Author's Note: This one has a lot more dialogue. The next few are going to be like pulling teeth. Huh. VictoriaTai, your link was lost. ate it. :) Thank you all for your encouragement!


7

He is drunk, but Raoul can see that Erik is beginning to taper into sobriety by the way he keeps stabbing his shaking hands through his unruly pieces of dark hair as they fall into his eyes. Erik did not seem surprised to see Raoul there, or if he was he is simply too drunk to act on it. He only shifts in his chair, and watches Raoul with eyes that seem to not belong in their sockets, heavy-lidded, and dark with their drink.

Erik has changed in past five months, greatly. He is almost nothing of the man Raoul remembers, and there is no trace of the figment that haunted him in Box Five. He is thinner. He is not thin enough to seem inferior to Raoul, if such a thing is ever possible, but there is a noticeable difference. Even so, Erik does not appear weak. To Raoul he will never appear weak, even in a state such as this. Raoul was always the weak one.

There is no mask on the unforgettable features, but as Raoul looks around he realizes there is not a need for one. Almost all the mirrors have been smashed. The even side of Erik's face, chalky and dithered with sweat, is still as handsome as Erik should have been. Beautiful, even. Raoul has been haunted by both sides of that face for so long, and yet his horror and fascination are always the same. How can there be such a sudden shift in appearance, how can a man be so hideously malformed on the other half of such majesty?

There is something feral about him now that was not there before. Perhaps it is the drink hovering around him still, or the gleam in his uneven eyes as they follow Raoul's every movement. It is either desperation, or an unseen power yet to be unleashed. Dark hair hangs low around the twisted side, and the mouth spreads to what should be a rakish grin. Erik has not left his seat, and he watches Raoul pace around the chair, thick fingers drumming the leather arms.

"You came back," he breathes, half-aware, and swallows hard. His eyes close, as if he is trying to catch his breath. He must be sick. "You came back to me. How careless I can be." Raoul glances over his shoulder at the still-open passage he assumes Erik is referring to. The younger man removes his bares hands from the pockets of his coat, and he draws in a sharp breath.

"I thought you dead."

It is all Raoul can say. He wishes he could say more, he wants to say more, but he is afraid that what is running through his mind will fall clumsily out of his mouth, and he will be that cowardly young man again, ashamed, clinging to a warm body in a stale, icy lake. Even now he looks on the Phantom and can only remember him as he was, a stronger, captivating Erik with hardly a soul in that menacing shell of a body. Though Erik has a soul, and Raoul remembers when it showed its face perhaps most vividly of all. Flashes of damp sheets accompany it, whispers in the darkness, hot weight down on his bare skin, lips grazing his cheek, his temple, pressed into his hair, murmuring horrible, wonderful things.

He takes another breath, and tries to let his attention flood back in the proper direction. Erik is clad in only a pair of black pants. He must be freezing. Raoul notices his bare arms, and running down them are silver lines, tinged with a throbbing purple scar tissue. More twisted flesh on an otherwise unmarred body. How Erik must hate it, he thinks. But Erik healed, and he lived through his own irrational actions. There is something to be said for that, at least.

Raoul stops staring, and he flicks his gaze up to the Phantom's eyes. Definitely sober now.

"You lead them to me," Erik whispers, hollow, deep in his throat. Raoul frowns. Them? His demeanor changes entirely, and he stumbles to his feet, swaying slightly to the left and bracing the back of the chair for balance. The bottle on his lap has slid to the floor, and rolls to Raoul's feet. He sees in Erik's wide eyes a mixture of confusion, then murderous anger, and mortification. "You lead them to me, didn't you, you little monster – you remembered the way and you lead them here!"

Raoul shakes his head, slowly. He stays put, and glances toward the passage again. "You're drunk," he says, softly. "And paranoid. No one knows I came here. I came alone." When he looks back at Erik the other man seems suspicious still, eyes narrowed, lips parted in concentration he cannot seem to hold. "I never lied to you," Raoul tells him. "I am not lying now."

"Then why have you returned?"

"Don't ask me that."

"Why, Vicomte, I demand an answer," Erik's voice, slurred and angry, echoes off the cavern walls.

"To see what had become of you," Raoul snaps, against his own will the words escape. Erik's expression alters from suspicion to unmistakable amusement, and rather than be backed into a corner like prey he instantly becomes the predator. All body language changes, and he straightens, coming slowly around the chair, stalking.

"What had become of me?" he whispers, dry-throated and hoarse. His arms fall to his sides, and his shoulders slope down as he nears the younger man. "To see if I had left? If you would find my rotting corpse, or if perhaps you were still in my good graces?" Erik keeps coming closer, and Raoul stays his ground, even as the taller man stands right before him, towering as he always does even like this. He is not so tall, Raoul reminds himself. Erik only holds a few inches over his own stature, but it is all Erik needs.

The split face drains of amusement. It is white, and pale, and something he will not entirely speak of lingers behind the two-way mirror of his eyes. "You wanted to know if I had recovered from the infection and fever but did you expect to see this? Did you?"

"No," Raoul admits, hotly.

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know!" It has become yet another argument, and Raoul swears under his breath for giving into his temper. It is all Erik wants. He looks away, and clenches his teeth. "I didn't know what to expect," he says again, calm as he can.

"What if I were to take you prisoner again?" Erik asks, softly, and brings Raoul to stare at him again, disbelief. "What if I were to tie you down here like a dog again, put you in the lake? Would you expect that from me now?"

Raoul can smell the liquor on Erik, it is so thick that if he were a lesser man he would choke. Raoul stares straight back at Erik, in the eyes, and he does not waver. "But you won't," he tells Erik.

"How can you know that?" Erik seethes. "Knowing what you know of me?" He steps closer. "My treachery?" He is so close Raoul can feel the heat of his breath on his cheek. Erik knows how to take him back, and it is exactly what he is trying to do.

"I am stronger now," Raoul replies, evenly. "You know as much. You know I will not be put back in your dungeons."

Erik stares at him, stark and undecided. He is calculating something, and finally he turns away, and his hands find his face. "Go away," he mutters, finally resigned. Erik stoops, and searches amongst the piles of discarded paint and paintings, brushes and clothing for a shirt. He cannot seem to find one. "Do not see me like this. Leave me alone," Erik says again, and when he cannot find a shirt he begrudgedly wraps both long arms around himself, shaking involuntarily. He comes to rest on the chair again, sideways, and sits in silence. He is plainly shivering.

Raoul can only watch so long before his sympathy gets the best of him, and he removes his coat slowly, coming to stand behind Erik and draping it over the Phantom's shoulders. Erik snorts, disgusted, and shrugs it off, but Raoul picks it back up and spreads it across his back again. He tucks it over the curve of his shoulders and into the crook of his neck.

"You are freezing," Raoul remarks. "And you are drunk. You pride yourself on superior intellect, so stop being obstinate and moronic." This earns a glance from Erik, and much to Raoul's surprise he only grunts, noncommittally, and looks away again.

"Well," Erik says, after a moment. "You came down to find me, and you succeeded. What do you want now." It is more a disinterested statement than a question, half-hearted, and Raoul is not even certain he knows the answer to it, so he says nothing. When Erik speaks again his voice is quiet, and for once, civil. There is no more drunken slur, and his back straightens. The coat falls down around him again, exposing the slope of his bare back; the gently moving muscles beneath the skin as he breathes, the line of his backbone. Raoul wishes he did not notice these things.

"Raoul," Erik uses his name. Raoul closes his eyes, and covers them with a cupped hand. Erik used his name. "I am asking you to leave me, without anger, threat, or contempt. You have seen me. Be satisfied, and leave me alone here."

Raoul cannot deny what Erik has lowered himself so far to ask. For now, he will leave.