4Trigger warning: Some insinuation of self harm, panic attacks.
In the dark, he sat, music pounding from the speakers she couldn't see. His eyes were closed, squeezed – it would be – chest shaking, fists trembling. Was his nose buried between his legs? Trapped – the two shadows that stretched further than the rest of his body, back against two sides of the walls.
Wincing, she reluctantly closed the door behind her, snuffing out the line of light that pierced the veil of darkness of the stony brick walls. The faint whiff of dungeon.
Wagner.
Closing her eyes, she breathed in, feeling the tendrils of his clogging emotion swirl around her heart. It was difficult living with a man so powerful, that his very feelings overwhelmed himself and closed around those so sensitive to him. His body felt; the rescued tempers were only one of his difficulties. The symptom that governed perfection, the one that disabused the notion of disobeying. But not the fear that destroyed a peaceful dinner. Not the disassociation that battered her ears raw when music became his retreat and self-punishment.
Dropping to her knees, she pushed away the urge to turn off the symphony that crashed against her head, and blinked, revealing his shuddering shape in the corner, the faint puffs of breath that pressed at her chest. Aching at his pain.
I should have expected it. I should have –
"Erik?" she called, over the music that reverberated around the walls.
He didn't flinch, his movements repeating, in a sort of ritual of comfort that pressed against the familiar twinge.
Crawling through the empty room, the carpet cheap and nasty bristles, ones that she'd once felt under fingers during younger days of rasping pens and tacky, daylight-stained windows.
But that's what he'd wanted.
She rocked back on her heels, stopping a few inches before his legs, the man so tall he loomed, now crookedly curled while his fists bury themselves into his thighs.
Panic swept through, the sudden thought that he'd regress back and wake up believing that he'd – he'd –
One time. That was one time. He's gotten better since then. They'd talked about not having knives during an episode, when he felt the need to retreat.
He wanted the marks on the walls, though. He wanted to have them, a reminder of what not to do when the urge of distraction became too much to bear on the edges of a temperamental mind.
Biting her lip, she hovered before him, trying to work out whether endurance would be the better approach, or if he'd be able to sign – or sing – anything to let her know what he needed.
Gritting teeth, she scanned his movements, trying to remember if he would be quieted with a comforting touch, or if space was needed.
But it had been four hours.
Four hours, they'd agreed. Time out for three. Rescue at four.
Someday, she hoped it would go down to two.
Deciding that any invasive action would likely prod too far to allow Erik to react appropriately, she braced herself and slid to his side, back against the wall.
Not touching.
Just sitting. While the man beside her was lost, and running back. Waiting for a sign that he'd return to her again. That he'd gift himself back to the present, that his fear would suck in, that his inability to breathe could be tamed with a touch.
It was painful, not to reach out. Not to sing, or attract attention, so that he would be spared the difficult way back to reality. The music hurt. Razor blades to the ears; it wasn't Wagner, because Wagner couldn't hurt like Erik's. And she tried to believe that this music wasn't the blunt force trauma encapsulated in screaming violins and hammering chords. The way it blackened, a snarl to the world.
And he hated this piece when she had listened to it, and tears had only been herald to the cry that she gave before she flung herself into his arms. When her fingers had picked up the piece, under the many that disguised this pain.
It wasn't healthy. Hell, it was hardly coping, when he was like this.
But it was made on a compromise. When things were at a breaking point, and he needed somewhere that became his own tornado, lest the house was the place where he found his unrest.
And still, in the building design, it was called a Panic Room.
Though, it probably wasn't what the builders originally intended it to be used for.
Soundproof and impenetrable, Erik conducted his personal tornadoes inside the confines of the room, all but invisible to the rest of the world. And who was she to refuse? Not when it had helped. The only sort of help that Erik would agree to.
Tentatively, a word slipped out, his voice rasping, "Please,"
Instinctively, Christine leapt into action, her hand finding a closed fist that begged to be soothed.
Cold and clammy, her warm heat enclosed it, bringing the trembling fist to her lips, and the vibrations of his body rumbling through hers.
"Shh," she whispered, and closed her eyes, finding solace in the darkness, "It's going to be over soon. Just calm down,"
She squeezed his fist, aiming to encourage him to allow circulation through his fingers – the tips cold with bloodless vigor.
His hand fell open at her touch, and the body beside her floundered, shuddered, breathing out, long and hard. With his invitation, fingers gently massaged the flesh that covered sinew, finding an odd relief when it warmed under her attention.
The violins reared at a particularly high screech and the man flinched; abruptly the music cut off as his other fist hit the wall.
Her ears swelled in relief.
"Please Christine,"
His body all but collapsed in relief as she pulled him closer.
The tight satisfaction when she pulled his tired torso to her lap. Allowed his head to linger upon her knees. And the groan of tears leaking when soft strokes were permitted to his wisps of hair, rhythmic and lulling. Keeping in soothing words for a translation of her melody, that vibrated the air as they dared to drift upon a slumbering angel.
So…Happy ending? GOOOLLLY. That was so much angst XD.
I find that Erik's trauma could lead to a situation where he'd need to retreat and having a basement that could be converted to it for him was an idea I hadn't anticipated. Still, it wrote itself into it all. I was actually inspired by a recent(?) tumblr post where there was Phanart, where the Phantom is sleeping on Christine's lap and I thought of (originally) writing a fluff piece to accompany it. (I spent an hour trying to find it and couldn't find the piece so forgive me unnamed Tumblr inspire-er).
Well…I don't even think if you squint at this it could be considered fluff. BUT..Erik does get better, ok? Like. Imagine in this modern AU (in a way, semi-inspired by an amazing fic called Kintsugi by Soignante – go and read it if you haven't) the idea of Erik's trauma being smack bang in the middle of him living a more 'human'? life. And the issues of him trying to deal with it in a healthy way when modern day 'therapy' is not going to be an option (or at least in his mind!). So an in-tune Christine is there to help.
I hope it was somewhat entertaining! ^^ Thanks for reading. Comment if you feel inclined! It's always appreciated if you decide to!
Your humble authoress,
Enigma
P.s If you can't imagine the music, look up Wagner's Die Walküre - Prelude, but it's angrier. XD