Fandom: Phantom of the Opera & Beauty and the Beast
Disclaimer: Please don't sue. I don't own *insert fandom name from above*... All I own is an overactive imagination.
Summary: POTO take on Beauty and the Beast. So, it's technically not a crossover, just a different telling of the fairy tale.
Warning(s): slash
Pairing(s): Erik/Raoul
Word Count: 2,646

A/N: This is a chapter update. ;3 (it's so unfamiliar, I thought I'd remind you guys what it was.) Less time to edit, so please forgive my faults.
Story note: Some actual forward motion to this story? Unheard of!

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La Belle et la Bete
By: Lucifer Rosemaunt

Chapter 04 – an introduction

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Raoul jerked away from the unexpected noise, head immediately turning towards the source of discordance that had somehow resolved itself into words. In his haste, he stumbled against a seat, the ornate wood digging into his side. The pain was easily ignored though as he peered into the darkness of the area behind him. There was no one and no thing there he could see, but that only drove him further into unease. One lesson he had certainly learned from his short internment in the opera house was that the lack of visual evidence did not preclude existence.

"H-hello?" The tremble in his voice reflected the nearly noticeable shaking of his arms as he braced himself against the seat back. He tried to still both when the only sounds he continued to hear were the orchestra and prima donna singing to the back seats of the empty auditorium.

Yet, he could not pretend he had not heard the words. 'It is the Saturday evening performance.' They evoked all too distant memories of leisurely spent weekends, a time when there had been stark disparity between weekend and weekday before it became the daily struggle to stay fed, clothed, and sheltered. He was reminded of the one life he, his family had already lost, and he just now realized that he would lose yet another life – difficult as it had been, at least he had been with his family. But just like the physical ache, the emotional one when he thought of his family was easily subsumed by the fear and uncertainty he faced now.

The ghost watched him from the shadows, lost in his own scrutiny as the boy peered into the darkness to vainly search for him. Blond hair was neatly pulled back from his face – he'd seen the tattered ribbon that held it, such a contrast to the ensemble that had been provided. The anger he should have felt towards such negligence and incompetency to his commands never came. The creature was too engrossed by the few strands of hair that had fallen free from said tie by his guest's sudden movement. He once again found himself wanting to close that short distance between them to brush them from his face.

He could hardly remember a time that he had so desperately wanted to touch another being, much less after so short a time – physically harm, perhaps, but never simple contact. Such gentleness had never been shown him. There had never been a single occasion upon which to experience it firsthand and no reason to offer anything but reciprocal injury. He had never known that uncertainty could be overcome by loyalty, fear overcome by awe, and despair overcome by an unguarded appreciation of what the moment brought. Even now, he hardly believed that the young man that stood naught a few meters from him was genuine and the compulsion to touch only grew stronger.

But, he was certain that like with all simple joys, his curse would similarly bar him from the pleasures of an uncomplicated connection with this boy. It wasn't just the curse though. A part of him hidden beneath the ghost, the small core that remembered life as it once had been, knew that even then, the simple act of touching this singularly brilliant spark of life would have been difficult. They were worlds apart. The distance between them now was further than he could deign to cross. It was not the meager aisle that separated them. The very candlelight that shone was its own boundary, for once he left, the fear so evident in the young man's face would be a mere shadow to the terror that would replace it.

Despite knowing all that, he had still been compelled to extend those words, to begin to build some semblance of rapport – perhaps too soon since it was still the first day of his stay. However, he refused to burn that meager bridge before it was given its chance to develop. But if simple words had garnered this reaction, the urge to test and prod this boy in front of him, who had yet to run, who had yet to scream, would have to be stemmed for just a little longer.

An oddity indeed. So unlike the others that he forcibly reminded himself not to hope that he would be the one to break the curse. It was pointless to hope for that, he knew, as pointless as hoping for anything at all.

Raoul had almost convinced himself that he'd only heard a stray voice, perhaps a stagehand, when what he'd assumed to be shadow suddenly moved. It was an unnatural undulation of darkness too apparent to be a figment of his imagination, yet too precise to be the result of a flicker of flame; it betrayed intelligent motion. His breath caught in his throat, heart racing even when his feet refused to do so.

This was wholly different from the steward or the costumes on stage. There was no darkness but that of the opera house when the steward had arrived. There had been clothes, at least a little familiarity despite the frightening nature of its mobility. Raoul looked around desperately, noticing that several candles had gone out. However, it seemed as though the creature that had spoken was shadow himself. And oddly enough, the most frightening thing was its substance.

The creature did not move again, and that little inaction kept Raoul from screaming in fright. It didn't take a leap of logic for him to realize that this was no ordinary ghost. This was the opera ghost, the one that his brother had angered and by whom he had been attacked. Raoul did his best to remain calm, or at least suppress his natural inclination to cower at the very creature who had managed to frighten Philippe so. If his brother had not been able to stand up to it, how did Raoul even stand a chance?

But, he forced himself to breathe deeply. This was a different circumstance, and the ghost was not barreling toward him as in Philippe's story. Raoul had come here precisely for this moment, this meeting. As much as he feared what the future might hold for him, he was actually disappointed to find that the ghost was not making a move to harm him. His earlier doubts of the purpose of his stay were once again clouding his judgment.

Through the blood pounding in his ears, he almost missed the ghost's next words.

"What do you think?" Though it remained grating, the voice was quieter, as though it pained him to speak normally; by the sound of it, Raoul had a feeling that it was.

Raoul, desperately trying to avoid displeasing him and paralyzed by fear, stayed perfectly still. Yet, a part of him began to overpower the baseness of his fear. He could not help but feel for the creature, and it took a moment for him to realize why. The ghost was making an effort at polite conversation in spite of the obvious discomfort he felt speaking. His voice – Raoul prided himself in being able to tell much from one's voice – he could not even begin to imagine what emotion was held in such tones. He could barely discern the words. All Raoul could garner from them was pain; pain for the creature who seemed to suffer so, who seemed desperate to communicate but was unable to. And he wanted to respond despite the sudden tightness of his throat.

Seeking to clarify, he barely managed a single syllable, "Of?"

Still muted, the ghost's words struggled to form through the hoarse almost guttural manner of his speech. "The performance. The clothes." Bursts of cringe-worthy wheezes and near barks. "My opera house. Any of it. All of it." Then, the ghost moved forward, making what was supposed meant to be a sweeping gesture encompassing all that Raoul had seen. Instead, it only appeared as though a figure had moved before the candlelight, momentarily casting Raoul into shadow.

The ghost's face stayed hidden, but it didn't matter since Raoul was focused purely on its body. Despite the appearance of wearing clothes, Raoul could, at times, see bones, organs, and decaying flesh. They would morph one into the other throughout his form, a type of heavy vapor that against all reason seemed to hold together to create this volatile configuration of human components. His torso seemed the most substantial as his limbs only formed proper appendages rarely, instead choosing to vanish into an indistinct trail.

The vapors moved, but Raoul realized that it wasn't actual shadows like he'd initially thought. It only seemed like shadow because the creature was in darkness. He noticed that the candle near where the ghost now stood was extinguished in order to keep him in partial shadow, preventing Raoul from seeing his face.

He was both intrigued and horrified by the display. So engrossed in scrutinizing him further, he completely forgot that the ghost had asked him a question.

"Well?" the ghost asked impatiently, and his body shifted to match his mood. His torso quickly shifted from dress coat to rotting flesh hanging precariously from a twisted rib.

Raoul averted his eyes, suddenly feeling nauseous. He took a moment to compose himself, to sincerely contemplate his query. "I appreciate the clothing. They are…" he trailed off, not quite knowing how to thank the creature or if he even could without seeming to do so only to flatter. Rubbing his sweaty palms against the expensive material, he redirected instead, "You shouldn't have." He kept his head bowed, only focusing on the spot where the ghost's feet should be. It was safer; more often than not, Raoul could only see faint outlines – of what? He could not identify. "I've become," he laughed softly to himself, "accustomed to much less than you have offered me."

The ghost looked at his downcast eyes and wanted to believe that it wasn't only out of fear. The quiver in his voice was gone; the only thing left was hesitancy. The self-deprecating tone was so honest that the ghost was momentarily affected. He closed his eyes and for a long moment reveled in the simplicity of having a civil conversation. The faint aftertaste of copper in his throat was well worth the effort to hear words directed at him, to hear words at all that weren't from fear or desperation: no begs of mercy for life, tragic stories, or offers of wealth.

Raoul realized he must have said something right since the ghost seemed to almost solidify, and he was now looking at dress shoes. He glanced up and while the ghost's face and much of his shoulders were still in complete darkness, he saw that the ghost looked almost like a simple man, until he realized that the irregular shifts of the ghost's body had simply slowed and he was suddenly looking at the bone of the ghost's arm.

He looked away again, but his thoughts were becoming less jumbled. His nerves were jumping less at every movement because after a moment's consideration, the ghost had given him clothes. He'd given Philippe shelter and a chance to return home to them, and ultimately, he had shown the Chagny's kindness when fate had conspired against them at every turn since their parents' deaths. Raoul could not condone the creature's actions, but he could almost understand them.

The continued silence between them made him uncomfortable though. It made his own inadequacies at proper conversation all the more obvious. He vaguely remembered the lessons he'd learned. He remembered his mother's gentle, but firm voice – so much like his eldest sister, now that he thought about it – as they practiced proper conversation topics, near successful lessons on flattery, and failed attempts at dissembling. All of that had been lost with moving from house to inn, with attempts to learn any skill that could better help his family. He could hardly remember how he'd managed to hold conversations about the weather, about his then peers, or the latest gossip. It held no import to him, but now, without that, he was grasping for anything to say.

The joyful music of the opera behind them seemed to profane such a meeting. So, he looked around and decided to share the very first thought he'd had about the ghost's home, suddenly glad that he now had someone with whom to share it. "I imagine this opera house was once quite beautiful."

After a pause, the ghost prompted, "How can you tell?" He moved closer to Raoul, into what was undoubtedly his personal space. It was obvious this time when the candle extinguished upon his motion.

Instead of moving back though, Raoul, focused on the topic he had chosen, approached him. The ghost actually shrunk back, even as his whole body tensed, prepared to attack, but Raoul only reached for the wall and the candleholders nearby. He distantly noticed the ghost's reaction and filed it away for further consideration later.

"You can try to hide beauty," he replied as he rubbed off the dust that had built upon it so that the gold, though weakly, would shine through. There was simply something about the grandeur of this place, the way it took his breath away. He knew it might only be him who was thusly affected, that to the residents of this place it was naught but commonplace, but he was caught in its spell. "But as long as someone's looking, it can be found."

The wick burst into a clear blue flame before disappearing again. Raoul jerked backwards, eyes blinking to clear the black spots at the unexpected light. His heart was racing again, and he realized belatedly that an opportunity to see the ghost's face had passed. Moving back a safe distance, he looked at the shadows against the wall and could no longer locate him.

The ghost made a hasty retreat from the blond. The memory of his expression, contemplative but so certain, as he said those words lingered in his mind, almost erasing the constant litany of fearful expressions that he usually saw. Hope and innocence was incarnate in this young man. The creature retreated further against the wall, and the faint pressure upon his back grounded him, reminded him just how many layers of despair and consistent disappointment lay upon him. Regardless of the curse and its stipulations, he knew at that moment that he would never allow this singular, young man to leave him.

"What is your name?"

Raoul lifted his head, the voice was further than he'd expected. He wasn't fond of being unable to tell if the ghost moved, and Raoul was almost certain that he was still moving. "Raoul." He added, "once Raoul de Chagny but simply Raoul now."

"Raoul." The ghost repeated, the name resonating in his head, in his very being.

And Raoul was taken aback by that single word. He hardly recognized it as his own name; such depth of emotion rang so clear in the ghost's voice that he barely heard the gruff quality. While that glimpse of emotion might have put him more at ease, allowing him to finally hope that he hadn't simply been making desperate rationalizations to ease his own fears, he was mostly just stricken. No one, Raoul vehemently believed, should be able to sound like that, so utterly broken.

He ached, desperate to undo whatever it was that he had said or done to make the ghost sound as such. A name should not be able to tear a person asunder. His name shouldn't be able to tear a person asunder, and before the scope of what was merely a natural reaction for Raoul could even fully develop, he had decided that it was his responsibility to put the ghost back together in whatever manner he could.

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End chapter 04

A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!
Chapter Review: I hope you can see the moment where Erik just fell in love. He's in for it now. XD

I also gave Raoul a more active part in this story. I always felt like it was too much of a Stockholm Syndrome type relationship in BatB; hopefully it seems much less so now. (I also had to rewrite the end like a dozen times. I wish that were a hyperbole, but it's the sad truth.)