21

Vomit splatters into the gutter, an opaque fluid with a tinting reminder of the red wine that boiled in his sour stomach before the performance. Fortunately it misses the material of Erik's shirt and coat as it lurches up from his pit and hot over his scoured throat. Erik shudders at the taste, and with the heaves as they become dry, and he spits, pushing his mask a safer distance away so he does not soil it. He is on all fours, knees ground into the rain-slicked cobblestones, palms bare and raw, flat on the street as he lurches again, and again. The rain is drizzling in the dark sky above him, and it helps to wash it all away.

Erik shivers, watching the pale red liquid swirl down into drain through eyes blurred in forced tears, and he spits again, spitting and dragging in forceful breaths of air, hoping to God none have followed him outside the concert hall. The composers previous genius dissipates and diminishes with the rain water draining down the gutter, and he is the very image of grotesque. With his face uncovered, the equivalent of having it flayed and baring skull and raw muscle, collar unbuttoned and shirt soaked, wrinkled with sweat, dark head disheveled and hanging between two pointed sunken shoulders, Erik is entirely vulnerable. The mask is such a lovely illusion. If the audience, the same audience that roared with applause, were to see him now it would all fall apart.

Erik feels the touch of another on his shoulder, a hesitant brush of fingertips, and he stumbles forward to hide his face, palming a hand wet with grime over his cheek. He jerks away and pulls himself up to stand beside the wall, wary of the mess he has left, and the rain water, but he cannot turn around. He is entirely helpless.

"It's me," Raoul says, quickly, and his voice is a blessing that cools the rising fear and anger. He cranes his neck over his shoulder to confirm, and the Vicomte tentatively leans forward to hand him a handkerchief. Erik frowns at it. "It's all right," the younger man says. "Take it."

Erik despises this, being treated like an incapable infant or a horse too jittery and nervous to be properly addressed. Raoul means well, but he does not always understand. Erik exhales, and he reaches around to take the handkerchief, muttering a thank you, turning from Raoul to hide his face and wiping his mouth and chin.

The taste on his parched tongue is sour and repugnant, and he leans over to spit once more. With the other side of the soft cloth he blots the sweat on his face, and politely folds it over. Behind him, Raoul is holding his mask in both hands, gently, almost reverently, and he waits for Erik to turn around. The other man hesitates before speaking when he realizes why Raoul is so silent.

"Raoul," he says, softly. "My mask."

Perhaps it is not so wrong to surprise the boy every now and then with a civil word, and the use of his name. Raoul seems to change every time his named is used. Erik holds his hand out for the porcelain piece, and Raoul does not move.

"I've seen you like this," he reminds Erik, solemnly. The Phantom drops his eyes. "You can face me."

The sound following is laughter, bitter and stale, a grating crackle of the most spiteful disposition. "Would you believe me," he asked. "if I told you that is just not true?"

No response from behind him. Erik cannot turn around, but he can almost sense the look on the boy's face, and it softens him to a degree. He leans his cheek wearily into his hand, and turns slowly, still only halfway able to cover the disfigurement. Well enough, anyway. His eyes meet Raoul's, and the boy must be able to see exactly what it is Erik feels, as if it is written across his face.

The Vicomte is stricken with clear, undisguised pity. Erik resists a snort, and he averts his eyes, holding his hand out once more, palm up. "Please."

Raoul breathes out – almost a sigh to release some of the tight tension on the youthful face – and he finally resolves to give him back his mask. Erik takes it, and angles his body to fit it over his face, running fingers through his dark hair to smooth it back again.

Satisfied for now, he turns back to Raoul, and the younger man's brows raise timidly over his eyes. He is looking Erik over in pity and fear, seeming to take in every detail on his person. Erik has tried to clean himself up, not look so ragged, but the force of the vomiting has reddened the white of his eyes, floating them in tears, and sweat beads off his pale brow. His coat is still flailing open, shirt unbuttoned, collar lost. Pieces of dark hair, previously slicked back, begin to fall forward.

"Nerves?" Raoul asks, numbly. The earnest face of the boy brings Erik an uncomfortable, displaced feeling to his insides, as if he might vomit again. He glances to the side, ashamed. He cannot tell Raoul everything, and part of him wishes more than anything that he could.

"Mostly," he says, and tries to fix his collar with shaking fingers. He pauses before Raoul, and raises the visible eyebrow. "I suppose you have a dinner to attend. Goodnight."

"No, I –" Raoul stops when Erik turns to rake another gaze over his body. "...you're unwell... and I don't know if I am ready to face a crowd tonight. Come, walk with me to the carriage."

Erik frowns. So trusting, this young Vicomte, and too benevolent for his own good. However, Erik waits for him to catch stride, and together they walk in silence around the side of the concert hall, to avoid the crowd. When they make it to the carriage, Erik is the first to climb in. His side is tender, and gives a dull, damp ache through the black lapel. He keeps his arm close to compact his body, and sits cautiously down. Raoul follows.

"What did they think?" Erik asks when the carriage starts off, and the silence is too thick to continue comfortably. Raoul's face immediately lights up.

"Brilliant," he replies. "They thought you were brilliant. They can't stop talking about you."

Erik snorts, and turns his gaze back to the little window at his left. The streets of London are dark, and a gray mist hovers in a shallow cloud. Without looking at Raoul, he clarifies, "I meant what they thought about my mask."