Christine sat on the edge of the couch, one of Ayehsa's cat toys in hand—a long stick with a string at the end that was tied around a little clump of feathers. She was holding it out and away from herself, dragging the feathers across the floor slowly in a most enticing manner. Ayehsa was on the rug in front of the couch, eyeing the feathers, scrunching her body up and wiggling her rump, preparing to attack. Christine gave the feather toy an extra little tug and suddenly Ayesha leapt—but not at the toy.
The cat hurled herself at Christine, who leaned back and protectively covered her own face with her hands, stifling a small scream as Ayesha landed in her lap and began to swat at her face.
Erik watched this scene unfurl from just outside the doorway. He turned and left the girls to their playtime, unseen. He knew what he was looking for must be around here somewhere, and with Christine otherwise occupied, it was the perfect opportunity to look.
He entered the kitchen, noticing with slight surprise that it was clean. He hadn't been in it very often since his accident—Christine was the one cooking now, and apparently she was cleaning as well. The few times he had been in the room were in a haze of laudanum and he had scarcely noticed the conditions of the room.
It was that haze he was looking for now, something to quiet the buzz in his mind and in his body. He knew the bottle had to be around here somewhere.
He opened the cabinets and scanned inside, trying to ignore the guilt. He had done so well for so long, even when Christine had been bedridden and the bottles had been right there within reach. But it was different now, now that he had had a taste of it again after so, so long, and the yearning came back as strong as ever. He just needed a little more, just a little—
"Do you need something?" Christine's voice suddenly right next to him made him flinch, and he turned to face her with a cloud of shame over his masked face.
He placed a hand over his throat, swallowing as he looked away from her, brow furrowed. He still hadn't spoken since the accident, and even if he had, he didn't want to tell her what he was looking for.
"Are you hungry? Or I could make you some tea?" She offered, trying to catch his eye. "It's not time for your medicine yet," she added, her hand subconsciously straying over the side of her skirt.
The motion drew his eye, and as she nervously fiddled with the hidden pocket he realized he could just make out the outline of a small bottle there. His heart sank. She was keeping the laudenum under close watch, then.
She followed his gaze, hoping for a clue. With a small noise of recognition she withdrew her hand from her pocket, hoping to distract him.
She had no way of knowing, he knew, that when he was a young man who found fulfillment working in a stable, an untamed horse had kicked him hard, leading to a prescription from a doctor which had led to a habit that had lasted long after the bruising and soreness had passed. It had been a hard habit to give up, but with much difficulty he had. Hehad. But in pain once more, he was struggling to not go back to his old ways. And somehow, she knew. In her way, she knew, and she also knew what he needed was to be distracted until the longing passed.
"Why don't you come sit on the couch with me?" She asked, placing a gentle hand on his arm and pulling him towards her.
He was helpless to resist her. She tugged him along to sit on the couch while a triumphant Ayehsa cleaned her paws by the fireplace.
"Are you in very much pain?" Christine whispered as she sat down with him.
Erik glanced away from her, not wanting to meet her eyes. The truth was he was always insomepain, but it wasn't terrible at the moment. He gave a slight shake of his head to signalno.
Christine merely studied him for a moment. She could remember all too well what it had been like as she'd recovered, especially the days when she'd been on her own with only Laurent to check on her occasionally. The pain had been terrible, but so had the boredom. With nothing else to focus on, every ache and burn had been made a hundred times worse.
It was unfair, she thought, that his poor hands had been affected so. He could no longer play the violin or draw as he liked to do, even holding a book to read was something he could only sustain for a short time before he had to stop, putting the novel down in favor of rubbing at his hands and looking put out. She had offered to read to him, but he only rarely took her up on the offer. He wrote notes to communicate, but even those were kept short and succinct.
She'd been surprised to see him in the kitchen. She hadn't realized he'd even gotten up. He was so quiet all the time, even when moving around his own home, but she hoped his venturing out meant he was feeling better.
He deserved to be feeling better. Her heart was lanced with pity as she looked at him, at how he sat awkwardly, stiffly, his mind clearly on something else. His hair, thinning and receding and half silver, looked like he hadn't brushed it in days. What was visible of the lower half of his face had uneven patches of stubble that his trembling hands kept straying to, scratching at it, and Christine could have kicked herself for not realizing sooner.
His hands were too shaky and painful to hold a razor safely.
"Wait right here," she told him, getting up. "I'll be right back."
She went to search for what she needed. In all the time she'd known him, he'd always been meticulous about remaining clean shaven.
Erik trained his eyes on Ayesha, who stopped grooming to look at him. He wondered what Christine was up to, but he didn't have to wonder very long, because she returned in a few minutes, carrying a number of things with her.
She set the items down on the footstool, drawing it closer to where Erik was sitting on the couch before sitting on the footstool herself, directly in front of him and very close.
Erik couldn't help but be surprised that she had remembered where all of his shaving necessities were in his bathroom, but more than that, he was surprised that she even knew what was required for shaving. He narrowed his eyes slightly as they drifted down her body while she was busy preparing the lather and the razor—where, exactly, did she have experience with shaving?
His thoughts were cut short when she looked up at him, everything ready except for one thing—he was, out of habit, still wearing his mask.
She reached a hand up to it hovering just above his cheek, not quite touching him.
"Can I?" She murmured, her eyes seeking his as they nervously darted about.
He gave the briefest of nods, not looking at her, which was a feat considering how damnably close she was to him.
"I don't know why you still wear it," she said softly as she removed it and set it aside.
Truth be told, neither did he. Perhaps it was out of habit around company, something done for the sake of others at his own expense. Perhaps he'd worn it so long it was just another part of him. Perhaps he didn't fully believe that she could ever truly be fine with looking at him the way he was, no matter what she said.
Perhaps it was simply easier to continue to wear it in her presence, to have one last scrap of something between them to hide himself, his last way of hiding his vulnerability around her.
But here he was, once more, letting her unmask him, letting her see the most tender and scarred parts of himself as she leaned in towards him, letting her eyes examine him and her warm hands touch him. He struggled to not flinch away from her, only the fear of the razor in her untrained hands keeping him rooted to the spot.
Christine did not flinch away when his true face was revealed so close to her own. She did not cringe when her soft, small hands made contact with the ridges and bumps of the dry, twisted skin of his face. There was no wrinkle of disgust in the corners of her eyes at his too short nasal bridge, at the delicate exposed flesh of inner nose. Her hands did not hesitate over the sunken areas and uneven planes of his cheeks where the hair grew here and there in rough patches. The dark circles under his eyes looked even more haunted once out of the mask, but they held no horror for her anymore, nor did the thin skin of his forehead and the veins that could be seen there between the discoloration of the birthmarks.
Her fingertips grazed his jaw as she turned his head slightly, gliding the razor over the thin layer of lather she'd brushed across his skin, her eyes focused and her hand steady. He held his breath on each long stroke of the blade in her hand, mentally counting the seconds until she would be done. It was embarrassing to admit he needed her help in this, but he was afraid it was about to get even more embarrassing if this lasted much longer.
"Almost done," she murmured, switching sides before carefully attending to his upper lip, making certain she didn't get the lather too close to his nose hole. She glanced up to try to meet his eye but he was pointedly looking off to the side. She noticed that his brow was creased in concentration as she took the damp, warm hand towel and wiped the last remnants of the lather away.
"There," she said, placing the towel behind her on the tray. She picked up the bottle of calming lotion and poured some onto her hands. He hadn't asked outright that she help with this part, and she supposed that he could probably apply his own aftershave, but he also hadn't asked her to stop or made any indication of pulling away, so she figured she may as well finish it up. She spread the thin liquid on her palms, holding them together to warm it slightly before placing her hands gently on either side of his face, holding them there a second to let the aftershave sink in. He was trying to stare straight up, not wanting to look at her face this close to his own face, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. His hands twitched nervously at his sides as she finished massaging the lotion into his skin, and her eyes were drawn to the movement.
"Are your hands alright?" She fretted, picking one up in her own hands. She knew that his hands had meant so much in his life—his drawing, his writing, playing the violin—so much that he depended on them for. The doctor had mentioned that massage might bring the blood flow into them more steadily and allow for faster healing, though Erik had never asked for help with this, either, she had seen him massaging his own hands on occasion. Wanting to do whatever she could to make his life easier, she rubbed her palms across his hand before allowing her fingers to caress his digits in long, smooth strokes.
It was the final straw for Erik, and what he had been fighting finally became unavoidable. His face turned red at the knowledge that she would most definitelyseeif notfeelwith how close she was to him, nestled between his thighs as she was. He had been in so much pain for such a long time after the accident that such things had been far from his mind, but with the receding pain came the return of other, more pleasant sensations that the body might experience.
But there was nothing pleasant about this, not now, not like this—to have the proof of how shamefully starved for touch he was presented so undeniably; for her to know what her simple proximity did to him.
He jerked his hand out of her grasp like her touch was fire, and his other hand reached for the only thing nearby he could possibly use to alleviate the mortifying situation—he grabbed one of the small throw pillows on the couch and held it in front of his lap, trying to not press too hard but needing something to hide his shameful reaction to her touch from her.
"Did I hurt you?" She gasped, pulling back from him quickly.
He did look very pained, after all. She was terrified she had pressed too hard on his poor, tender ligaments, maybe even injuring him further. He was staring off to the side, his head turned, too overcome to even look at her as his brow creased and he leaned away from her, his face red. She happened to glance down and notice the pillow, and it took her only a second to guess at the reason for its unusual placement. She pressed her lips together, not wanting to draw attention to what he was so clearly trying to hide. Her own face felt warm as the dawning realization washed over her and she tried to calculate her next steps in a few seconds that seemed to stretch on for ages.
She cleared her throat, looking away as she stood up stiffly, giving him space.
"I'll put these back in your bathroom," she offered, picking up all the items she had brought out with her, leaving him alone in the room.
Well, almost alone—Ayesha sat in the corner, flicking her tail, narrowing her eyes at Erik on the couch.
Christine blessedly did not mention what had happened on the couch, and he was more than happy to pretend it had not happened at all—or to try to, at least. His own mind replayed the event over and over to him for days. It made him feel awkward, like she had seen a part of him he tried so hard to hide. He tried to tell himself that it was simply from having gone so long without touch, that anyone would have reacted that way. But even the mere thought of her being so near, touching him—holding the sharp blade against his fragile skin—threatened to cause the exact same reaction all over again. True, he had managed to not debase himself with her again as he had done in the hotel that night before she had left on her trip, but this victory seemed terribly small knowing how close he felt to giving in all over again.
But that had been so long ago. Were they even the same people anymore? He feared he hadn't changed so very much, but—
Maybe Christine had.
It was almost unthinkable that the diva in training who had asked him for anexperiencein a hotel was the same young woman who was now scrubbing his floors and cooking his meals and tending to his injuries and carefully dosing out his medicine. She was more patient, more caring, more quick to think of others and not herself.
The enormity of her sacrifice was not lost on him. She had given up the one thing in the world that she lived for, and he knew without a doubt that it must weigh heavily on every single hour of every single day—and yet she never spoke a word about it.
He heard her singing softly to herself at times, or humming under her breath as she cooked and cleaned. It happened a handful of times before she turned to find him there, leaning against the wall and listening, held tilted. She blushed and shook out her skirts, clearing her throat. She hadn't meant for him to hear her.
He only smiled kindly and handed her a little note.
You may sing louder, if you wish
She smiled and folded the note, tucking it into her pocket as she continued her work.
"I see," she said.
The next day he was surprised—and glad—to hear her actually singing for the first time since she'd come to stay with him. It was music not only to his ears but also to his soul. Ayehsa huddled in the corner of the room and laid her ears down flat on her head at the sound, offended.
But Erik was happy to hear her sing again. She loved singing, and she needed it in her life. He was more than pleased to be her adoring audience of one. There was something about her voice that inexplicably filled his soul with gladness.
She was singing to herself that night as she washed the dishes from dinner, lest in her own little world. Erik stood in the doorway to the kitchen, wishing he could help her. But tonight his hands were aching more than usual—he had, earlier that afternoon attempted to hold a violin and how, though he had not dared to bring the two together, not yet—and he feared he would end up breaking any dish he attempted to clean. He hesitated in the doorway a moment before entering, approaching her from behind.
Her song faltered momentarily as he snaked his arms around her midsection, surprising her. He placed his head on her shoulder just briefly, her breath catching in her throat at the unexpected embrace.
She smiled widely, reveling in the feel of it, and then he pulled away, leaving the kitchen to go to bed, but her smile remained.
He retired to his room, his body tired but his mind antsy. He picked up the violin from the shelf and pantomimed playing it, struggling to get his fingers into the positions they used to assume so easily. He set it aside with a sigh. Maybe one day he would accompany Christine but it would not be any day soon. He changed into his nightclothes, something that had become an almost easy task for him once more. Settling under the covers of his bed, he winced at the few lingering aches in his joints. He raised his hands in front of him, pretending to play an invisible piano as he lay on his back, a silent symphony in the air but the notes still striking in his mind. He was missing keys, he knew—missing notes,his fingers struggling to reach where they should and trembling with the effort he was asking of them.
He hadn't played at the real thing since the accident. Hearing his fingers tumble over the keys would break his heart, so he wanted to know that when he did play again, he would at least have some amount of skill at it. All those years and years of practice and perfecting his art, gone in an instant. He let one hand stray up to his throat, resting there for a moment as he mused on it all.
He was still awake with his thoughts later that night when he heard his door, which he had left ajar, creek open. His eyes shot to it, expecting to see her there, his heart pounding, but then he heard a tiny meow and he realized his visitor was much closer to the floor.
He looked down to see a distressed Ayesha swishing her tail, her big blue eyes full of worry. She meowed again, pleading with him.
He propped himself up on one elbow and she turned in a circle, meowing and trying to get him to follow her. She got up out of bed, grabbed his robe and pulled it over himself, and followed her down the hallway. She led him to the living room where she abruptly stopped, staring at the couch.
Christine was there, laying facedown. She looked like she had been in the middle of dusting, her rags left on the tall side table next to her. Erik held his breath as he watched her—was she alright? But he could see the steady, soft rise and fall of her back—she was still breathing. He glanced at the clock—it was the early hours of the morning. She must have been cleaning so long that she'd fallen asleep in the middle of it, taking a short break to sit down but falling asleep instead.
Still peeved at her being there, Ayesha jumped up on the tall table, next to the glass of water Christine must have been drinking out of. Ayehsa looked down at her sleeping for a few moments before batting at the side of the glass with her paw. Erik walked over and took the glass away before Ayehsa could tip it over and spill the water on the sleeping head of Christine. It was only half full, but he still needed both hands to hold it securely, and even so it shook slightly. Ayesha whipped her tail, glaring at her papa for foiling her plan, then jumped down and went off to sulk by the fire that was burning low on the hearth. Erik noted the slight chill of the room and took the blanket from the back of the couch and pulled it up over Christine, his hand lingering on her back for just a moment.
She really had come so far from being the girl who had accidentally burned up all his work documents. He was impressed at how easily she had fallen into the role she had around his home and his life—there had never been a single thing he had to worry over not being done when she was around.
Gustave would have been proud of her off in Vienna, but he hoped she knew also that he would have been just as proud of her here and now.
He returned to his own room once more, sleep finally catching up to him. In the morning, Christine was already awake and putting the finishing touches on breakfast.
After they ate, she opened the window in the living room for Ayesha to look out of as Erik sat down to drink some tea Christine had made and brought in from the kitchen.
"The weather is so nice today," she said, handing him his teacup. "Maybe we could go for a walk this afternoon if the sunshine holds."
He nodded as he sipped his tea.
"You know, I've been thinking. The new opera season has started, and I wondered, maybe, if you'd like to go watch one with me?" She looked to him for his answer, expecting him to nod or shake his head no in response.
Instead, Erik finished a long sip of his tea as he considered her proposition. He placed the teacup on the saucer in his other hand then set both on the table.
"I would love to go to the opera with you, Christine," he said, his voice gravelly after having not used it for weeks.
Her eyes widened in shock as she dropped her teacup to the rug where it broke into pieces. Erik looked at it there, bemused, and barely had time to register what had happened to it before Christine flung herself into his arms, sobbing.