Erik was your....boyfriend? Well, boyfriend wasn't really a term back in France in the 1880s, but it would describe your relationship perfectly. I suppose he'd be your lover instead.

Sure, your relationship got off to a rocky start, with him pretending to be sent by your dead father and watching you through a two-way mirror in your dressing room, then trying to hang your then-fiancé, the vicomte De Chagny with a noose he just....happened to have in his underground house (although, everyone called it his 'lair') just so you'd stay with him forever, but hey, everyone has their flaws.

Your relationship was....fine. It was great. Wonderful, even. There were no massive problems (despite his intense devotion to you that honestly made you wanna say "Down, boy") except for one. His kissing.

You knew that he hadn't had much affection throughout his life, not even from his parents, so he didn't exactly have a lot of experience, but god, he was terrible. He was always so hesitant, as if he was afraid you'd run away screaming in disgust if he did literally anything, which, to be fair, he had experienced a ton in the past. Another habit of his was crying half-way through. And today was no different.

All you wanted to do was make out with your feral cat-like, obsessed, disfigured partner, but that, of course, had to end the same way it always did. With him kissing you terribly, and sobbing into your neck.

"Erik is sorry, he is so sorry, mon doux ange....please, forgive your poor Erik. He is a hideous beast who does not deserve your love...." he pleaded dramatically, though you were sure that he meant every single word of what he was saying. He referred to himself in the third person like he always did when he was emotional as he clung onto you tightly like a child who just had a nightmare.