10A Way To Fall
"It's eight thirty, I have a hangover and you're annoying me," she grumbled, the musical chuckle of reply echoing from over the phoneline.
"You do realise that partying with Meg is not exactly…Productive of any sort, especially for an ensemble member, much less an understudy," he drawled, only adding to the bells that hammered against her skull.
"Well next time you'll remember not to blow me off," she snarked, rolling over onto the other side of her bed and glaring at the cracks of sun at the edges of her curtains. She really needed to invest in a blind.
"My dear, it was you who blew me off, I'll have you remember,"
"Speak quieter," she groaned.
"Right. Yes, sorry," his voice dropped to a murmur, "Is Meg suffering a similar fate?"
"Don't know, she hasn't replied. I can't even make it to the kitchen, so I'll crawl out tomorrow to check her apartment,"
"You poor dear, why didn't you appreciate your tolerance? You know you are a light drinker," he pitied.
"Meg wanted me to get drunk! She was the one who spotted a guy – and everything had been fine until he showed up,"
"Ah," Erik's voice fell.
"I really hadn't meant to drink so much, but apparently I needed 'balls of steel'. She ordered me two martinis and a fancy shmancy cocktail," she muttered into her pillow.
Erik grunted.
"I don't really go for bar types, either, but he seemed nice," she added.
"Did he?"
"Yeah…" she trailed off, closing her eyes. Consciousness seemed so far away.
"Do you require anything?" his voice echoed, and Christine realised that she would have fallen asleep had he not reminded her he was there still, on the other end.
"No…It's just a long way to painkillers,"
She could hear the eyebrow raise, "Is it really so far?"
"It's practically a marathon," she eyed the cupboard on the other side of the room, the bright packet perched on the corner, "And a mountain,"
"Oh dear," the sound of fingers drumming against wood hummed, "Perhaps you need a caretaker until you feel well again,"
Christine grunted, "Unfortunately, they both died in a car crash, several years ago,"
Erik's sigh reached from across the telephone, "You mustn't disregard them – they loved you, my dear, more than you could possibly imagine,"
She winced, realising her mistake – she wasn't about to hash over this again, not until she was sober, at least, "Yeah, yeah, but anyway, until miracles occur, I am going to roll over and sleep this off," she paused, an odd sort of emotion building up in the back of her throat of the thought of her mentor on the other end, with his comforting words and gentle eyes, "Thanks for checking up on me, 'kay?"
"You are most welcome, Christine," his words were hushed, "Now get some rest," the phone went silent as Erik hung up on the other end.
Christine sighed and allowed herself to dissolve into her dreams.
What awoke her from a dark and misty sleep was the wafting scent of chicken and spices. Mouth-watering spices. Her stomach turned.
No, oh no.
Lurching from her bed, she crashed into the bathroom, snatching the seat up just in time for her to retch – rather unlady-like – into the toilet. Another heave and all of yesterday's lunch slopped into the water, droplets hitting her skin in a grotesque fashion.
Never. Never again am I going to let Meg influence me.
Her throat burned and her stomach growled, as if searching for any other remnants to off load. Crap, she wasn't even sure if the guy's number was worth it now. He did have beautiful golden hair and teeth that must have had braces. He probably still slept with a retainer. How had they been so white? She couldn't remember what his voice sounded like. Had his eyes really dazzled?
"Christine?" Erik's worried voice sounded.
She gave a low groan, unable to answer him, fighting the need to haul herself into the shower for its freezing spray. What was Erik doing in her apartment?
"Oh Christine," he murmured, the door pushed open and she flinched as the light came on.
She didn't have time to acknowledge him before she was retching back into the toilet, with nothing coming out, but mortifyingly, her own spit. God, if only she could huddle under the covers now. How horrible she must look to him!
"I'm fine – you can go," she waved a hand at him, hurriedly wiping her mouth with some toilet paper, until she saw a glass of water in a pale hand.
"Drink, slowly. You will feel better and it stops the effects of dehydration,"
Gratefully, she took the glass, careful not to chug it down despite her headache's protests, and two white pills that he also handed to her.
"There, they should kick in soon," he murmured, after she'd swallowed.
She nodded vaguely, "Thank you. You don't need to do this, you know," she grimaced as her stomach growled again.
"Come, allow me to help you get back to bed. I believe you have no more to…deposit,"
Christine looked at the toilet dubiously and felt her stomach give another squeeze, "I think I'll stay here,"
"I have already acquired a washing bowl for your bedside; you have no fear of rushing now. Come, Christine," she felt the command behind his words – the man was actually using his teacher voice on her!
Lips pursing, she turned her head away and laid it on the edge of the bathtub, "It's much cooler on the floor…"
Erik sighed, "It will do you no good to languish like that. Now, I will retrieve an ice pack momentarily, but you must simply come back to bed in the meantime,"
He was relentless!
In no mood to argue, she wearily lifted her head, squinting as she evaluated the dizzying distance from her place on the floor to her bed.
She groaned, "Fine,"
His hand came back into view, "Allow me,"
Lifting her hand, his encircled hers delicately, until she allowed his wiry strength to set her on her feet, her head swaying at the motion.
She walked cleanly for two steps before the ground swayed again and another hand was suddenly at her elbow, icy fingers guiding her with light – frustratingly light – touches to her bed, of which the bedcovers had already been unceremoniously thrown back due to her spontaneous departure.
She could have sworn the fingers untucked a piece of her hair from her pyjama shirt, but the motion of all-but collapsing into bed commanded her attention. The duvet was laid halfway up, and Erik folded it over so that if she grew colder, she would only have to reach to pull it back…Unlike the way she usually pushed it with her feet to the end of the bed, and in the middle of the night have to feel around like a zombie until there was a corner and yank it back up.
Freezing fingers checked her forehead and she squirmed slightly, releasing a dreamy sigh, "The best time to have cold hands,"
A small chuckle warmed her, "Quite so. I am pleased that you don't seem overly feverish. I will be gone but a moment, to get your icepack,"
"Hm-hm, thank you," she murmured.
He was halfway to the door when she said, "Oh, but I don't have an icepack,"
"Then it is a good thing indeed that I brought one," Erik mused, before he ducked out of the room.
She shivered when the icepack rested on her forehead, wrapped in a paper towel to take some of the bracing chill when placed on skin.
"Can't I just cut off your hands, so I'd have more icepacks?" she murmured.
Erik made a strangled noise, "No, I don't believe that idea of yours would work,"
She nodded into her pillow, "Yeah, you need them to play, don't you,"
"Yes," he replied quickly, "They are all that I need them for,"
She nodded again, yawned and shuffled under the covers, "Are you staying here all day? I don't want to prevent plans,"
"No, you didn't interrupt anything," he coughed, "Anything important, I mean. You are a priority – I cannot have my student less than healthy,"
"Hmm-hm," she uttered drowsily.
"Try and sleep, my dear. I will be here," he promised.
"Okay, g'night," she replied, turning over once again and burying her face into the cool side of the pillow.
Later, the same scent of chicken and spices aroused her from sleep's clutches, and the clink of cutlery sent new alerts into her mind.
"My dear, it is time for lunch,"
"Not hungry," she squinted at his shape, making the outline of a tray in his hands, "But thanks,"
"Christine, you must eat. You need sustenance,"
"No thank you."
"Christine,"
He was worse than Meg!
She made a sound of annoyance but felt the guilt when she heard Erik's following sigh.
Relenting, if only in debt for Erik's caring skills so far, Christine sat up and allowed him to place the tray on her lap. He reached and turned her bedside lamp on, dimming it when she winced at the light, but enough so that she could see in the darkness.
"You…Made this for me?" she said tightly, her heart clenching at the sight of his fidgeting hands.
"I recall that your preference is chicken noodle soup for when you are ill, yes?" he wouldn't meet her eyes.
"Yes, yes it is, thank you," she said softly. Though her stomach was resolute against eating a morsel, she would do it if only to appease him…He wouldn't stop pestering her until she made a decent attempt at eating.
Flavour bloomed on the tongue as soon as she took a bite, the balance of salty and sweet in equilibrium. The hint of ginger that sizzled on the tongue. God, she'd have to be ill more, she decided.
Or maybe having a singing lesson late enough that he'd simply have to cook himself a meal! Well, and her too, obviously.
She let out a moan of appreciation, unaware of the blush that pinked the ears of her caretaker, and under the cover of darkness fingers clenched, with a violence that trembled, "This is delicious,"
"You're –" he cleared his throat, looking away, "You're most welcome, may I get you some more after you've finished?"
She shook her head, "No – no, I think if I eat anymore I'll regret it, but it's appreciated," she gave him a smile, eyes finally adjusting to the semi-light.
He perched in the chair before her desk, looking comically uncomfortable with the plush pink arm rests invading his sides and the seat he had to scrunch his arms in to fit. She would have offered for him to leave, that he didn't need to stay to ensure her well-being, but there was an anxiety hidden in the twitch of his fingers that made her think twice. Plus, it didn't hurt to find out how he made the soup. There was something unique in the way he regaled his accomplishment, as if it was a fine art rather than just a mundane chore; the way his eyes lit like two bright sparks when observing her interest and the warmth she felt at asking. He was a perfectionist in cooking too.
Between telling her the recipe and his aim in balancing the ginger with the other spices, she finished the soup, using the bread he'd provided to soak up the rest.
She rested her spoon against the bowl, sighing contentedly, "Thank you,"
Erik rose, an arm elongating to whisk her bowl away, "I am pleased you have enjoyed it,"
He also took the melted icepack and as he left, encouraged her to doze for the rest of the afternoon.
She couldn't sleep for a minute longer. She'd managed an hour before she'd given up, staring into space and vainly trying to remember the conversation she'd had with the man from last night. He'd said something. Something that made her think of red. The colour kept popping up when she thought of him, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember why.
It was infuriating. Not to mention that she was outrageously annoying she was when she was drunk; dear God, she hoped she hadn't scared him away.
As if by magic, her phone gave a buzz.
You're not dead, are you?
Christine sighed and typed back.
You know me better than that. But feeling sorry for myself. I'm never going out with you again.
Meg immediately sent a reply.
Don't you even joke about that! If I can't drink with you, you'll never go out of the apartment!
I get out! I have singing lessons three times a week.
No offence, but going to see granny down the road doesn't count. There's no way you'd meet a guy without my help Christine, and we both know it.
Christine winced, feeling the guilt bug at her. If only things were different and Erik wasn't so touchy about people knowing of his existence…Meg wouldn't have to take desperate measures to ensure Christine 'would meet a guy'. She already had one…Well, the fact he was her teacher didn't have to come up. They – it – their relationship, it wasn't just defined by that. And yet, the word friends sounded too familiar.
It's complicated. I don't even need to 'meet' anyone. You do realise that I have three boys who work in the store, right?
All three who you've turned down. :(
I can't exactly date a guy who already has a girlfriend. Or who doesn't like music.
Or anima-
She was still typing when Meg interrupted.
See? You're too picky, or you're just not seeing many people. It ain't going to start by not trying guys out.
You make it sound like a free membership you won't be subscribing to later.
Well, you're not far off. You got that guy's number. Or he got yours. Either make a move or be patient. It'll come. I just want you to be happy, Chris. X
There was a soft knock, and Christine dropped her phone as Erik craned his head inside, "I do not wish to intrude, but how are you feeling?"
She gave a small smile, "Like death warmed up, but slowly recovering,"
Erik nodded gravely, white mask glinting from the lights on outside, "Have you sipped at your water? It may provide some relief,"
"I will," she tugged at a stray thread of the bedspread, "Make yourself comfortable. I might come out as my headache isn't so strong. We'll have to make it somewhat tomb-like though,"
Erik jerked his head in agreement, "I will let you know once I've arranged things; do you wish for anything else? Food? Ice-pack – it's refrozen,"
She shook her head, "Thank you but no,"
He bowed slightly and was about to step out of the room when she said, "You're not going after this, are you?"
Wide eyes stared back, "I must have overstayed any welcome, by now, surely,"
She shook her head vehemently – wincing as she dizzied, "'Course not, you've been taking care of me the entire day! It would be rude to kick you out when you've been so kind. You can stay for dinner, but I don't know if there will be much choice apart from local take-outs," she grinned sardonically, "In this state, I don't think I'll be doing any cooking,"
Erik looked horrified at the thought, hand clutching the doorframe, "Of course not, you'll be staying completely out of the kitchen until you've regained basic motor functions,"
She laughed and Erik took the opportunity to stare at her, breath caught in his throat at the sight.
"Come, and I will set up the lounge for us – unless you wish to stay here until I've done so," his words were pushed through a breath, at once desperate to leave and begging to stay.
In reply, she rose from the bed, tugging on a cream dressing gown that looked delightfully plush, and padded into the living room.
"What film do you have a preference for?"
"Film?" he replied dumbly, staring as she pulled the curtains shut, sweeping them into darkness. The outline grazing the edges of her silhouette taunted him. Of all he couldn't have, this was the most painful.
"Princess bride is my comfort film, but we could watch something more to your tastes. Do you still have a thing against James Bond?"
His lips thinned, "Hollywood's poor imitation of real life will be durable, if you wish to watch it,"
She laughed, failing to smother her cackle. Shaking her head, she knelt against the DVD shelf, running her fingers past the silky spines, "No James Bond, don't worry. Anyway, Meg's putting her boyfriend through the stretches with them right now,"
Erik tutted, "That poor boy,"
Snorting, Christine pulled out a DVD and squinted at the title, clicking her tongue. Risky, but it could have a good turnout.
There was one issue, but she was sure that they - as mature adults – could cope with a bit of nudity.
"I'm about to educate you about one of the best rom-coms in existence – get ready," she grinned, inserting the disk into the mouth of the DVD player.
She turned to look at Erik, who had settled himself at one end of the sofa, looking distantly uncomfortable. He still had his shoes on.
Christine bit her lip, frowning, "You have watched a rom-com before, right?"
He flinched slightly, eyes focusing again and swallowed visibly, speaking to the cushion he was fiddling with in his lap, "I may have skipped that...particular genre,"
She gave a mock gasp, giggling as he looked up, alarmed, "Burn the blasphemer! This is the sanctuary of such films, and today you'll be getting the finest I have to offer. By the end, you'll either hate it or love it,"
His lips curled into a smile – more of a grimace really – but she gave him four stars for at least trying to look eager about it.
Still smiling, she grabbed the TV remote and flicked it onto the right channel.
Oh! She was going to have fun with this.
He suspected that the greater joy of the film was that the musical choices were still catchy enough for Christine to sing, and though her voice was rugged from her illness, her joy of the song filled the lyrics with the life and youth of such a time. Though born at the start of the 2000's, she would have been delightful sight upon his arm, much like that of the Pretty Woman upon that man's in the 1980's. The age gap was a bit more comfortable, too.
Erik would have been more inclined to indulge such teasing fantasies that purred in his ears, had it not been for the apt way her eyes watched the film unfold, oblivious to him – as if she had never watched it before. Though the number of pre-empted lines and whispered song-lyrics said otherwise. She looked lost, and he looked, lost in her.
Christine had started with her feet curled beside her, teasingly bare. Red nail polish, chipped; it had been some time since she'd done them. He had to keep his sight locked on the bounce of her curls, unwilling to think so strongly of her when she'd been generous enough to allow him into her home, unaware of the luring temptation that festered inside. She'd scream, lock him out, if she knew the truth. Saw the man underneath. The ugly, undulating man that her unbearable innocence lured out. His hand felt so bare, resting on the seat beside her sweet little feet.
The poor siren, she didn't know the power of her murmured song and plush dressing gown. The shorts that shouldn't be so short, legs that -
It was wrong to wish for the world to turn to ash outside that door, wrong to think that he wanted to find a way to prevent him from leaving this haven.
He'd never wish her a day of pain, but hell, being here made him feel more real than the handful of times they'd sang together. This was real. This – her steady breath, and messy curls, and her smile, and the food that turned up at the door that they shared.
He barely ate, unable to stomach the sight of her slurping at her drink, heat flaring at the tips of his ears when all he could hear was her sucking the remnants of salt from fries, off her fingertips. A groan curled inside, trying not to wince at the sounds.
Good God, what had he done? He could barely speak when she offered him a spoon, inviting him to dip into the ice-cream, the very taste of vanilla and the soft place her lips had been transferred by a disk of metal. It was entirely unfair – ridiculous – to be jealous of a spoon.
Yet, he was. Undoubtedly so.
The air wasn't much cooler inside her tiny bathroom, but the icy shock of his features was enough to reel in the pulsing in his blood that begged to be sated. Monster. It was easier to think when he was just a monster, under the bridge, that asked for a toll too high.
The jutting edge of her basin trembled as his sweaty palms gripped it, head hanging it as his dictator hung over him. The damn mirror. Those damn mirrors. They would be the death of him.
Breathing. What was it about breathing that he was supposed to remember?
Right, he'd done it enough with her to know. He took a few breaths until his heart stopped flying against his chest, pushing all the weight of his loathsome, unsavoury appetite back where it belonged. Behind steel walls and a hundred bars. The monster was safe, for now.
Head correct. Chin erect. Teeth set.
A few more hours, at most.
Then, a dark cool cave, plunging into a freezing lake, a sprint in the forest, and a lonely existence until she needed him again.
Oh, but what a light that was. He couldn't give it up. Not now he knew it enough that it had replaced any oxygen he'd gained from the darkness. Light tasted better. He couldn't give it up.
He squeezed the basin.
It was wrong. Carefully, opening the door and peering into the cabinets, admiring the way her overtly feminine tastes affected what brand she bought – and the cheap prices of the superstore.
Cotton candy – was that the sweetness he smelt this morning when edging too close in the darkness, giving her lunch? Fingers flipped it open, a crack that sounded and he prayed that she couldn't hear from the living room, and squeezed a pea-sized amount out.
He sniffed.
It certainly was far too sweet for his tastes to scrub his entire carcass with, but for her...Yes, but there was something else. Ah, it must be the honeyed coconut smell of her shampoo.
He swiped the pea-sized body-wash off the top and replaced the bottle quickly, flushing the toilet with the other and running the taps, using her soap to erase any traces of the substance.
Erik froze when he opened the door and Christine was on the other side, hand raised to knock.
"Oh! Sorry, I was just making sure you were okay in there," she grinned sheepishly, "You were taking a while," she made an awkward noise in the back of her throat.
He inclined his head, belatedly hoping his heart would stop rattling so obscenely and flicked his fingers in mild agitation, "Ah, I'm quite all right, thank you my dear," he said smoothly, sidestepping her into the lounge once more.
It was cliché to hope that eventually, she would fall asleep, and he would have the pleasure of watching her without fear of his stare prickling the hairs on her neck. But alas, though sleepy and her hunger sated, she never quite dropped off to sleep. Sometimes she'd glance over, grinning at a comical line delivery, to see if he was participating in the same joy, or a moment that would make her coo slightly – usually a romantic occasion between the protagonists. The only thing that was noteworthy was that an opera appeared once, and her gaze fell longingly on the jewels the woman wore. It was almost unnoticeable, the sigh she gave when they were placed around the woman's neck.
She liked rubies then. Or perhaps the style – he couldn't quite tell.
It was hard to know that he could provide something as valuable as that to her, for her to enjoy, yet it would be a breach of their instilled roles, and the excuse of a "large inheritance" without detailing into his parents would be impossible. Not to mention the...Legitimate reason that surely would frighten the poor girl and irrevocably damage whatever they had going for him – them – right now.
And there was not a second when he dared imagine what it would feel like to glide his fingers across her collarbone to place such a weighty gift.
No, he was far too much in control for that imagining.
Still, to see her in red, a bold colour she wore only with a scarf and chipped paint, would be highly impossible for him. In this day and age, people would be able to come looking for her far more easily. It would be an easier trial of gaining her trust, before leaping to a felony. That solution was for a worst-case scenario. He'd like to think, anyway.
Though, need he resort to the possibility, he'd call it a honeymoon; she'd always wanted to visit Japan. He'd have to be careful not to bump into any old comrades. But he had enough traps inlaid within the national security systems to warn off any intruders. He always had the missiles there in case of a last resort to solve an issue, but he had a feeling that Christine's delicate stance on mortality would interfere with such blatant violence.
Still, it would be far more pleasant an idea that her screams would be one of delight than of terror. His knees would fail, at the image of white sheets and the supple body that his soul longed to encase, imagining the little sounds of contentment of when she woke to be in his arms. The irresistible urge to comb through unruly curls, caress her, hound her until the only sound on her lips was -
That would be the day he would believe in miracles.
Finally, they were met with the black screen of the credits and he was regretting that this film had only laid upon the urges that prowled across the corners of his mind, encouraging them to the forefront of his imagination. It had been a mistake, oh, a mistake to have let her put it on. A beast, that took advantage of her innocence, her inherent friendliness that she bestowed upon each commoner, that made him want to build the walls so thick that they would never be breached.
That film was all the dreams that couldn't be saved. Condemned to those stereotypes where men could treat their ladies with casual regard and yet adorn them in jewels that they'd mewl at.
Tortuous, it was to think that he could hail chivalry – lace her with fine things and superfluous luxury - and not know whether she would find it overbearing and boorish. If only she'd been born a decade or two earlier, hell, maybe two hundred years. It would be well accepted that a man would do those things without complaint, to arrange their wives, their beaus, and intended with a conduct that most, in this modern era would ridicule.
Gentlemen were a breed no longer needed.
It was, such as this, to know that boys could ensnare women without treating their lady without the respect and honour they deserved. Without the dance of courtship and adhering to rules that were equal to each station. That wealth and power and influence was nothing in the grand scheme.
How control was vanquished with a simple message, and a simple number slipped off the tongue.
Oh, how wrong it was to eye her phone with jealousy as her smile reared. It seemed that the boy had replied, had messaged.
And she had answered.
He rose stiffly, breathing through a bleeding hole thundering in his chest, loathing the erratic way his heart beat, the control of their lives, gradually intertwining, step by step, vines that he had painstakingly nurtured were threatened by a ruthless boy, a boy who knew nothing. Nothing of the hell he'd struggled through, for that cad to tear her away from him. No. He would not loose her.
"Hey, are you okay?" he froze as a hand tentatively touched his shoulder, concern fluttering in her voice.
"I'm quite fine," his voice came out as a shard of ice.
His anger faltered as Christine's eyes blinked rapidly, concealing the hurt. The hand retreated.
Remorsefully, he lowered his voice, missing that caring weight upon his shoulder, "You are a generous host, but I fear you no longer need me,"
Christine opened her mouth to say something, a fiery light in her eyes, before she inhaled and shook her head.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," she gave a half smile, "I am feeling better, thanks to you,"
He inclined his head, choosing not to reply.
Christine shifted, "Did you enjoy the film?" her fingers laced between each other hopefully.
"It was..." he glanced over to the credits that were still rolling, "Adequate," It wasn't her fault that the film made him ache in ways he'd never dreamed.
She grinned, euphoric, "I don't think I've never not heard a negative comment from you before about a film!"
He grimaced, "I would have made major changes in the cinematography and the graphics are quite outdated, not to mention that philandering male that simply needed to be altogether cut from the plot,-"
"You are just putting holes in it now!" she laughed. God, he would drink that sound, if there was a way.
He gave a nonchalant noise of acknowledgement and went over to her kitchenette, carefully unpacking a second helping of the chicken noodle soup.
"You can't just run away from me, you know," she appeared beside him, and rested her head on her hand.
Hell if I tried, my dear. It would lead always back to you.
"I am merely ensuring you have food for tomorrow morning, or lunch, should you skip it. I expect you to be at our normal rehearsal room, if not earlier. Your voice will be tired and I want it to be in excellent shape before the gala,"
"Yes Maestro," she giggled and it took every effort for him to glance away, and not feel the heat of that title when she saluted.
She was the only one that made him feel...like a man.
He exhaled silently, assessing the living room with a clinical eye and was satisfied. She would be fine until tomorrow evening.
Christine stood silently as he donned his coat and went to the door with him.
"I have left the ice pack in case you have need of it," he told her, adjusting the cuff of his coat.
"That's very sweet of you," she smiled gently, "Thank you for coming around and looking after me, you didn't have to,"
He nodded, lips thinning, "That is what – ah – a mentor would do, ensure their student's health and well-being,"
She looked down, "Can I ask one thing, though? How did you get into my apartment?"
He stilled, ice freezing his veins before he remembered his voice, "I don't think where you hide your spare key is exactly secure," he replied smoothly, "And your elderly friend, Madame Valerious, was concerned when I told her of your ill health,"
A breath of relief filled her, "Oh," she cleared her throat and fidgeted, "I'll think about another place of hiding it then, hah,"
"Or," he offered tremulously, "If you are in need of your key being safeguarded, I would respectfully hold it for you, if that is not overstepping my bounds,"
"You'd do that for me?"
"As I said, it is perfectly unacceptable for you to feel unsafe, if you have no one to entrust with it," he swallowed.
"I'll think about it," she offered him a timid smile, "But thank you. You're a good person, Erik,"
His knees threatened to sink to the floor, but he recovered with a slight bow, "You're most welcome,"
Willing his hand to the door handle, he stepped outside, regarding her softly, "Now I must bid you adieu," my dear.
Christine nodded, something unnamed in those eyes that made his heart pound, something that felt like regret, but no, he was being ridiculous and covetous, she couldn't truly dare to feel those for him, the way she was standing, still in her ridiculous dressing gown, that covered so much and yet so little, and damn it all his hands were sweating again.
"Goodbye," and she smiled so sweetly, that he envisioned everything again, but this time, she was far more real, and undeniably willing.
And then the door was shut.
And he was trapped outside, vainly holding back the breaths of shattering dreams, remembering that the boy would take his – his everything – away.
His hands curled, desperate for that little toy, tucked away so discreetly, to solve all the problems that warred for his scrap of happiness.
And yet, despite knowing that weapons would do little to stave off the inevitable, his eyes still stung as he heard her gasp.
"It's him!"
And no, there was nothing worse than this.
The night where he'd finally become a man, was the day he'd lose her forever.
Wow. That no longer became fluff...Heh...Heh...It couldn't realllllly end without a little angst, now could it? Erik is a poor fellow in this scenario! Just when his more tender and attentive side was showing, she had to go and meet someone XD And not just anyone!
Now this was inspired off a writing prompt off Tumblr – yes I'm now on there! 'Enigmawritesstuff' is moi! I unfortunately can't seem to find the original post, so I'll credit the unknown sentence starter! "It's eight thirty, I have a hangover and you're annoying me,"
Personally, I love Erik, even though his ideas on chivalry is a bit outdated, I really enjoyed writing this where I was totally just going with it. I 'let go' so to speak (or write), on what I'd written before with these two! I appreciate all your thoughts and special comments, they truly are a blessed thing! I can totally see Erik becoming curious if granted access to her bathroom, c'mon, this IS him we're talking about. Plus, when I read all the writing prompts, I challenged myself to write with one I wasn't entirely comfortable with, and this is how it turned out!
Have a lovely day and night, whichever it may be.
Enigma out!
P.S Happy Easter! ^^