A million apologies for the wait, and thanks so much for reading. Is it true we can't reply to our reviews anymore?

----

28

He is ill, despite the stubborn promises stating otherwise during the ocean passage. Raoul has tried to soothe his lurching stomach but it will not stop its endless turning, and he has become incredibly sick. The motion of the train has certainly taken its part in his misery, but the fair amount of red wine he has consumed in the last half hour is more than likely the reason for his spinning head and nausea. It is a wonder to even himself how he is even managing to sit up straight. When his eyes open again he realizes that he actually is hardly sitting up straight, and that his neck is allowing his head to slump almost entirely to the side. He attempts to roll it back up, and the excruciating ache returns.

Erik is reading, and completely unaffected by Raoul's suffering. He had his share of wine as well, and the train itself has lurched more than once, and yet he is as steady as can be, calmly flicking his eyes every few seconds from one side of the page to the next. Raoul just watches, in misery, and can even feel his body become heavier and heavier as he involuntarily begins to fall slowly forward.

"I warned you," Erik says smoothly, dark and velvet. "It would only make you sick." Raoul rolls both bloodshot tearful eyes up to Erik's, and can manage but a small blink. "And drunk," the Phantom adds, ruefully.

"I'm not," Raoul mutters, but it is when he pulls his shaking body up into his seat again that he feels the rising bile. He swallows hard, and his swollen throat does its best to keep the contents of his stomach at bay. He swallows again, and hardly has the saliva to do so. It hurts. His ribs contract, and he shudders. "I'm a bit off. Nervous, I suppose." He attempts to sweep his hair from his forehead, but it sticks to the damp skin and a wave of nausea washes over him as the heat rises from his body. "Trains.."

The bucket in the corner is beginning to look like home to Raoul. He is sweating, and uncomfortable, and his head is swimming with the alcohol he meant to consume to save himself from this. Florence is still so far away. He turns his head, heavy as iron now, to the window. He turns his head to Erik, who has lost interest in his book and his regarding the boy with a sort of quiet, disgusted concern. More than likely a concern for the state of his shoes than whether or not the boy will live to see Florence.

And yet, as the seconds race by like lifetimes before him, hardly a glint in his darkening consciousness, Raoul finds himself lowering from the black velvet seats and onto the floor. He crawls without even ordering his body to do so, straight to the bucket, and curls over it. Somewhere in the corner Erik begins to rise from his seat, and it is all Raoul remembers before the cool darkness extinguishes the heat of his sickness.

He is calm, and settles into a dreamless peaceful darkness. A slow breath rises from his body. Another.

Reality rushes in like a blow to the head, and he is on his knees before the bucket in the corner of the cabin, gripping it with white-knuckled hands for dear life. His stomach thrusts into the underside of his chest and heaves again and again its contents up his throat. Pain rushes through him, as well as a very distant forgotten relief with the splatter of dull red wine and acid hitting the bottom of the bucket.

An arm is snaked securely around him, beneath his ribs as if to support them from falling out of his torso completely. It is a strong arm. The familiar feel of Erik behind him calms his violent spasms, and he finishes vomiting only several more dry heaves. There is nothing left, and yet Erik keeps his long hair away from his face. Thick, warm fingers stroke it back again and again, and Raoul shakily removes his handkerchief, wiping his mouth and curling back onto his heels to sit on the carpet. Erik is still behind him, and he lets his head drop back to the other man's shoulder to regard the poor, traumatized cabin attendant.

"Take this away, please," Raoul says in the best voice he can, despite his throat has been scoured by boiling red wine and vomit. "Bring some water."

"Are you quite all right, Monsieur le Vicomte?"

"I will be," Raoul breathes as the boy removes the bucket and tries not to scrunch his nose too much in disgust. "Thank you." Raoul is afraid that if he moves, everything will change. This moment they rest in will end in a matter of seconds, and Raoul wants to do all in his power to stay like this. Erik moves, and is back on his seat. His book, however, is left forgotten by his side.

Raoul can still feel those fingers in his hair, the arm around his belly. Such persistent ghosts of memory- he wonders if they will haunt him until he dies.