23
Raoul is a live doll to Erik. He was given new clothing this morning. They were laid out beside him on the bed, clean and pressed, but obviously they belong to someone significantly larger. Erik's trousers hang off of him, and the shirts are only just fitting enough not to be billowing sails around his lean frame. Raoul appreciates the gesture perhaps more than he should. Even as he touches his bruises, now fading on his cheek, he cannot concentrate on something so destructive and exhausting as anger, or hate.
Erik, for the best part of two weeks, has spent more time in the lair. Not with him, not for him, but he is still in the same plane, and the sound of another breathing presence is all Raoul can truly ask for. It is amazing, that this is what the world has brought him to: that a good day is Erik acknowledging his existence, that a better day is Erik involving Raoul in his work, even if it is only a few mindless tasks scattered throughout the day.
The Phantom returns mostly in the evening, and works late into the night, until Raoul has nodded off and wakes to find him gone, as if he were never there. Lately Erik still comes back to his portrait of Christine, obsessed with perfecting it. Raoul calls it obsession, because Erik is entirely absorbed in it, and night after night he stands ever before it, blending colors, making deeper shadows. He uses his hands in such ways as Raoul could never hope to. His creations are those of such beauty, but Raoul cannot bring himself to appreciate the portrait of Christine.
Erik obsesses over it too much, and it is so far from his own reach. Raoul watches, and every now and then he will slip a hand beneath his shirt, and finger the fading yellow and brown rise that bruises the edge of his ribcage. Even as his touch sends a dull ache deep into his body, Raoul can only concentrate on something perhaps more destructive and exhausting than hate, and far too horrible to admit. Jealousy.
