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Erik was standing in Reyer's office when the latter returned at the conclusion of the performance. Reyer, ever nervous, gasped and clutched at his chest when he saw the unexpected figure in the darkness. 'Monsieur,' he moaned faintly, 'must you?'
'I am sorry, my poor Monsieur,' said Erik smoothly but with sincerity. 'I am sorry… I am sorry…' He moved towards Reyer, hands open as if in a bid for forgiveness.
'It doesn't matter,' Reyer told him, trembling, 'Shhh… it doesn't matter.' Reyer touched the younger man's gloved hand. 'Are you well, Monsieur?'
Erik nodded briefly. Reyer smiled and took one of Erik's hands in each of his own. 'I am glad.'
Erik had long admired Reyer's dedication to his job. A passion for music drew Erik to someone more than anything else, and Reyer had long been startled by voices in the walls praising or critiquing his conducting. These had made him nervous, Erik had found, as did mysterious letters left on his desk (as did most things, really), so Erik had eventually taken to appearing in Reyer's room to instruct or congratulate him (this had made Reyer faint on occasion, but it seemed pointless to go back to voices or letters).
Reyer suddenly remembered himself. 'Please pardon me, Monsieur. Will you have a seat?' He pulled out the chair at his desk and turned it to face the centre of the room, indicating it. Erik didn't want to take the older man's seat, and took a low stool from a corner of the room.
'But you must sit too,' he exclaimed, seating himself on the stool and gesturing at the chair. Reyer sighed and sat. They talked at length about the musical score, Reyer's conducting, the orchestra, the merits and flaws of the singers. Reyer could feel an impatience in Erik, a frustration that he could do better than all of them if he was allowed. Erik's back stiffened with anger.
'Maybe one day, my friend,' Reyer murmured, rising, moving behind Erik and encircling his shoulders with an arm. He rested a hand gently on Erik's head as if to pacify him.
Reyer felt an inexplicable and sudden courage rise up within him. He stroked Erik's hair once, as if to reassure him, and gently prised the white half mask off his face. He held the younger man's head gently, but firmly enough that he couldn't duck away from his gaze. Reyer brought his lips to the twisted flesh of Erik's cheek and kissed him; a father affirming his parental love to a reluctant son. Erik stiffened and his hand flew to the deformed part of his face. 'Monsieur!' he hissed, trying to snatch back the mask from Reyer as he backed away. Reyer held his ground.
'You don't need it,' he said bravely, moving the mask out of Erik's reach.
'Monsieur…' choked Erik, tears starting to glide down his cheeks, 'Monsieur… please, I could have been an angel. Only,' he drew a trembling breath and gestured vaguely, 'this. Monsieur, you shouldn't have seen… I could have been… but I'm not.'
Reyer looked at him mildly. 'We don't know what angels look like. You can't know how an angel would or wouldn't look.'
'I know what devils look like,' Erik spat.
Reyer's expression didn't change. 'I can't say I do. I don't believe I've ever seen one.'
Erik's face stilled and softened. 'No?' he whispered.
Reyer smiled. 'No. Never.'