she placed her hand in his, when she had said in a voice that was rich with unbearable tenderness — he was certain of it, it wasn't just colored by his wishful thinking — that she was happy to see him. Happy! It was yet another thing that didn't make sense, not after what he'd done to her, not after after all he'd put her through, but it truly seemed to be genuine, hadn't it? Why would she have said it if she didn't mean it?

Even so, what was it good for? Nothing would come of this, and that was fine, that was as it should be. It was as he'd always expected. And really, why bother trying to make sense of it all when he could simply enjoy the sensation growing in his chest, a warmth which had been absent for so long, a dormant flame now burning steadily — not just hope, but feeling. He felt alive again! For so many years, he now realized keenly, he had been like an automaton, going through the motions of living, but without the spark of wanting and needing and feeling that separates machine from man. But already, in her absence, he could feel it fading, and in that need to be near her again, he found himself opening the door to the room where she had been.

The bed now seemed unreasonably to dominate the space, and his eyes were drawn immediately to the rumpled silk, the slight depression made by the contours of her body — the only proof she'd been there.

Preparing this room, preparing the bed, that was all play acting, for show, it was never meant to be used. Obviously, he never expected, never had any intention... He only wanted to see her, be near her. But, unbelievably, regardless of how much or little she actually did want a child, she had seemed like she was prepared to see the plan through to its conclusion. And against all reason, she had lain upon that bed, and there had been a moment where maybe...maybe…

Sweat trickled down Erik's back between his shoulder blades. How was it that this room was always so hot? He slipped off his tailcoat and tossed it on the foot of the bed. There was no chance he would be sleeping tonight, but his body felt so drained that he could hardly stand. Perhaps he could just lie down for a bit…

He hesitated just a moment, the skin along the back of his neck prickling, as though someone was watching over his shoulder and passing judgment, but he shrugged the feeling away, slipped off his shoes and stretched out on the bed alongside Christine's absent form.

The scent of her still clung to the pillows. He thought again of his face pressed close to her hair, of the clean, floral fragrance she wore, mixed with that which was uniquely her, and he needed more of it, needed to capture it in his lungs and never let go. He ripped off his mask and buried his face in the bedding, the silk cool against his heated face. It still felt entirely unreal that she had been here again after all these years, but now, with the ghost of her lingering in scent and in memory, he had only to close his eyes and breathe in that scent, and he could will her back into existence. And lying there with his body so near the place where she had so recently been, though he was a tangle of emotions and feelings, at the moment, the one he could feel most acutely was desire.

She would have never… He would have never... But in his mind he could still see the delicate arch of her foot, that soft curve of her calf, the layers of petticoats piled around her knees, and his fingers ached to skim along the line of her leg, to burrow beneath the cotton and lace and keep reaching until his hand could go no further. But she hadn't wanted that, and so neither did he. Though that didn't stop his body from responding now in the most shameful of ways.

At the edge of awareness lingered sobering reality, but couldn't he just ride the high for the moment? There was no harm in indulging, in following the train of what-ifs until the question was what if she had reached for him, insisted he join her on the bed, and taken him in her hand, just as he now took himself in his own hand, eyes shut tight.

Oh god, what he was doing was disgusting, he was disgusting...and yet, it did not stop him. He'd restrained himself for so long. Even with all the talk of rules about touching and removing clothing and acts which would lead to— to something too overwhelming to acknowledge, he never let those alluring, indecent thoughts carry him to this point. Using her image in this way, the memory of her, that was strictly off limits. But now, he can no longer resist. He cannot touch her, he will never touch her, and yet it felt as if he might die if he does not.

So, with a great deal of guilt — though not enough to stop, apparently — he thought of the little hollow at the back of her milk white neck, the sweet, silken curls there, the curve of her hip and the dip of her waist, letting his memory bring her to life in the empty space next to him. The sound of her sighs echoed in his mind, his self-indulgent imagination transforming them from irritation to desire. From the depths of his mind, too, he brought forth that life-changing moment — the first and last kiss he'd ever received. It was all still there, intact, unlocked from his memories: the heat and the taste of her, the warm pressure of arms around his neck. No, it wasn't the type of kiss he wanted to be thinking about right now, not when he had to pretend he didn't remember the salty taste of her tears, remember that it had taken place before the horrified eyes of a boy strung up in a noose, but it was the only kiss he'd had and god, he was so alone and so repressed and so impossibly aroused!

Distantly, he heard himself nearly sobbing her name, those two forbidden syllables which he hadn't allowed himself to say in all these years, now falling from his disgusting lips repetitively, compulsively, as he pushed into his guilty fist. What he was doing was only more proof that he was a foul, vulgar creature, yet at the same time, he felt elevated to the heavens — and this after only an hour in her presence. It didn't make sense that he could feel both ways at once, but it was what she'd always inspired in him.

But she...she was probably already home and in bed with her husband, while he was underground, alone with only her memory and the faint scent of her perfume. There was no warm body next to his in the cold, empty bed. There never had been, and never would be — only his own grasping hand and the willful delusion that the hand was hers. His heart was pumping as fast as his fist and yes, it felt like an unbearably ugly betrayal, and no, no, he wouldn't be able to look her in the eye next time, but dear god, it had been such a long, lonely life, hadn't it? Didn't he deserve this one small pleasure, this one transgression he had not indulged in for so long, not since he'd banished her image from his mind? And so he shoved away every other disobliging thought and focused on the memory of her smooth skin and beating heart and her lips pulling into a smile and ah god — that's what does it. Shameful spasms rocked through his body and the last thought in his head before he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep was the wry realization that the carefully made bed did end up getting some use, after all.

…

When he woke the next morning, Erik surveyed the scene with the bleary, regretful eyes of a man who had overindulged in his vices. And now, with no more of the drug of lust running through his veins, he was left with nothing but shame, and the penitent promise that it would be the last time.

But this would be no empty promise.

Studiously keeping his eyes trained on the faded flowers which climbed the wallpaper, open petals and outstretched leaves reaching for the nonexistent sky, Erik gathered the bedding into a bundle, removing all lingering traces of her, as well as the evidence of his transgression. He would keep himself under strict control from now on. He had let his feelings get away from him, just this once. But never again. He would focus on making it through this month of meetings, on helping Christine find her voice, and restoring it to its full glory.

And then he would let her go. Again.

Heyyyyyy I'm back! I had a chapter half-done when I realized that this little transition needed to happen, so here you go! I know many were disappointed that instead of Erik, Raoul is the one who got some action, so now it's Erik's turn! This is what you meant, right? Did I get it right this time?

BTW, if you would like to read about Erik getting some (dubiously deserved) action, then you can check out my pair of Christmas fics, The Gift Exchange and The Gift Aftermath. It's not super explicit, but it is full of all the angst and confused emotions you could want.

Up next in Chapter 18: Erik is truthful and forthcoming with Nadir and makes some very good decisions on how to handle his feelings with Christine.

Thanks for hanging in there, everyone, and thank you so much for all the support and encouragement and insightful, much-too-kind words! (And I do promise I will reply in written words, and not just in my heart.) You guys are the best!