It is a hollowness inside of him, swelling, consuming, blotting out all feeling. A numbness greater than that from the needle, one that he does not need or want. It is an abyss, swallowing him whole, limbs disintegrating, bones dusting to ash.

It is done.

It has taken him twenty years, and it is done. It does not end in fire, in the crashing crescendo he always dreamt. It is softer, delicate, morning dewdrops on a blade of grass, her featherlight touch, fingers between his own, entwined. Everything has changed now, and she has made it so.

Still, it is done.

He half-thought, for a time, that he would not live to mark down those last notes. And he would not have objected, would have greeted it as a mercy. But now it is done, and it need trouble him no more.

He misses it, misses his fingers across the keys and the melodies tripping through his brain. It's a loss, as if a part of him has been cut out and burned to cinders. The manuscript is its own entity, now. It needs him no more. His duty was served, birthing it into the world.

He should sleep, should get some rest. The last three days have been a haze of dancing fingers and lemon tea at disjointed times, and now his very bones are begging for sleep but he can't sleep, not now when his head is spinning so and there is a cave in his chest. He could lose himself if he sleeps, and he must be careful now. It would hurt her so if something were to happen to him.

His fingers linger on the title page, eyes stinging. What has he done? He has drained himself to create this, this thing that can never be played because they will not understand it. How could they understand something that their words and their actions led to? This is him. This is more truly him than anything else he has ever created, and he has pulled it out of his own chest to lie here blood-spattered in his own hand.

It is not blood-spattered. It is droplets of red ink, but the light catches it just so and he is twenty-five years away in Mazanderan and he cannot run away from them cannot escape him, they will gut him with their long knives and-He blinks and jerks his hand away. The very paper is contaminated with what he scrawled across it. It may be his manuscript, his greatest creation, but it is dangerous, and he cannot destroy it but he cannot live with it either.

There is a chest, an old chest of his father's that his mother held onto, and it resides now in his own room beside his wardrobe. If he locks it in there, he need never see nor think of it again. It cannot hurt him there.

(It cannot hurt her.)

Swallowing hard in resolution, he picks up the manuscript, a sheaf of papers heavier than he imagined it to be, and strides into his room before he can lose his resolve. There is nothing in the chest but some mementoes of his father's, things he hasn't looked at since childhood, and throwing up the lid he casts Don Juan Triumphant to its dark depths, slamming it closed. He will have to get a lock to keep himself from temptation, but that much can wait until morning. Already the weakness is creeping back into his blood. He has not the strength to find a lock tonight.

He should see her, should look in on her before going to bed, to be certain that she is all right. He has neglected her so the last few days. It was wrong of him to bring her down here and then get wrapped up in his work. What must she think of him? Perhaps he should bring her tea, as an apology. She would like that. She is such a very good girl…

His knees buckle and he stumbles, catching on a chair to steady himself but it is no help. The carpeted timber floor hits his knees hard, jolting through to his hips. He gasps, eyes burning at the sharp pain in his knees, stiff and creaking. Warm arms wrap around his waist, holding tight, and his murmured name drifts to his ears.

"Erik, dear Erik, what's happened, what's wrong?"

Is he dreaming, or are her words really so worried?

His lips refuse to form words, her eyes shining in the lamp light, and she hugs him tight, her sweet head pressed to his chest.

"Oh, Erik, darling, you're worn out. You need rest."

Before he knows it he is standing, his knees still throbbing as she guides him carefully to her room, her sanctuary. He attempts to mount a protest, his tongue clumsy over the words and she shushes him, laying him down on the bed.

"You've finished it, haven't you?" she whispers, gently cradling his cheek with her hand and it is only then that he realises that he is not wearing his mask. He is not wearing his mask! And she is touching his face and she is not screaming, not dying! His throat tightens unbearably and he nods, a soft smile coming to her lips. "That's good. We'll talk about it when you've rested. We have a lot of things to talk about." She reaches across and turns down the oil lamp, standing up and withdrawing her hand.

He catches her hand with his own and squeezes. "Stay," his whispers, throat scratching. "Stay." Don Juan is finished and Christine-Christine is not revolted by him. Not revolted! Surely he will die, now, if she leaves him for a moment. She cannot leave now.

She squeezes his hand back, and the bed dips beneath her weight as she settles back onto it. "Of course, I'll stay. As long as you want me to, I'll stay."

"Will you sing?" He needs to hear her, needs to feel the music around him, now that it is done.

She nods, and strokes her thumb over the back of his hand. "As you wish it, Erik." Softly, slowly, she begins a lullaby and he sighs, eyes flickering closed to welcome the darkness at last.