Hideaway, a phantom of the opera fanfic

Raoul left quietly.

He had advised Christine to do the same thing, long ago. Back when the Phantom's obsession had been focused on her and not on Raoul. He had taken her aside time and time again and repeated the same sensible promises: He would take her to the countryside, or to Sweden, or wherever she wanted to go, but somewhere far away from Paris and far away in particular from the Opera Populaire. She didn't have to marry him if she didn't want. He didn't even have to stay around. She just needed to leave the stage and leave the Phantom and by all means leave soon, before it was too late.

Christine had refused his offer. She told him it was one thing for him to say that as the Vicomte de Chagny and a wealthy man, but it was very different for a poor young woman (especially a woman whose character had been dirtied by the stage) to find herself a place to live and to live there by herself with no guardian or protection. Moreover she had no intention of leaving her life as a singer and no intention of leaving her Angel.

Things worked out well enough then. The Phantom had become less frantic in his devotion towards her, and for a while Raoul had thought the matter of the opera ghost might settle down entirely. But then he had started hearing the voice whenever he was in the opera house, whether sitting in a crowded box or walking down an empty corridor. He'd started having conversations with it, although he should have known it was unwise. He'd even met the Phantom in person a few times and found him less intimidating than he might initially have expected. And he began to believe that Christine was right: really, the Phantom was not such a bad person but simply a man, and a lonely man at that.

And the Phantom had stopped bothering Christine about Raoul talking to her! Ah, that had been joy beyond belief. To finally be able to speak to her without trying to hide it or play down their affection. For a few blissful weeks Raoul had wandered through the opera house with her, following her around her daily tasks unhindered by dread, laughing and playing like they used to when they were children.

And then Raoul had overstepped his boundaries. Done something rash, something he should have known was over the line. And the Phantom had responded.

Except, when Raoul thought about it, the Phantom had no right to draw a line as to what Raoul could or couldn't do. He had begun to accept the Phantom's authority in his life—and the Phantom had begun to expect his obedience. And that, right there, was a warning sign.

So he did what he had always advised Christine to do. He went home and packed his bags overnight. He told his mother and his sisters that he would be away from Paris for a while. They fussed and complained but when he told them it was because he wanted to be away from Christine Daae, they listened more thoughtfully. When he told them that it was because he had proposed to her and been rejected, they were greatly shocked and agreed that he indeed should leave Paris for a while—if only to regain his senses!

And he finished packing his bags, and he talked to the managers very briefly, at an hour when he knew Christine was with the Phantom having a voice lesson. He told them he would be gone for an unspecified period of time. They protested at the absence of their patron. He told them the checks would continue to arrive by mail. Their protest ceased.

He probably should have found a way to talk to Christine, but he couldn't risk it. As far as he knew, the Phantom tried to observe every conversation that took place between the two of them. It wouldn't be discreet.

So instead he left the opera house as usual, picked up his bags and boarded a train. Simple enough.

The train took him to one of his family's estates in the countryside, though to call it an estate was misleadingly grand. In reality it was a small cottage set at a distance from the nearest town, and a rundown cottage at that. A woman was supposed to come by regularly to keep it clean, but no one had actually stayed there in more than two decades.

She was the one to give him a set of keys.

"It'll be nice having a de Chagny living here again," she said with a nod. "My, it's been years. And I hope you won't be keeping to yourself now, will you? A young lad like you should have some fun. There are many nice girls in town, and now and again we have a little bit of a festival…sometimes there are dances…"

In Paris, of course, there were events going on every day and night. Raoul had thought coming to the country might be something of a break from all the hubbub as well as an escape from the Phantom, but on further thought he knew if he isolated himself he'd probably just end up thinking about Christine and make himself miserable.

"I won't become a recluse," he assured the old woman with a laugh. "In Paris, you know, I was very involved in the arts. I love dancing and music."

"Oh, really? I heard that the de Chagnys were patronizing an opera house now too. Of course that's as it should be, very right of you."

"Yes," Raoul said. He felt like he was probably supposed to elaborate here, explain details of events at the opera house, perhaps difficulties or a small anecdote of a success or a funny occurrence. Instead, he nodded doggishly and said, "Yes, it's true. The Opera Populaire."

"I hear it's a fine place," the woman said, with a questioning smile. "Of course there are rumors that it's haunted, but I would never believe such talk."

"It's all talk," Raoul said. "There's no ghost."

"Of course that's what I thought all along, Monsieur de Chagny, like anyone sensible would. I never have believed in ghosts and spirits—it's all foolishness, really, and I always tell my nieces not to say such things. Of course they're very flighty. I have nerves of iron. I did, though, hear a story about a falling chandelier…"

"It was an accident."

"An accident. Of course."

/…/…/

The Vicomte's disappearance occurred only a week after the dropping of the chandelier. A week and he was gone. Erik wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt—maybe he left Paris because of ailing relatives far away, or because the doctor recommended it, or because it was his custom at this time of year—but circumstances being what they were, he had very few doubts from which Raoul could benefit. A week after the dropping of the chandelier…and of course the unpleasant conversation that followed…no, that could not be a coincidence.

It was practically certain that Raoul was running away.

Of course it took Erik a few days to realize that Raoul had disappeared at all. Raoul didn't visit the opera house every day, after all. Some days he felt under the weather or had other business to attend to, and on those days he did not come in. Most days, however, he did, at least for a little while so that he could spend time with Christine. The besotted numskull. Erik only tolerated his infatuation because it kept him near the opera house—and lately he was beginning to lose his patience with it. Sooner or later Raoul would have to learn Christine was not for him.

But in any case, for Raoul to be away three days running was not so common. And so on the night of the third day Erik had taken it upon himself to pay Raoul a little visit. He had learned where the de Chagny estate in Paris was some time ago (it was hardly a secret) and though he preferred to venture forth in the city as little as possible, he did it when necessary. And if Raoul had decided to hole up in his house out of fear of Erik, it really was necessary to ease his apprehensions.

Erik intended to be kind to Raoul, to speak in a very gentle voice, to perhaps even apologize for the way he'd overreacted the other night. He didn't want Raoul to be afraid of him. He just wanted Raoul to stop acting stupid.

But when he came to the house he could not find Raoul anywhere. And Raoul's room was cleaned out of nearly all his things.

And Erik gritted his teeth. It was one thing for Raoul to hide away in his house. Fear was understandable. But outright running away when Erik had just told him his true feelings? (Implicitly told him, at least.) Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable.

/…/…/

For the first couple days, all Raoul did was clean up the house. It was more run down than it looked on the outside (it had been freshly painted only a couple years ago for some reason, and the snow covered up many exterior problems) and Raoul had to tinker with the pipes, clean out the chimney as far as his broom could reach, and vigorously dust the attic and cellar. There was also a lot of old junk lying around for him to tidy up, left behind most likely by Raoul's parents, the last to use the place.

Raoul didn't mind having to clean. It kept him occupied. Frankly he had no idea what he was going to do now that he was stranded in the country, and he was avoiding the problem as long as possible. So far he'd only considered the possibility of a nice garden (if he ended up staying into the spring), but he suspected he'd end up killing the plants. That was what had happened the last time his family had trusted him with a potted tomato plant. To be fair, he had been only ten, but it had left deep emotional scars.

So maybe not the best idea. But still the best one he'd had yet. He didn't know how long he'd be staying here, whether he'd meet anyone tolerable, whether he'd have to move on from here as well, whether his brother Philippe—away on family business for the past two years—would have anything to say about it when he returned. His control of the future was even shakier than his ability to grow tomatoes. So he avoided thoughts of the future, and thought only of fixing the house and day to day tasks.

Thoughts of the past were less easily avoided.

They came to him in free moments—as he stopped to eat, as he restlessly tried to sleep. Thoughts of his family, left behind. Thoughts of the Phantom.

Thoughts of Christine.

She had looked beautiful that night, the night of Il Muto. She'd been given the part of the countess partly because the opera ghost wanted it for her and partly because Raoul, patron and therefore somewhat influential, had intervened.

The intermission lasted half an hour, and the first couple scenes of the second act did not require Christine's presence, lengthening her absence from the stage to roughly forty-five minutes. Raoul should not have dragged her up to opera house roof regardless—it was a terribly irresponsible thing to do to a diva in the middle of a performance. But she had been very busy lately and he longed to talk to her in private and he knew her dressing room walls had ears.

So they had stood in the crunching snow, Raoul in his suit with a pair of opera glasses slipped into his pocket, and Christine in her countess costume with a cloak over it to keep the cold out. He had intended to praise her performance, and only to keep her a moment. But as they talked about this and that, the little things which kept an opera house running, he found the restlessness in his chest would not subside.

So he took out the ring, which he had not planned on presenting for another few days at least, and he asked her in a voice far too loud for the hushed rooftop whether or not she would marry him.

She had gotten very red at first and her eyes had widened, and she had stuttered, "Why Raoul…that can't…I thought your family…"

"I don't care about my title," Raoul said. "They can disown me if they want, if they think marrying an opera girl is such a dishonor. I don't think they would. But even if they did, it is much more important to me to have you than anything else in this world."

"But Raoul, you know I never intend to marry."

"You could still sing. I would not stop you." It would be hideously improper, especially if Raoul escaped disownment, but he hardly cared. "You can do anything you want, only I wish that you would let me be with you. A lifetime without you would be…"

"Raoul," Christine said, suddenly stern, "Really."

The single word from her, so harsh and brief, made him stop more quickly than any long protest would have.

"You know we can't get married," she continued. "It would have been nice, once. But we can't and you know it and I don't see why you have to bring it up now."

"Why would it be any different now?"

Christine gestured vaguely at the air. When she saw Raoul did not understand she hissed, "Hasn't the Angel said anything to you at all?"

"Christine, you know he isn't really an Angel…"

"Fine, the Phantom! He's not a Phantom either but as you please. Hasn't he spoken to you at all?"

"We speak about music. He does not mind my associating with you anymore…"

"If you had heard some of the things he has said to me, you would know he minds. In a different way now, but that has hardly changed." Christine put her hands on Raoul's shoulders. "You silly boy. You told me he'd brought you to his house, talked with you in private. You told me he sang for you."

Raoul shivered. Partly at the memory of the Phantom's voice—always haunting, human or no—partly at the touch of Christine's hands. It was torture to have her stand so close while she rejected him, torture to see the tenderly patient look on her face. But he could not bring himself to pull away.

"He does not sing for many. If he has sung to you, he wants you. And if he wants you," Christine said, "Then it is very foolish of you to talk about getting married."

Finally, she was the one to walk away. Raoul did not stop her—she had a performance to return to, after all. But he called after her, "I love you!"

"That does not matter."

"The Phantom is the one who does not matter," Raoul said. "I love you. I do not care about anything he has said to you or to me. Please, Christine…"

That was the night the chandelier fell. But Raoul did not talk to the Phantom about it until later.

/…/…/

Christine was the first person Erik sought out. The obvious choice, really.

"Your lover has fled town," he said to her the next day, after dropping in on her dressing room through the mirror. "An odd choice so soon after proposing to you, don't you think?"

Christine glared at him. She was an odd one. She always obeyed him and advised others to do the same, but when she was with him she hardly ever showed any fear. He thought he liked that.

"You know perfectly well he isn't my lover. I didn't know he'd left. But if he did you know the reason as well as I."

"Didn't know he left. You expect me to believe he left without telling you? The Vicomte de Chagny, leave Paris without telling his beloved Christine? As if you don't know every thought that passes through his mind! You'll have to come up with a better story than that, my dear."

Perhaps he began speaking with too much energy, or perhaps he stepped too close to her—close enough, in fact, that his mask was only inches away from her face. She seemed a little shaken either way. But she put her hands on her hips. "If you keep speaking so loudly, Angel, someone will hear and there will be rumors."

Erik laughed. They had both given up on the rumors long ago. "Tell me where the Vicomte is, dearest. He will have told you where he was going. And it is his own damn fault for running away—you should not have to protect him."

"He did not speak to me. You should know that already; you watch us closely enough. When would we have met? No, you would have seen us."

Erik grabbed her arm. "Tell me."

"You are being foolish," Christine said. Her face was set in stone. "If you could calm yourself, you would know I am telling you the truth, as I always have."

He squeezed her arm briefly—his fingers were trembling on it, when had they started trembling—looked into her eyes, and stepped back.

No. Perhaps not. Raoul was often a moron but at times he could also be very shrewd, and of course Christine had not been such an ally to him lately. His leaving without informing Christine was a possibility. If it were true, Raoul had committed more to this idiotic escape plan than Erik would have expected.

"He did not speak to you," he said, testing out the words.

Christine silently shook her head. Her eyes were wide.

Erik sighed. Christine had been his best lead. There was no chance of convincing the family to talk to him: they had no motive to talk to an opera ghost, no personal relationship and for that matter no reason to believe his threats. Unless he kidnapped one of them or attacked one…but no, Raoul was unlikely to forgive that. Besides, they were women and women to whom he had no connection. The idea left a bad taste in his mouth.

"You may as yet have some idea of where he would go," he said to Christine, grasping at threads. "I remember at one time he often tried to persuade you to leave Paris with him. That must have left you with some small clue."

"We talked about going to Sweden, Angel," Christine said. "And he intended to leave me once I was safe. He has no reason to go to Sweden now."

"Of course not," Erik said. Sweden? Dear Lord. If he had to travel overseas to catch up with Raoul, it would be a hard decision to make. He had not left his nest in Paris since he arrived from Persia, which was many years ago now. Sweden? But of course Christine was probably right. No need to worry about foreign climes. Not yet, at any rate.

He studied Christine's face. "And there is no other possibility you can think of?"

"No."

Was she telling the truth? Maybe, maybe not. If she was lying it would be a devil of a time getting anything out of her, and if she was telling the truth he did not like to abuse her honesty. With a frustrated groan, he turned back to the mirror. If he found evidence she was lying, he could always come back.

/…/…/

Raoul had not waited long to seek out the Phantom the night the chandelier dropped. He had known, of course, that it had to be the Phantom. Everyone had known, though some continued to deny it. There were policemen running here and there around the scene, talking to everyone from the managers to Buquet to Raoul himself, who was lucky that sitting in the audience with others had given him an alibi. They thought it could be no accident that a sturdy chandelier could fall so suddenly—killing two people and injuring almost ten more—in the middle of a performance by Christine Daae, whose presence had coincided with so many other odd occurrences. But they were determined to say it had to be a person set on malice, an ordinary suspect. They laughed when Raoul wearily told them, again and again, that it had to be the Phantom.

"The opera ghost is a hoax someone is playing on the managers to get money. This is a bit much escalation for him, whoever he is. And don't tell me he's really a ghost," the highest ranking police officer told Raoul indulgently. "We've had enough people…"

"Of course he's not a ghost, he's a man. I've met him."

"Met him?"

"Yes. He took me down to his lair—it's under the opera house, you know, across the lake—we went through the mirror…"

The policemen nodded very seriously as they listened to Raoul's tale before patting him on the back and telling him that they would continue to investigate and of course no one suspected Raoul himself. And leaving.

The opera house was mostly deserted now, even though it had been chaotic only a little bit earlier. There was still glass all over eight rows of seats, not to mention some of them were candle singed. The air still felt like static, uncomfortably still. But nearly everyone was gone, and only the area of the accident and the rafters were currently off limits. So Raoul went to Box Five and he sat down in the front row, and he waited.

He waited for half an hour before bothering to speak. "I know you're there."

Silence.

"And I know you did that because in your own fucked up way you think killing people at your own opera house is a way to punish me." He swallowed. "If you have something to say to me, come out."

Silence.

Raoul's laughter bounced off the box walls, echoing back at him in crystalline shards of madness. "Coward."

A hand fell on his arm.

He turned, acid already poised on his tongue. It was Madame Giry.

"Monsieur, it is not safe here," she said. Her brow was creased with worry. "He is angry today, very angry. You should not be in his box…"

"He is angry at me."

"All the more reason!"

"I am going to speak to him," Raoul said. He clenched the arms of his seat. "Please, Madame Giry. I can put an end to all of this."

Madame Giry shook her head. "There is no end."

But she left him alone. And he sat there, waiting, as the lights in the opera house went out one by one, until he sat in total blackness. Waiting. Exhaustion had drained the strength from his body and mind, but he knew he would not sleep. Paranoia was the best stimulant.

It had been a long time, how long he did not know, when a voice boomed out in the darkness, "You are very bold, Vicomte, to try to command my presence."

Raoul whirled around—the voice seemed to come from behind him. Of course he could see nothing.

"And after the way you behaved yourself today." Now the voice seemed to come from in front. "I would have thought my demonstration would teach you to be more…docile."

"You killed two people."

"I hear a third has died of her injuries," the voice added. "But let us be honest. You did not know any of them. You should know that is a mercy, coming from me."

"They had nothing to do with me, and you killed them anyway. But I had done nothing to anger you."

"Hadn't you?"

Now the voice seemed to come from directly behind Raoul, even from the next row. It said, "Should I have made myself clearer? You told Christine you did not care about me, in any case. But for future reference, I will tell you plainly: You will not marry. You will not try to court anyone. You will not kiss or touch anyone, or allow them to do likewise to you. And if someone shows an interest in you…well, I won't blame you. You are a very pretty boy after all. But you will discourage them, and do so firmly. Is that clear enough, this time?"

Raoul spoke through his teeth. "I don't see what my romantic interests have to do with you."

"Don't you?"

For a moment, Raoul thought he felt something touch his cheek. It could have been the brush of fabric, a sleeve or a glove. Or as easily a cobweb, or the wing of a moth. By the time he reached up to grab it, there was nothing there.

It might as easily have been his imagination.

The voice spoke, now from a distance, almost faded out entirely. "I think you do."

/…/…/

Erik searched Raoul's room up and down. He did not know what the de Chagny family thought when they found the Vicomte's room trashed and his letters from Christine missing (letters Erik almost decided to burn before storing them away somewhere safe in his own house). It hardly mattered. He interrogated Madame Giry with no results, and sent angry letters to the managers inquiring as to the Vicomte's location. All fruitless. The managers, he overheard, did not know where Raoul had gone, and Madame Giry told him as much to his face. He had not truly thought they would, but there had been a slight chance Raoul might have slipped up.

His greatest fear was that Raoul had done something stupid like taking a naval commission, something that would keep him away and out of Erik's reach for years. But surely that would have taken more preparation. And he was almost certain Raoul had not been planning on this course of action until the week before he left. That was his best clue, and for the most part his only clue.

For a month, he tried to find information about the Vicomte. Rumors were spreading, of course, over where the opera house's patron might have gone. It was not like him to leave without notice, for although he could be a flighty young man he at least usually left information with his relatives, and apparently, according to some rumors at least, he had only told his relatives that he wanted to get away from Paris, and nothing else. Moreover the proposal to Christine had quickly become common knowledge. The broken heart of a lover, the old women said, and they nodded wisely. But, the old men argued, wouldn't he have stayed even after a defeat like that, and continued to throw himself at Christine's feet? He had suffered rejection from Miss Daae before.

Did he have a new lover? It was common enough for a man who had suffered disappointment to recklessly pluck lower hanging fruits. So perhaps he had merely wandered off to a whore house for a while, some said, which might well be for the best. It was still less disgraceful than marrying an opera girl. Practically customary.

Of course Erik knew Raoul had done no such thing. He was far too enamored of Christine still, and besides Erik had warned him, and Raoul had seemed shaken by his threats. He would not disobey such an explicit command. He would not dare.

If he had, Erik would have to come up with a better punishment than the first. This time Raoul knew better.

He tried not to listen to that particular strand of gossip. But it was difficult, as days passed one after another with no sign of where Raoul really might have gone. Until at last a clue did arrive, courtesy of Raoul himself. Although it might have been more direct to say courtesy of the National Post.

It was an envelope addressed to the managers. Usually Erik would not have found it before the managers did, but he'd been going through their mail lately just in case something like this did show up. And lo and behold, there it was. With a return address in the corner.

When he opened it he found the monthly check for the opera house. Of course even far away Raoul was diligent in such matters. Erik smiled fondly, thinking of Raoul carefully writing out the check. He had not forgotten the Opera Populaire, even far away. Of course he hadn't.

Erik left the check on the managers' desk with the rest of the mail. All he needed was the envelope. Well, that and a good horse. He wasn't terribly fond of trains.

/…/…/

At first Raoul had felt isolated in his little cottage. The snow made it difficult to get to town very often, and the town itself was much smaller than he was used to. He didn't know anyone there, though the shop keepers were very friendly and he did attend one winter festival with music and plenty of wine and beer. Still, the one thing that really helped him to feel like he was still connected to humanity was the company of the old woman who had first given him the keys. She showed up now and again at his doorstep, bringing him extra food because she suspected his cooking was terrible (which it was), checking that he still had enough firewood and bringing him local gossip about people he didn't know. He had begun to think of her as a friend. It was easier, perhaps, because she reminded him of Madame Giry, who had always been very kind to him.

(Her kindness had been partially because she worshipped the Phantom and therefore liked Raoul as the Phantom's "special friend". But Raoul had tried to ignore that.)

This old woman was named Louise. It seemed an odd name for her, the sort of name that properly belonged to a young girl in her prime, perhaps one of the ballerinas back at the opera house. But then, she had many stories about being a young girl, mostly about all the young men she used to attract, so perhaps it did suit her after all.

A few days after Raoul sent the check to the opera house in the mail (and he hoped the snow didn't make it arrive late), Louise was over yet again, having brought with her a simple pot of leftover broth which she said he'd have to warm up. He did so while she was still there, and she shook her head and commented that she was glad that he at least was able to warm up food correctly. It had taken surprisingly little time for her to become familiar with him. She still called him "Monsieur de Chagny" but in a very patronizing voice. The kind of voice commoners always used to insinuate that the upper class was a little stupid.

Raoul had to admit that in his case at least, when it came to running a house, she was not wrong.

"And have you been making any of your own food, Monsieur de Chagny?"

"The other day in town I bought a head of cabbage," Raoul said. He took it out of the cupboard. "I also bought a few carrots. I thought I could make a soup…"

Louise clicked her tongue. "Monsieur, you are not quite ready for soup, I do not think. But it might not do any harm to try…a man really ought to know some of these things, although I'm sure back in Paris you have professional cooks far better than me." She smiled self deprecatingly, but not really. "Perhaps I will write down some instructions for you, and we will see how you do."

There was no "perhaps" about it really. But Raoul was grateful for the help. He should really have tried to obtain a few recipes or instructions before leaving home, but in his haste to flee the Phantom he had forgotten about certain essentials. He had known of a house, he had packed clothes, and he had completely forgotten the need for food.

"I will return in a day or so," Louise promised him that evening. "To see how your cabbage soup turns out. I have faith you will do well enough." No, her eyes said. No, you won't do well at all. But it's adorable how you keep trying.

Raoul grimaced and thanked her.

A blizzard hit the next day, though no one in town had predicted it. Raoul brought in as much firewood as possible and tried to keep the fire high. His cabbage soup turned out overcooked but otherwise decent. He was sipping it with a spoon when a knock came on the door.

Hoping Louise hadn't really come out in this weather—he would have to make her stay the night if she had, with the way the snow had misted the air—he opened the door to see instead a tall, dark figure with a high collar and a low hat obscuring its entire face. It had been long enough that for a moment he wondered if someone else had come in from town before it clicked (oh) and he tried to slam the door in the person's face.

The Phantom (for of course it was the Phantom) caught the door with his left arm and pushed his way in before shutting it and latching it behind him. Raoul backed up one step, two steps, three steps. He kept on backing up until he was standing next to the fireplace. It occurred to him that he might take a burning log and hurl it at the Phantom's face, an effective weapon enough. But he would probably burn his hands and arms in the process, and although the Phantom was human enough to be hurt he was also strong and agile. Unless Raoul could get a more easily handled weapon than that, it was better to wait.

The Phantom, meanwhile, had taken off his long coat and hat, revealing his typical attire beneath: opera suit and mask, only embellished with a long red scarf (Raoul thought of Christine for a moment before refocusing) and stronger boots than usual.

"You have a nice place here, Monsieur," the Phantom said. "I had to ask for directions in town—It's a little out of the way! I'm surprised you would choose to move somewhere so inconvenient." He shook his head. "After living in style in Paris, you prefer this?"

Raoul fought the impulse to explain how the house had been passed down in his family and defend the area to the Phantom. Instead he said, "Get out."

The Phantom said, "Back into the storm? Monsieur, you have no heart." He stepped over to the table where Raoul had been eating and sat down. "Pour me some soup. It's good on a night like this to have sustenance."

/…/…/

It was bad form, really, to play with Raoul before getting down to business. But Erik couldn't help it. He was very relieved to see Raoul again, safe and well and far away from any whore house, and business was going to be unpleasant. He had no desire to jump to it immediately. A little dinner might be better first.

Unfortunately the cabbage soup was disgusting, and Erik's desire to linger over it quickly fled. He took a few bites before turning to Raoul and saying, "So. Are you ready to apologize?"

"For what? Proposing to Christine?"

"Leaving Paris without telling me," Erik said. "Leaving at all, for that matter—I would never have given you permission to leave me and you know it. A patron of the opera house belongs near it at all times." He touched Raoul's hand with his own, enjoying the way it made Raoul shiver. "And you belong near me, not hiding out in some run down shack in the middle of nowhere."

Raoul pulled away. He stood, almost knocking the chair over. "You do not dictate where I go or when. You do not control anything I do."

"Don't I?"

"You're the opera ghost. We're not in the opera house. This," Raoul said, gesturing around him, "Is not your domain."

"But you are. You came to me. You chose my opera house to patronize, you listened to my music. And you are mine now," Erik said. He shook his head. "What will it take for you to accept that fact?"

He took another spoonful of the soup. "This is disgusting. I'm not sure what you're trying to prove, living like this…"

"I'm doing fine."

"No you're not. Really it's a good thing you'll be going back to Paris with me tomorrow." Not that Erik particularly cared. He would have pulled Raoul out of the lap of luxury if necessary. But it was always nice when circumstances let you play the altruist.

Raoul laughed. "No one will even be able to travel on the road tomorrow. And I'm going nowhere with you." He walked to the fireplace and poked at the logs there.

Erik rose. "Monsieur. I think you need to accept your situation…"

It was at this point that Raoul tried to stab Erik with the hot poker. Erik dodged and grabbed Raoul's hand.

"You want to play games?"

He had been trying to do this nicely. Now he squeezed Raoul's hand until he dropped the poker before chopping Raoul in the collarbone. As Raoul stumbled back, Erik picked the poker up by its cool end, grabbed Raoul's other hand, the left one, and smacked it with the red hot end of the poker. Then, as Raoul howled, he put the poker back on its hook by the fireplace.

Raoul had not stopped clutching his hand when Erik grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, shoving him to the floor face first. "I know I never specifically told you not to attack me, but I feel like that should have been obvious."

"Let go of me."

"Stop making such a fuss." He released Raoul's arm and turned him over so that he was lying on his back. Glancing at the left hand, he smiled. "That will probably leave a scar. You know, a friend of mine used to believe I got my deformity from a fire. It's not true, but I still feel rather a sympathy with burn scars. They're very ugly, you know. Of course this one will be small and you could cover it with a glove, but…" He reached out a hand to touch Raoul's face. "If you continue behaving the way you currently are, Monsieur, I could be persuaded to give you another."

Raoul shuddered.

Erik pulled him to his feet. "Are we going to have more trouble?"

Raoul shook his head. He tried to back away, but Erik grabbed his shoulder. "Answer me aloud, please."

"Fine. I won't try to attack you again."

It wasn't everything Erik wanted. He hadn't said he belonged to Erik, hadn't agreed to return to Paris, hadn't admitted he was wrong. Still, it was a start, and perhaps the rest of this would be less painful for both of them. Erik leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. His skin tasted of sweat. "Good boy."

Certain now of Raoul's docility, he put on his coat and headed out the door to pick up a handful of snow. He wanted the burn to scar, but without proper treatment it could get infected. He would have to cool it off and clean it. Perhaps by the time he was done Raoul would remember how much Erik truly cared about him. Perhaps he would remember how happy he had been for a time at the Opera Populaire, how happy he could be with Erik again.

/…/…/

Louise came to visit the house of the Vicomte de Chagny later than she planned, two days later. She brought homemade bread with her as an apology (and also because she suspected that apart from the cabbage soup he'd had nothing to eat through the storm). But when she arrived at the rickety cottage, she found the door left open, snow sweeping into the house, and the Vicomte gone.

There was a note on the table.

"Louise, the Vicomte says you will be worried about him. There is no need to fear. I came to fetch him back to Paris and I'm afraid he did not expect to have to leave so soon. Nevertheless he is quite well and he thanks you for your kindness and friendship toward him throughout his stay."

The handwriting was messy and large but still flourished. Typical of an undereducated woman, perhaps. Louise remembered a story about the Vicomte being in love with a common opera girl back in Paris, a woman by the name of Daae. She smiled.

A brave woman, no doubt, to have come through such a storm. And a fine woman to have considered Louise's worries. Well, no need to worry about old Louise—she would take care of herself, and the house as well, until the Vicomte had need of it again. And in the meantime, she hoped the Vicomte would feel less out of place in Paris than he had here. He had always seemed a bit awkward, nervous…well, a lover could rectify all of that.

"Take care of him," she said to the unsigned letter. And she slipped it into her coat pocket. There was snow to sweep out of the entrance. It was best she get to work.

/.../.../

AN: This fic was written for the prompt "E/R, 'You belong to me and you need to accept it'." So hopefully I followed through on that prompt.

At various points of this fic, though, I was tempted to just leave Raoul in his cozy run down cottage with Louise and his fireplace, or possibly have him and Erik settle down there. Alas, that was never going to happen in this fic. But hey, maybe they'll go back someday. It's always a possibility.

Also I don't know what canon this is tbh but the Madame Giry here is a Leroux!Madame Giry. So if you thought she was kind of OOC, that's why.

Reviews would be much appreciated.