12

Erik is wrong. Raoul, four days later, is absolutely alone. There is no other voice around him to speak with, and when Erik is present he only batters away at his organ. The music is maddening, and Raoul paces. Erik does not seem to have a distinct aim for a tune. He wants to make sounds, loud crashes and hideous moans, and his notes sore in obedience before they plummet. An hour of this, and Raoul can no longer concentrate, or think.

He approaches the organ, and draws in a breath to shout over the sound, the horrible sound, but before he even finishes thinking about what he might say, Erik ceases. He turns and regards Raoul, expressionless, and Raoul forgets how to speak.

"Are you finished?" he finally, dry, and even childish. Everything he does is childish, and the Phantom takes sport in watching him try and be a man. Erik smirks, faintly, and he turns with satisfaction back to his music. Long fingers expertly take the keys, like wading through water with no visible effort, and Raoul feels the columns of his spine tremble in his skin. The music is not just unstructured this time, but gloriously chaotic. Erik does not appear to be following any written music. Where it lives Raoul cannot know. He takes a step back, and another. Raoul is fascinated, and terrified, because he knows how it is pulling him in.

Erik turns to face him, and the notes end as quickly as they began. Raoul feels watched. He wishes Erik would give him a shirt. The lair is not immune to the cold as Erik seems to be.

"I played the violin," Raoul says. "As a boy."

Erik's smile widens, but there is nothing pleasant in it. "Violin. Thin, weak notes that sound more like the whine of harpies than music. No strength." Raoul again feels naked, and his cheeks burn with indignity, but he says nothing in reply, nothing to further satisfy the Phantom's taunts. Erik pauses, thoughtfully, and he stands. Raoul does not know what to do, but Erik's fingers are digging into his bicep, and he is guided like a puppet on a string to the seat before the organ.

Raoul knows that refusing will probably get him an empty belly for three days, so he obediently lowers himself to the bench, and hesitantly touches the keys. The organ stirs at the slightest touch, and he shakes his head. "I cannot play."

Erik snorts, and he leans over Raoul so that his shirt hangs about him and brushes the back of the other man's shoulders, and his unkempt hair falls in the only eye Raoul can see. His scent is strong, a pleasing mixture of spicy soap and sweat. Raoul's fingers twitch uncomfortably as they rise from the keys. He does not wish to further disturb them with clumsiness, but Erik's palms slide over his, and his fingers are no longer his. Erik plucks them from the keys as if he were a slow child, and he holds them like a vice.

"It is unimaginably simple," he murmurs, and hours pass. Through Raoul, Erik manages an entire whirlwind of melody and grace. It is perfect, as if they are sitting as one, until Erik releases Raoul's hands, and he falters. Raoul cannot falter as often as he would like, because with every falter comes a bruise, and a new sensation of pain. Erik is behind him, commanding, but also locked. With every falter, Erik slips his finger beneath Raoul's, pressing down with his thumb, and twists hard enough to earn a cry from the Vicomte. Four twists, two crunches, and adrenaline pumps through Raoul's veins. His breathing is hard, but he cannot stop playing what he does not know.

Erik gives him control back, and Raoul snatches his trembling hands from the keys. They ache. Erik stands over Raoul, and lets him slump forward. He reaches out, slowly, as if to touch Raoul's hair, but decides against it. The boy is better off without comfort.

"I do my best not to anger you," Raoul's voice breaks, hoarse. "I keep out of your way. You insist on hurting me."