Erik never thought there would come a time when being alone would unsettle him. There seemed little else to settle reason for his distractions on, however. His hands had been tracing over the keys for what seemed like ages now, trying to go through the refrain that Ron would need to run through later.
It would have been easier were the boy here, of course. Were that the case then he could have run through his own concerns against Ron's own, any issues being solved within an hour at the latest whether than the long stretch that had to be settled for now.
Of course, even without Ron being physically present there were still traces of him everywhere. From the indent of his head still lingering on the pillow in his room to stacks of books, some lying open, on a nearby table. There was even a handkerchief draped forgotten over the organ, yet when Erik reached for it his fingers caught against a hint of embroidery along the edge. His upper lip curled as he took in the initials placed against a far too familiar crest.
Ever since being allowed in, Philippe had somehow managed to slip in everywhere. To be fair, it did seem to be a specialty of his family at this point.
Erik crumpled the fine silk in his hand, but couldn't bring himself to toss it away where it could be forgotten underfoot. Somehow, he was sure, it would upset Ron to see even such a slight mistreatment. For all that the boy readily accepted the elder's faults, the son was always forgiven in Ron's eyes, no matter what trespasses were made.
Not that he had much room to press for fault when he had benefited just as much from the more gracious side of Ron's nature.
Still, if there was one place that Philippe could not invade—not in truth, at any rate—then it would be the opera house. That remained his dominion if through force of will alone. Well, perhaps it could be Ron's as well now, if the boy were to wish it.
Given the nature of his thoughts, it should have come as no surprise that his wanderings drew him towards the mirror that could serve as an entryway to his pupil's dressing room. It came as little surprise to find the space empty, given the hour of night.
The greater shock came when the door shot open little more than a minute later to allow two figures to spill out into the room.
"Shush, shush, you have to be..." Ron was doing a poor job of showing by example, however, clutching at Philippe's arm as a fresh burst of laughter overtook him. His head tumbled forward into Philippe's shoulder, as though to try to muffle the sound. Or, perhaps, it was simply to be close. "There's a curfew!"
"A curfew, really?" Philippe asked. "Are you about to tell me that one of Paris' ingénues has been using me to misbehave?" He pressed a fist to his mouth in an effort to—unsuccessfully—stifle the giggles that broke free when Ron tugged on his ear.
"I told you not to call me that!" Ron said. "Besides, you're the one that made the offer of a 'nightcap' after the performance."
"Well, after you gave it such a dreadful review," Philippe replied, "I felt as though you should get something good out of the evening."
"I already had." Ron rolled his shoulders up into a shrug, smile loose and somewhat smug. "Hearing them is a good insurance that I'm doing my job right, after all."
"Oh, really?" Erik sucked in a breath at the outright softness in Philippe's gaze when he turned it on Ron. "Is the praise of the masses not enough then?"
"Those masses can be paid, you know." Ron sighed, rubbing at his temples with a faint smile. "I'm starting to sound like Erik."
"Only a little," Philippe said. "And something tells me he'd be proud."
I am, Erik agreed. Not that mattered for much when he count on a single hand the moments Ron had surprised him, stinging at his own pride (almost all a result of the boy before him).
"Well he won't if I spoil my sleep schedule." Ron shoved at Philippe's chest, eyes sparkling in the dim light when the other boy only chuckled. "He'll expect me bright and early for lessons tomorrow—as he should. If I can't land that final aria..."
"Hush." Philippe's hands reached out to cradle Ron's face in the span of them. "You will be as superb as always, of that I have no doubt."
"You're also biased." But Ron smiled all the same. "Now get out of here before someone shoos you out with a broom."
"Is that really a risk?" Philippe leaned in to press a kiss to Ron's forehead, leading Erik's hands to curl into fists at his sides. "Until another time then, mon coeur."
The endearment seemed to astonish Ron as much as it did Erik, although he was the only one who smiled in the wake of it, pressing his fingers absently towards the spot on his brow that Philippe's lips had just graced. "Idiot." It lacked any heat, however, and he shook his head only once before dosing the last candle, darting away to reach the safety of bed at last.
There was no way for him to know what he was leaving behind, of course, but Erik felt abandoned all the same.
For all the rush, for all the panic, the Opéra Populaire's rendition of The Magic Flute was a resounding success. Those that grumbled over not seeing Mademoiselle Porter's name attached to the role of Queen of the Night were easily assuaged by the loveliness of Pamina's role. It helped, of course, that people had grown entirely too fond of seeing Ron romance his counterpart onstage, even if it was all meant to be fictional.
It would come to know surprise to Erik if there were already bets being placed on whether such scenes might break free from the confines of the stage. At least he had no need to worry on that front.
Not that that stopped him from feeling something akin to relief when Ron tumbled into his arms once the audience had finally exhausted their encores, allowing the cast to leave the stage at long last.
"We did it!"
"Always the note of surprise." Erik caught the hand that reached up to swat him with a breath of laughter, shaking his head. "Do you truly think I would ever let you fail?"
"No," Ron said, "but that doesn't stop the fear of failing you."
Erik was struck dumb for almost a full minute, only Ron's thumb tracing patterns alongside the outside of his hand drawing him back to focus. "As if such a thing were ever possible." He took a step back, determinedly ignoring the mewl of discontent that escaped from Ron when he dropped his hand. "Now I am sure I am only keeping from you a night of celebrations with your young lord."
"No." Ron drew himself up straight in the face of the incredulous lift of Erik's eyebrows. "Tonight is our night. Philippe won't intrude on that."
"Is that so?" Erik's hands flexed at his sides, remembering the scene he had witnessed within this same space not so long ago. He reached out, bracing his fingers against the side of Ron's face. The boy did little more than blink at him, expression puzzled, but it still took Erik a minute or so to summon up enough courage to press a kiss to the top of Ron's brow.
He would have pulled away at the small gasp that came from Ron were it not for how quick the boy was to tangle his hand in Erik's shirt.
"I'm yours tonight," Ron murmured. "I swear it."
Erik was far too stripped bear to disguise the shudder that ran through him at that, eyes falling shut when Ron's lips landed right beneath his chin. "The things you say," he hissed.
"One day it'll stop surprising you," Ron said.
Oh, I do doubt that, Erik thought. How could one ever truly grow use to seizing the sun in their grasp, after all?
Okay, I swear even I'm trying to find ways to get the dams to break at last. All three of these boys are just impossibly stubborn.