22

Raoul tends to his bruises and bloody nose, nonchalantly. There is no more tantamount of pleasure or pain, it is simply another task to be completed. They are not so bad this time, as he stands before a mirror with a handkerchief, dabbing at the trail of blood beneath his nostril. It is well past three in the morning, and Erik has not yet retired, though he looks exhausted. He watches Raoul, but his mind is elsewhere.

The alcohol has long since wore off. Raoul's head feels ten pounds heavier, and aches like nothing else.

"You must have had dreams," Erik murmurs, eyes unfocused, forefinger absently stroking his bottom lip. Raoul looks at him through the mirror. "Things you wanted to be, before her," he glances at Raoul, and his eyes are shadowed by the tilt of his chin. "Before me."

"Things I wanted to be," Raoul cannot remember what he dreamed.