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Black Angels	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 12725 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 16
- 17
- 18
Chapter 17: The Man Behind the Monster
A/N: Thank you all for the reviews, I cannot begin to tell you how much I enjoy reading them. There are some major Susan Kay references ahead; I am not the creator of Erik’s colourful history. I think you guys will like this chapter, but let me know what you think!

“Wandering around at such a late hour, my dear?”

Christine was not at all surprised to hear that silky voice barking out at her in the darkness. He was never far away. Whether he be standing next to her or lingering in the deep recesses of her mind, he was always there, peering out at her with darkened eyes. She could no longer sleep soundly without seeing his shadows slink away silently in her dreams. Even when she could not see him standing before her, she felt pieces of him lingering all around.

Now he stood behind her, an invisible sneer plastered on his stoic features; she could feel his eyes burning into her even as she faced away from him. The gentle breeze swept across her face, only unsettling the wispy hairs framing her face and ticking her cheeks. Like soft, sensuous, and forbidden music, the night air caressed her skin. The heat of uncertainty began to raise, her skin warmed with excitement at his voice. It was only her and he, together and alone in the night. It was dangerous to be left so defenseless, but the barriers that lay between them were slowly crumbling even as she fought to keep them tall, strong, and forbidding. The stones kept falling to the ground, and with each agonizing minute, he marched closer and closer to the fragile sanctuary that contained her.

“Would you prefer I spend all my time inside patiently awaiting your return, Erik?” She turned to glance at him before turning back to the breeze, her shoulders tensing under his gaze. The shadows of the trees made his face difficult to see, the black masking his golden skin. Darkness covered him like a second mask; only it was far more alluring, and far more threatening.

“Have you not heard stories of the tragic fate that has befallen many young, beautiful woman who wander alone at night?” He stepped towards her slowly, but she never turned to him.

“There is no one else here but us, I am not concerned.” She was unsure as to whether or not his ominous warning was one of a teasing nature or a serious one. His feet continued to move across the grass, rustling the dry leaves and cracking the tiny twigs as he came to stand beside her.

For minutes there was nothing but silence as they stared out at the river. The moon was reflected on the black waters that glistened with silver as they rippled calmly. There were no sounds save for their even breathing. Not even crickets or birds had the audacity to intrude on a moment of tense, yet peaceful silence. In the world, there was no one but them.

“I spoke with Sofia today.” With a small sigh Christine sank to the ground, it was dry and cool against her palms as she spread her skirts around her.

“Oh?” Erik was not sure whether to be uneasy or relieved. A little company besides himself could serve to make their tryst easier. Perhaps the company of an approving and kind woman would ease Christine’s fears of remaining a willing participant in this elongated clandestine meeting.

“It was…nice.” She paused for a moment, looking up at him as he stood staring out at the waters, the reflection of the tiny waves moving across the porcelain concealing his face from the world. “I am glad to have met her.”

“As am I.” He hoped with smug satisfaction that his vague remark would begin to sew the seeds of jealousy within his stoic angel.

“Are you going to sit down?” Her invitation came as a great surprise to them both. Christine was tired of running. All she had done was run from him through her sarcasm and dismissive remarks. All he had done in response was cover her with his ever-present shadows, taunting her even in her dreams. If the Phantom was indeed no more than a man, she would learn to see him as one before beginning anew her life with Raoul. A mere mortal was easier to escape than a ghost.

Pausing for a moment to stare down at the expectant woman at his feet, Erik lowered himself to the ground, leaving appropriate distance between their bodies. The water began to lap silently against the shore, but still no other sounds invaded their tranquil refuge.

“Erik?” Never had she felt so unsure, even in those months of confusion when Erik first appeared to her as a love-besotted man capable of unspeakable crimes, she had never felt so exposed and vulnerable. Her own feelings tortured her endlessly; she knew not her heart or her mind anymore. It would seem that she never had.

“Yes?” He dug his leather-clad heels into the soft earth, not caring about the expensive material that he was soiling. He felt nervous, unsure. Together with his angel in peaceful solitude his heart should have leapt with joy, but he was frightened. Could they be together like this? A man and a woman marveling at the beauty of the outside world with no thoughts of darkness to blacken their spirits?

“I want to know who you are. I feel as though…” Her words faltered as she absently smoothed her skirts. “I feel as though I know you, but I do not know anything about you. Now that we’re together like this, we should talk to one another as people. No lies or stories, no romantic songs or…questionable book passages. Just words, does it not feel as though I’m but a stranger to you?”

She briefly met his eyes before turning to look back at the river, her brows knitted together fretfully with discomfort and uncertainty.

“Why speak of dark and unhappy memories?” If she knew him as just the battered and beaten boy that he was, she would surely grow to see him as only a pathetic creature abused beyond all reason in both mind and body. To be humbled was to fall, and had fallen far enough since his days as the mighty ruler of his opulent kingdom.

“The past makes us who we are, please tell me about yours.” She could no longer go on living with a spirit who drew her to him with burning touches and lyrical endearments.

“You know not what you ask of me.” He felt his voice begin to break as the forbidden images that he tried so hard to destroy leapt to the forefront of his mind. Pictures of a young boy cowering beneath a wooden club and weeping underneath worn cotton blankets in a cold, unfeeling home played vividly in his mind’s eye. The despair and shame returned slowly, descending upon him like a concrete block.

Christine felt a fierce impulse to clutch his hand and link her fingers through his. He sat so still, like the statue of a fallen angel, his rage and anguish pouring out of him despite his stony silence.

“Please tell me, Erik.” Her eyes shone with encouragement even has her hands remained folded in her lap. An unfeeling, lifeless gesture of passivity.

He remained still, his hands flat upon the grass and his black trouser-clad legs outstretched in front of him. His body looked relaxed from afar, but his muscles were tightly clenched, his back as rigid and taut as a bowstring.

It seemed like hours of endless silence. They waited for the tension to dissipate and float off over the river, disappearing beneath the watery depths like the sand washed away from the shore by the movement of the waves. If only the wind and the water could erode away years of regret and pain.

“I hope you are comfortable.” He murmured quietly, more to himself than to her. “For you shall be sitting here for a while yet.”

The first cricket sounded, the musical chirping adding a lonely song to the calm of the night. A fitting aria for a tragic opera.

“I’m not going anywhere.” And she wasn’t, even as her mind told her to run once more just as it had told her that morning, her body stayed rooted to the ground like the ancient trees casting shadows over the thick grass.

For the second time that day, a wounded person shared with her a deeply personal tale of loss.

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“I was born in Rouen.” All autobiographies began with a birth, and a birth always occurred in a city that would forever remain in the heart of one who took their first breath on its soil. His was no different, only he spoke of Rouen with no wistful longing. It had been months, possibly even years since he dared let his waking mind revisit that city. He went there in his dreams more often than not, and never was his journey a pleasant one.

“My father passed away before I was born, which was simply a perverse turn of fortune for him, although he’ll never know that.” His throat moved harshly beneath his skin as he spoke. He kept his eyes on the rippling silver waters, never looking to the silent woman beside him.

“He was a stone mason who met with an accident. Accidents are common in that occupation; it is not the safest of jobs. Needless to say, my mother’s excitement over the impending birth of her first and only child was destroyed.”

Christine found her hand moving of its own volition towards his own. It had curled into a tight fist and hung stiffly by his side. She pulled hers back once more; he had never noticed it move at all.

“My mother had faced a year of grief. Her parents passed away from cholera, she then lost her husband. All she had to look forward to was a child, a normal, happy child who could be coddled and admired by friends and neighbors. My parents were attractive people, and no doubt she was expecting an equally beautiful baby.”

“Erik…” Even as his chest began to rise and fall harshly with his labored breaths, she could not touch him.

“When I was born…” He paused for a moment, clearing his throat and smoothing his jacket. “When I was born, she was…she was unhappy. She was horrified. You may not believe this, but this,” he pointed towards his mask, “this was much worse.”

“My skin was much thinner, the red much angrier. I suffered a lot of infections and irritation, some of which would drive me to madness. She made me a mask when I was only days old. She could not bear to see a child that was imperfect. I think that, perhaps, she believed that after all she suffered, she deserved a perfect child.”

The wind began to whistle while the cricket sang its melancholy tune.

“As I grew older, she often had a priest come to the home. I was never allowed to leave; she said that people would be…unkind. Not that she herself was kind, but over time she came to tolerate me instead of loathe my presence. This priest, Father Mansart was his name, was the one who introduced me to music. For that I am grateful to him, and for that and that alone.”

“He, my mother, and my mother’s close friend Marie Perrault, bought me all sorts of books and science tools to occupy my time, of which I had plenty. I even had a tutor come to visit who acknowledged that I was abnormally astute for a boy my age. I could not enter his school though, no. My face was just too horrific, they said. It would make the other students uncomfortable.” His voice was laced with dangerous bitterness, bitterness coated in pain that would never fade with the passage of time.

“I passed the days as best I could. Sometimes I would take apart the clocks and reassemble them. If I could not make them work once more I would be inconsolable. I had a violent temper, similar to my mother’s. I suffered under hers for far too long, and even as I watched the bruises and cuts heal, I still wanted her to love me. My god, I wanted nothing more than for that woman to hold me and kiss me. I always felt so bereft, to have never had even the slightest touch of affection. I would do many things to try to make her acknowledge me. I stole things, I broke things, I played music loudly when she begged for silence. I simply wanted her to know that I was there.”

Christine felt the beginnings of burning tears, but blinked rapidly to cease their descent.

“Marie, she was a kind woman, but she was frightened of me. She probably believed that somehow, someway, I had been sired by some spirit of evil. She was a pious woman, but never did she shun me or my mother as so many others did.”

He paused once more, clearing his throat again before speaking.

“My greatest memory of her, and quite possibly the worst memory of my life, asides from events occurring more recently, still plagues me to this day.”

Ignoring her resolve to never allow him to touch her skin or initiate touching him, Christine placed her tiny hand atop his. The muscles were taut beneath his skin. The veins bulged with tension and she stroked them softly. He glanced down at her hand, but his mind did not stray from the darkness of his thoughts.

“It was my birthday, I was 8. My mother had never had any kind of celebration before, nor did I want one, yet Marie thought it necessary that I be given some kind of loving attention. When my mother asked what I wanted, I asked her to kiss me. She never had, and I wanted her to. She cried. I asked her, and she sobbed like a child! She couldn’t, she said, she just couldn’t. The thought repulsed her so much, she could not bear the thought of showing any kind of love to her imperfect, ugly child!”

Christine tried to weave her fingers through his, but he did not even feel her touching him, so lost was he in his anger.

“I went upstairs and stayed there for hours. We had this dog. God, what would I have done without that dog? Her name was Sasha, and I just held onto her and sobbed for hours. I would never cry in front of my mother, never.”

“When I finally went downstairs after hearing my mother scream herself hoarse that I was wasting her and Marie’s time by sulking, I decided to leave the mask on the floor. I hated that thing, I wanted to smash it against the wooden floors and watch it break into thousands of hateful porcelain pieces! I did not though; I just laid it down softly, knowing that I would be wearing it again soon.”

“I remember the looks of horror on both of their faces when I stood in the doorway. They looked like terrified paintings; their faces were just so…ugly! Like I was some kind of hideous monster who invaded their home and spoiled their dinner!”

His voice rose to that familiar contemptuous bark. If she had not witnessed the naked pain in his eyes she would have been frightened by his bitter scowl and rough tone.

“My mother asked me over and over again to put the mask back on. I refused, I just could not understand why I had to wear one, no one else had to. Never had I seen another person walking around with a heavy, cold piece of plaster on one side of their face. I had never been allowed to live normally, and I just felt so much hate. Why? Why was I so different? Why was I something to be ashamed of? Why did I have to hide my face in my own home? I asked kept asking why, screaming it, yelling it!”

“Why, of all people in the world, did the loving and caring God choose me to live trapped inside an ugly face, in an ugly house, with a woman who could never love her own child? Why did I have to be the one who was the outcast, the ferocious and frightening creature? Why did I need to hide from “unkind” people whom I had never even seen or spoken to? Why did I need to be hated when I had done nothing to deserve it other then survive inside my mother’s womb?”

“Well Christine, she showed me why.” The cricket stopped, the sad song fading away as the wind played its angry music and swayed the gentle trees with its wraith.

“I still remembering seeing my face in the mirror for the first time. I cannot even forget the sounds. There was screaming, I know I screamed. I know that Marie screamed, she begged and pleaded for my mother to stop. My mother screamed, her voice so filled with rage I did not even recognize it. All the voices merged into one agonizing holler of anguish. I will never forget that searing, horrid sound pounding within my ears.”

“I beat that mirror until it shattered, my arms were just rivers of blood.” He examined the faint scars adorning his wrists and forearms. They had faded over time, but still the jagged white lesions stood out from his tan skin, a painful reminder of a most painful revelation. He began biting out his words out as though they were bitter and rotten fruit.

Soft, pale fingers gently stroked along the scars, but he did not notice.

“I still did not believe that the monster I saw was me. I became fascinated with mirrors, hoping to find out what magic my mother used to frighten me so, to punish me for upsetting her. I knew, I knew what I was, but I could not face it. I could not admit to being that monster staring back at me! I used to have torturous, compulsive impulses to touch the flesh beneath the mask, but I could not do it.” His voice seemed to break for a moment, but steadied itself once more.

“When I began leaving my house at night, trying to hide in the shadows while pretending I was a normal boy, that was when I realized that I was that monster.”

“I grew so angry. I hated Father Mansart for telling me to pray for peace of mind after he forbade me to go outside, I hated my mother for keeping me hidden, I hated and hated and hated until I could not bear the hate any longer!”

“My mother would go out to church and leave me alone, and soon she met a man. I believe his first name was Etienne, but his surname escapes me. He was a doctor, a young one at that. I hated him too, I never knew why. I thought that his taking my mother’s fleeting attentions from me was the reason at first, but something about him frightened me. I asked my mother to stop seeing him, demanding it almost, in a petulant and childish way.”

“One night though, a night burned into my memory despite my attempts to forget it, I met with the man.”

I had let Sasha outside, and when I went to retrieve her, some neighborhood boys had come into the yard. They had been circling the house like vultures for months, wanting to catch a glimpse of the son of Satan. That night, that night they had luck on their side, for they saw me plain as day.”

“I don’t remember the names that they called me, or the names that they called my mother, but I do remember their high-pitched battle cries. Like miniature soldiers they were, little missionaries ridding the world of evil. A few were much older and larger than I. The children tended to remain in the back, heckling without involving themselves physically.”

“It started off with taunts and insults. They asked me to remove the mask, I refused. They insulted my masculinity, which is what rambunctious boys do. A battle of wits ensued, but I was frightened, there were so many of them. Sasha was growling and snarling, but I held her to my chest, I knew that if they were given the chance they would hurt her. Her entire body was on fire, sharing in my fear and my rage.”

“Finally, one brave ruffian came over, and he caught my left jaw with a hard hit. I was not expecting it, but I did not fall. I was large and tall for my age, and rather strong, but I did end up dropping Sasha. After that, all of it just a mixture of colours and sounds.”

More wind howled. More leafs rustled. The earth grew cold.

“Do you know how it feels when you are falling, Christine? Have you ever tumbled out of control downwards? That is how I felt that night, like I was careening down the side of a mountain. My body fell this way and that, never could I find my footing, and my mind could not grasp the danger I was in. It was though I was denying to myself that this attack was occurring, that I was in danger of being beaten to death!”

She squeezed his hand tightly, feeling the sweat pour off of his palm.

“When the commotion became too thunderous, the boys simply ran into the night, disappearing like rodents into the crevices of the surrounding woods. I stood and picked up Sasha, but she had long since stopped breathing. Her body was angled in such a way…”

He intertwined his fingers with Christine’s and inhaled and exhaled deeply, his eyes never leaving the river.

“I went inside, and all I could hear was a steady drone in my ears. It was as though a thousand bees were flying around me, surrounding me until I could hear nothing but their infernal buzzing. There was a face I had not seen before. A handsome, careless face. He wore an expression of fascination as he plucked the mask away as though it were no more then a ball of bothersome lint on a lapel. I felt like I was being stripped nude in front of thousands, paraded about like an animal.”

“Blood was just pouring from my side, and I collapsed on the wooden floor bonelessly. All the while, this man just kept prodding at my face with his finger, poking it as though he expected it to melt or burst into flame at his touch. His eyes, so inquisitive, like he was looking upon a rare and unusual insect.”

“Marie had called him. He had not been seen my mother for weeks, but he had been concerned when Marie informed him that strange things were happening with my mother. Strange things of which I was the cause, of course. And I was, indeed, the cause. When strange things happen, I am often responsible!”

He broke into an awkward laugh, one that softened the tension, but did not ease the pain lingering in the air.

“As I laid on the couch falling in and out of consciousness while he stitched my side…”

“What happened to your side?” She spoke for the first time since his tale began.

“Oh, I was stabbed.” That was another scar that existed to remind him of the kindness of strangers.

He felt hands begin to gently pull his white shirtsleeves from his trousers, slowly and gently, as though his body were as fragile as glass. He made no move to stop the material from being lifted to expose the bare skin of his ribs and stomach. The night air felt cool against his hot flesh, the tiny beads of sweat drying as the warm breeze blew them softly from his skin. Her fingers barely touched him, but glided gracefully upwards, holding the thin material in their grasp.

The wind caressed the naked skin on his back and traveled upwards to circle the underside of his chest as Christine held the shirt up to just beneath his arm. In the darkness it was difficult to see the smooth line of raised, white tissue that marred his golden skin just below his ribcage.

He let out a tortured breath that almost sounded like a sob as her fingers stroked the scar gently. Tears began to well up in her eyes as she felt the rough skin beneath the pads of her fingertips. He had not asked for that, he had done nothing to deserve such a sadistic, cruel, and cowardly attempt on his life!

He clasped her gently stroking fingers in his hand and held it, his grip strong. He held fast to her hand, seemingly afraid that she would pull away at any moment.

“He…he told my mother to send me to an asylum. She had threatened me with it before, but her threats were empty. He told her that it would be best for me, best for her as well. He warned that if I stayed, she was in danger. He was right about that. I knew that if I stayed, something would happen, something far worse than what had occurred mere minutes ago.”

“That night I left. I woke up, dressed, and simply took off into the night, much like a rodent myself. I did it for my mother, mostly. Even though she did not love me, I loved her, and I could not bear the thought of her being attacked on account of my face.”

Christine filled with rage at Erik’s defense of his mother. How could anyone love someone who abused them so? How could one protect and make sacrifices for their tormentor?

“I was taken in by a traveling Gypsy fair. Oh, they saw in me a modest goldmine. I did not disappoint. Do you know how many people paid to see me, Christine? Do you know how much a glimpse of my face cost?” His anger rose again, his eyes burning with a fire not matched by any other raging inferno.

“You should feel honored,” he continued bitingly, “you saw for free what others had to pay for.”

She sat in silence, hurt by his callousness, but not willing to let the story go untold for a minute longer.

“I was an attraction of epic proportions. The Devil’s Child, they called me. I was, however, an uncooperative display. I would often protest and struggle, I once even committed the terrible folly of asking for clean clothes. I had to wear the same worn pants for days on end, never having the luxury of a shirt, not even on the coldest of nights. Javert – he was my ‘keeper’ you see – said that material made the floggings less painful, and pain produced submission. Logical, is it not?”

“Erik…” She nearly wept at the thought of a frightened, partly unclothed child being beaten and whipped for no other reason then that he craved dignity.

“No one had ever touched me unless it was to beat me.” His hand clenched around hers even more tightly, causing her to wince in pain.

“Javert, he was impressed with my talents, but never did he relent in his “taming” of the monster. He, he even made…sexual remarks towards me.” His throat moved under his skin once more as he choked on the wretched words and haunting memory.

Christine nearly gasped in shock, such things were unheard of! Men lusting for men was a strange idea in itself, but a man lusting for a BOY? What kind of world was Erik thrust into? She felt her face redden at his perverse allusion.

“He never did anything, but he wanted to. He said as much. I was also accused of trying to rape a young Gypsy girl who had fallen and twisted her ankle. I only wished to help her up, but she screamed so loudly, and with such fear! I had intended to run away, but in time. I wanted to plan an elaborate escape, unfortunately that did not come to pass. Or perhaps it is fortunate that it did not.”

He relaxed his hand and Christine let her fingers gently stroke up and down his index finger.

“One night, I endured a most brutal beating from Javert. Ballet dancers from the Opera Populaire had come to witness the spectacle, our lovely Antoinette Giry being one of them. A guardian angel of sorts, she was.”

“There was such a deep sadness in her eyes when she saw me, not once did she tremble or shudder at the sight of my face. She only grew horrified when that wooden club came down on my back over and over again.”

His fingers began to relax even as the muscles in his jaw clenched tightly. Her fingers moved between his, stroking the cold flesh, urging it to warm once more.

“People are but animals, you see. They…they watch…they watch others suffer and they do nothing. They simply stare, some even laugh. Could it be that they are uncomfortable or upset, or perhaps they are simply content that they are looking into the cage from the outside? Only in her eyes did I see…something. Something that was not amusement, or horror, or fear. Something that was deeper, something no one had shown me before. In her eyes, Christine, in her eyes there was compassion. It made me so…so ashamed!”

He shifted his weight to lean in towards her as his voice lowered. His body was inexplicably drawn to the heat of her own as he spoke. He wanted no more then to lay his head in her lap as though he were but a child again, a child who was worried and scared. A child who was left alone in the dark each and every night, never to feel the comfort of another’s warm body.

“It hurt. It always hurt. The faces, the laughter, the beatings. Never before had I hurt so much. I had thought I was dead, but when I saw her looking at me, silently begging me to take back the life that I had let drain away, I was so overcome with anger.”

“If you asked why I did it, I could never tell you. It is not a secret that I keep, or a shameful memory that I hide. When I think of it, I feel nothing.”

“Erik…” All she had done that night was whisper his name softly, urging him to speak or quieting the raging blood in his fiery veins.

“I strangled Javert. I put the noose around his neck and I tore the life from his body! He sputtered, he choked, he struggled; but I was stronger than he. I was free the moment his body dropped into the hay. It was so musty in that cage; the air was rancid, swimming with filth. Almost immediately after he fell into the hay as lifeless as a rag doll, the cage began to reek of death.”

His words were strong once more, angry and bitter. So many voices, so many feelings.

“She pulled me along with her to opera house. The crowds, the mobs, they were coming for me. No doubt they would have celebrated my hanging. Who wants to see someone ugly parading down the streets of Bourgeois France? Who wants to be faced with God’s errors when they are out for their morning stroll about the town? When you look out the window of a taxi, you want to see cobblestone streets lined with perfect people, not someone who looks like me. Not someone from who you must glance away immediately, not someone from which you must hide your children. You do not want to see me…”

She began to hush him silently as his voice broke; the tears sprang to his eyes, begging to be released in a torrent of pain. His very soul leaked acid, she could feel his entire body burning with indignation so great that it hurt her to see it bared before her.

“Oh…oh Erik…”

There were no words now, just touches. Gone were the rules that governed their actions. Gone were her demands that existed to salvage her propriety. Gone was the indifferent, friendly ear that she wanted to give him before he regaled his tale of broken hearts and shattered dreams to her.

What came was the touch of her warm, tiny body as she knelt before him and wrapped her arms around his tense shoulders. What came were her lips, leaving soft, gentle kisses upon his bare cheek. What came were the soft shushing noises as his back began to shake with silent sobs.

Once he was a master of his subterranean domain. Those who had never seen him feared him, he could taste their submission, and he craved it. He was not the same man who seduced her with daring songs and possessive hands. That strong, mighty ruler was now as vulnerable as a little boy.

“Christine…”

His hands crept into her soft brown tresses as her full lips wandered to his lips, kissing him softly before descending down the smooth, hard column of his throat.

She inhaled his spicy scent; he inhaled the lavender of her hair. The arms that hung stiffly at his sides rose to gently knead the tender skin of her back as her hands wandered over his own. She rubbed the skin beneath his shirtsleeves soothingly, urging the steel muscles to loosen and relax.

There were no thoughts of what was right or what was proper. The only thoughts were those of taking all those years of pain and erasing them from his mind. Tonight she wanted to touch every part of him, to replace those brutal blows with gentleness.

So much pain coursed through his veins, so much hate. So much anguish. He held onto her, his hands traveling to grasp her hips firmly, holding her to his body as the tears fell freely, soaking through her clothing and flowing down her skin in tiny rivulets.

“Oh angel, please don’t cry…” She gently began to pry the cool white porcelain from his face, the tears coursing down her cheeks as his sobs racked his body. His face was buried in her neck, the heated feel of his breath ticking her soft skin.

He made no move to stop her as she lowered the mask, his most hated defense, to the ground.

She was fearful of his reaction; he was naked with his face exposed. Yet, the nakedness he feared was most beautiful when the one who saw it accepted it. Cherished it.

Her heart beat frantically. She expected his cold, expressionless visage to appear at any moment and lash out at her for baring him so cruelly. That coldness never came. Encouraged, she gingerly lifted the jet-black wig, bringing it slowly to the ground to rest beside the mask.

Now all he was was Erik. The soft ash-brown hair blew lightly in the breeze, small tendrils clinging to his tear soaked face as he lifted it to look at her. His lips were parted in shock, not fear or shame.

His breaths were labored as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. He wanted to be strong; he wanted to be that forbidding, seductive warrior. The one who swept her off of her feet with virile confidence. He did not want to be this broken child, weeping for himself, weeping for the tragic memories that turned him into a monster.

If for but a moment, he could be that man to her, he would sleep soundly. She would be there beside him, her naked body warming the sheets as her breath tickled his nude chest.

Her fingers lifted to gently wipe away the tears that stained his cheeks. She let her hand linger over the angry red of the right side of his face. Lovingly stroking the ridged cheek and mottled flesh, she caught a salty tear on her finger, touching his dark lashes lightly as she did so. They left shadows on the gold and red of his skin, shadows that she traced reverently with the pad of her thumb.

He wiped the tears from her eyes, his skin rough and hardened by years of releasing his grief into his music. Music never judged, or laughed, or mocked. It only played, playing no matter whose ears were there to receive it.

He looked at her, her brown eyes shone with acceptance as her hand rested against his malformed features, holding it as though it were a precious stone.

He frantically pressed his lips to her own, parting her mouth his tongue and diving deep into the depths of her mouth as she moaned into his.

A/N: Ooh, I’m mean! Don’t worry; I will not leave you fine people unsatisfied for long!
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Black Angels