Erik stood on the threshold of the room he referred to as his guest room (though he had never had any guests in it) and eyed the furniture it contained.

It was his mother's furniture, things that had been passed down to him when she was gone - not because she had wanted to leave him anything, but because there had been no one else to take it.

In truth, he didn't think his mother would have wanted to him to have it. She had never let him in her room, let alone let him sit on the sofa or at the table, so he couldn't say what, exactly, had possessed him to keep all of her bedroom furniture. Perhaps it was how normal it all looked. He had overheard her once, when he was a small boy, as she cried to her only friend in the village about how the child would never be able to live normally, never have a normal life (and how, by extension, neither would she). Perhaps it was a little bit of spite that made him keep it - or perhaps it was a desperate grasp at a denial of her words.

This room was normal, was it not? A perfect room, perfectly normal.

How could he be so abnormal if his house had such a normal room?

He rarely ever went in this room. He rarely had reason to. But a mad thought had occurred to him, the same way feverish inspiration often appeared for his compositions. He had to see the room for himself, to imagine it in fuller detail. His eyes scanned the room. He could see it so clearly, yet even as he knew it would be impossible, he still turned on his heel and went to grab the necessary tools.

At de Chagny mansion, Raoul watched until Christine's carriage was out of sight. He turned and went back inside, finding Philippe waiting for him.

"Raoul, Raoul," he sighed. "Come, let's have a talk."

Raoul's heart began to race. He knew what his brother likely wanted to talk about, but still he followed him to Philippe's private sitting room.

He sat down in one of the high backed leather chairs as Philippe poured two snifters of brandy for them.

"You know I'm proud of you, don't you?"

Raoul glanced up, surprised. This wasn't what he had been expecting.

"I'm very proud of your life choices, Raoul - all except for one."

Raoul clenched his jaw. This was what he had been expecting.

"I'm not going stick my nose into your personal business - what you do on your own time is up to you, that's not my concern," he paused. "But when you bring a girl from the Populaire to dinner, that is my concern."

"I knew her before the Populaire, you know," he scowled, repeating an oft repeated sentiment.

"I know. But where do you think everyone else knows her from?"

Raoul looked away, refusing to answer, and Philippe felt his annoyance growing.

That famous de Chagny stubbornness - always an asset, until it wasn't.

"I won't allow you to court her, you know," he snapped.

"Well we aren't even courting, so there," Raoul shot back. "So you have nothing at all to worry about, do you?"

Philippe huffed. He had promised their father on his deathbed that he would always look out for little Raoul, always guide him in the way he should go - but the foolhardy boy always seemed so set on doing whatever he wanted. Philippe has been that way, too, once upon a time - until he had been forced by his father's untimely death to become the Comte at the tender age of fourteen. Reality had fallen heavy on shoulders that hadn't even finished growing, and it was times like now, in the sitting room with an angry Raoul, that such responsibility made him feel old before his time - yet also, curiously enough, made him feel as though he still had no idea of what he was doing, had no control over the world around him or even over himself.

He rubbed a hand over his face.

"If you're not courting, what on earth are you two doing?"

Raoul became flustered.

"We're- we're friends," he stuttered. "We're very good friends, but- but we're not courting. She doesn't want to, not yet at least - she just wants to sing."

Philippe chuckled darkly.

"A vicomte, turned down by an opera singer. Yet still you chase after her even as she scorns you."

Raoul crossed his arms. It wasn't like that, was it? Christine hadn't scorned him... She just didn't want to court him, and he didn't mind just being her friend for now.

"Do you know why she won't court you, Raoul?" he asked suddenly. "It's probably because she has patron at the opera. She probably has three patrons at the opera, and that's why she won't court you, because she'd have to give all that up."

Raoul downed his brandy in one go. The sickly sweet liquid burned his throat and made his mouth tingle but did nothing to ease his anger.

"Is that really the kind of girl you want to marry?" Philippe needled him. "An impure girl? Who knows how many men she's-"

"I don't care if she's had every last man in Paris!" Raoul's shouted, his face going red with embarrassment when he realized what exactly he had said. "I love her!"

Philippe scoffed.

"You might as well court a girl from a brothel, Raoul. She's a strumpet."

"Is that what you think of Sorelli?" Raoul countered hotly. "Do you think she's just a strumpet?"

Philippe sat forward in his chair and pointed an accusatory finger at his brother.

"You leave Sorelli out of this! It has nothing to do with her!"

"You love her but you refuse to marry her because you're too scared of starting a scandal with the other nobles, and you're only mad at me because I'm not!"

"I said leave her out if this!" he hissed. "I will not see you end up like Adele, damn it!"

"Happy? You won't see me happy? Because that's how she is, not that you would even know!"

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about, what happened to her."

"What happened to her? What you did to her! You're the one who cut her off and cast her out! You're the one who did that to her!"

Raoul threw his snifter at the wall (but not the wall behind Philippe, because even though his blood felt like it was boiling he didn't want the glass to accidentally cut his brother).

Philippe didn't even flinch as the glass exploded across the wall. Raoul stared at the small splash of brandy left on the wallpaper for a moment before he burst into tears, as though he saw his own hopes and dreams mirrored in that shattered glass on the floor.

Philippe stared at his brother sobbing into his hands, and he sighed wearily, leaning back in his chair.

"I love her, Philippe," Raoul pleaded from behind his hands.

"I know," he replied tiredly, soothingly. "I know."

Muffled crying and the tick of the clock was the only sound in the room for a long, long moment.

"It's late," Philippe finally roused himself from his stupor. "I'm sure you're very tired. Go to bed, Raoul."

Raoul stood and quickly left the room, leaving Philippe to himself, still staring at the now-stained wallpaper, his thoughts consumed by the sister he had disowned, the lover who he feared could never be more than an ill-kept secret, and the young woman who had sat at dinner and taken their shameful treatment in stride.

The next morning was awkward, stilted.

Raoul didn't come downstairs until after breakfast had been finished, only to find that Philippe was still at the table, drumming his fingers on the wood and staring at a covered dish. He brightened visibly when he saw Raoul pause at the doorway.

"Ah! Raoul, come eat with me," he waved to him to approach, but Raoul stood his ground. "I saved some especially for you, and I made sure it's still hot. Come, sit, sit."

Raoul turned his red-lined eyes away from his hopeful brother.

"I'm not hungry," he said flatly, and Philippe's shoulders sagged.

Raoul hadn't slept well after the fight, although he truly was quite tired from his journey. He hated fighting with Philippe, but it seemed nearly every time Christine was brought up, they simply couldn't help it. He loved his brother, he really did, but he couldn't reconcile the man who had disowned their sister for supposedly disgracing the family name with the man he knew - hoped - his brother truly was. Would Philippe disown him, too, if he married Christine?

"Where all are you going today?" he tried again.

"I'm going to see Adele. I'm taking Christine along, too, actually."

Philippe scoffed.

"Don't be like that, Raoul, I thought we were done fighting."

Raoul's brow knit. He had been telling the truth - did Philippe think he was saying it to start a fight?

"I'm sorry, Philippe. I don't want to fight, either."

Philippe nodded.

"It's alright. Go have fun today. I'll see you tonight? Or will you be, ah, attending business somewhere else this evening?" he ended the question with a devilish smile, but the innuendo was seemingly lost on Raoul, who merely shook his head and replied.

"No, I'll be back tonight."

Philippe narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips into a thin line. The boy was a sailor on shore leave, for goodness sake - he expected him to want to spend a few nights away from the mansion... unless...

"Bringing anyone back, perhaps?"

Raoul looked confused and slowly shook his head.

"No, just me."

Philippe sighed. He was nearly certain that this had something to do with Christine as well. Maybe he truly was in love with her - the boy certainly didn't seem to even spare a glance at any other girl.

"Well... have fun, I suppose," he finally settled on saying.

Raoul left with a nod.

Once outside, he was awfully glad that it was a sunny day - perhaps he could explain his stinging and red eyes as due to the brightness. He didn't mind Christine knowing that he had been crying, but he didn't want her to know why he had been crying - oh, yes, I have been crying. Why, you ask? It's quite simple, really - I want to marry you but my brother thinks you're a tart. It simply wouldn't do at all.

The carriage stopped in front of the tea house they had agreed to meet at. Christine was already there, but didn't see Raoul yet. He had a moment to watch her.

She was so beautiful that sometimes he found it difficult to think around her. He loved her so much. He didn't care what Philippe thought.

Philippe.

His words from the previous night echoed back to him. Did Christine really have a patron at the opera? He felt a funny twist in his chest at the thought of that.

Many of the girls at the opera had patrons - quite a lot of them had to. When Mamma Valerious had passed away, she had left Christine a good deal of money, so Raoul had assumed that she likely didn't need the financial support of a patron like some of the girls did.

But maybe it was different for Christine. Maybe she didn't want to just get by - maybe she wanted to save up for the future. Maybe something had happened to the money left to her and she needed more.

Or maybe it was completely different for Christine. Maybe she wasn't like the rest of the girls, finding herself with no other choice but to cater to the whims of any man with spending money so she could afford to eat and live and get by. Maybe she didn't have a patron - maybe she had a suitor, or a beau. Maybe there was someone whose company she enjoyed - thoroughly enjoyed. Philippe was right - she'd have to give that up if she were to court Raoul, and clearly she didn't want to.

Christine turned and glanced in his direction, her eyes lighting up as she waved to him. Her smile was infectious, and he found himself returning the grin as he waved in return.

He sat down at the table she was sitting at, a cup of tea already in front of him.

"Black tea, is it still your favorite?" she asked him.

"It is," he smiled. "You know me so well, Little Lotte."

Her hair was twisted into a loose bun, and her dress had a delicate lace frill around the edges of her sleeves. To Raoul's eye she seemed to radiate a kind a purity. The rest of Philippe's words darted through his mind, and he shoved them away. As if there could ever be anything impure about Christine. She was pure because of the soul she possessed - her kindness, her generosity, how thoughtful she was. Her purity had nothing to do with whether or not she had been with anyone in that way. He had half a mind to march right back to the de Chagny mansion and tell his brother that he did want this kind of a girl for a wife, but he refrained.

The title of vicomte had always held a weight that pressed down on every relationship Raoul had ever had - friends, family, strangers met in passing, every single interaction with every person was affected by his title... almost every person.

Every person but Christine.

He still remembered the day they met, would never forget it.

His father, who had been trained well in music as a lad, had been fascinated by the traveling violinist, and after having seen several of his performances he had invited him to his mansion to discuss music. They had met in the parlor, formal as always. The Swedish musician, his little daughter holding tight to his hand, had bowed respectfully and greeted the Comte and the young Vicomte (Philippe and their sisters, being somewhat older than Raoul, had been otherwise engaged with a tutor at the time, and had not been present).

Raoul's father struck up a conversation with the man, and to Raoul the event was yet another stuffy ceremony that he could scarcely see the point of - until the little girl, just the same age as him, or perhaps a little younger, turned her bright, curious eyes to him. A smile came over her face, and she loosened her grasp on her father's hand to confidently stride closer to Raoul.

"I'm Christine," she had said boldly. "Who are you?"

Her father had been embarrassed, apologizing profusely and chuckling lightly.

"Christine!" he had chided her. "He is a vicomte, you must address him as such."

Her little brow had furrowed and she bit her lip, thinking hard as she looked Raoul up and down appraisingly. She then looked up at her father, seeking understanding.

"Papa, what's a vicomte?"

Raoul had known right away that he liked her.

He didn't have very many friends - he wasn't permitted to go school like a normal little boy, he had tutors and no classmates to confide in or play with. He had his brother and his sisters, of course, but they were family and had to be friends with him. He had no little playmates to frolic with, and he often felt quite lonely. The other children, when he did have chances to be around them, would often shy away from him, perhaps warned by their parents to not upset the child of a nobleman. There were the children of other nobles, too, but Raoul found them all insufferable, too spoiled or haughty to really find common ground with. He would never forget being shamed by a little boy just a bit older than him who had mocked him because Raoul's parents didn't own as much land as his own parents did - Raoul had taken a swing at the boy because of it, and though he had missed by a long shot, he boy set up a great fuss. Raoul's father had begged him to explain his actions - why had he tried to punch poor Albert? - but he had steadfastly refused to answer, unwilling to relive the burning shame that he didn't even understand (what did it matter who owned how much land?), and he had been soundly punished for his seemingly unprovoked violent intent towards the other boy.

Raoul had tried, once, to run away from home, thinking that he could start over somewhere else where no one knew he was a vicomte - but he had made the mistake of telling his nanny farewell before leaving, and so his brother had rushed out into the street, grabbing his arm harshly and pulling him back to mansion as Raoul cried and cried over both the failure of his brilliant plan and the horror he felt at how close he had been to actually succeeding in such a horrible idea. ("Why are you so stupid?" Philippe had scolded him as he marched the child back home. "You're so stupid, Raoul - don't know how much we would miss you?")

But Christine never judged him for being a vicomte - she didn't even know what a vicomte was! Despite her father explaining what it meant, she still didn't seem to fully grasp the concept, or perhaps such things as nobility and titles meant very little to her. Either way, their fathers had formed a sort of friend - a kinship, nearly - over music, so Christine and Raoul found ample time to play together. They would run through the garden and play hide-and-go-seek among the flowers while their fathers mulled over sheet music and compositions, or else they would spend hours in Raoul's playroom reading fairy stories and building castles out of blocks as their fathers discussed funding Gustave Daaé's musical endeavors.

Raoul didn't have to secretly wonder if Christine was looking down on him for how much his family owned (she didn't even seem aware that his family owned anything other than the mansion - how could someone own a tree? she had asked once, when he'd told her of the orchard his family managed). He didn't have to worry over polite manners or etiquette or protocol around her - and she never fidgeted around him as though he were a prince or someone special. With Christine, he didn't have to be reminded that he was a vicomte. With Christine he could simply be Raoul.

As he had gotten older, he noticed the difference all the more. Girls would show an interest in him, only for him to quickly realize they were more inserted in his title (will you become the Comte one day? Does that mean your wife will get a title, too? How much will you inherit?). It was the same with many boys, too - he found himself often shunned or else plied with false flattery. For the longest time he had tried to hide the fact that he was a vicomte when he first enrolled in the navy, and he had managed to do so for a little while. He had made friends in the navy, mostly before they knew who he was, and most remained his friend even after - though some who had before found nothing of interest to talk to him about suddenly became quite fascinated by attempting to strike up a conversation with him after his identity was revealed.

But through it all Christine had remained his dearest friend. Just being around her made him feel better. He had said a few times, when he was but a boy, that he intended to marry her - a vow that entailed something he hadn't even been scarcely aware of at the time. All he had known at that point was that to be married meant that you spent all of your time together, and he wanted to spend all of his time around Christine Daaé. When he was a bit older his father had explained to him the function of a wife, and Raoul had been mortified to find out about the whole concept, about this bizarre thing everyone had been keeping secret from him (he could see, now, why it was a secret). He was terribly glad indeed that Christine was away with her father as he toured Europe during that summer when he had been told of such things, because now that he knew how the world worked, his mind would begin to wander (did he still want Christine as a wife? Did want to- with her?) and it never failed to bring a bright red blush to face. He was uncertain at first, but as years went on the thought became a little more welcome until finally one day he had realized that he only ever wanted to feel - to do - those things with Christine, not with anyone else. There had never been anyone else he wanted to spend his life with other than her.

He was certain of that, even now as he sat across from her as they sipped their tea. He wanted to marry Christine Daaé. Did she want to marry him? He wasn't certain. He didn't want to override her will with his own, he knew that too. If she never wanted to marry him, well - perhaps she'd still let him be in her life somehow. To bask in the shadow of her presence was still better than to not be around her at all. If she didn't want him in that way, perhaps she'd still want him as friend. He hoped she'd always want him as friend, no matter what.

They didn't linger long over their tea - they had places to be.

He pushed his now empty teacup back and rubbed his hands together, eager for the visit that was awaiting them, his angst of the previous night nearly forgotten.

"Now, are you ready, Lottie?"

She nodded, grinning.

"Of course."