Chapter 8 – A Brother's Love
Raikune: I'm ba-aaack, from Venice! [drags a kidnapped lithe, lean, hot young Italian gondolier named Gianni behind her, he still has his hat and everything][is grinning widely]
Gianni: [says something rude in Italian]
Raikune: [ignores this] I'm adding him to my male harem, along with Erik and Philippe and all my other pet men. Yes, I am disturbed...
Gianni: o.o Tu sei pazzo! [sulks]
Raikune: [grins like a loon] I know.
Gianni: ...Molto pazzo.
Raikune: [digs him with her elbow] And now, let all manner of things begin...
"B-bonjour, Sorelli," the Count stuttered in a higher voice then usual. He flinched as Sorelli began fingering his collar in a medative way.
"You haven't been to see me in ages," Sorelli purred, working a slender finger under Philippe's collar. He jerked as she touched his skin. "Why, on the last performance you didn't drop by my dressing room as you usually do..."
"I-I was busy that night." Philippe looked around wildly for a way to escape. Raoul wasn't being helpful by snickering at him from the hallway. Philippe glared at him. The Viscount interpreted this in the wrong way, thinking that his brother wanted to be left alone in privacy with Sorelli, and gave him a sly wink before strolling away, whistling, to look for Christine. Philippe almost shouted after him but the dancer regained his attention.
"Busy? Oh, but surely you have time to see me, after rehearsal?" Sorelli smiled at him. Philippe felt himself break out in a sweat. Their little relationship had been over for some time and he couldn't think of what she was doing now.
"I don't know," he answered weakly, "Your rehearsal schedule shifts so often..."
"I'm sure we can work something out..." She fingered his collar some more. A flirtatious light came into her green eyes. "You look ever so handsome, M. le Comte, in this suit...is it a gift?"
"Why, y-yes..."
"From a lady?" She gave him a little wink.
"No..."
"Why, you even have male admirers now?" Sorelli giggled.
"What...? No! No...this is from...an acquaintance..."
"Of course." Sorelli moved her hand from the collar to his top buttons. "I understand if you don't want to tell me about them...but, really, I never figured you for a man that had a taste for men." She giggled again. Philippe felt himself go red. "No! Nothing like that!"
"It is really you...very becoming." Sorelli gave him a slow once-over. Philippe was sweating like mad and his head was beginning to ache from nervousness. He could smell her perfume, a lavender scent she always wore; that he liked, and had insisted on her wearing every time they met. He looked into her eyes again and remembered how fine they were...and he yelped as she flicked his top shirt button open.
"Sorelli! Really, I-I..."
"My dear Count, you look so tense! And you're flushed." Sorelli laughed. "I'm not going to bite, Philippe." She slid another finger inside his collar. It was soft and cool. Philippe squeaked.
"I really must be going..."
"Oh, but you just got here!" Sorelli pouted. Philippe decided not to point out that she had dragged him in. He wondered where Raoul was and decided that if he found him again he would give him a thick ear.
A sharp twinge came from his head and he winced. Sorelli moved her gaze upwards and blinked in surprise.
"Why, you're injured, Philippe! Poor thing! Come and sit down."
"No thank you...agh!" He was pushed onto her little couch. Sorelli put a shapely hand against his chest and shoved him so was lying flat. "There, rest...let me look at this little war-wound of yours...maybe there's something I can do." She smiled warmly.
"It's fine. Really. Sorelli -"
"Shhhh." She flicked another button open. "You need to relax."
"I am relaxed." He yelped as she reached inside his shirt. "I also think you need a massage..."
Philippe made an odd noise. "No...please..."
"You act like I'm going to harm you!" Sorelli laughed, amused. She leaned forward so she was an inch away from his nose, from his blue eyes. Philippe almost stopped breathing. Her soft lavender scent swirled about his head, and her skin shone rosy in the lamplight. And her green eyes...he loved the female eyes. He considered them more beautiful then a face.
"You know I would never hurt you, Philippe."
"Yarghh." His throat had seized up.
She trailed a finger over his collarbone. "My grandmother always said that a massage could alleviate any pain..."
Philippe swallowed. "I...don't doubt that...but...I must be go-iiing..." he squeaked as Sorelli trailed her hand lower down his chest.
"Why, you're trembling!" The dancer giggled.
The Comte yelped and wormed out from under her grip, staggering to his feet. He leant against the doorframe, muttering excuses. "Prior engagement –problem at the estate- urgent- must leave..."
Sorelli ignored these, and with a sultry smile curled her fingers in his belt-loops and yanked him towards her. Then she kissed him, hungrily, passionately, fully on the lips, and the Count was so surprised he did nothing. She took his submissiveness to her advantage and shoved him against the wall, trailing her slender fingers down to his belt...
BANG.
The door swung open, Erik, Nadir, and Raoul sprawling on the floor, Erik pummelling Raoul in high agitation. "Get OFF, you stupid boy!"
"Owww! Stoppit!"
Nadir untangled himself from the other men, and edged around them carefully. He saw Philippe and Sorelli and blinked...before a slow grin crossed his face. He nudged Erik with a foot. "Messieurs? I think we're intruding on something..."
Erik shoved Raoul away from him and slid gracefully to his feet, with a knowing smirk. "Oh ho! I think you may be right, Daroga..."
Philippe managed to pry himself away from Sorelli. "You were not! This isn't what it seems...Sorelli, m'dame, please..."
Raoul tapped Philippe on the shoulder. "Philippe? We have a problem."
The Count swung around, his patience gone completely.
"A problem? Really? Already? In a day full of monumentous catastrophes, I hadn't noticed!"
Raoul blinked. "Yes..." Then he scowled. "You know my box of chocolates? Well – "
"How could I forget?" Philippe interrupted. Raoul continued. "Well, some of those little ballet girls have somehow got hold of it. My chocolates. And they refuse to give it back. The managers have holed themselves up in their office again and decline to see anyone at all..."
"So?"
"Well, the girls might listen to you..." Raoul trailed off hopefully.
Philippe put his face very close to his brother's. "Raoul. Under no circumstances am I getting those damnable chocolates back for you. In fact, we're departing right as we speak. Let's go."
"No he's not!" Sorelli huffed, ignoring Erik and Nadir's sniggering, attaching onto Philippe's right arm with an iron grip. "Philippe's going to stay here with me. Messieurs, you so rudely interrupted a private moment: as much as I like having four men in my dressing room at once, you have to wait your turn. That includes you, M. Opera Ghost. Now –"
"He's not! He's making the ballet rats give me back my birthday present!"
"Go swat them with a broom or something: that always works."
"Philippe! Tell your lady friend that family's more important!"
"You're not his family," Erik interrupted, "Philippe hasn't any pink fop-blood in his veins."
"What!"
"You two couldn't be more less-alike if you tried."
Raoul blinked, hurt. "What are you talking about!"
"It's quite obvious," Erik said silkily, feeding off the younger Chagny's pain, "I'm no fan of your brother, but he's much more intelligent you are by a considerable degree. He has a nobleman's dress sense, unlike you. He's more tactful, perceptive, nor he is all delicately feminine. I wouldn't be surprised if you were some poor street urchin his father took pity on..."
Raoul's face, from when Erik began to speak, had gone steadily paler. His lip trembled.
"That's not true!" Philippe shouted angrily, rounding on Erik. "I couldn't care less how similar he is to me!"
"But," Erik purred, "It's all true, isn't it?"
"Raoul was not a street urchin!"
"But the rest?"
Philippe didn't say anything, he just glared. Raoul made an odd noise and ran out before Philippe could stop him. The Count rounded on Erik, eyes flashing.
"As usual, Monsieur, you've made things worse."
"I know," Erik said proudly. Philippe turned and stomped out of the dressing room: despite Sorelli's protests, he decided, if it really made Raoul so happy, he would get those blasted chocolates back.
After some vain searching, trying to find the lair of the ballet rats as it were, he heard a giggle. The Opera's back corridors were ill-lit, and he could see nothing. There was another giggle.
"Ooh, you're right, he IS handsome!" Girlish laughter erupted, from behind him.
The Count whirled around, his eyes falling upon three petite dancers crowded in the corridor. Two were giggling and blushing, one was smirking. The latter, of course, was Meg. She batted her dark eyelashes at him.
"Were you looking for something, M. le Comte?" she inquired innocently.
"As a matter of fact, mam'selles," Philippe began, to another chorus of giggles, "I was wondering if you saw any...chocolates lying around."
"Oh, those," piped a little voice, the speaker revealing herself to be Jammes, "We took –"Meg stomped on her foot and the girl yelped, blushing.
"Right," Philippe said calmly. He wondered how he should go about this: either tying them up or turning his charm on. He was itching for the former.
"We might have the chocolates," Meg replied innocently, "then again, we might not. It depends what you're willing to do, Monsieur le Comte, to get them back..." she drew this last sentence out into a sly little laugh.
Philippe eyed the girls warily. He was about two feet taller then they were, on the other hand they could be amazing quick when needed, and he knew from experience that being kicked in the shins by them was not a pleasant experience. They also had the upper hand in that they knew the Opera House very well, and he did not. He didn't like the smug way they were watching him, beady-eyed, as if listening to his thoughts.
"What sort of demands did you have in mind?" he inquired stiffly, thinking it would be money.
They just giggled; a chilling sound, to his ears. Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck.
"Nothing extravagant. Just...a kiss." An explosion of giggles at this statement.
Philippe blinked. Clearly, he hadn't heard right.
"Excuse me?" he said slowly.
"Oh Comte, will you listen!" Meg whined irritably, "I said a kiss...a kiss will cost you your foppy brother's chocolates."
"With who?" the Count said blankly.
"Me!" Meg chirped, blushing slightly. She thought a minute, then grinned. "And when I say kiss, I mean kisses, and when I mean me, I mean the whole corps de ballet. That's not so bad, is it?"
"You want me...to kiss all of you...once...for the chocolates," Philippe said hesitatingly, trying to comprehend what he'd heard. The girls nodded.
"On the lips?" he asked, hardly daring to hear the answer.
Jammes blinked her doe-eyes. "We never thought of that...what a good idea! You're much brighter then Raoul..."
"Wait till I tell Sorelli," Meg declared, "or the Paris newspapers: 'Count de Chagny kisses Meg Giry, dancer-soon-to-be-princess. Wedding to follow-' "
"No!" Philippe shouted, louder then he intended, "If the papers hear of this I'll be ruined! My whole family!"
"Better wet your lips then," Meg chirped, "After all, you're going to be kissing a lot of girls."
"This is blackmail!"
"I know."
"It's disgraceful!"
"Yup."
"You're children, for God's sakes! I'm not doing it!" He turned, to walk away from them, damn the chocolates...and found he was surrounded, both sides. Ballet girls had filled the corridor, out of the shadows, silent as mist. They clustered thickly together, slight, slender little girls of thirteen and up, looking harmless but watching him with terrible intent. There was, he thought grimly, something definitely rodent-like about them, no wonder they were called ballet rats.
They were all smirking.
"You can't run, Comte Philippe," came Meg's high voice. He turned, mouth dry. The little dancer was obviously leader of the pack. The girl snapped her fingers and another came forward with some rope.
"Tie his wrists," Meg ordered breezily, "with strong knots, but not too tight. That way he can't resist."
"I strongly object to this treatment," Philippe said quietly. Meg shrugged. "Object all you want: It's just a precaution. We knew you wouldn't willingly agree to do this- after all, you're a good-hearted man." She smiled, not her devilish grin, but a true one. Then she tested the knots. "But...we're not like you. So it has to be this way. Move forward." She gave him a light shove.
"Try to shout for help, we gag you. Try to run; we tie your legs and drag you. Try to harm us...well, it's not a good idea. Oui?"
"Yes," Philippe replied grimly. He couldn't believe he was being taken prisoner inside the Paris Opera House by a host of young girls.
Meg grinned. "Then forward march, Comte!"
They disappeared into the bowels of the Opera House.
Please accept my humblest apologies for not updating any of my phics for so long. That said, good news: almost done with the next chapter of TGWP! Yay! :D I do feel sorry for poor Philippe in this chappie...I am so cruel. But I lurve him all the same. Hope you will as well. Please review, and the authoress will gleefully write some more.
Fwee!