the airport AU, part 131 by rjdaae and hopsjollyhigh
Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100 101, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08, 09, 10 111, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30
CHRISTINE
She holds him until the panic eases from his bowed shoulders; until the breath that ruffles her hair is slow and deep, and the pounding from inside his chest no longer threatens to crack through ribs that have weathered too much strain already. Christine holds Erik until his arms relax around her, his rigid grasp finally softening into something that she doesn’t have to hesitate to call a hug. And then, she *keeps* holding him.
It’s okay.
It’s okay.
It’s okay.
Christine had meant the words for him. But they repeat inside *her* head, like a third heartbeat weaving through and between and around her and Erik’s own, a soft pulse of reassurance; of *wonder*. The feeling of stillness after a parachute opens, as the rushing world suddenly stills. With a hoarse whisper, a new chord joins the silent refrain—a new line of harmony, echoed back in the gentle tightening of Christine’s arms: Thank you.
Two weeks ago, she had made what could easily have been the single worst decision of her life. And, as she climbed into a taxi beside a stranger who could have been taking her anywhere, she had pretended that it was because she trusted him. As if trust were something that could be given at will; that could be earned after a brief conversation and a promise of help.
She had chosen to listen to a man she’d just met, chosen to stay when he asked—chosen to ignore her common sense, *any* sense, and to put herself in a position that could have led to a dozen different horrible conclusions. Chosen to hope, maybe; chosen to be reckless, more likely. Trust, though—*trust* hadn’t come until later, once she saw for herself that Erik really meant what he’d said; once she began to *know* him.
How little she’d known in the beginning—oblivious even to the truth that lay behind the face that she’d looked upon as she accepted the unlikely offer. There’s a more logical part of her brain that questions how wise, how *safe* it is to depend on Erik even now, even as she learns more about him; even *because* of some of the things she has learned.
But if trust can’t be *chosen*, can’t be forced into existence any more than an newly-planted acorn can be willed into a tree, then neither can blunt reason tear up that which has already taken root—unfurling like a dandelion blossom, bright and tenacious in spite of the uncertain ground in which it first sprouted.
Her knees begin to ache with the effort of stretching upward, and Christine lets her feet settle on the floor; lets herself lean nearer against her friend’s bony chest, with hope that seems closer than ever to certainty.
Does he feel the same thing, she wonders? This strange, tentative sense of *faith*, indefinable and elusive—this warmth that spreads through her heart as they breathe together, sharing space the way they’d shared a song.
Perhaps he does, despite the uncountable reasons humanity has given him to never trust them again. He has welcomed her into his house, his life, while he shuts himself away from the rest of the world. If he didn’t trust her, she wouldn’t be here. Darius has said as much, taken aback by the simple sight of Erik’s hand in hers; she wonders what he would saw now.
’Du är olik,’ Erik himself had told her, struggling to explain the distance that he has kept even from his friends.
*He* is ’different’, in more ways than Christine can even begin to list. But even if Erik is leaner than her father, and more reserved than Mamma, and taller than anyone Christine has ever known, the feeling of arms wrapped tenderly around her shoulders is one as familiar to her as home.
It’s okay.
She holds him until she’s no longer afraid that she’ll be pushed away. And then, she steps back just far enough to let him know that he won’t be, either.
Christine’s hands trail behind her as she pulls away, skimming the length of Erik’s sleeves, briefly catching the loose cuffs before letting her fingers wrap around his own. Maybe soon he’ll trust her enough to bare the scars on his wrists again; maybe soon she’ll trust *herself* enough to let him.
For now, Christine meets his gaze with a smile, before turning a questioning glance toward the shadows beginning to creep across the floor.
---
ERIK
It’s best that she lets go. He doesn’t know that he would’ve been able to, doesn’t know that he even would have thought to. When she backs away, he finds that he has no sense of how long she was there. It is a sudden emptiness, though- breaking out of some sort of lovely trance and finding himself back in this room, where the shadows have grown long across the floor without either of them taking note of it happening. His mind struggles to grapple with what has gone on in the past few minutes, and he knows that he certainly cannot continue to give her any lessons of value- and it is getting late.
There is a part of him still in shock, a part that he isn’t certain will ever recover from the reeling sensation of her radical acceptance. Even his mouth feels numb and useless in the aftermath.
It is an inversion of everything that he has always believed about himself and his role in the human race- with each passing moment, it only sinks in more. She had been so close to him- and hadn’t run- and neither of them had been hurt- the dominoes fall before he can track how many there are, but he grapples for reality, for something grounding. He sets a hand against the piano as if to support himself.
“Nous devrions nous arrêter ici,” he manages, his voice weaker than usual, averting his eyes from her and taking the tablet from the music stand. He gestures to her to follow, and leaving the room is like a splash of cold water. The fog starts to lift as he takes in the staircase, the front door, the coats hanging on the landing- he breathes, and realizes just how shallow his breathing had become. The world begins to swing back into focus.
Seeking more ties to the real world, he pulls out his phone, and finds Darius’ name lit up on the screen with a message.
News for you and Christine. Can Khan and I come over?
He looks back over his shoulder and finally makes eye contact with Christine again. They’ve only made it a bit out of the room, but it feels a universe away. It is, at once, something to be grateful for, and something to curse- he could stand forever in that haze, just existing beside her, but the intensity of that confusion would never wane, would always poison and haunt their togetherness.
He has always needed to know how things work.
It is easier, now, to look at her. In there, it had been like looking directly into the brilliance of the sun- here, she is the person who he has only begun to know, but whose face is already so familiar. He studies her for a moment before looking down at the tablet and typing.
“Do you mind if Khan and Darius come here? Darius apparently has news,” he types, and hands the device over to her, back to the door as he remains on the landing, waiting for her answer before he goes up the next flight of stairs.
---
CHRISTINE
Christine’s gaze lingers on Erik as he turns back towards the piano, and she gives a gentle nod of agreement. She doesn’t have to understand every one of his words—she has only to hear the tone in which he speaks; to see the way he carries himself as he moves to lead her from the room. It’s been a long day, a long lesson: the day is winding to a close, and she is tired herself; she doesn’t have to wonder about Erik’s own limited stores of energy. Still watching him closely, half-wishing she could take his hand again, she follows her friend out of the basement.
He doesn’t look at her until they reach the landing, turning to her with his phone in one hand and the tablet in the other; the smaller device is tucked away as he types her a message, Erik’s hand moving across the screen with a growing fluidity that eases her concern.
“Det skulle vara trevligt,” Christine says with a nod once she has seen his question, looking up from the tablet with a smile at the thought of seeing the other two men again. “Det är bra.”
It’s only when Erik himself nods, when he slips past her to continue up the stairs, that Christine second-guesses her answer.
*Is* it a good idea for them to come over?
*Now?*
The question nags at her as she follows Erik up into the living room.
‘Do you mind…’ he’d asked, the words implying that he himself had no problem with the idea of the visit; that he was leaving it up to her. But she knows how Erik is when Khan and Darius are around: how much more withdrawn he becomes; how much more edgy and closed off. How much worse might he be affected, drained as he appears after their lesson—after singing together, after their hug?
How much more painful would it be to have him shy away from her now?
Her heart jerks at the thought, and Christine pushes herself out of the stairwell, her foot hardly skimming the last step. She has made enough choices based on fear—has been too selfish already. When did avoiding a problem ever *improve* anything? If Erik is willing to let his other friends come over, then it’s a good thing—whatever it might mean for *her*.
She *trusts* him.
Christine takes a few uncertain steps into the living room, casting around for some way to be helpful before the others arrive. “Ska jag göra kaff—” she stops herself, “—eller, te?”
---
ERIK
With a resigned sigh, Erik nods. “Te est bien,’ he says, and looks around the room. It is nowhere near ready for anyone to be over- Khan’s blanket and pillow are still on the couch, the TV still on and muted. In the kitchen, there are crumbs and a few rogue splatters of soup on the counter- evidence of the soup that Khan made, though the dishes have all been put away, and there are a couple stray cigarettes spilling out of the box on the dining room table. His first instinct is to get a can of cat food; he’d been distracted long enough that they would’ve missed a meal. None of them are waiting at the door this time, but he opens it and empties the can into the bowl on the patio all the same. They’ll be around eventually. With that done, he looks at the tablet again, and types a quick message.
My house is a mess, I apologize. I should put some of these things away. You can make tea if you would like, it would be good.
He pulls out his phone again to message Darius, send a request for him to bring some food, but there is already a text there from him.
You also got a package. About your birthday. Your annual message. I don’t know if you want it today. It’s definitely her though, she’s still using the old name. But I can also keep it here-
He looks up from his phone, not bothering to finish Darius’ rambling. Of course this would happen today- of course. While he’s still reeling and confused and utterly drained of energy, stretched as thin as he can bear- her impeccable timing comes in to bat him around a little bit more, to complicate the noise in his head even more. They should’ve stayed in the basement! He can’t figure out what happened down there now, separate from it, but at least there had been a blessed few moments of peace where old ghosts weren’t commanding control of his life. He walks into the living room without looking back, or saying anything to Christine. He can feel himself slipping, but as long as she’s here- he shuts his eyes and tries to breathe to the bottom of his lungs.
This is nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.
His mother tends to send things around his birthday- usually only letters, and he has never read one. They always go to Khan and Darius, at the address where she thinks that he still lives. A package is new, but- his hands flex and he paces a few steps, trying to breathe, trying to beat back the instinctive anger that boils in his skull, trying to remind himself that Christine is here, and he doesn’t want to act in a way that would frighten her.
He wishes that Darius hadn’t brought it up, but he has to admit that it isn’t his fault- Darius has no way of knowing how trying the day has already been. It’s only coincidence, the usual damned coincidence arriving to sabotage any attempt he makes at seeming decent.
He stands and watches the television for a few moments, not processing any of what’s happening, but attempting to center himself somewhat. Is it worse to know, or not to know what it is? It has already been mentioned- he knows that it’s there, and that’s really the worst part- he can’t keep himself from wondering. If he sees what it is, processes it a little bit, he can push it to the back of his mind, rather than fixating over what it might be. He pulls out his phone again, and stares at the words, frowning, before finally typing his answer.
Just bring it.
He sends the message, shoves his phone in his pocket, and takes Khan’s blanket from the couch. At the very least, he can divert some of this restless anxiety into fixing the mess in the living room. He folds it with entirely more force than is called for, every muscle in his body tense. At the very least, he is already burned out- it is easier now, with the exhaustion already pulling at his mind and his body, for him to turn in on himself again, going silent and sitting firmly within the walls that he has built over a lifetime.
---
CHRISTINE
Making tea is easy—nothing more challenging than gathering up a few mugs from the cupboard, plucking a random flavour from the wooden box where the assorted dried varieties are stored. It doesn’t take any thought to add water to the kettle; to set it on the stove to boil; to pretend-not-to-watch the steadily-heating pot.
Christine moves through the routine as if on autopilot. It’s a task with an easy solution—an outlet for hands restless with the need to do something useful, as her mind continues to fumble like a mouse unsure of how to navigate a new maze.
Perhaps it was the same impulse that has sent Erik wordlessly back into the disheveled living room; that caused him to cater with haste to the needs of cats that are as yet nowhere to be seen.
Filling food bowls, filling tea kettles; filling the idle spaces where thoughts grow like strangling weeds between paving stones. As she stands alone in the silent kitchen, waiting for the shrill whistle of the kettle to break the silence, Christine half wishes that tea was a more complicated thing to prepare.
Erik is quiet in the other room, but for a few soft footsteps and the occasional shift of small objects being moved.
By the sink, a dishtowel hangs haphazardly from the corner of a drawer; it’s the work of just a few moments for Christine to dampen it and wipe away the specks from the counters and table.
Her stomach dips as a stroke of the towel narrowly dodges the packet of cigarettes that she hadn’t noticed earlier; the shriek of the tea kettle beckons her back to the far side of the kitchen, to the hot water and the mugs and the distraction of bringing them together, and she could hardly be any more grateful.
---
ERIK
The whistling of the kettle draws Erik back towards the kitchen. He’d left without a word to Christine; he pauses in the doorway, looks around the kitchen, and softens at the sight of her. Despite the confusion inherent in seeing her, his heart settles at the picture of her in his kitchen- it’s so easy, when she’s right there, to feel as though she belongs there. As if she’s been here for years, and not days. The simplicity of it gives his racing mind something to settle on. It would’ve been unthinkable to him just a couple weeks ago, allowing somebody into his home like this- but she knows what cabinet the tea is in, and how to work his stove, and when he focuses on that, things begin to seem less overwhelming.
He walks through the doorway after a moment, clearing his throat in an effort to not seem like he’s sneaking up on her. He’s scared Khan and Darius enough times by accident, and making some small noise to avoid startling them has become somewhat second-nature. He stands next to Christine and looks at the stove.
“Merci,” he says, nodding at the kettle. “Är du hungrig?”
He opens the fridge and glances into it. There’s a good chance that Khan and Darius will want to eat as well, and he is in no mood to cook. A rather large tupperware of leftover lentil soup from Khan’s visit the night before is the first thing he sees, and he takes it out decisively, without really waiting for Christine’s answer. Of course she’s hungry. Most people would be. She hasn’t eaten all day. “Tu devrais manger quelque chose,” he mutters, half to himself as he works the lid off and goes to put the tupperware in the microwave. He is determined to be a somewhat decent host, where she is concerned, and letting her go hungry is not acceptable. Besides- it gives him something to keep his mind on, and to keep his hands busy, even if just for a few moments.
---
(WIP -- Check back again later for more!)