A/N: This is a short little thing (3 chapters total) that resulted from convenientalias asking me on Tumblr for 5 headcanons where either Raoul or Erik had gone on a palaeontological expedition pre-canon. I didn't intend to fic it, but that just kinda happened.
It was Philippe's idea, and there is an odd satisfaction in that. He is eighteen, still a long way from his majority, and whenever someone asks him, now or in the future, why he made an American trip before entering the Navy proper, he can always shrug and say, "It was before my majority, and it was my brother's idea." And they will all think him to still be or have been the boy he feels himself to be inside.
(A boy, yet so much a man, though he does not realise it yet.)
His sisters pull him into their arms, hug after hug after hug, each make him promise to come back in one piece and he knows Marietta has voiced her distaste for the whole thing to Philippe on several occasions, but when Philippe makes up his mind on something there is never any going back. And Raoul will never admit, not to Philippe, not to his sisters, that he is terrified at the prospect of the whole venture, of being cast across the water to make his own way for a year. How could he be happy at that when he could already be in the Navy? To be so far away from everything he has ever known—
His throat closes up, nausea boiling in his stomach that he swallows down as he offers his hand to Philippe. But Philippe pulls him into an embrace, and promises him that he will do well, that he will enjoy himself. And, in a soft undertone to be certain their sisters cannot hear, he adds, "I have heard wonderful things about American girls." Then he releases Raoul, and claps him on the back, and nods.
And is Raoul imagining it, or are there tears shining in Philippe's eyes?
No. Surely Raoul is imagining it.
And so it is that Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, all of eighteen years and two months, soon to be of the Navy, bids farewell to his family and the land of his birth, the only land he has ever known, and boards the ship for Boston.
He stands on the deck with all those other hopefuls of his class and lower, and waves until his arm aches so much that it might drop off, and he cannot pick out the harbour from the rest of the shoreline. Then he retreats to his cabin, lies face down on his bed, and gives into tears.
He has composed himself (a fact for which he will be forever grateful), when there is a knock on the door. He rolls off the bed, smooths the wrinkles from his clothes and runs a hand through his hair to restore some order to it. A second knock comes just as he reaches the door, and he mutters to himself about the impatience of some people, before plastering on a mildly polite smile, and answering it.
All moodiness falls off him at once, and his breath catches at the sight of the man standing the far side. A shade taller than him, the same age, or just a little more, and something stirs deep inside of him, eyes roving over curling dark hair, a neatly trimmed moustache and slim figure, and sparkling eyes that meet his.
He swallows, and takes the offered hand, heart stirring at the callused fingers.
"Cuvier." The voice that goes with that hand, with that face, is lilting and Raoul struggles to take in a breath. "Martin Cuvier. I have the cabin next door."
And beneath him, Raoul feels the floor shift, independent of the sea.
He has never been in love before. He has been infatuated, like with that girl he knew once in Perros-Guirec, Christine Daaé. He has had dalliances, has even been involved, briefly, with a boy that he studied with. But love? Never.
He does not even realise that he is in love now, three nights later, sitting out on deck beside Martin, looking up at the stars. In truth, he fell the moment he met those eyes, and he should have realised it when they parted after that brief first meeting, and he tried to sketch that face from memory.
Sudden realisations are not things any de Chagny has ever dealt in, to his knowledge.
(Philippe would tell him about many sudden realisations, if he had ever thought to ask, and if there was enough wine involved.)
But Martin is…simply fascinating. There is no other word to describe him, though enthusiastic, excited, and eccentric would all fit. Magical. Beautiful. Not handsome, though he is certainly handsome, but beautiful. He is, perhaps, the most beautiful man that Raoul has ever met.
He is definitely the most beautiful man that Raoul has ever met.
And he is completely, utterly, fascinating.
Only a handful of years older. And full of the wildest, strangest ideas that have surely ever been spoken.
Who searches for bones? Who crosses the ocean just to look for old bones? Of giant creatures who apparently lived millions of years ago? How could it ever be possible?
It's all a ruse. It must be. Martin must be a gold prospector, like the ones Raoul's read about in the papers, flocking to different places in the middle of nowhere in pursuit of fortune. Or maybe it's silver that he's more interested in. He's read about giant silver mines in the American desert. Yes, it must be either silver or gold that he's really after, and he is simply too cautious to admit that.
Who gives a damn about old bones?
Yet, in spite of his scoffing, in spite of how ludicrously ridiculous the whole thing is, Raoul agrees to join him on his expedition West, reasoning that the only other opportunities he has are contacts of Philippe's, and they are strangers to him. Martin he knows, and acquaintance turned to friendship on the third night, when they smoked and laughed and drank under the stars, and when Martin had a fit of coughing brought on by their exuberance, he only laughed louder, and grasped Raoul's hand tight enough to make his heart stall.
And so it is agreed. They will stop in Boston, lay over a week or two to recover from the journey. Hire a photographer "to photograph the bones" (and Raoul supposes that if they do stumble upon gold or silver, it would be nice to have a proper record of it), and Raoul will write his brother, and gather more pencils and paper, and maybe they will find anyone willing to join their expedition. Then onto Chicago, to gather more supplies and another couple of men, and off. Martin is full of thoughts about bonefields in Montana and Wyoming, and these he lays out one night, half-talking to himself, as Raoul blows smoke circles to the ceiling.
It is their second night in Boston, and Martin is poring over maps as Raoul sketches him. It is an effort, pure and simple, to capture those curls just right. The last time Raoul struggled so much with curls was back in Perros with Christine, and that was six years ago! One would think he would have gotten better at the whole thing in six years, but apparently curls are his artistic downfall and it's infuriating. He gets a fresh sheet of paper and starts again, and sips wine to get the acrid taste of cigars out of his mind.
He has the face sketched in, those eyes, the lashes that are just slightly longer than normal, the tiny lines at the edge of the mouth that whisper of dreams, and he tilts his head to reconsider the vision in front of him, how best to capture the curls.
And Martin is smiling softly at him.
And maybe it is the wine. Maybe it is the frustration. Maybe it is so long confined to a small space, between the boat and here. Maybe it is because this is the first time his heart has ever fluttered this way at meeting someone's gaze.
But the collar of Martin's shirt is soft between his fingers.
And his mouth is oddly dry at the sight of those lips, slightly parted.
Then all he can taste is the heady must of red wine, and the faint lingering acridity of cigars, and a slight hint of iron that must be from his habit of biting his tongue as he sketches, and he swallows as they break apart, Martin's eyes shining sky-blue, a tear trickling down his cheek.
His voice is thick with feeling. "I didn't think that you—"
And their lips are meeting again, and arms are coming around him, lowering him, damp tears smeared on his cheek though whether they are his or Martin's he cannot tell, will never know, and his heart is throbbing, aching, so full, so desperate as they gasp and their lips come together again, and Raoul whimpers into his mouth, his hands easing his shirt from his trousers.
And then they are pressed, skin on skin, and his breath stutters and the aching inside is such that he might die, here and now, in the arms of the most beautiful man he has ever met, and it would not matter a damn, would be the highlight of his life.
Then Martin's lips are brushing his throat, and any thoughts crash to a stop.
A/N: I'll admit this is a mild departure from my usual thing, but you'll all enjoy it anyway, and please do review. The second chapter is in progress and will appear probably before the end of the weekend, and I would definitely love some reviews.