Lady Dv: I noticed that I had not added any of my random awsomeness in this chapter so I decided to update

Disclaimer: You can have all the fun you want and nothing bad will ever happen…because I own nothing.

Madame Giry had looked at the Vicomte curiously wondering what had gotten into the usually engaging young man. She looked around and shivered slightly as the cool air reached her from the stairs winding down to the chapel below. The Vicomte must have some some kind of fever, she decided. The stress and the cold were making him ill. Taking his hand she began leading him in the direction of what had been the lovely brunette's room.

Raoul was dazed as he followed Giry toward the more familiar areas of the Opera, he kept thinking of those silky arms so close to his skin. So many things ran through his mind quite suddenly. Things he could have said. Witty things, lovely things, serious things. Things about what had happened, of what would happen. Things he could have done. Yet, all that he came back to was the lovely voice. That voice which said a single word, "Erik."

It so happened that Madame Giry's maternal instincts were well placed for in the next few days Raoul's health began taking a turn for the worst. Instead of attending the Masquerade above and enjoying the excitement that had been created Raoul was confined to his room, laying among the linens, feverish and exhausted. At first came headaches and congestion. Then, the pain during breathing, sudden coughing, and the terrible labored breath.

Breathing was difficult, standing was difficult as Raoul's limbs felt heavy, staying awake was difficult. The fever was the worst of all. It was both hot and cold. The heat of Raoul's skin felt as if it burnt him and yet the cold of the rooms froze him so that he was shivering more often than not. All through the days only one thing flitted through the hardly conscious mind of the Vicomte. Erik…Phantom…Angel…Beautiful. Perhaps the fever and what had been a recent encounter caused this train of though but it lingered with him.

A week of the racking illness passed and Giry could take it no longer. Without the Vicomte's approval she called upon the best physician in town thinking that he would thank her if he ever returned to better health. She had seen more than one person come into the walls of the Opera this way and leave without breath left in their cold bodies. The doctor, an elderly gentleman with kind hands and a serious face, approached the bed with a furrow of the brow and then began his many ministrations. He finished up as he took a pulse, then listened to the chest of the feverish young man, and finally he turned to look at Giry with a resigned look on his face.

"It appears that the Vicomte has contracted a respiratory illness though I cannot say what it is. His symptoms reflect many possible illnesses. Consumption, perhaps. I cannot be sure without further analysis. Give him the regular treatments and pray that he will continue breathing through the night." The voice was as gentle as it could be as the doctor spoke to Giry and with a sad glance at the boy the Physician took his pay and left.

Giry sank onto the chair she kept beside the Vicomte's bed quietly, not knowing what to do. Helplessness was a feeling she did not often have and she hated it more than anything. And she hated her need to help the broken beings around her, at least she did at this moment.

The Phantom of the Opera sat on a plush couch deep in the catacombs of the Opera. He played one of the many instruments he had mastered, enjoying the way it rang throughout. There had been so much excitement above leading up to the Masquerade and afterwards as many guests lingered to play among the performers. Erik had had no choice but to remain far from the Vicomte, who was likely enjoying himself above as well. Giry had been coming less frequently as well but he was not surprised by this considering the commotion above. Still, when she did come she had a strained look on her face and he had noted that she did not chastise him as often. It was strange but as his mind cleared he could not bring himself to add to her worries by asking her quite yet.

He placed the violin down beside him as he thought of the chapel and those stolen moments with the young Changy. The name pushed upon him so many times in the past rang through the levels of his consciousness. Those slightly parted, delicate lips letting it slip and making it sound foul. Phantom. Erik grimaced as he stood, stretching his arms above his head. Phantom. He had found himself in his lair brooding over the Vicomte's usage of the hated nickname at first. Coming from those lips it was a sacrilege. Then, Erik had found his mind wandering from the simple word to the way that the darkened chapel had made every sensation soar. Raoul's skin, how sweet it smelled. How soft the neck and cheek. How warm the skin. Erik felt a shudder run through him as his thoughts swarmed.

' I must see him,' He thought,' See him or risk the pitifully small remnants of what I once called sanity. Why do I feel this tension, this need? I can't control this the way I controlled Christine. ' He rose and picked up a velvet coat he had discarded over the back of the couch, dusting it off before slipping it on meticulously. An easy stride was established toward the Vicomte's room. His room. How quick you are to change your mind came that old taunting voice, A bit less than 14 moon settings prior you would have called it HER room.

Erik scowled at those thoughts and continued his walk with more conviction until he reached the mirror of a familiar room. Though it was the middle of the day he thought maybe the young man would be there, maybe Erik could just see him for a moment. He frowned as he took in the scene before him, unsure of what to do or if it was his place to do anything at all. There lay the Vicomte, pale and sickly. Those lovely lips he remembered were dry and parted in a ragged breathing motion; Raoul's pale chest rising and falling irregularly beneath the soft canopy of a dressing gown. Madame Giry, who had been caring for both the sickly Vicomte and the sulking Phantom, gently pressed a cool cloth, wet with herbal waters, to the blonde's forehead. A whimper and painful wheezing were Raoul's only response.

"Vicomte…" Came a whisper from Erik as his hands clenched and he bit his lip. That whisper didn't register in his mind until Madame Giry's eyes rose slowly to the familiar mirror of the room and lingered there. She stood slipping her hand from were she had been holding the Vicomte's in attempt to comfort him. She went toward the door of the room and locked it before slipping the key into her front pocket. Now they would have no unwanted company.

"You should enter if you wish to see, Erik. You are no rat to slink around the halls." Came Giry's voice.

Erik was taken back by the comment but, given permission, moved the mirror and entered the room silently. The dark haired Phantom was still unsure what to say or do but Giry's presence was reassuring at least. His gaze never left the satyr lying pale as the pillows around him though. The sweat of fever plastering usually playful hair to the young man's forehead.

"He… what" Erik started to speak but stopped unable to form a coherent sentence. Then, he turned with a questioning look to Madame Giry; suddenly a perfect image of a child in need of a parent's guidance.

"I'm not sure, Erik." She murmured as she continued the cold compress. " The doctor fears consumption but even he was not sure what it is that Raoul is suffering from."

"You don't know…" Murmured Erik and inwardly cursed. How could no one know? This man had been bringing the melodies back to Erik, they needed to continue. He needed to know, to understand why it was this man, this couldn't happen. He wanted him to be alright...he wanted him. A silence prevailed throughout the room. A strained silence. The silence of foes brought together…or of lovers contained.

"His name is Raoul by the way, Erik, and I doubt he will appreciate you calling him by his title when you have allowed him to drop yours." Murmured Madame Giry with soft, if not chastising tone.

"How…" Erik's eyes widened and he watched the woman who had been his caretaker calmly take the blond man's pulse.

"I am all knowing dearest Erik. That is how." Came his simple answer, he could not tell if she was teasing him though now did not seem like an appropriate time for that.

He nodded numbly looking sheepish and not at all sure how to respond. Giry smiled tiredly and stood placing a hand on Erik's unscarred cheek; then, patting it fondly she picked up the basin full of water and placed the cotton cloth into it.

" I trust that you will not harm an unwell young man, watch after him Erik. I am in need of fresh water." She did not wait for an answer as she unlocked the door, walked out of the room, and made sure to lock the door behind her.

Erik stood gaping for a long moment before sinking into the empty chair left behind by Giry with an unhappy tensing in his shoulders. It bothered him to think of her believing he would hurt the pale satyr before him. She still believes you hold that old grudge for Christine you fool. She doesn't know how he makes you want to play, want to sing. Erik bit his lip and leaned forward toward the bed. Raoul's hand lay inches from his and he felt the feverish heat radiating from it. Erik's brow furrowed as the heated skin of the blonde's hand grasped his suddenly; weakly seeking out comfort and cooler skin, even through his unconscious state. Yet, he couldn't find it in himself to pull away. He did not grip the hand back, afraid he would hurt the very fragile looking man, but he began rubbing his thumb over the back of Raoul's hand. He couldn't help the motion that hand was just so soft…so inviting.

"Erik," His name came weakly from between the admired lips and a heated hand tightened weakly on the calloused hand of the Phantom of the Opera. In his feverish state, the young man dreamt of his Phantom, his Obsession, and his Erik. Erik did not know if he should respond, or if the ill young man would hear him but following an impulse he whispered a tentative:

"I am here."

The blonde man on the bed seemed to relax. A sigh and a smile, small and innocent, appeared on pale as sugar features.

"Erik"

The man whose name has been called relaxed and then griped a hand gently with his own. The lips pressed softly into a smile were too tempting at that moment and before thinking rationally Erik moved forward, leaning on one arm to hold himself above the young Vicomte. Lips met and the fever coursing through Raoul made Erik gasp. Unconsciously, one of Raoul's arms wrapped around the taller man's shoulders as Erik tentatively nuzzled feverish lips. Simply to taste…and to feel. A click threatened discovery and Erik moved back, gently removing the arm around himself and sitting back as Giry came in balancing the basin of water on her hip. Raoul seemed to sigh, lips slightly parted.

"What have you done?" She asked with a furrowed brow as she placed the basin on the vanity. Her skirts rustled as she approached the bed with a dry cloth on one hand.

Erik felt himself flush trying not to look guilty as he stared intently downwards.

"His breathing seems much more regular." She continued after examining Raoul quickly. Madame Giry turned to look down at the masked man with curiosity.

"Nothing, I simply watched him…I" Erik looked slightly confused, " I had not noticed…"

"Well, perhaps that is because you haven't been here for as long as I have." The woman looked Raoul over once more and some of the tension went out of her shoulders as she watched the chest rise and fall with more regularity. Perhaps the worst of his illness had passed but they couldn't be too sure She would take care to watch over him just as closely as before. Erik had surprised her, she wondered if he had finally been able to forgive someone who had hurt him. It would be a first, a good first, but a first.

Erik watched the woman work for a moment and then moved out of the way feeling as if he was making her work less efficient. He moved into the most shadowed corner of the room out of habit more than anything else. He needed to understand why this man made his blood sing so fervently. He wondered when the Vicomte would wake. He was sure now that the blond would awaken but he wasn't sure what he would do when he could finally speak to the young blond.

Lady Dv: Yes this is it. Also I love you lovely people who review. Those of you who add me to the story alerts list but don't review…well…I appreciate the alert bit…but I need reviews…for motivation if you will. I love you all! R&R!

Random Fact Of The Day: Nikki Sixx of Motley Crue was pronounced dead after overdosing on heroine in his youth. Two minutes later he was brought back to life with two shots of adrenaline into the heart.