18

Erik is not interested in teaching the boy anything. He tolerates questions about his music because silence is a thing he can only take so much of. Thought solitude has been the meaning of his existence it is not the entirety. He listens to voices for the most of his day, as he writes, while he ventures out into the workings of the Opera House. Raoul's voice allows him to remain in his home.

In turn, Raoul does not always express passion in learning anything about music, which is of course why Erik forces him to play. His comfort is not one of Erik's priorities. The boy has been here for so long, it seems, and he still cannot seem to catch on to the placement of the keys. Notes are only found and properly executed when Raoul's hands are guided by his own. The swollen knuckles and bruises are almost gone. Even when Erik stands behind him, arms folded at the small of his back to avoid contact, he feels the points of his shoulder blades briefly gaze his torso through his brown silk waist coat.

The back of a neatly combed head leans ever so briefly against his chest. Raoul keeps his hair always clean and pulled back behind his head, at the base of his neck. A black band is there – knotted ribbon. Almost gentle curiosity drives him a subtle step forward. Raoul tenses, slightly. The distance between them is enough to lack contact, but a barrier of heat fills the empty space. Raoul plays on, sloppily, with an immeasurable degree of hesitance and uncertainty, but he persists. Erik is not entirely focused on the sound as the sight. His hand rises from his side, and finds the ponytail, neatly trailing from the black ribbon.

Gold. Dark gold.

Beneath it is the nape of his neck, fragile and warm. Very warm. He even feels the skin prickle up against his fingertips as he traces the line of hair, behind his ear, and up into the smooth gold that lies flat on his scalp. Raoul's response to Erik's touch is not horrified or disgusted. It is much like a cat leaning into the hand of its master, adoringly. Longing, even.

Or perhaps it is Erik's imagination. His fingers twitch at the small of his back. Raoul has ceased his attempts to play.

Thoughtfully, Erik grips his prisoner's bicep, probing the fibers of muscle beneath the clothing. The crook of his shoulder. Raoul holds his breath, bracing for cruelty. Erik only makes a noncommittal noise in the bottom of his throat. "You're getting strong," he says.