Thank you for coming on this short journey with me. I hope you enjoyed it. In the meantime, I'm going to try to get back to SCI, as the Erik in that is definitely in need of some rescuing ;( Sometimes it is fun to write a more character-driven piece like "Friends" as opposed to the plot heavier pieces. I've loved all your reviews and insights into these beloved and complicated characters.

Read and Review!

What fate was worse?

Being miserable in his dark hole while believing she was out there in the sunshine, happy and full of life? Or being miserable in his dark hole and knowing that she was miserable, too?

His bitter and angry self from over a year ago might have said the former. Yet now he knew the latter was much more terrible. The guilt crushed him.

What if she spent the rest of her life crying in that drab apartment, until she was as lifeless and pale as he was? What if he died down here thinking that he had destroyed her?

He still wanted to fix it. But fractures of the mind are not easily fixed. His first memory was from the age of two, of being thrown against a wall because he would not stop crying. He remembered the crack of his skull hitting the plaster, followed by blinding pain that made the colors blend together.

He remembered, at twelve years old, being sold into black market slavery. He had been chained to a factory machine for sixteen hours a day, forced to make weapons. His hands had become scarred and calloused, and he was beaten if he worked too slowly. He had killed two men to escape, his first murders at age fifteen.

Those memories would never leave. They were him now, his building blocks.

And now he had given her a set of similar ones, to have forever. To be her.

For several days, he lay in the coffin, listening to the rumble of the subways, trapped with himself and these thoughts.

When he could not stand that any longer, he decided to walk. He walked aimlessly about the city in the evening, careful not to be seen. During the night of horror and chaos, he had been fortunate in that no one had gotten a good look at him. On the "Wanted" list, he was described as a sort of Person of Interest X who wore a mask. Still, he kept a low profile, just in case anyone ever figured it out.

As he walked, he watched people. Old couples. Young children. Single businessmen looking at their phones. A young woman carrying shopping bags. He no longer hated them for what they had, but he also could not be them. He was still detached from their world. Christine had been his only way in.

Except – he had ended up pulling her halfway out instead.

He saw people around her age, around Chagny's age. Two girls and two boys, all in their early twenties, were sitting around a table at a café with their laptops out and coffee at their sides, perhaps completing homework. There was some candy in between them. He could hear their interactions.

"You ate the last Twizzler!" one of the girls exclaimed.

The boy held out a half-eaten piece of candy. "Here?"

"Ew! No. I'm taking your pen in revenge." She grabbed it.

They reminded him of her and Chagny - except that he could see them as they really were, as opposed to a terrifying threat. They were merely young people with their entire lives in front of them. He still didn't understand their interactions. After all, when he had been their age, he was selling his knowledge of weapons in order to survive. Until those 'employers' had decided that he should give them that information for free. He had escaped before being enslaved a second time. Yet he did understand that the carefreeness of youth was something that she should have gotten to experience.

So he found no answers during his walks, only more regrets. The world continued as it always did, and he was on the outside of it. Too changed to be a monster. To isolated to feel human.

He stayed underground after that. While his bitterness had faded, he did not see a way out for himself. He had committed crimes that would easily earn him the death penalty or at least life in prison. Physically, he was terrifying, and parents reflexively shielded their children from him. He was awkward from lack of human interaction, lack of parenting. He had never met the normal milestones of life – childhood friendships, dating, college, the workforce – and so he had no shared human experiences. He didn't understand many social customs and cues. Christine had taught him some of these things. She had helped him gain a better understanding. But – he was still too lost to find his own way.

Some of this was his fault. Some of it was not. But they were still facts.

In a week, he was certain that she was gone forever. And he understood why.

There was too much to second guess and to regret. So he stopped thinking. He wrote a check for a hundred thousand dollars and anonymously donated it to a local children's music program, figuring that was one good that could come out of the horror that was his life. Then he lay there and just – hurt. He hurt. And he did not want to keep moving. His muscles felt heavy and tired.

Depression thankfully brought sleep. And sleep brought absence of self, as he was able to fade away for long periods of time. A day passed. Then another. Dreamless and painless sleep. He would sip water when he awoke to cure his parched throat. He would eat a cracker if his stomach ached. But that was all.

Then he did have a dream. He was standing in the middle of the city at night. There were no stars or moon. The streets were empty, and he was alone. A bell rang. A clock bell, perhaps? No, the sound was too soft for that. But he wished it would ring again because he had enjoyed the sound of it. It didn't. He kept walking.

And walking.

And walking.

And -

"Erik?!" The cry shattered his dream.

With a gasp, he sat straight up, arms outstretched. She jumped. She…

Yes! She! There she was, standing in front of the coffin, wearing a white sweater dress and grey leggings. A winter dress – as Phillip Chagny's female companion would have described it.

He could only stare at her. She stared back, her chest quickly moving up and down. He could not read her expression. He could not speak.

"You…you still sleep in that?" she shakily asked, one hand gripping her necklace. The music note necklace.

"I was simply napping," he coughed out, still in disbelief. He wanted to hit himself on the head to make certain that he was not dreaming. But she likely would have found that upsetting, if she were real. "Here. Here. Let me get up. And I will find my mask." It was lying beside the coffin, and he grabbed it from the floor. His legs were weak and unsteady. How long had it been since he had stood up? "Here. There." He quickly tied it on. "That is all better. It is all better now, yes? I simply…I was not expecting you." Ever again.

She quietly watched him. And he felt so small as he stumbled around his house like an idiot. He was very aware that she might be here only to tell him goodbye. "Come," he said. "Let us leave here and go to the living area." She followed him. He made it into the room without collapsing. He turned toward her, arms limp at his sides, hands shaking. She stared up at him, hands clasped together.

"Will you…?" He trailed off, a lump in his throat. He could not ask. He could not survive the answer. "Will you tell me about your day?" he whispered, shoulders slouching.

A moment of silence.

She slowly smiled. She walked over and took both his hands. She led him to the sofa, and they sat down together. She took a deep breath. He braced himself. "So, like I said." Her voice began with a tremble but then grew in strength. "I decided to take a job at the skating rink. I love skating, and it's a beautiful place. But, Erik! On my first day there, this little boy threw up all over the ice. And then I went out there to try to keep the other kids away from the mess. There was all this chaos, and I fell on the ice, and my hand still hurts." She bent her lovely wrist. "It was so embarrassing! I don't think I can work there. But I found this little hat and accessory shop that was hiring, so I applied there. I think I'll like it. And maybe I could get you a discount on a hat?"

"I would love a discount," he murmured. "I would love a hat." He could barely focus on what she was saying to him. He only knew that he loved the sound of her voice. And the feel of her hands around his.

"And then – Meg is dating a new guy."

"Is she?" he rasped. He definitely wanted to hear all about Megan. He would hear the story of Megan's birth to the present, if Christine wanted to tell it to him.

"Yes. Guess where he's from?"

"Antarctica?"

"Erik, she's not dating a penguin. He's from Japan!"

"Oh, my."

"So Meg is trying to learn Japanese," she continued. "I took a look at her book. It's a lot harder than Spanish. "

"It is," he agreed.

"I mean, all the different characters and the alphabet. It looks so difficult."

Her words and her face were happy. It was her hands that pled with him. He felt them tighten and loosen and tighten again. He felt them say – Please don't hurt me.

He squeezed them back – I will never.

A silence fell over them, and he still did not think that he could possibly be this fortunate. She was looking over his room. What was she thinking? Was she changing her mind? Please…

"Erik?"

"Yes?" he asked, terrified.

"Can I decorate your home for Christmas?"

He choked in response.

"If I'm going to be here so much during the holidays, I really should get to decorate. It's only fair."

He couldn't speak anymore. He only sat there, gasping ridiculously. Before he could stop her, she was gently removing his mask. She reached up and wiped a tear off his cheek with her thumb. Her eyes sparkled, and she asked, "Are you really that upset about it? It'll just be a few decorations. Maybe a little tree."

"I…I…" He stuttered like an imbecile. "I…I just…I cannot tolerate the smell of pine!" he exclaimed as the tears continued to fall. And there was truth in that. Pine had a very terrible smell, and he could not even smell that well.

"We'll get a fake tree. And I'll make it smell like cinnamon instead."

Then the little game ended. But they had had to play it. Just to prove that all could be nearly as it was before.

But not quite as it was before.

She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her cheek rested on his shoulder. Somehow, he managed to wind his shaking arms around her. She tightened her hold. For a brief moment, he was able to stop his racing thoughts and simply enjoy the feel of her pressed against him. He buried his face into her hair. He forced his muscles to unwind so that he could lean back with the full weight of her.

He had his best friend back. And that was all he cared about. She was going to visit him. And she would tell him about her day and hold his hands. He would have taken that and been the happiest man alive. Although a part of him was aware that mere friendship would eventually lead to devastating heartbreak, at least he had this moment. At least he had more time with her.

When she leaned back and gazed up at him…then started to tilt toward his face – he was the one who turned his head away. He felt a familiar sting near his heart.

"Erik," she said, breaking him away from the past. She read his thoughts. "Erik, there won't be any pain after this one. I promise."

He stared into her eyes. "Are we friends?" he softly asked. "Is this what friends do?" Misunderstandings had nearly destroyed everything. And he would have no more of them. If they were the sort of friends who kissed (and the young people did have a term for such interactions) he needed to be aware of that.

Her fingers gently massaged his back. "I think we are more than friends, Erik," she replied.

"Christine..."

"I would like to be. I think it's time to be. Does that sound good to you?" She pressed her forehead against his.

"Christine. I - Christine."

"Can I kiss you now?"

He could only nod, as nothing he said would be nearly good enough to describe what was happening right now. She leaned into kiss him, her arms securely around his neck, and it was like the previous time. Warm, gentle, and slow. He tried to kiss her back even though he was an utter wreck by that point. He tried, tilting his head and moving toward her.

This time, he did not have to let her go right afterwards. She gently ended the kiss and rested her head against his shoulder, arms around his narrow midsection. She stayed with him for hours that evening, and he clung to her in a euphoric state, unable to think clearly, attempting to take it all in. They said very little, perhaps because everything had painfully already been said. He let his fingers skim over her hair. He pressed his lips to her forehead and heard her sigh.

She had said there would be no pain. But that could never be entirely true when it came to her. She eventually looked at her phone. "Oh, I'd better go. It's getting late, and I have an exam in the morning." She smiled. "I'll see you Tuesday evening?"

"Yes. Tuesday," he whispered. He loved Tuesday.

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself," she said. He knew she was thinking of the coffin. "Eat vegetables. And exercise. Floss. All that."

"I promise to floss. Does canned sauce count as a vegetable? I think someone said it did."

"Erik! I'm going to bring you a meal next time. And we're taking a walk."

It was not only a second chance. It was a second life. And he wondered – How can I ever let her leave here again, when she is this wonderful?

But, of course, he let her leave. Because now he had everything in the universe to lose. And if he lost it again…if he hurt her again, he deserved to die alone down here, with the subway rats feeding off his corpse.

He did spend the next day lying on the living room floor and staring at the ceiling. He did not even have to hug Christine's shirt, as her scent was all over his clothing. He raised his arm in the air once. Did that count as exercise?

Nothing changed dramatically at first, which was likely for the better, as his mind was spinning in the most delightful of ways. She approached to kiss him when she arrived. And then, holding his hands, she told him the dark tale of the shoplifter at the hat store. "He tried to hide one of our felt hats under his own baseball cap. I mean, you could completely tell because he had this really tall baseball hat with a black bottom! What was he thinking? That we wouldn't notice? It made no sense, Erik."

"It does not," he agreed. "When I…I mean, if I were going to steal a hat, I would wear a hat of the same type."

"Exactly!"

He helped her edit a paper, and then they went for a walk around the block. She bought him a carton of Chinese food with extra broccoli. She kissed him again before she left.

Sometimes they would go for drives, such as when she wanted to see Christmas lights. Sometimes she wanted to cook, as she liked his bigger kitchen and complex utensils. She made an apple pie and chocolate chip cookies. Sometimes they returned to their true roots, and he would play the piano for her, or she would sing for him. She was more detailed with her stories, as she no longer had to hide her life. She said her next-door neighbor was too noisy with his drums. "I mean, I love music. But it's not like I make him listen to me sing all the time!" Or she told him about a stray cat that she had befriended and fed over the last year – "I've started letting him in at night because I don't want him to freeze. I hope the landlord doesn't find out. I named him Mr. Cuddles because he's very fluffy. Like he's nothing but fur with eyes."

"Oh, dear God. Christine, you can bring him here if necessary. But I am not calling him that!"

"Well, then what would you call him?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"Something much more dignified."

"Like Professor Cuddles? That cat is so vigilant. Like, he just sits up on my couch, watching me all day with his tail twitching."

"That sounds rather unsettling."

"No. It's funny. And I think I've figured out his breed," she said with satisfaction. "He's really an amazing find."

"And what is that?"

"A Persian!"

"Oh my." Well, if he had to share Christine with a meddlesome Persian cat, he supposed that he could handle it.

And then there were more changes.

She taught him new ways to kiss. And she taught him that people could engage in kissing for long periods of time. And in different positions. "Are you okay with this?" she softly asked as she leaned over him on the couch, probably because he was paralyzed.

Okay with this was not really the right description for this. Okay with this was the right description for her redecorating his shelves or asking if she could put flower-scented hand soap in his bathroom. He hoarsely replied, "Yes. I am fine." And he knew that, at the eventual risk of a complete disaster, he had to tell her, "I simply have never…" Intense and burning shame overcame him. Hollywood had made an entire comedy film about a forty-year-old virgin, and he was past that wretched point.

"Oh." To his utter relief, she didn't overwhelm him with pity. "Well, here. You can put your hands here." She gently adjusted his hands around her hips and waist. "And here. Does that feel good?"

Good was not really the right word either. Good could be used to describe her rich chocolate brownies. Or the nice black hat she had bought him. "Yes," he choked.

She added, "And you can move your hands, too, if you want." She leaned in again to kiss him.

He had to interrupt - "But what if I touch something that I am not supposed to, and you become angry?" He wondered if it was possible for his death's skin to turn as red as it felt.

There were no words to describe the feeling of her smiling against his cheek. She whispered, "I'll tell you if I don't like anything, but I won't get angry. I'm not very worried about that, Erik. I want you to touch me."

"Oh…" He learned quickly how all these things worked. And, if he had embarrassing questions, the Internet was always there to assist.

So there were wonderful changes. Because she wanted them. She wanted more. And he could only drown in the bliss of it all.

Except that -

Long ago, he had always thought it would be much easier to give her freedom once she gave him what he yearned for.

But that was not entirely true.

In some ways, it was easier to let her leave, knowing that she would always come back with smiles and kisses. In other ways, he missed her more than ever when she was gone. Thoughts of losing her still crept into mind and made him want to do unwholesome things. He resisted the urges. He reminded himself of what was at risk. He even climbed into the coffin, closed the lid, and pretended that he was dying alone and with no Christine – and that did the trick. He gave himself a pep talk. Erik, if you do not stop being an idiot, I will put YOUR head in the nutcracker! And trust me, you fool, no one will miss your ugly head!

The truth was - he would always have somewhat of a mess in his mind when it came to Christine Daae. Because she was everything. She was his love. She was friendship and warmth. She was kindness and company. She was his muse. She was his teacher when it came to social interactions. And she was now becoming his first taste of physical pleasure. How could he not be obsessed with her when she was absolutely everything to him? He would always want to follow her and be with her. And to hurt those who hurt her.

He could not completely fix his head. Because he had seen too much, felt too much, been hurt too much, and hurt others too much.

But - he could repair his actions. He could choose not to follow her or to make accusations and demands. And he could certainly choose not to put young men into head-crushing devices. He had been doing this for the last eight months. He kept his promise to her.

She decorated his home, and he did not protest. Honestly, he would have let her adorn it with pink bunnies and unicorns if that had pleased her. She put up a small plastic tree and decorated it with red and silver bulbs and tinsel. She added reindeer figurines and a snow globe that contained a house in winter. Stuffed Santas. Candles of various colors. A wreath. He noticed there were no nutcracker figurines. He never asked whether this was intentional.

They rarely discussed either night – the horrible night or the night of their conversation. There was a silent agreement to begin again, to not hold the past against each other, and he was forever grateful for it. Especially when a day in December arrived.

One year since that day. One year since he had freed her and the boy.

Did she know what day it was?

She had to know. It had to be a permanent scar on her mind. But she still came to see him that evening.

Her kisses felt especially wonderful. And he murmured into her ear, "I am so happy that you are here."

"Me, too," she said, momentarily closing her lovely blue eyes.

He would say nothing else about it. "Tell me about your day," he stated.

As always, she led him to the couch by both hands. "Okay, so Meg and her boyfriend got in a fight over where to spend the holidays together."

"Oh, no!"

"Yep. He wants to spend it with his siblings, who live in California. And she wants to spend it with her parents. Meg said that you and I were lucky because we didn't have to fight about that. I mean, she doesn't know a lot about you. Just that you don't have family either."

"What did you say?" he asked.

"I didn't say anything. She was basically saying that we're lucky because we don't have family. That's kind of messed up. You and I are like orphans! But Meg didn't mean to be rude. She just says things without thinking."

"Ah. Well, she sounds absolutely lovely."

"Yes. She's quirky. Maybe you can meet her someday." Christine squeezed his hand and then stood to warm up a piece of pie in his microwave. He was going to warn her that he did not really know how to 'meet people.' At least not in a way where the conversation didn't begin with a threat. But perhaps Christine could give him lessons in introductions.

She returned and set her pie on the coffee table. She lit a candle and watered the poinsettias. She came back to sit with him, enjoying her piece of pie with ice cream.

And then he smelled something.

And it was not the wonderful scent of Christine.

"Christine, what is that odor?"

She sniffed the air. "Oh no!" She hopped up. "It was a brown candle. It was supposed to smell like gingerbread. It said gingerbread on the label! I'm sorry!"

His home was overwhelmed by the scent of pine.

And he knew that, if he continued to be good, the next year would bring the most exquisite sorts of torture. She would make him ache in ways that he could not even imagine. Every time she left, he would count the hours until she came back. No matter what she did, he would only want more of it.

She blew out the candle and lit another one. "There," she said, coming back to sit on the couch with him. "That one is definitely gingerbread. Just pretend it's a gingerbread house in a pine forest for a little while, okay?"

He forgot that his mask was not on and grinned widely, and he must have looked very frightening. Like a laughing Grim Reaper. Or a squashed jack-o'-lantern.

Before he could turn away from her, she tilted her head and said, "You don't seem that unhappy about it. Actually, I don't think I've ever seen you smile." She blinked. "Maybe I should always make it smell like pine. So you'll smile more." She kissed his cheek and thankfully turned back around before she could see the single tear drip down his cheek. She would have asked what was wrong.

He was not quite ready to explain all the events of his life to her, to give her a further understanding of why he was the way he was.

Perhaps someday. Perhaps soon. But not that fragile night when memories flickered like shadows in every corner.

That night, after decades of avoiding it, all he wanted to do was smile.

The End