Into the Night
Disclaimer: As always, I don't own, and I don't profit. Don't sue.
Tell me: Yes or no on this story. This is an experimental tentative piece of work that depends on the reaction of the audience for completion. Since I feel no dire urgency to finish it, it's up to all of you. Even then, with all the other fics I have up now, and all my responsibilities at school, even if I do update, it won't be for awhile. However, if you do want this to be continued, do tell me how you think it should go. I really do need plot suggestions.
Warning: Slash. Because of this, characters may seem OOC.
Thank you,
The Infant Phenomenon
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The night was fairy tale lovely. Languid air infused with the smells of life. Clear skies with stars and bright white moon reflecting crisply over the dark glassy lake. The villa windows were open and candles flickered in every windowsill. Sailors sung merry drinking songs and sauntered up the street arm in arm. Children of all particular classes ran rampant in the streets shouting and laughing, playing marbles and skipping games. The smell of fresh bakery emanated from little shops and fisherman carrying nets tied their boats to docks. Men clad in expensive tailored suits and velvet cloaks, carrying lacquered mahogany and red oak canes escorted beautiful Mediterranean women with bonnets and upswept hair and lovely dark eyes. Intricate gowns of royal midnight and scarlet satins embellished with seam work seemed to stain the pallid walks. Parasols and flittering eyes, deep baritone whispers and delicate bell-like twitters. Men in frocks played lutes while exotic women with ruby lips and kohl framed eyes danced with scarves in dark street corners. The city was rich with life and art, and song and passion. The air was so filled with the flavor it possessed all whom lingered, leaving them drunk with lust for more.
The two dined in considerable leisure, hungry and bewitched by the wafting smells of the Adriatic Sea air and cooking food. They sat across from each other at a small white cloth table with a single cream colored candle flickering light about. Eyes at half-mast, comfortably sharing smiles of pleasure, rolling witty jokes off each other and poking fun at dumb aphorisms drunkenly.
The lithe little mustached waiter whisked around their table and promptly set down two long stemmed crystal glasses and a cloth lined silver wine bucket with a sea green glass bottle of the house's finest Vintage.
Erik raised the glass to his lips, breathing in the rich aroma and closing his golden star-like eyes.
" Hold up, mon ami! I have a toast!"
" Then by all means, let's hear it!" Erik waved a gloved hand invitingly at his companion.
Raoul promptly cleared his throat, and raised his glass to the air.
" To the one year anniversary of our success… To freedom, To-"
" -Finishing the Score, at last!" Erik interjected.
" Here here! And to-!…"
" –Good, expensive Italian wine on a clear night in Venice!" He finished with dramatic prose.
Raoul generously grinned, " Amen to that! And to you finishing my toast, Messier…"
Erik and Raoul clinked their glasses together and downed their drinks.
Raoul had grown comfortable in the salty warm climate, had become poetic in fashion, and grown his lustrous golden locks to rest loose upon his shoulders. Often, the young man took off his shirt and relaxed casually on the beach. Thus, the pallor of his northern complexion had become tawny and golden. His eyes seemed of a different disposition these days; thick with deep expression, irreproachably pensive and furiously passionate in turns. He had taken to writing in the evenings, often using his ivory penknife and imported Indian inks in a small leather bound book with tanned vellum.
His companion too, had grown accustomed to the new lifestyle, relaxing his rigid ways; retiring inflexible Parisian dress suits, for loose neck shirts and light cotton garments. Occasionally, growing so at ease with life, he would forgo the confining porcelain mask. Of course, only within the darkness of night. He often wore oriental silk woven kimonos shipped from the orient. Each had different intricate patterns, some with gold threaded dragons flying over flourishes of linden trees and sapphire streams, and others with simple classy vertical characters over the breast of the robe. Erik chose to abandon close-toed shoes for velour wound wicker sandals. He had also discovered an acute fondness for wide brimmed hats to protect his ivory skin from the late summer sun's harsh rays when he accompanied Raoul to the beaches. Of course, this was a rare event, as he often kept to himself inside until dusk.
The two would often associate only at certain times- usually the early dawn and then of course, the evening when the sun, low in the sky cast its fiery glow across the city. This was due to the fact Raoul was a child of day; sleeping by night, while his counterpart slept by day, or rested in the confines of his quarters pandering about with his own hobbies and such, then took the night as his freedom to roam about.
The two men lodged in an old restored villa that rested upon a coastal cliff a mile from the edge of the city.
The suite quarters they rented had a large sitting/dining room furnished simply and elegantly. A colorful Spanish tapestry hung behind a large padded wicker chair across from a wide, low table cluttered with manuscripts, inkwells, kerchiefs, and butts of spice scented cigarillos in low glass ash trays. The room led out to a round balcony with a marble façade parapet wide enough to sit on. The room beside it contained a modest upright piano, a violin, and a worn leather couch upon a fine Persian rug. His room also had three smaller terraces and conjoined the sleeping quarters and small bath chamber. The sleeping quarters were separated by means of a sheer curtain hung by rungs from a wooden bar so that it could be drawn back after changing. Two luxurious cots with down comforters and colorful pillows sat on either side of the curtain, each with it's own small vanity and trunk. The bath chamber consisted of a small tub and a midroom-upstairs fireplace for boiling water. All rooms aligned with each other on the outer wall, thus overlooking the vast beaches beneath.
Often, Erik would watch Raoul at the lonely morning beach below, ensnared by the freshness of breaking dawn, and Raoul with all his youthful vigor running with abandon into the cold crashing waves. His golden hair gone dark-soaked with salty water, sticking to his face, across his lips as they parted gasping for air, after emerging from a deep dive beneath the cool surface! Slim torso and lithe chest. Smooth, golden and glistening, an Adonis of the morning. And he'd paint. He'd paint him like Michaelangelo's beautiful David. Youth captured in stone for all eternity.
And yet Erik's David was Raoul, all flesh and blood and sweetness of young manhood. And Erik could capture his essence in all the fresh bright hues and expression of the Parisian impressionists: free from the constraints of all classical style. To capture the motion and feeling of the moment in a single exhale.
With every brush stroke he created his own visual sonata. Frenzied, passionate, content, and oh so divine to invoke every deepest emotion… and to think he could create such intangible concepts and make them exist on a simple canvas. Creating art was like… playing God. Erik's grand forte.
Erik had found in Raoul the inspiration he desired. A companion and confidante, with surprisingly, an almost identical sense of humor and set of interests. He taught the young man music and furthered his education by tutoring him in world studies and different sorts of crafts. This way, Erik could vent all his creative energies and pass on all his years of knowledge into Raoul; as a protégé and muse unlike any other. Eager to feed off of his wiser friend's intellectual resources, and find solace in the similarities of their fate, Raoul clung devotedly to Erik.
Unbeknownst to Erik, Raoul too, often found himself content in watching his friend. Immersed in his music, Raoul would take up his quill, inspired by Erik's furious composing, and write.
Occasionally he read aloud his poetry to Erik, bracing himself with the anticipation of the other man's critique. Raoul could judge his better works from those of mediocrity by Erik's responsiveness. Erik often praised him, but when he sat pensive and silent, he knew he had read his best.
The two had become a familiar site around the night cafes, roguish and eccentric in attire and air. The man with the white mask and his golden consort. Both identically clad in black cloaks with scarlet silk lining. (They did this as a jest, both sharing some private humor in it.) However, neither drew to much attention, as they were just another pair of eccentric long-vacationing tourists to grace the coastal city.
Not five years ago, (It had been not two night before, when Christine had gone back to Erik, giving him back the gift of the golden ring she had sworn to him to return.) Mlle. Daae and her fiancé, seven days free of the Paris Opera house incident, had been walking hand in hand back to their small apartment in Strasbourg when a gang of four burly men had accosted them in a park. With one great swing, Raoul had been knocked unconscious. They had proceeded to rape Christine one after the other. They finished by cutting her throat.
Raoul awoke, in a pool of her blood.
Paris Opera House' Soprano found Murdered
Promising young soprano, Mlle. Christine Daae, of the infamous 'Phantom' Opera House scandal, which occurred 7 nights prior, was murdered late Thursday night. An alleged gang of four men had attacked the young singer, and her fiancé, Messier Raoul Le Vicomte de Chagney. Mssr. Vicomte de Chagny awoke from being beaten unconscious, to find that his young fiancée had been brutally attacked and killed. Authorities will not, at this time make any further comments or release any information pending further investigation of this case. I.E. Funeral arrangements have not yet been announced.
Raoul, beside himself with grief, newfound happiness cut short so soon, he swore to have justice for his slain angel. At last, the authorities could not find the malicious barbarians, and the case went unsettled.
Two wretched years passed. Finally, ill, and bent on revenge, he sought out the miserable man whom his late fiancé had spurned.
Upon the steps of the modest entrance, Erik discovered the collapsed young man. Nursing him back to some semblance of health, Raoul poured out the horrible fate that became of their shared beloved, and cried himself to sleep in the arms of the man he had once considered his only, and greatest foe.
Together, the two vigilantes tracked each of the four malefactors.
They then proceeded to slay each man with the cold, efficient and unforgiving precision of vengeance.
After that, was a year of peace, and neither man knew what became of the other, as they had ceased communication entirely after the deed was done.
Then, authorities grew suspicious of Raoul, as detectives finally began to unravel the savage murders that befell the four men a year earlier.
One stormy night, Erik showed up at Raoul's doorsteps, whisked him away in a carriage, and the two were thereafter no longer heard of in Paris. Of course, the scandal had dwindled down, but it would never be safe to return.
Believing their brother dead, Raoul was cut off from his inheritance of his late father's estate, therefore, left penniless and without his former title.
He was now, just Raoul Chagny of no particular name or origin.
The two, had at first, little to say to one another, each still angst-ridden in private grief… and then, they slowly began to recover, adapting to life in Venice, to the company of each other…
At last, they discovered in each other a refuge. A partnership. And finally, a friendship of such a strong bond, neither dared try to examine its depth. Dependent on each other, yet comfortably so.
They both maintained celibacy, inviting no women into their chambers. Their arrangement was of no particular interest to anyone publicly but so peculiar that it left doubt as to what level intimacy had actually developed within their relationship.
It was one of intimate trust, deep understanding and respect. Each supplemented the other's development. What transpired between the two sat at a spiritual, healing level.
So intimate emotionally, and yet so unfulfilled physically. Avoiding the last chasm to unification. The epitome of completion that neither dared to venture, denying on the outside, but both so painfully aware of intrinsically it left them aching. A conversation would bring them to such electrifying heights, an inferno of energy binding them. And yet, not a touch of the hand.
But would a touch of the hand lead to a caress?
Because a caress could lead to things beyond anything either dared to imagine.
It was not so much that Erik was timid about his appearance. They had gotten beyond that initially. Hadn't ever been an issue. It was not so much the stigma of a male relationship. For Raoul, it had never been an issue he regarded in any particular way, and Erik, so studied, had understood it to be an ancient and sacred thing, worshipped by the Greeks and Romans, spurned by the Bible's fear of all things not wholly clean and simple. Erik had never before now, even seen it's relevance to his life.
It was the fear of finalizing the truth of what they really were to each other. The fear of loving again. Both, so fearing it, had banished the very idea the recesses of their minds. And yet, disregarding the concentrated effort to hide such a powerful emotion, it prevailed anyway, and day after day it was growing more unbearable to hide. Such was the predicament.
When they merely brushed shoulders, they would shudder at the pringling sensations of their body's heightened sensitivity.
Erik carefully observed the man across from him. Every move. As he picked up his wine glass and brought it to his lips, as his lips parted, and the glass tipped slightly, taking the sweet wine into his mouth, and finally, swallowing, the gentle movement of his throat…the way, when he talked his eyelashes flittered about his cheek, like a girls… how, when he laughed, he threw back his head, and his hair would bounce upon his shoulders, his face glowing, and his parted ruby lips…and…his throat, and the nape of his neck, and if he'd leave his shirt just a bit looser, you could see how the neck and the collar bone so gracefully…and the promise of that smooth, subtly sculpted chest, and that taut abdomen…
After weeks of increased observation, Erik had concluded, Raoul was indeed, an art form unto himself.
Erik cleared his throat and sipped his wine. He hated getting distracted like that.
But. How beautiful and pure he was that he didn't realize the affect he had on…other people. How he was always taking for granted the beauty that he seemed to evoke with every move. He both hated and gloried in the knowledge that he was the companion to such an attractive figure. Women sighed and glanced nervously at the young man, hoping and fearing to catch his attention, flirting with him from afar. Men too, seemed to be consciously uncomfortable around him. His appeal was tempting to all sexes. He reveled in other's responses to his companion because he knew they envied him. They thought him perhaps too strange and eccentric a man to be in the company of such beauty. And yet he hated it, because he hated that other people realized the beauty of his friend. Because, as much as he would not allow himself to touch the young man, he could not deny him the ability to seek others to share such physical intimacy with. And he feared it. There were beautiful men and women everywhere who would gladly accept him into their beds, and he would not be able to bear it if he did indeed fall to temptation. As much as he couldn't bear to sully the young man's purity with his own hands, he wouldn't be able to tolerate anyone else having this luxury.
And they shared such closeness… for the first time… a closeness that he had never known with anyone in his life… and oh! The fear of losing it. To somehow ruin it himself… or have another ruin it.
And Raoul, was so enchanted with the powerful enigmatic man that was Erik, he, himself could not see anyone else he would rather give himself to. He worshipped the older man, saw in him everything that completed him. He could not see life without his friend, and if Erik, would resist him, and refuse him silently, Raoul would wait. For he, vowed to himself, that he would be faithful to Erik. Waiting was pain, but Raoul would wait forever for Erik to finally tear down that wall and invite him to his bed.
* sigh. Ok. I admit. This is one of the most risky fics I've ever attempted. And I wouldn't blame you if you flamed me.*