Disclaimer:I don't own The Phantom of the Opera (book, musical, or movie) and I'm not claiming to. All the fun stuff belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber - the lucky buggers. This is just for fun; I'm not trying or going to make money with it. No insult or prejudice is intended to persons of any sexuality or gender.
Author's Note: OK, so I've been writing and reading fanfiction for a year today and I'm sentimental enough to want to write something in honor of that. So, this piece is a sort of companion/not-quite-sequel to my first ever bit of fanfiction! While it's not necessary to read "An Alternate Ending..."to get the gist of this, it definitely might help to read it. But if you don't like graphic rape, just know that the Phantom kept Christine instead of letting her go and then raped Raoul.
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N'oubliez Jamais Cet Soir
Raoul would always remember that night when he lost the love of his life and ... something else. He could never forget. He was constantly reminded by everything. Little things, like a breeze in his dressing room, or the sound of someone clearing their throat, would catapult him back to that cavern and he was again bound to a metal portcullis that clanged softly beneath him.
What the mysterious man, who was indeed a man and not the Ghost he claimed to be, took from Raoul was more than what some might call his innocence, but more his sense of stability. Raoul's world was out of round. Nothing fit anymore now that his self-image had been so brutally destroyed.
He was given time to himself, ostensibly to mourn for the charming, young fiancé who had died tragically in the fire at the Opera Populaire, and he spent that time in a bleak silence filled with burning tears and twitches of fear. Raoul could not move to get out of bed or get dressed, could not eat or drink, and he could not forget that Night.
Months later, he had recovered somewhat to the point where he could go out again and speak with other people. Then he threw himself into the pleasures of Paris to distract himself. The Viscoumte de Chagny had always been a moderate man and the perfect, dutiful son. Now, Raoul was dissolute and spending his inheritance even before he got it.
He went to every dance hall, drinking establishment, gaming parlor, and house of ill-repute in Paris. Raoul was recognized where ever he went, and people shook their heads at his back, wondering what had happened to this poor, sweet boy. The only places he avoided were those with the reputation of being very friendly and open to certain types of people. Those he never went near.
Until one night, a year to the day after that Night, when Raoul found himself standing in the shadows across from one such establishment. He was trembling, fine shivers shaking his body from head to foot. Deciding that he needed courage to go through with this folly, Raoul fumbled in his hip pocket for his flask, wanting the liquid warmth to steady himself. Nearly half the contents of the silver flask fell to the street like so much expensive rain before Raoul felt he could go on.
After taking a deep breath and drawing his once crisp but now stained and crumpled clothes about himself, Raoul boldly pushed the solid wooden door open.
Inside, through the miasma of smoke and closely packed humans, Raoul found himself lost in a whirl of humanity and color that would do any opera masquerade proud. Couples clung to each other openly laughing, shouting, drinking, as was the wont of merrymakers every where; but never had Raoul seen a man kiss another man or women fondling each other. He had stepped into a truly different world than what he was used to.
Immediately, strong, calloused hands tugged at him, urged him to sit at a crowded table, and thrust a foaming mug into his hands. Strangers rubbed against him and pinched him in places that would make a whore blush. Raoul recoiled from a leering face sporting the shadow of a beard as it came close to him, lips puckered for a kiss. Then a loud voice cut through the sea of chaos around him.
"Leave the boy be, you animals! Can't you see this is his first time?" The voice belonged to a tall lady who looked positively cultured compared to the rest of the crowd. "Come here, sugar. I'll take care of you."
Big, soft hands took Raoul's shoulders and he was led away from the jeering table and into a small alcove that was only marginally more peaceful. He was settled back against stained satin cushions and glass of cheap brandy was pushed under his nose.
"Drink this. Wash out that foul brew they call beer," the kind stranger told him. Raoul obeyed, too overwhelmed to think about it. Before he knew it, his glass was empty and another took its place.
"Being mauled by savages is torture to delicate souls like us," the lady confided sympathetically.
Raoul started, not used to being called delicate, and studied his savior. She was tall, nearly as tall as he was himself, and she wore bright, tawdry silk that screamed nouveau riche at Raoul's monied upbringing. Her face was beautiful in an odd, exotically angled way. Her smooth, beautifully made up complexion had Raoul thinking longingly of someone else who had hidden beauty under paint but he shied away from that memory.
He cleared his throat nervously then said, "Thank you, madame."
She smiled at him and pinched his cheek. "De rien, Monsieur Joli."
Raoul felt himself blush hotly at her name for him and ducked his head. Spying the full glass near his hand, he picked it up and sipped slowly. He peered out at the rabble in the main room beyond their sheltered nook, not wanting to stare at his new friend.
"Ask."
"What?"
"You want to ask," she said smugly, with a warm sparkle in her eyes. "So ask. I won't be offended."
Raoul blushed again and went back to his drink. After a sufficiently awkward silence had passed, he asked, "Why are you talking to me? I thought, in a place like this, that you would be far more interested in ... well."
Soft peals of laughter made Raoul want to die as his companion slid a hand over his on the table. "Oh Monsieur Joli, this really is your first time, isn't it?"
A pregnant pause followed until he gathered himself enough to nod.
"I can always tell you know," she said warmly, "And it's nothing to be ashamed of, though that blush suits you very well, Joli. We all started somewhere."
Again, Raoul nodded. His hand was patted sympathetically, and he felt strangely safe.
"As for why I am talking to something as sweet as you, well ..." She began to pull his hand toward herself, and Raoul found he was holding his breath. "See for yourself."
Their clasped hands disappeared beneath the table and brushed against warm silk. His companion changed her grip so she was now guiding Raoul's hand more than holding it and pressed him forward. His tentatively curled fingers met the distinct line of male genitalia.
Raoul yanked himself free with a gasp and huddled further into the booth, turning his back on a world that no longer made sense.
"Oh, Joli. You didn't know?" A warm presence hovered behind him but didn't touch him. "I'll leave you to yourself for a while then."
A hand softly caressed his shoulder, and Raoul couldn't help but flinch.
"Someone's hurt you bad. I wish they hadn't," he said before he was gone.
Raoul curled further into the booth. The noise from the common room crowded his senses and lost his mind in a whirl of notright and alcohol. He couldn't stand it, just couldn't face it. He could never forget, never go back.
A breeze washed over him, chilling him through his tightly pulled clothing, and made him shiver in remembered fear. Then he became aware of someone behind him. He didn't dare turn as a prickle of menace tingled over the back of his neck.
"You will never forget that night, monsieur," A too familiar voice breathed.
Raoul shuddered and tried to disappear into the black well of confusion, doubt, fear, and pain that was his being.
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Translations:
N'oubliez Jamais Cet Soir - Never Forget That Night
Madame - ma'am/Mrs.
Monsieur Joli - Mr. Pretty
Joli - pretty (Not the actress!)
De rien - It's nothing/ Think nothing of it/ You're welcome