Erik stood in the graveyard, chest heaving, as he watched the white stallion gallop away. even as an icy wind blew, ruffling the open folds of his cape, knifing through his silk shirt, there was only one feeling he was aware of: his deep, jealous hatred of the fop.
He envied his face, with its flawless cheekbones, and cheeks glowing a rosy hue; so different compared to his papery, rough, pitted cheek. He envied the smooth, straight nose for the simple fact that it was completely there, full as God had intended ,not smacked off his face by the devil . He envied the smooth skin Christine was so apt to run her hands over, polishing its ivory surfaces with the delicate petals of her fingertips. He yearned to have the same perfect lips, thin and human and well-formed, and soft and desirable, unlike his own rough, lumpy, misshapen ones. He longed for a face that a woman would want, that would earn him love, that would at least allow him to walk free in the sun with people- other people!- rather than remaining forever trapped beneath the surface of this God-forsaken earth. He wished... He wished... He wished he had been granted half the face the vicomte de chagny had been graced with!
A small, sad and sarcastic smile twisted his already-gnarled lips as he realized he had been given half- it was just the other half he was missing.
Raoul was coated in a sheen of sweat and snowflakes, but the cold could not have wrapped as tightly around him as Christine's arms. Although Christine clung to him to not fall off the horse, Raoul was hanging on her emotionally. He needed the feel of her right then to keep him going back to the opera house, to keep him from turning around right then and there and returning to finish off the man they had left behind. Try as he might, he could not get the Phantom out of his head. He was being haunted by the Opera Ghost, and not just by his clear hatred for the man, but by an irksome feeling that was rooted even deeper: jealousy.
Raoul realized with a pang that he was jealous of the Phantom, jealous of his voice. There was nothing in the world Christine held more dearly than music. Music had been the gift she and her father shared, music had lifted her out of her depression, and music had made her shine. Music touched the very depths of her soul, elevating her to a heavenly level, allowing her to live and breathe beauty and art in a pure, surreal, miasma of emotion transcending mortality. And it had been hismusic. Raoul may have been the boy that had pulled her scarf from the sea, but what was that compared to the man who had pulled her from an ocean of depression and made her a star?
Erik kicked a lump of snow in an arc with the tip of his glossy dark boot. Maybe he didn't even have to be beautiful. Maybe if he were simply Christine's age, Christine's peer, he would have had a chance. That boy. That boy, with his shared childhood, and his youth. Erik cursed the way that Raoul had shared his life with Christine, and would continue to share it, as they grew from children to old age together.
Raoul wished he was a man already. He knew that even at age 20, he was barely considered to be on the threshold of adulthood. He knew that when Christine looked at him, she just saw her childhood playmate, where as when she looked at the Phantom, she gazed upon an alluring man. Raoul dug his heels harder into the side of his horse as he damned the Phantom. Mystery, that's what he had on his side. Mystery that constituted a sex appeal Raoul could never conjure up. Raoul could never pull off the magically appearing letters, or the gorgeous, single roses that Christine greeted with a quiet, joyful look, a secret sparking flaring in her heart, lighting up her eyes as she clutched them reverently. He could never pull off the dramatic entrances and exits, and while Raoul himself found them a bit melodramatic, they never lacked style. Furthermore, he knew girls ate that stuff up: the dark, mysterious hero was all the rage.
Erik shuffled through the slush to where his own sleek black horse was waiting. He stroked its nose for a second as he fumed. He hated the boy for his desirable, Prince Charming appeal. With the stamp of nobility impressed upon him, his fine manners combined with aristocratic pride were a desirable draught of decorum for the young ladies. Raoul was everything Erik could never be. He could flash "those boyish grins" and "dazzling blue eyes," as Erik had heard the members of the corps de ballet refer to them, when all Erik could muster was the occasional sarcastic smirk. Even his name: the Vicomte de Chagny, conjured up a breathless excitement in swooning women; for Erik, on the other hand, the swoons were generally the result of fear and horror. Furthermore, Raoul had an air of innocence about him; after, Raoul had never killed someone. And Raoul had that sense of familiarity about him; he represented safety and security and all of the old times and happiness Christine had shared in, back when her father was alive.
Back before she ever even knew Erik.
With a defeated sigh Erik swung himself back into the saddle, and softly coaxed his horse on.
His voice.
Above all, Raoul feared and desired his voice. Raoul may have had a face like an angel, but he never had a voice which could make angels weep.
Raoul had never been much of a musician, even when Gustave Daae was tutoring him. Sure he could read notes, and pluck out fingerings, but he had never conjured up the emotion that Gustave had infused in his playing. He had never been able to really speak the language of music, like Christine and her father had. And he had certainly never spoke it like the Phantom. Even Raoul's amateur ear could recognize that the Phantom's voice was exceptional, to put it mildly. Raoul steamed enviously over the way the Phantom could capture Christine with a few notes, of the way those notes easily could bring tears to the listener's eyes, or desire racing in their blood, or joy in a few lofty notes.
Passion.
Raoul was void of the passion that the Phantom brimmed and boiled over with. He lacked the sensual mannerism, the sheer, intoxicating energy, and emotion that oozed from the man's every endeavor, every movement, every note.
Swords had been crossed that day in the graveyard; yet another spar between two men blindly charging forth towards the same goal. The battle between them remained undecided, yet as the twin horses raced away from the graveyard, each man fumed, certain the other possessed the weapon he needed to succeed once and for all.