Erik saw what he thought was their first kiss together. It was quick and hesitant and both looked shy afterwards. Raoul blushed and smiled like a buffoon. A hand started to rise to his lips before he caught it. He all but giggled like a schoolgirl.
He was almost certain it was the first kiss of the boy's life. Christine... He didn't think so. She'd been the one to lean into the soft kiss, and she'd seemed less startled than Raoul. The difference was even more apparent in the second kiss. She caressed his cheek, while he didn't seem certain what to do with his hands, until they found hers on her lap. The second kiss was longer, but still soft, more or less chaste. Raoul's cheeks were still flushed. He looked equal parts giddy and flustered. Christine laughed kindly at him.
Erik hated them.
No. He hated Raoul. He was a child; he would never appreciate what it meant to have been blessed with Christine's affections. Erik had never been kissed in his life either, but he had been denied the pleasures of the flesh by the accident of his birth. Who could be asked to willingly touch, let alone kiss, a living corpse? The Vicomte, though, had been granted every privilege. He had wealth, status, family, beauty (not handsome, but instead too pretty). If he hadn't kissed a woman before it was only because he was too immature and fearful. He seemed shy and awkward whenever Erik observed him away from Christine. Women probably saw this socially incompetent little boy and rightfully scorned him.
Except for Christine. Why? Erik could understand why Christine would reject him, but not why she would then fix her attention on this child, this whelp, this... this...
Erik hated him. He wanted to kill him, smash that pretty face to bits, choke the life out of him and see the light go out of those guileless blue eyes. Maybe it was Christine's distress which had led her to seek some kind of simplicity in this little idiot's arms.
Christine was an ingénue, yes—far too trusting, far too gullible—but, she was possessed of intelligence. She had social graces and carried herself well. He knew that she was too good for Raoul. She had to know as well. She was an angel; he was a fool.
Thankfully, they didn't kiss often. Raoul always seemed uncertain about showing too much affection, if only because he was concerned that they would be seen. Whenever the kisses became more passionate it was invariably at her instigation. He always blushed and smiled like the idiot virgin he was.
He supposed he should be grateful that Raoul was too nervous and inexperienced—and likely too pious, as well—to pursue anything more than kisses. Not that Christine would ever give in to such a base request. Still, it was almost insulting that the man ("man") Christine had chosen didn't seem appropriately affected by her beauty.
A stupid, incompetent, helpless, innocent, effeminate little brat. Was he really so much better than Erik? At least Erik was a man. He knew that he would be better for Christine than Raoul. If it weren't for his face, then she would have chosen him. She wouldn't have even cast a second glance at the boy.
It wasn't fair.
They kissed each other goodbye at a door of one of the cellars, after more than an hour spent in wide-ranging, insignificant chatter. Erik didn't hear the words they exchanged before Christine left with a smile.
He could at least acknowledge that they were careful about hiding their relationship. They were only ever in public for moments at a time and made certain to stagger their movements. Raoul waited a little over five minutes before following Christine. He continued to smile as he waited. Seemingly without thinking, he touched his lips, as if he could still feel the kiss there.
Hidden in the shadows, Erik boiled with rage. Stupid child. He could kill him so easily, put an end to that honey-sweet naïve smile. He had the Punjab Lasso in his cloak. Why didn't he just do it, put Raoul out of Erik's misery?
Because it would hurt Christine. For some reason, it would break Christine's heart if Raoul died, and she would never forgive Erik for ending his useless life.
He wasn't sure why he followed Raoul out of the opera house. Raoul got into a cab, but Erik knew that he could only be headed to the de Chagny residence, so he took another route there. The Palais Garnier was the only place in Paris Raoul went not in the company of his elder brother, the man old enough to be his father whose shadow the Vicomte clung to. Erik could almost laugh; he himself only ever attended societal functions as a dangerous masked stranger, but he was still possessed of more grace and outward self-confidence than this timid child with a lifetime of practice.
Erik scaled the building with ease, making his way unseen to the window of the room he knew was Raoul's. When he peered inside, Raoul was already in bed, reading. It was some tawdry popular novel. The intellectual realm was just one of countless areas in which Raoul couldn't compare to Erik.
Christine would quickly tire of the dullness of Raoul's company if they were left be. Erik couldn't wait that long, though.
He seethed as he watched Raoul yawn, stretch, and set aside the book. He settled back under the blankets and seemed to be asleep within seconds. (Of course the boy would fall asleep easily; there weren't any meaningful thoughts in his empty head that would keep him awake).
Erik hadn't been certain what he was planning to do was when he followed Raoul home. Now, he found himself easily picking the lock to the window and silently stepping into the bedroom. He crept up to the bed and peered down.
The boy looked even younger in sleep. His lips were slightly parted as his chest gently rose and fell.
He hated him. He hated him, he hated him, he hated him.
Erik could kill him with barely an effort. Wrap a hand around his throat and squeeze, cover his face with a pillow, bash his head in with the lamp on the bedside table. Such a delicate, pathetic little thing. Like a tiny fluttering moth Erik could crush between two fingers.
Did Christine really find this boy appealing? While Erik begrudgingly understood why she would turn away from his loathsome appearance, she still could have any man she wanted. The opera house was filled with handsome singers, dancers, and stagehands, more attractive, more interesting, certainly more men than a boy like de Chagny. Erik would be furious if she dallied with one of then; he would still want to murder anyone who competed for Christine's affection. But, he thought that his jealousy might not have been quite as painfully, poisonously acute if he could be losing to a rival worth the fight.
Erik continued to study the sleeping face. He would probably look even younger without the little mustache, Erik reflected snidely . Would probably look more girlish, too. He would look even more like Christine. They could already pass for brother and sister. It was easier for him to imagine them as siblings than as...
He hated him.
He leaned in a bit closer, looming over the fragile, supine figure body of the man who had stolen everything from him.
He remembered how Raoul had touched his lips earlier, as if he could still taste Christine's kiss.
Would Christine's lips have a taste? Erik imagined she would taste of flowers, subtly rather than extravagant. Her lips would be so soft. Like the satin and silks she only wore onstage. The boy's mouth looked soft. He wondered the the taste of flowers lingered there. He knew that the idea was ridiculous, stupid, beneath him to even fancy. But...
He didn't think before he ducked his head. He pressed his lips gently but firmly to Raoul's. The lips were indeed soft, softer than Erik had imagined. He didn't taste of flowers. The kiss didn't taste of anything in particular; maybe... clean, in a gentle, pleasant way. The first thought that came to his mind was that it seemed impossible anything had ever touched those lips before.
Raoul was slow in waking. Maybe his mind had folded the kiss into whatever he had been dreaming. Eventually, though, his eyes snapped open. Instinctively, he lifted his head, inadvertently deepening the kiss. Erik jerked back to watch the shock spread across the previously slack face.
Raoul opened his mouth to yell, but Erik clamped a hand down on his throat, cutting off any sound. He arranged his fingers over the carotid arteries and pressed. Within seconds, the wide, terrified eyes slid shut again and his body slumped. Erik immediately removed his hand. He didn't want to kill the boy. At least, he didn't think he did. Not yet.
Raoul looked even more helpless unconscious than he had asleep. How had he thought that this soft, delicate little thing could be an obstacle. A rival.
Erik didn't have any particular plan as he ripped apart a bedsheet and used the strips of fabric to tie his wrists and ankles, blindfold him, and gag him.
Raoul had privilege, freedom, Christine, and he deserved none of it.
Erik deserved it. He was entitled. Somehow, he would find a way to take it.
The boy was small and Erik strong for his age. He easily lifted the limp, pale bundle over his shoulder and left through the open window. He knew a shortcut through the sewers that would take them back to the opera house.
He wasn't sure what he would do when he had Raoul secured, at his mercy on his subterranean home. He did know, though, that he would find some way to take back what had been stolen from him.
What he was owed