Fandom: Phantom of the Opera
Disclaimer: Please don't sue. I don't own *insert fandom name from above*... All I own is an overactive imagination.
Summary: This current one-sided slash is quite amusing to me for some reason and therefore warrants another chapter. (Although admittedly, it isn't actually one-sided, sort of.)
Warning(s): pre-slash
Pairing(s): Erik/Raoul
Word Count: 2,084

A/N: Yes, I am trying to update once a week this winter holiday. I don't know how I managed to do it before; I'm struggling.
Story note: Don't look for continuity from chapter to chapter (if there will indeed be a chapter after this one) because they're just a series of snapshots. The title of this chapter is a well used one, in vino veritas. I think it's mostly true. Depends on how drunk you really are.

o.o.o.o

Truth in Wine
By: Lucifer Rosemaunt

o.o.o.o

"Angel."

The voice was a mere whisper, as though the owner of said voice was absolutely certain there was someone to hear the silent endearment despite being in a completely empty hallway. The only audible noise was a muted combination of breathing and the shuffling of feet.

"Angel."

Just as softly now, but with a hint of annoyance. For all intents and purposes there should be no one around to hear her. The hallway was one used only when sets needed to be taken down and when there were props and backdrops that needed to be saved – and with Andre and Firmin being the ever optimists about recycling in order to save money, these rooms were now filled to the brim, but hollow elephants and wood statues had no means to hear her call.

"Angel," Christine said again, not bothering to whisper any longer. It was a precaution that was no longer necessary due to the location as well as the hour. She stopped walking and allowed her load to rest against the wall. After taking extra care to ensure said load was not going to fall over, she took several steps forward to stop beside a large portrait of Apollo bestowing gifts upon mere mortals.

She hadn't waited very long before the portrait shuddered and swung open as though on hinges, which now that she thought about it, it must be in order to move as such.

Erik stepped out soundlessly and glanced at her. She was slightly breathless. Her dress was wrinkled, whether from having worn it the entire day or – he glanced past her – from having carried such a heavy load, he was uncertain. Her arms were crossed, and the index finger of her left hand tapped a staccato on her side. He slowly turned to close the passageway, taking extra time to ensure that the frame was indeed firmly in place.

"I have been searching for you for nearly the past half hour." She forced herself to avoid explaining exactly how difficult arriving here had been because she knew it would do very little in terms of chastising him. For a ghost that was supposedly always watching, he had been absent all evening, and it had only been here when she was certain to be far enough away from the other occupants of the Opera Populaire that she had been able to call for him.

Erik's attention slid past her once more. "I had been," he distractedly commented, "preoccupied."

Her scowl went unseen as his attention had yet to return to her. "I told you to remain at hand."

At that, he looked at her, eyebrow rising. "You… told me?"

She stopped tapping her finger then and realized exactly why he had been noticeably absent. She should have realized it sooner. Sighing, she tried again, "You know that is not what I meant."

He simply retorted. "I do not need your meddling."

She scoffed then. The glare sent her way was expected. What was even more expected was when his attention once again wandered.

"You appreciate it though, do you not?" she asked, only partially succeeding in hiding her smug grin.

Hearing her tone, he attempted to ignore the distraction that was leaning against the wall past her. He was certain she was beginning to take too many liberties with him. Unfortunately, he could not deny her statement. Or rather, he could but it would be a blatant lie. By himself, there had been no manner that would have allowed him to speak with the viscount without first resorting to some sort of violence and even now violence still occurred. Without her intervention, there was little chance that they would come out as relatively unharmed from their interactions as they did. His attention inevitably drifted past her.

So, instead of answering her question, he commented on what had apparently been her plan all along when she'd told him yesterday to be at her disposal this evening.

"How did you manage to convince him to drink?"

The viscount was rather good about the amount of alcoholic substances he imbibed at the opera house. During events, Erik had only ever seen him take a single glass for the entire evening and sip from it occasionally in order to be polite. In fact, in the near two years that the viscount had been the opera house's patron, he had never seen Raoul even remotely inebriated.

Until tonight of course. It explained the odd shuffling he had heard in conjunction to Christine's calls. How the blond had even managed a shuffle was a mystery considering how he was leaning against the wall, legs threatening to give way beneath him.

Christine grinned outright. "I believe," she tilted her head in consideration, "it was a matter of pride."

Erik could tell she was about to laugh outright. Waiting for her to reveal the joke, he remained silent.

"Buquet challenged him."

"Buquet?" He hardly believed the chief stagehand would do such a thing unprompted. Christine, the little imp, was more resourceful than he had initially given her credit if she had manipulated not only Raoul, which Erik already knew her to be quite accomplished at, but also Buquet.

"It required a bottle of wine, but he rather gladly did as I requested," she amended, "suggested." She finally did give in and giggle. Erik was tempted to ask how she had procured a bottle of wine considering how strict Madame Giry was about the ballet girls and alcohol, but she continued even more gleefully, "I believe he called Raoul mademoiselle." The statement was punctuated with another laugh, stifled behind her hands. "His face turned a curious shade of red at that."

Erik glanced at Raoul again. The blond, still leaning quite heavily against the wall, stared up at the candleholder nearby. He reached up mesmerized, missed, then slid to the floor as his knees buckled at the slight shift of weight. He stared up at the candleholder in confusion, and Erik could just imagine him wondering how the fixture had managed to get so far from him. Shrugging, Raoul looked at the floor and decided that it was the perfect place to lie down, which he promptly did by simply tilting over.

"He's…"

"A quiet drunk," Erik supplied. Raoul was always so loud, always the center of attention; Erik had been rather convinced that an inebriated Raoul would only be even louder, maybe even ostentatious.

She approached Raoul to check on him. Contemplatively, she replied, "Not quite."

"Christine?" Raoul responded to her voice. Seeing her foot nearby, he grabbed it, surprised at himself when he managed to do so on the first try. "I'm sorry." He mumbled, "I wish I had known about your Papa." He sniffled loudly, face upturned toward her. Erik nearly rolled his eyes to see that his eyes were even tearing. "He was such a good man."

"Maudlin." Christine decided as she crouched beside him in order to remove his hand from her ankle. To Raoul, she said gently, "It is quite fine, Raoul."

"No," he prolonged the vowel. Shaking his head firmly, he immediately regretted it when the hallway skewed and blurred before settling – still slightly at an angle due to his position on the floor but at least clearer. It took a second before he could continue, "I was not able to say goodbye."

"He," she smiled sadly at him before brushing his hair from his face, "he knew how much you cared for him."

"But…" Raoul pouted in protest.

Snapping out of the memories of her father he had evoked, she changed the subject abruptly, "I've brought you to Erik."

"Hnh?" Raoul's eyes slid shut.

"Do you remember him?" She motioned for Erik to come closer, which he did rather reluctantly. While he did not want to miss seeing the normally composed man – at least when he was around Erik, he was composed – he was wary of what Christine hoped to accomplish by doing this. If he misstepped now when Raoul was so vulnerable, certainly both Christine and Raoul would never forgive him and it would ruin what little consideration he had managed to cultivate. He was not prepared to sabotage himself, and testing his resolve was not a thing he wanted to attempt at the moment. Had he wanted to simply take the viscount, he would have; but, then that would ruin his opera house, his livelihood, and the glory he received watching Christine soar upon that stage singing words that he had given her. He was accomplishing his goals, the events falling into place. This, too, would happen given time. And caution.

Raoul finally let go of Christine when he saw the movement. He tilted his head at what had to be an awkward angle and squinted at him. "Hmm." Frowning, he struggled to sit up. Christine helped him, or at least attempted to before she almost fell by his weight. Erik pulled her away. Bending, he straightened Raoul so that he could sit straight; there was little chance that the viscount would be able to stand. Erik's lip curled in disgust, smelling Raoul's alcohol-laden breath.

"Vicomte."

Raoul grabbed the collar of his shirt and jerked him forward. It was only surprise that allowed him to be manhandled. He tried to pull away but Raoul had a surprisingly firm grip on him. Taking advantage of him was looking more and more appealing, but Raoul simply scrutinized both his mask and his face. For a moment, he looked frighteningly alert, eyes clear, fully aware of just who he was holding and what he was doing. It almost made Erik hope before the moment passed, and Raoul pulled back suddenly, still refusing to relinquish his hold and eyes half-lidded once more.

"I know you."

Erik tried harder to dislodge him, because Raoul's knuckles were brushing against his throat almost tantalizingly so. Raoul held on tighter.

"Christine." Erik's voice dropped in warning, angry with her for putting him in this current predicament. With silence as his response, he glanced over his shoulder only to find that she was gone.

Raoul sighed suddenly and his head dropped forward. They were too close however and his forehead simply hit Erik's temple, nearly dislodging his mask. "'m sorry." He mumbled and it took all of Erik's will not to jerk away from the warm breath that teased his cheek and neck. He scoffed, not quite able to speak past the lump that had somehow formed in his throat. He had never been this close to Raoul before, at least not without them arguing or that one time he had been ill – but he couldn't properly remember that one occasion so it hardly counted.

He wondered for a moment when Raoul seemed content to remain against him, if the younger man had fallen asleep. Erik cleared his throat and muttered, "Not more sorry than I am currently." But he didn't try to move him just yet even as awkward as their position was. He was bent on one knee, leaning forward. One arm was braced against the wall because even though Raoul was sitting down, legs bent and back against the wall, his weight was half on him. Raoul's hands were still firmly gripping his collar, though that grip was finally loosening.

"I did not know you loved her," Raoul said suddenly, as though there had not been several minutes of silence that punctuated their conversation.

Erik replied, only because he was certain Raoul really would not remember anything he said, "I do not."

Raoul spoke over his admission though, stating quite vehemently. "Do not hate me." With effort, he leaned back so that he could properly pout at him before dropping forward again, this time his cheek pressed to the unmasked side of Erik's face. Erik froze then, held his breath.

"I do not think I like the idea of you hating me." Raoul mumbled, and then continued to mumble something else before slumping down further into an unconscious heap onto his leg and arm. He would have slid all the way to the ground had Erik not moved to support him.

It took several minutes of serious internal debate, during which time he cursed himself but mostly cursed Christine, before he adjusted Raoul and hefted him over one shoulder.

"Home," he said aloud, convincing himself that he had come to the correct conclusion. "You need to be returned home." And away from me right now went unsaid but was quite clear in his mind.

o.o.o.o

End chapter

A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!
Chapter Review: Honestly, Conspiracy was supposed to be a oneshot instead of another series of vignettes, drabbles, and the like, but then this idea came up and I really do like matchmaker!Christine too much. I actually just like drunk!Raoul apparently. Maybe I should make up a drunk!Erik vignette as well. But I imagine Erik being quite the violent drunk. Erik should've just taken advantage of him. I mean even Imaginary Friends!Erik stole a kiss from Raoul.