Hey so I know I said this would be Erik and Christine, but that didn't turned out to be true - there is no Christine. But there is also no Raoul, so, you know, you lose some you win some.

Chapter 27 — Fleurs du Mal

What had Erik been thinking? How could he have insisted that the meetings take place down here? What kind of monster was he, dragging an angel down through the dark and the damp, lifting her over stagnant puddles and kicking away rats, sludging through passages which smelled of mildew and the sweet rot of mouldy earth, down, down to this glorified jail cell, cold and comfortless, dismal…desolate.

And dusty. How was it this dusty? By the time Erik made it to one end of the mantle, the end he'd started on already seemed to have a fresh coat. He swiped at the burnished oak with the dusting cloth.

Christine deserved so much better! At the very least, he should have put some sort of effort into making this space more welcoming for her. He could have, he thought, as he made his second pass dusting and straightening the clock and candlesticks and little collection of Persian ink pots and Turkish oil lamps and so forth which he'd arranged along the mantle, at least gotten some flowers.

He should have filled his entire home with flowers, actually — great big arrangements of lilies and roses and peonies, covering every surface.

Erik almost laughed out loud. No, no. That would be an odd thing to do. That would be too much.

Or…

He paused, a brass candlestick in hand.

Or would it?

Ladies loved flowers, didn't they? And Christine had always seemed delighted to find her dressing room filled after a performance.

Wait… Erik's fingers tightened around the etched brass. Would she think he was praising her for her…performance?

Not that it wasn't praiseworthy, but that would be… Well, that wasn't the message he wanted to send. He only thought it might be nice to show his appreciation for her somehow. Something tasteful, understated. Perhaps just a dozen or so bouquets.

He slammed the candlestick down with a resounding clink. He was being ridiculous again. The florist shops would all be closed by now, so it wasn't as if—

It wasn't as if…

Actually, it wasn't as if that was a problem.

With the simple lock of a shop door, Erik would need only a hairpin and about five or six seconds, and then— No. No. He flung away the cloth and clapped the dust off of his hands. No more stealing. He had promised himself. And besides, Christine wouldn't want stolen flowers.

Erik looked around at the imitation of a home he was attempting to create; everything was beautifully arranged, yet the space remained dour, depressing. Devoid of life.

No, she wouldn't want stolen flowers. In fact, she would probably be upset with him for stealing. But… Erik drummed his fingers on the polished mantle.

But there was no reason she'd have to know how, exactly, he'd come by them, was there?

This time, Erik did laugh out loud — a disgusted, self-deprecating sound. Look at him, trying to find justification to break his own rules! And for what? There wasn't time anyway! He had only a couple of hours left before he needed to meet Christine at the surface, and he needed every minute to get ready.

Because he would be ready this time.

This time, if he was thoroughly prepared, thoroughly ready, it would be better.

She'd said it would be better — which meant he needed to be better.

Of course, a dust-free mantle and all the flowers in Paris wouldn't help where help was most needed. He knew that. But he didn't want to think about it right now. Or ever, hopefully.

He'd done more than enough thinking these last days, his mind ceaselessly spinning ever since she'd slipped away through the gate, when those churning thoughts had propelled him up to the rooftop without ever really deciding to go there. The chill of bronze beneath his hands was what had finally brought him to awareness of his surroundings. From a vantage point half way up a statue, crouched behind a spread, sculpted wing — the very place where he'd first watched Christine pledge her love to another — the city sprawled before him, with its rows of street lights lighting the way for the carriages and carts which clattered down the cobblestones. Somewhere among them was the carriage which carried her away from him, back to her home, to her bed, to the arms of her lover. Leaving Erik alone, alone, alone.

But not quite.

His fingers had brushed over the cheekbone of his mask, where her lips had pressed. It wasn't enough. He'd torn off the leather glove and brought his trembling fingertips up to the spot and closed his eyes.

There were so many things he was feeling — far too many things — but for that moment, he chose to feel nothing but gratefulness. Into the darkness, Erik whispered her name, and words of thanks, and then let the weight of utter exhaustion pull him back down to his rightful place beneath the earth.

The next day was spent— Well, he couldn't quite recall where the time had gone, actually. His mind had existed in a blurry half-dream state, an entire day's worth of hours spent replaying the events of sixty minutes, while the rest of him…he could not really say. Had he eaten? Had he slept? He vaguely remembered sitting at the piano, letting his fingers graze the keys without playing, remembered turning pages in a book. And he knew for certain he'd spent quite a bit of time in bed, ah…enjoying his memories. Respectfully, of course.

In any case, the next night he'd found himself back up on the roof, his far-reaching gaze not reaching quite far enough to allow him to watch her window as she slept, as he did not, as the sky turned from black to the pale gray of an early winter's morning. He'd kept from freezing thanks to his heaviest cloak and mental gymnastics so vigorous they seemed to generate some measure of heat.

There had been a lot to think about. Several questions he really ought to have considered earlier had at last dawned upon him that second night. Firstly, and possibly most importantly:

What the hell had he done?

He had, Erik all at once realized, with the sort of numbing shock that comes with being faced with one's indisputable, incalculable stupidity, gotten so caught up in thinking about the specifics of the act itself that he had given only the most cursory thought to the possible consequences of it — consequences which Christine had been very clear were the goal of the entire thing, so how on earth had he not at any point considered—

Dear god, he shouldn't—

No, no, he simply couldn't…

Under no circumstances could he father a— a—

What the hell had he done?

Cold and queasy, his stomach had lurched, as burning sweat sprang up under his collar. He'd made a mistake, a grave mistake, and he couldn't make it again.

Never again.

He would have to…

Gripping the statue till his fingers ached, he'd swallowed down the rising bile, taken a few deep breaths.

He would just have to tell her plainly that he couldn't let her do this. It had been unspeakably wrong of him—and so selfish—to allow her to invite his monstrous body into hers, for him to pollute her with his foul, cursed seed, to clutch desperately at her hips as he filled her full of it—so full of it—in blinding spasms of unimaginable pleasure, as she fisted her hands in his shirt and gripped his bucking hips with her soft thighs and—

Then again, he'd realized suddenly, perhaps it was best not to overthink it.

Hadn't Erik always worried about a great many things that had never come to pass? He pressed the bare side of his heated face to the cold bronze and laughed at himself – what a fool he was sometimes.

And so that first question became the last as Erik shuffled it away, along with the others, which, if he thought about it, also concerned things which would likely never come to pass.

It was at that point he'd realized it was time for him to give up his vigil and get some sleep; he'd been doing something which had never served him well before. What use was there in attempting to make sense of the nonsensical?

The whole thing hardly felt real — an abandoned dream that had come true which still felt very much like a dream. Perhaps to examine it too closely, the way one might try to recapture a dream upon waking, would have the same result: the bright light of day would expose the ridiculousness and implausibility and it would become something to laugh at, at the foolishness of the dreamer for ever believing it had been real.

Perhaps it didn't need to be examined. Perhaps sometimes dreams simply did come true.

Even if it hadn't quite been as he dreamed…

No…not quite...

But so close! Close enough.

There was room for improvement, certainly, but for a first time, and under such…unfavorable circumstances as they were, really, it had been better than he had any right to hope for. So he was grateful. Even if there were some moments that hadn't quite… Well, they weren't worth worrying about, because it had all been fine, in the end.

And this damned mantle, it was fine, too.

Erik removed his mask and wiped his watering eyes—that infernal dust—and swiped his hand over his face.

What was he doing? What did she care about how nicely the space was prepared? All this time making sure everything was spotlessly clean, nothing out of place… Did he really think he could distract from the truth of where she was, what she was doing, and who she was doing it with if the distraction was aesthetically pleasing enough? As if the fresh, vital beauty of flowers would make her forget she was in a tomb.

It was unnecessary. She knew where she was — she knew what she was doing — she knew who he was.

Erik affixed the mask back in place and picked up the dusting cloth. And really, he laughed to himself as he started in on the bookcase, who the hell gives flowers to another man's wife?

…

As usual, Erik had saved the most difficult job for last; with less than an hour left, he found himself navigating the narrow hallway with an armful of fresh linens, fumbling with the knob on the bedroom door, while down the hall the music room door remained pointedly closed. It was absurd to feel judged by a slab of wood, yet just as he had every other time he'd come within sight of that door, Erik winced.

Christine had not said whether or not reconsidering their arrangement included giving up music to focus exclusively on this…other matter, and like the desperate letch he was, Erik had not thought to ask. He really should have. It was hard to argue that he only had her best interests at heart when he was so quick to forget all about what was best for her the moment she confessed that she actually did want to go along with that half-witted boy's plan.

As with all things, Erik always had Christine's best interests at heart when it came to music. But there was selfishness as well; Erik hoped she didn't want to give up music because he did not want to give up music. Frustrations and miscommunications and physically agonizing restraint aside, the hours spent making music with Christine had—once again—transformed his life, had given it purpose and meaning and feeling at a time when he'd felt certain that all that was left for him was waiting for the rest of that miserable life to pass.

Besides, if their physical union was to be so…passionless—as it should be, of course he didn't expect any differently—at least there could still be passion in their musical union.

In the bedroom, Erik dropped the linens on the dresser top and stared at the disheveled bed. Unsurprisingly, he had not been able to bring himself to strip away the physical proof of what had happened. The temptation to rest, to sleep—when he'd been able to sleep—to keep close to where she—where they—had been, it was too hard to resist. Although to say it was "hard to resist" might give the impression that there had been even a minimal attempt.

But it was time that the bedding was changed. Change was necessary. Change was good; he couldn't wallow in the past forever. He himself had changed. She had changed him – first with a kiss, and now with…what had happened – and he was a different man now, a better man. Not one who should be sleeping and…enjoying his memories on her old, unclean bedding like an obsessive deviant. God, what would she think of him if she knew? At least, though, he could proudly say that he hadn't even considered retrieving the mannequin. So that was something.

Erik grasped a handful of the coverlet, and began to pull, but a twinge of regret squeezed deep within his chest. He released his grip, let his fingers trail over the silky fabric. The thing was…

He drew his hands back, fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat, adjusted the sleeves rolled up above his exposed forearms.

Well, the thing was that there was no guarantee about tonight. And already, he could hardly remember how it had felt the last time he'd indulged. He didn't exactly have time now, but…wouldn't one last time be nice?

Perhaps…perhaps just for a few minutes?

Without giving himself any more time to think, Erik slipped off his shoes and settled onto the bed. He closed his eyes, smoothed his palms over the silken bedding, then up onto his thighs, just above the knee, letting the present fall away and memory replace reality.

The flashes of images and ghostly sensations of touch were of course always present. But never were they so vivid and consuming and…pleasurable as when he carefully nestled himself into the depression in the rumpled bedding where he had lain beneath her, and closed his eyes…

And let his hands become her hands.

He never took it too far! No, it was only a bit of above-clothing caressing, not much, just enough to stir his memories, stir his flesh, just a little, just enough to heighten the experience. Just enough to pair the memory of her heat with his own heated blood, to bring those memories to life with the urgent beat of his own heart. Anything more would be…disrespectful, and the last thing he wanted was to sully what she had given him by fouling this sacred space with his own depravity.

But this wasn't depraved. He wasn't obsessing. It wasn't really deviant if he didn't actually—

And he wouldn't. He was different now.

Even if he didn't feel quite as different as he would have expected.

Actually…that was strange, wasn't it? Erik's heartbeat started to quicken past a pleasurable tempo.

How was it, he wondered, that he felt less different after the most intimate of physical connections than he had after a simple kiss? Not that there had been anything simple about that kiss, to be fair, but still, one would think that after sharing what they had just shared…

If it could indeed be called sharing…

The pleasant fluttering that had been in his belly began to turn to lurching. His heated blood began to cool.

It didn't feel good. It wasn't what he wanted to feel.

Which was exactly what happened when he thought about those things that weren't worth thinking about. The solution, fortunately, was easy:

Ignore it. At least for now. Maybe forever, hopefully.

All Erik really needed to think about now was how grateful he was. And he was. How kind she had been to him, how merciful in choosing to bend the rules so that, rather than humiliation followed by long nights alone, reliving the horror of his failure over and over again, he was instead granted…well, still, long nights alone, but they were spent reliving the experience of those warm little hands touching him, bringing him to life.

Just as he brought himself to life, now. Just a little.

Warmth flooded his skin again. How wonderful it had all been. He couldn't have asked for more. After decades of waiting for an event which he'd all but given up on, he was rewarded with the best hour of his life — or…the best minutes, rather. But what glorious minutes they were! Each second perfection.

Well…except for the inherent awkwardness, and the fumbling start… And his need for…assistance, and the fact that there had been so little touching. Not even a single kiss. And afterward, no embracing, no fingers gently caressing his chest, her cheek resting above his slowing heart. No soft skin to stroke along her spine as her heart fluttered and slowed and finally found the rhythm that matched his own.

Right now, though, his heartbeat was erratic, speeding up and then slowing down until it thudded sickeningly in his chest. With long, smooth strokes down his chest, up his thighs, over his hips, he calmed himself. It was just nerves; of course it was. She would be here soon, and he would have to— no, he would get to…

There was no reason for nerves. It had been perfect. Except for those few things.

And, well, also…the fact that it had been mere minutes was not ideal.

When he had mocked the little vicomte's insistence that he should only need 'a few minutes' Erik had meant it to be an insult, a bluff — not something to aspire to.

Of course he was grateful for being allowed any time at all! Even a single minute was more than he deserved. But, really, how much enjoyment could be had in a time span that could be measured with the second hand of a pocket watch? A little longer would be better, wouldn't it?

Better for him, anyway. Christine wouldn't want it lasting any longer than it had, that was certain. That was only his own selfish wish. It was wrong to want more, completely selfish.

But, alas — Erik was a selfish man.

And he wanted more.

He swept his hand down his belly, then down further, across, hip to hip, his toes curling into the plush mattress.

Perhaps his endurance would improve with time.

But…

But who knew how much time there would be? How many more opportunities would he have?

It was wrong of him, very wrong, against his own rules…

However, even Erik, born blessed with little else than an innate aptitude for music, was not immediately proficient with each new instrument he picked up; one must practice.

His twitching fingertips came to rest at the fastenings of his trousers and stilled. What was he doing? This was the worst possible time for such a thing.

And yet…

He smoothed the pads of his fingers over the soft wool of his waistband.

There had been enough long, lonely nights for him to be confident that he could manage more than once—or more than twice, for that matter—in an evening, with the second typically taking quite a bit longer than the first…

It was wrong, but…perhaps not that wrong?

Perhaps it might be worth it?

Well, Erik thought, as his fingers scrabbled at the fastenings, there was only one way to find out.

His own hands were large, cool, with long fingers lightly callused from the rasp of violin strings, nothing like the soft, warm little hands which he attempted to conjure up in his mind as he slipped his hand into his trousers and sought out the swelling flesh within.

A hand, he understood now more than ever, was an exceedingly poor substitute for the real thing, but one must make do, and at least it was much nicer when paired with the memory of her silky heat, of her hands pushing against his chest, the soft flesh of her thighs pressed against his hip bones, the sweet slide of her on him — just as his hand slid now, slowly, steadily.

This wasn't wrong. He hardly felt disgusting. This was practice, there was no need for restraint. He'd spent his entire life restrained — well, the attempt of it anyway — but she'd let him have her.

Or, more accurately, she'd had him. But that was essentially the same thing.

Even if it hadn't quite felt that way…

No, not quite. But cutting to the chase, doing away with all the unnecessary lead up to the act, that was nothing to complain about. He'd gotten the part that mattered most. She had touched him, he'd been inside her, and it had felt good.

So good that even the memory was much too much; he wouldn't last much longer.

But he wanted to make this last, to bring himself to the edge and retreat. To exist in this space of curated memory, outside of reality, for just a bit longer. To make himself shudder and shiver and gasp, make himself throb within his tightening fist, and god, he was so hard, so ready, and if she were here now, she would see he needed no help, no, not again, not now that he knew she really wanted him— That is, she wanted to do this with him. Which was very close to the same thing as wanting him. Close enough.

Either way, what was important was that she had wanted to do it; she hadn't just tolerated it, no, in fact, she had entreated him to see it through, even when given the chance to call it off; she had chosen to keep going, chosen to touch him, to let him touch her, to look him in the eyes and urge him on and afterwards she—

Well, what happened afterwards didn't matter. The good parts that had come before were more than enough.

More than enough for a selfish man who would take every little scrap she would give him and then beg for more. A pitiful man who would be grateful for what he could get from her, even if she never gave him more, which was fair, because he didn't deserve it. A sad, lonely man who only wanted to feel good for those few minutes he was allowed; who only wanted, if he could get them, just a few minutes more.

That wasn't so much to ask.

Erik's eyes were clamped shut, his hips driving up to meet his fist, jaw clenching, trying to suppress the groan he could feel building in his throat. Just another minute, just a little longer, that would be better. And it would be better if he were to last a little longer, a little longer for her to take what she needed from him, to use him. A little longer for him to use her, too, to touch any small swath of skin that she would allow, to drink up the sight of her while he could, to lose himself in her body for a little longer.

He was so grateful for everything.

For anything.

And he knew she was grateful too, she'd thanked him. She'd kissed him, just here, on his mask. So close to his actual face.

Close enough.

And now, he was getting close.

From his toes to his belly to his shoulders to his jaw, Erik's muscles were growing tight, tense, hot — as hot as her bare skin had been against his, as tense as her fingers as she'd braced herself against his chest, as tight as the slick, heated core of her had been around him.

God, she had felt good.

What more could he want?

From between Erik's wretched lips, ragged, panting breaths came faster and faster.

Well, he could want…

With shaking fingers, his other hand clawed at the bedding, clenched the fabric in his fist, tighter and tighter.

He wanted…

Oh he was close, so close, maddeningly close — he could feel it in his curling toes, in his stiffening legs, in his constricting chest, inside which his heart pounded harder and harder.

He only wanted—

His heart twisted.

God, he didn't want her to cry!

Erik froze. For a moment he remained that way, still and cold — just as he had when Christine had scrambled off of him, tears flowing down her face, stammering an apology.

And then, suddenly, he was rapidly, pitifully deflating under his own hand.

No, no, not this! Erik grit his teeth and increased his pace to the edge of brutality.

Why the hell had he thought about that? Whatever had happened afterwards, whatever that had been about, it didn't matter. He'd decided. It didn't—

There was nothing at all to worry about! He was prepared, he was ready, and it was completely unnecessary to think about doubts or consequences, or anything aside from fulfilling his own selfish needs.

He was getting what he wanted!

It had felt good! It had been good.

Good enough.

And this time would be better.

…

Ten minutes later, Erik lay sprawled on the bed, exhausted, unsated.

Defeated.

It shouldn't have surprised him — if there was one lesson he really ought to have learned, it was that no how willing the spirit, the flesh could be all too weak.

Ah, well. He shoved himself back into his trousers and wiped the sweat from his neck with a rumpled sheet. At least the bar he'd set last time was miserably low — low enough to clear with her gracious assistance.

That was all it would take — just a touch from her hand, and everything would be all right.

But Erik wasn't so far in denial that he couldn't admit the truth: perhaps there were a few lingering issues which troubled him.

Perhaps, in ignoring them, he was making some very serious mistakes.

But perhaps, he thought, as he dragged himself up off the bed and unceremoniously gathered the bedding into a heap—

Perhaps there was still time to steal some flowers.

I believe at the end of the last chapter, I threatened a follow up of Raoul crying and jerking off and well...what can I say? Erik, however, wasn't crying! No, of course not. It was just that danged dust. ;(

I...cannot believe how long it took me to get this done. Right after posting the last chapter, I got Covid, and it just totally fried my brain. Between that and holidays and just one thing after another, it's been a struggle, so thank you so much for hanging in there! All of your support has meant so much to me.

Thank you once again to Aldebaran, who helped me see both the trees and the forest here, and who I appreciate with my whole heart.

Up next: The chapter that was going to be Chapter 27 and which was almost done before I realized that the first section needed to stand alone, and which features Erik bringing his newfound confidence into his next date with Christine! Good luck, buddy!