(Christine, Hannibal)
Social visits complete, Erik stood on the edge of the dance area that his guests had made, Christine on his arm. She may have been saying something, but he didn't catch it. Eyes firmly on the dimming floor, Erik focused on his posture, on the command of his betraying body. He would not let her see. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, his upper lip, the back of his neck. He had meant to ask Christine to dance. That desire slid like water through his hands now.
The noise of the celebration had been growing dimmer in Erik's ears, replaced instead with a blasted ringing, high over the volume of those voices around him. His left arm was almost completely numb, aching fiercely, and his chest had blossomed flame under that starched white shirt, that pressed, crisp jacket.
He stood still and waited for the moment to pass, as it always had before. But it continued, long past the point when it had died down before. With a very measured breath, he finally spoke. His voice sounded strange to him.
"Christine, m'dear," he said, trying to keep the strain out of his words. "I've some pressing matters to... Will you please send Hannibal to my office? I regret I must step away."
He didn't wait. He didn't dare. Instead, he very quietly detached himself from Christine, then the Grand Foyer, then the hall, until finally he was in the safety of his office. Collapsing in his chair, he let his head drop back and shut his eyes.