20

"You never wear your mask," Raoul murmurs, assigned the mundane task of softening Erik's paint. The artist is only watching him, arms folded, expression stoic. "Not anymore."

Erik lifts his chin to regard Christine's face. He wonders how to improve the work he has already done. "It bothers you," he says, nonchalantly.

"I'm only curious," Raoul replies. "You hide behind nothing anymore."

"Give me a reason," Erik's face is entirely in the candlelight, his dark hair falling over the devastatingly handsome side of his face, and his left brow pulled down, judgmental. Raoul catches himself staring, fixedly, and does not stop. The other side of Erik is so hideously malformed it is a wonder he keeps so many mirrors around, or how he is able to hold on to such dignity and grace with no mask.

Give me a reason. Raoul hears the reply in the corner of his mind. Paint-slicked fingers stop churning red.

"What does that mean?" he asks. Erik's smile deepens into his cheek.

"It means, young man, that there is neither a grace too compelling or a beauty overpowering in this little lair of mine to hide from," he comes to his feet, and pets Raoul's hair in mock affection as he passes. "But there is still beauty."