On the day that it is seventy-eight years since Philippe's death, he is dressed in his best, and has put on his good hat, and is sitting waiting with his cane to hand when Erik arrives to visit him.
He has never once missed visiting Philippe's grave on his anniversary. So help him, but he's not going to miss visiting him one last time.
It's a dull, miserable day, threatening rain, and Erik takes one look at him and sighs. "I don't suppose I could talk you out of wanting to go."
"Not even for a blizzard." And it might turn wet but it's very far from a blizzard out there.
Another sigh. "I thought as much." And there's mischief in his face, a slight touch of a grin, and Raoul knows then Erik was only humouring him by trying to pretend to talk him out of it. "I've already bought the flowers."
Affection flares in his heart for this boy. "You weren't even going to try, were you?"
"Not at all."
They leave the radio off in the car, and for the twenty-minute drive say very little at all. He knows from the cast of Erik's mouth that Christine has gone somewhere in time, and he hopes it's to see Sorelli, hopes it's to after they became involved in 1945 and not to those years when they didn't speak after Philippe's death.
He didn't know her then, only afterwards, but he's known her now, in this time she came from to there, and he remembers how she wept after she got back from 1939 and Sorelli telling her that she never wanted to see her again, and how he ached to be able to tell her of the future, to tell her that they would see each other again, would be friends again, would become more than friends, but the words wouldn't come and he knew he couldn't tell her, knew he wasn't supposed to, and how it killed him inside, to only be able to hold her as she wept.
So he hopes she has not gone to those terrible years, but only to the ones afterwards, the good ones, when it was all in the past.
(He can understand why Sorelli told her that. Part of him wanted to do the same, when he learned after Jack died that she had known all along that it would happen, but he couldn't do that to her, couldn't do that to himself.)
Erik gets the car as close to where Philippe's buried as he can, and helps him out, and he's stiff just after the journey, legs tired, and it would be so easy just to sit and get Erik to bring the flowers to the headstone, but it wouldn't be the same, it wouldn't be right, and he wouldn't forgive himself.
He has his cane, but he leans heavy on Erik's arm, too, and if Erik notices it, he pretends not to.
Philippe Roderick de Chagny.
1904-1939.
Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam.
How many times has he read those words?
Erik sets the flowers down, and squeezes his hand, before he steps back to give him privacy, to give him space to speak, if he wants to. But Raoul is all out of words when it comes to visiting his brother's grave, comes here, mostly, to feel close to him, and because something deep inside of him wants to, needs to, and all he can think is how the headstone would look with his name added to it.
Raoul Algernon de Chagny.
1923-2017.
And maybe a line from Keats to round it off. Or Marvell.
(The headstone would look very crowded, with them both on it.)
No. No, he doesn't think he'd like it, disturbing Philippe's rest, after all the years. The thought doesn't sit well with him. Better to bury him somewhere else, and leave it at that.
"Won't be long now, brother," he whispers, and swallows. "Won't be long."
Twelve days.
Erik comes back, after a little while, and doesn't say anything, just stands close beside him, ready, if he should want him.
Raoul swallows, and braces himself against the pounding of his heart. "Don't bury me here," he whispers, "when the time comes. Put me somewhere else."
He feels Erik stiffen, and watches him out of the side of his eye, the firm set of his jaw. For a long minute, he thinks he might protest, might try to tell him not to think about such things, but then he draws in a shuddering breath, and nods.
"All right."
All right.
Christine finds them there, some sense of hers drawing her to them when she comes back to the present, and she slots her arm through his, leans her head against his shoulder. "Where were you?" he whispers, his voice a little hoarse, and she squeezes his hand. "With him in 1939," and her voice is soft in his ear.
(Philippe's face, so cold and pale beneath his fingertips. The ridged stitches of that cut above his eye, and if he had moved the sheet down, uncovered the wounds, what would he have seen?)
The hardest thing, after Sorelli died, was learning to breathe around the new space in his chest that she had left.
It got easier, after that first year, and as 1993 drew to a close, it seemed like he might be getting better at it.
The fireworks crackled for the dawning of 1994, and he toasted her with a shot of chartreuse.
Darius joined him again the day before his birthday.
They had not spoken of the year before, of their one night of pretending, but it was as if by silent agreement that they allowed themselves one more night, one more night of kisses, one more night of lying skin-to-skin, of touching each other softly in the darkness. And this year they did not get themselves drunk on wine, and their touches were so much more, breath soft on skin, and as Darius' fingers traced the crease of his hip, he knew this was just what he needed.
(One night to be lovers, again, the rest of the year to be friends, and maybe it was strange, maybe it was ridiculous, but it was the sweetest thing in the world, to have that night.)
12 February 1994.
What would have been Sorelli's eightieth birthday.
It should be marked somehow, in some way. Should be celebrated, for what she had been, what she had done, and he ached to do something for her, in her memory, but what?
The answer came in the form of Christine.
Christine, from 2018. Still grieving him (and what a thought, that she had known him in those future years), and she smiled when she saw him, just a little sad.
"It's good to see you," and her eyes were damp, as he pulled her into his arms, and hugged her.
"And it's always good to see you."
They went out together for dinner, and talked of the future.
Pieces of it, nothing that would catch him off guard to know in advance, and when he told her that he knew about Erik she told him about him, and he didn't miss the happiness in her eyes, to speak of the man who would be her husband in that distant faraway time.
"He composed a piece for the piano, for Sorelli and I. He's tried teaching me how to play it, but my fingers keep fumbling on the keys. I've been adapting it for the violin."
And that was what gave him the idea. "One of the things she left me was a violin that she'd bought for you. You used to play it—you will play it, when you go back to that time."
(A piece of her future, given to her.)
She smiled, her eyes shining. "Would you like to hear the piece?"
"If you'd like to play it."
And she did play it for him, and it brought tears to his eyes to hear it, but made him smile, too, to see her with her eyes closed, her face perfectly focused as she moved the bow over the strings, her body bending and swaying with the music. And beneath the melody, beneath the rising and falling notes, he could see Sorelli's smile, could hear her laugh, could see the mischief twinkling in her dark eyes, and how that future boy, that Erik, captured her so perfectly he could not understand, only that he had, and he had done it beautifully, and when Raoul closed his eyes, he could see Sorelli and Christine together, dancing slowly in each other's arms, beneath a streetlight, turning to the music, as real as if they were there before him, as real as if he was back there again, watching them, and wishing he had a camera, to capture the moment real forever.
Christine finished playing, and he opened his eyes, and smiled at her. "It's beautiful," he whispered, his voice hoarse, and then, "she'd love it."
"I'm glad." Her thumb was soft, brushing the tears from his cheeks. "I'm glad."
And so the years went, ticking on. Periods of loneliness, and hollowness, and brightness in between. Darius writing, Harry visiting. Christine popping in and out, from one time and another, every few months. Going to Belfast, and Sheila insisting he was too thin and needed to eat more and Harry grinning at him across the table. That time in the newsagents in Bray, and Noël saw him first, and called him, "Raoul!" and when Raoul turned around it took him a minute to recognise him with his fishing hat, and because he wasn't expecting to find him there, and then he grinned when he knew who it was. They went for tea, and Noël was fiery, telling him about the essay he was working on about Church influence on the education system, and it was like old times again, forty years in the past and more.
"Charlie O'Connor's written a book about the Post-Sanatorium League," he said then, and Raoul raised an eyebrow.
"I thought he went to South Africa for his health?" He remembered Charlie O'Connor, and his relapses with TB. Sorelli had been fond of him and admired his efficiency.
"He comes back every now and then."
That was what gave Raoul the idea to collect some of his writings from that time into a book, and write a proper introduction about his memories of it and being sick himself, and it was published the next year, causing a minor stir.
(Christine, after he told her about Jack, and having been ill himself, tracked down the book and it satisfied him to know it's still out there for people to find.)
"Historians will consider this valuable someday," Noël told him when it was published in 1995. "All of us leaving our records. Just you watch."
And as an old historian Raoul knew he was right, knew that even as he was putting them together, but it touched something deep inside, to think his old writings would be primary sources to someone, someday, would have a value of their own.
Darius came every one of those years for his birthday, and every time was special, every time made better by his being there, by not being alone, by their pretending.
Something more than friends, something different from lovers. Not a romantic relationship, in any true sense, but something of their own.
He thinks Sorelli would be pleased, to know he would not be wholly alone, pleased to know that they had found their own arrangement that worked.
Christine was always the true highlight, and whether she was from 2018 or 2048 or 2068 it was always good just to see her, to be connected to something greater than himself, to hear her perspective on things that had happened years ago for him but were new to her, and with the older Christines they talked over their memories, and with the younger ones they did that too, sometimes, though they had less memories in common, and often they talked of films and books and music instead, and he made sure the violin was looked after, for her to play, and made sure that there were always clothes for her.
They went together to see Michael Collins when it was released in the Savoy in November 1996, and he spent most of the time glancing over at her, grimacing over the historical inaccuracy, and wincing at Julia Roberts' horrendous Irish accent.
Afterwards, when Christine asked him if he'd enjoyed it with just a hint of mischief in her eyes, he scowled and said he intended to write a very long article correcting all its problems.
When she laughed, he got the impression that he'd been conned into watching something she knew he'd hate, but he couldn't even be mad at her, not when she was so satisfied with herself.
(Besides, he had to admit that Aidan Quinn as Harry Boland was a reasonable enough reason to watch it.)
(He's never told her that, but he might yet, just to see what she'd say.)
1997, the dawning of another year.
The bells tolled, and he toasted Sorelli's photograph, and fiddled with the record player.
Footsteps on the stairs, a light step. Christine, and she smiled to see him, the silver shining in her hair as she took his hand.
"Happy new year," she said, and kissed his cheek. "May I have this dance?"
He kissed her hand, and smiled. "You may indeed."