That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive.I call

That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will't please you sit and look at her?

-Robert Browning, "My Last Duchess

The painting on the wall is only slightly above eye level. Raoul can see the whole thing easily when he steps back and looks up. The gold frame is bright against the wall, which is pure black wood, unlike much of the rest of this house, which wallpapered looks far too civilized for its location beneath an opera house, surrounded by a murky lake. Everything about the house is civilized and elegant; it's odd for the location but it suits the owner.

The owner, Erik, who stands close at Raoul's side now. If owner he may be called. Certainly he is the man who lives here, but Raoul is not sure whether or not he actually owns this piece of property—anything here, after all, ought properly to belong to the Opera Populaire.

Erik touches Raoul's arm. "Do you like the painting?"

Raoul nods. It's true, more or less. It makes him sad to look at it, but that is hardly the painting's fault, and it is a masterful likeness. Now is not the time to speak of his private woes.

"You perhaps recognize the subject?"

"Am I that obvious?"

"Oh, monsieur, I do not know what you mean. Only Christine Daae was for a while very popular at the Opera Populaire—I'm sure you saw her sing at least once or twice."

"I saw her sing many times," Raoul says. He leaves it at that.

Erik smiles. His smile always looks a little wicked. It's partly because of the mask he wears, which covers half his face—even though the left side of his face may smile, the right side will always be in disagreement. It's a little charming, maybe, but it also makes Raoul nervous.

"She is good, isn't she?" he says.

"Every time I heard her," Raoul says. "But I haven't heard her in many months."

"They say she ran off to sing in Madrid, some people. Or in Persia! But I don't believe any of that, because where better to partake in the arts than right here in Paris?" Erik shakes his head. "What do you think, monsieur? Do you think, like some, she ran off with a lover?"

"No, I do not think that," Raoul says.

"Oh?" Erik says. "You sound very certain. Perhaps you knew her, monsieur?"

Raoul met Erik in the wake of Christine's disappearance. Several months ago now, and it felt like a lifetime. He had been devastated and desperate at the time, devastated by Christine having left or vanished off to who knew where and desperate to figure out what on Earth might have happened to her. Yes, at the time he had been convinced something must have happened to her. Because, he told himself, she would not leave without telling him where she was going. They were…well, they weren't lovers, exactly, and they weren't fiancées no matter how much it would have pleased Raoul, but they were friends. Good friends, who trusted each other with everything, and who occasionally went out to dinner together or for a stroll in the park or an event at the museum. Companionable. Close.

He had been working himself up to propose to her. He had to work himself up because his family was dead against it. Philippe in particular, who said it was a stupid idea to marry a girl with no title of her own, no family to speak of, who said he thought, despite all proof to the contrary, that Raoul would have better taste than that. Or at least better sense.

When she disappeared, he continued attending operas regularly, religiously. He told Philippe that here was proof he had not only attended because of her in the first place, but because he enjoyed the spectacle. He told himself that if he stuck around the opera house he might find a clue as to where she had gone, or what had occurred. And he told no one, nor would he even admit, that he was clinging to the shreds of memories, going to the opera like it was weekly mass, because it was all that he had left of a girl who had not esteemed him as well as he had thought.

He had listened to rumors, but the rumors of Christine had died down faster than he had expected, most people content to say she was a flash in the pan, a one-day marvel, a freak prodigy who either lost her mind or ran away with a lover—possibly, the nastiest whispered, because she got pregnant. Nothing that interesting. The talk moved on to more relevant subjects in her absence: Carlotta's newest affairs, for example, and of course the ever-present specter of the opera ghost of Box Five.

None of it interested Raoul, until one day he met the opera ghost himself.

It was at a masquerade party at the Opera Populaire. Raoul, who had never attended a dance without either Christine or Philippe at his arm, telling him who was who and what to do and helping him not lose himself in the crowd, was hiding in a corner, watching nostalgically as fairies danced with soldiers and devils danced with playing cards and birds danced with foxes. He himself was dressed in some ensemble that didn't signify much, a black mask and suit, but nothing spectacular. And he didn't want to dance—he had come for Philippe's sake, but he didn't feel like dancing.

A man wandered over to him dressed as the Red Death, a marvelous costume. He leaned against the wall next to Raoul, and said, "I see you're not having a good time."

Raoul shook his head before realizing that might be a bit too honest.

The man had touched his shoulder as casually as a friend, and pulled him away from the corner. "Do you want me to show you something interesting?"

Raoul had thought he knew every corner of the opera house after the amount Christine had dragged him around, through every floor and nook and cranny. But the Red Death took him up one floor and then the next, and the next and the next and the next. And then they were on the roof, and he took Raoul over to the statue of Apollo.

"I've seen it before," Raoul said.

The man shook his head. "You've looked, I do not doubt. But seen?"

He spent the next hour telling Raoul about the Apollo. First he spoke about the history of the statue, how it was commissioned, its crafting and gilding, what it symbolized in relation to the opera house. Then he began to speak of Greek mythology, and who Apollo truly was: the teller of truth, the one who spoke Oedipus' doom, a chaser of Daphne, a successor to Helios…

Raoul listened to him talk for far too long. His voice had the quality of a singer or perhaps a preacher, melodious and yet authoritative. Hypnotic, even. Raoul lost track of the various details of myth and history he mentioned, and began to only listen to his voice.

Until at last he stopped. "Come, the party is nearly over. Your brother will be looking for you."

"Oh! Of course."

They parted when they had returned to the grand foyer. "It was nice meeting you, monsieur…"

"Erik, though many call me a ghost. I found it enlightening to meet you as well, Monsieur de Chagny."

As Raoul wandered off, he wondered how well known he was around the opera house by now that a stranger knew both his name and that he had an overbearing brother. He never thought much of his own reputation, but it was an odd thing to be known.

It was only later, hearing rumors that the ghost had been at the masquerade in the guise of the Red Death, that Raoul considered to whom he might have spoken.

"Well, whether you knew her or not," Erik says, looking up at the painting meditatively, "I certainly do. I was the one who did this portrait."

Raoul starts. He knew Erik was an artist of many sorts—painter, musician, composer, architect even—so it was not so much a surprise that he might have painted such a work. But that he knew Christine…

"How did you know her?" he asks.

"You speak of her as if she is dead, monsieur."

"Well, she is gone at least. Though not dead, I hope."

Erik says, "I was her teacher for a time. People marveled that she became such a good singer with no teacher—no one becomes that good without a tutor. I taught her, because I thought she was good enough to be taught. And she has a good heart. That is important as well." He smiles slightly, just as wicked as before. "Are you surprised to hear I would teach? Well, I lower myself on occasion."

Every time Raoul and Erik met after the first night, Erik had proven himself more and more a connoisseur of the arts, and far more knowledgeable, far more refined than Raoul. That he would teach is indeed strange, but once again it is not what causes Raoul wonder. Not in this case.

He wets his lips. "I did know her."

"Oh?"

"We were friends. Did she never speak of me?"

"We spoke of many things. Singing, primarily, and high culture. The way I speak to you. She was my chosen pupil at the time, the one I chose to favor in all the world." Erik puts a hand on the small of Raoul's back, barely pressing. "You understand what an honor that is, don't you?"

"But then do you know where she went?" Raoul asks. Of course he knows it's an honor to get Erik's attention. Erik has said it time and time again. "Perhaps she confided in you…"

"If you were friends, wouldn't you be the one she might confide in? Not a teacher, surely."

"Well, she did not."

"I remember when she sat for this painting," Erik says, changing the subject easily. He always ignores what Raoul wants to talk about—and when Raoul is not hypnotized by the timbre of his voice, it can be irritating. "Most of it I did from memory, you know, but she sat for it on and off. I would tell her to smile, but she would sometimes balk. Then I would have to make little jokes and compliments—I would tell her how pretty she would look in my painting, how pretty she looked onstage. Women are easily flattered."

"But, please monsieur…"

Erik had a certain obsession with smiles.

His own was always partly obscured, and Raoul was always somewhat convinced that somehow, the right side of his face was not smiling even when he was. He would never take off that mask, even when Raoul begged him. Even during sex.

They first had sex four months after their first meeting. Throughout those four months they had met regularly, under odd circumstances most often. After an opera performance, Erik would speak to Raoul as from a distance, throwing his voice, and summon him to an abandoned room where they could talk about current events and high culture at leisure, often with a bottle of (possibly stolen) wine. He would keep Raoul up late with such conversations. Other times he would send Raoul notes at home, telling him to come to a particular show that Raoul might not even have been planning to attend, and to sit in Box Five.

"Who's writing you?" Philippe would ask, and Raoul would answer with one lie or another—another aristocrat, or an opera girl, or even the managers. Somehow he did not think Philippe would approve of Raoul meeting up with an opera ghost in his free time, even if said opera ghost was making him appreciate art and writing and music more than Philippe ever had. Even if Erik was the only reason Raoul wasn't still moping over Christine.

Meetings in Box Five were nicer than other meetings. They were more private, and Raoul didn't constantly feel like someone was going to walk in on them. Of course there was nothing illicit about talking to a man in a mask, but something about Erik's attitude towards him, no matter how patronizing and dignified, felt somehow lewd.

When they finally did have sex, he felt justified in his opinion. Yes, Erik had been terribly lewd, hadn't he? The way he would drop his voice when he talked about the rape of Leda, and how he would brush his hand again Raoul's side or his back or even just his arm, exerting just the right amount of pressure to make Raoul tingle up and down. The way he looked at Raoul, sometimes fixating on his lips or his chest or his crotch rather than his face. Raoul had known what Erik wanted, and he had been right. Of course he hadn't been bold enough to make any advances towards Erik, leaving everything in Erik's field, but when Erik had finally kissed him, open mouthed and thirsty, he had been ready.

But even when he jerked Raoul off on the velvet lined seat, or later on when Raoul sucked his cock in reciprocation, he didn't take off the mask. And afterwards, as he panted and stared off into the distance, Raoul couldn't help but feel there was something sinister about it. As if, should he take off the mask, that last third of his face would be laughing at Raoul and deriding him.

He did not say this to Erik, for he knew by now Erik did not like to talk about the mask. But he smiled when Erik said to him, in a breathless voice, "Good boy." And he continued to smile as Erik carded a hand through his hair, tiredly affectionate.

"That's how I knew," Erik said, regaining his breath.

"What do you mean?"

"The first time we spoke to each other, you smiled at me like that. No, you don't need to be self conscious. It's lovely, really…the way your whole face opens up. Your eyes, your mouth." He smirked a little on the word mouth, wicked as always. "I knew you would let me have you then."

Raoul was a little shocked.

"Why did you think I kept coming back? But you wanted me, I knew that…no, you don't have to be embarrassed about it. I knew you could desire a man in a mask, I knew you had a taste for learning and for higher things. That's nothing to be ashamed of."

Raoul thought that sucking cock wasn't really one of the higher things, but he allowed Erik to be grandiose. At least he was speaking well about Raoul, even if he was very arrogant.

"Tell me," Erik said, insinuating and slow. "That is what it means when you smile, isn't it? That you want to be fucked? It means you're lusting like a dog, doesn't it."

It wasn't the kind of dirty talk Raoul liked. He said, "You smile too."

"Not at everyone," Erik said. "Not at everyone."

"But monsieur," Raoul says, "surely you know something. Did she speak about other cities often?" He does not believe she would have returned to Sweden. Well, she might have, but it seems dreadfully unlikely.

"She was flattered very easily," Erik says. "Like all women. Like you. You're very easily flattered, you know?"

"Please, you have to tell me."

"It's not a bad thing to be easily flattered," Erik says. "It makes you easy to love, I suppose, and you look very pretty when you blush. Ah! See, you're blushing now. So there you have it—you believe me when I say such things, too. Just like her."

Raoul is indeed blushing, but he is also angry. "Please, monsieur, stick to the topic at hand."

"Ah yes. The painting. But I am sticking to the topic. I tell you, she blushed as easily as you. But she did not smile as easily. I told her not to smile too much at the managers and at her fellow performers, though it was well to smile in a performance since I would be watching."

Yes, Christine always smiled during performances, every time Raoul used to watch her.

"And then one day," Erik says. "Along came a boy who knew nothing about art or culture or anything worth knowing, with little social grace or even courtesy, and the minute she saw him she smiled more brightly than she had ever smiled at me."

He himself is not smiling anymore. His fists are clenched, and he glares at the painting.

Raoul stares. He's never seen Erik this upset before. And he had thought Erik didn't know him before the masquerade ball, only four months ago—had thought at the very least Erik didn't know anything about his previous relationship with Christine.

He feels as if he has been peeled apart now, by Erik's observing eyes, Erik's knowledge. His humble secrets and fragile heart bared naked—although Christine was never exactly a secret, the days he had spent with her, and with her delicately radiant smile, had been some of the most intimate experiences of his life.

"You watched us?" he asks Erik. When Erik does not respond, he says, "I thought you did not know me before we met. Were you only pretending to first meet me then?" He knows Erik is not exactly an upright citizen, with his blackmailing letters to the managers, his mask, his elaborately concealed house. Nevertheless he had believed there to be honesty between them, the honesty appropriate between two lovers.

Erik at last turns away from the painting, though he is still tense. He says, "I apologize for not telling you about this sooner. Opportunities passed one after another…still, I thought you should know that I knew Christine. That was one reason that I approached you in the first place. When she was gone, I found I missed her warmth, and I remembered that she had found her match in you. I wanted to be near someone who knew her." He touches Raoul's cheek. "Will you forgive me? But I have never lied to you, only omitted the truth."

Raoul swallows.

He is not sure he has followed all of Erik's story, or that he believes it. Christine never mentioned a teacher, never spoke of the opera ghost…but how else would Erik have such a detailed portrait of her here? And Erik has no reason to lie to him.

"Please. Are you sure you do not know what happened to her?"

"No. I am sure she left for her own reasons. Perhaps she may even come back, one day," Erik says. "You miss her smile, don't you? Well, I do as well. But I have it here, immortalized, the way she smiled just for me. Though I suppose you have seen it now too."

The beauty in the painting is suddenly unbearable. Raoul drops his gaze to the ground. But Erik takes his chin and guides it up, looks him in the eye.

"I have upset you now."

Raoul pushes Erik away. "Well, that should not surprise you."

"No need to be embarrassed," Erik says. He keeps his hands at his sides now, but his eyes sweep down Raoul's body. "It is understandable, since you loved her…besides, I do not think you should ever be ashamed of getting angry. It's a good look on you. It sets your face in porcelain, and then breaks it apart." He steps closer and reaches out, but retreats when Raoul flinches away. "No, you look altogether beautiful. I must paint a picture of you someday, monsieur. In oils. You would like that, wouldn't you? Come now. Do not be angry with me."

"I am not angry."

"Good," Erik murmurs. "Good boy."

"I miss her."

And at last he goes to Erik and embraces him, body trembling. Erik's arms around him are strong and firm.

"I do too, love. I do too."

AN:

In general this fic is based on "My Last Duchess" by Robert Browning, so if you feel like you're missing something, that might be why. One of my favorite poems, probably.

"But what happened to Christine?" Good question. What do you think happened to Christine?

Anyways I had fun writing this because it's been a while since I've written some nice, extremely shady E/R. And it's a dynamic I always enjoy. This is a bit shorter than my E/R fics usually run, but maybe that means I've just grown more concise. One can hope.

Cross-posting this from AO3 almost two months late :) I've been a little bit absent on ffn, I know. Apologies.

Reviews are always much appreciated.