32

The lair seems smaller since the discovery of the note. Illusions that have kept Raoul in the trance linger in translucent indecision, and he can hardly decide if they hold on their own, or if he is the one still desperate enough to hold them up. The prospect of escape has opened his eyes, and he almost prefers to be blind. He thinks now, eats, drinks, sleeps, dwells on that note, and it does not ease. It will not, and until Erik returns Raoul will pace, and chew on his fingernails, fidgeting, and sending restless glances over to the cluttered table.

There is a sound of displaced air, perhaps that of a passageway closing, and Raoul waits for Erik, holding his breath for the moment the dark figure passes through the curtains. He is silent and brooding, as always, masked and untouchable. Raoul watches him from beneath drawn brows, and Erik only hints at a half smile. Mirthless, unpleasant. Raoul feels naked, like there is nothing he can hide from the other man, or ever truly could.

Erik knows, of course he does. He knows everything, and does not even acknowledge his violated work area as he passes it. He is entirely unaffected by the stricken look on Raoul's face, and Raoul begins to wonder why he ever thought he could affect anything the Phantom is, or feels. He removes his dress coat, and makes no sound, standing erect and smoothly hanging it on the coat rack beside the desk. He raises his brow at the young man.

"You've been in my study," he finally says, barely grazing him with a steel glance, and Raoul sinks when Erik turns away from him again. He hates always speaking to Erik's back. "I take it you did not like what you found."

Raoul snorts, indignant, disgusted, and laces his shirt up, tight, quick, anything to occupy his hands. He dares another pace forward. "How long have you been torturing my parents?" he snaps, and keeps emotion out of his demand. "Dangling my life out of their reach, how long!" No answer. Raoul shakes with rage. "Are you going to keep your word, and return me to-" The world? It won't come, and Raoul bites out the second best. "- to up there?"

A graceful shrug of despicable indifference. "Would you have my honest answer?"

Raoul clenches his teeth to keep his tongue at bay, and pushes down the rise of anger. It is hot, swelling inside him. "Always," he grits.

Erik, for once perhaps, levels with his captive. He is quiet a moment, face fixed in consideration, and finally, "It has been some time," he answers, honest and simple. There is no lie in his tone. "Since she left me here, to rot, as you say. I considered all I have left to me, and came to see the cure to my madness. An eye flicks to Raoul. "That is you." Raoul is holding his breath, and realizes it. Something inside him leaps, and he only frowns, unwilling to betray it. He wonders if he is still blind, even as Erik's horrible mouth will not twist into a foul smile of any sort. His face remains frozen as stone. "I realized all I needed to depart Paris was here, in you. In case it has escaped your notice, you are exceedingly rich, Vicomte, and your family has offered me - among their colorful threats - any desired amount in exchange for your life, and your freedom."

Raoul listens. He wishes he were deaf, and his breath exhales hard through his nostrils, and a muscle twitches in his tightly clenched jaw. Erik gives no reaction, save a very, very slow smile. "With this city behind me, I will go back into the world."

Raoul tilts his head. "The world won't take you," he says, hotly. "The world made very clear how much of you they are willing to tolerate. It cast you out." Only a smirk, soft and dangerous, silent and cruel, plays an ugly path across his mouth before it drops. A slight inclination of the dark head, and Raoul's scowl deepens. He steps up, fuming. "You're fairly calm, Phantom," he spits the name out. "You're not in the mood to beat me, force more blood from this body? Have you harnessed your temper at last?" Erik says nothing. "Aren't you going to beat me!" Raoul demands again, and his venom earns an arched brow.

"Would you like me to?" Erik asks, quietly. Another warning. "I am not entirely rash, young man, and it has not escaped my consideration."

Raoul is staring, incredulously, afraid of his own answer. He swallows. "What are you going to do with me? I know you'll not keep your word to my parents."

"My dear boy, hold your tongue, or I will cut it out and leave you mute as well as condemned to starvation and madness, do I make myself clear?"

He shakes with rage, nails digging into palms, sweat beading at his brow, throat aching. "So you will rob my father, and mother, of a fortune and a son."

Erik leans forward, onto the organ where the candles used to reside. They are out, and give off no light, but Erik's face is shadowed and horrible as ever it was, even with the ivory mask on one side. "Raoul," he says, softly. "How did you think this would end? What were you expecting, hoping for?" he straightens, and rakes a critical gaze over Raoul's frail frame. "So you have removed my mask, as so many others before you. In your mind you have breached me, but only in your mind. So you now realize that you do not truly want what you thought you did, now that the world has a bigger part to play in your future. You mean, desperately, not to offend it. You hide your shame, Vicomte, so, so poorly."

Raoul backs up, and averts his eyes, hot and glassy with chagrin. He burns with shame, and embarrassment. The truth penetrates so well, and he cannot fight it as he cannot fight the prickle of unshed tears, of shame, such shame. He is no longer blind, and shamefully knows he still wants. Erik sees it, and he narrows his eyes, hateful slits. "Look at you," he breathes, a scolding father. "Such dirty hands behind your back, little boy. Come," his voice is now a whisper, gentle, so cruel. "Do not be so childish. You are a man now. We all know what we are." Erik turns, and before disappearing behind the black curtains he picks up the note, and slides it into its envelope. Erik vanishes.

Raoul wants to cry, but not for Erik. Never for the Phantom, never. He nervously tucks his hands behind the small of his back and twists them into his shirt, anything to occupy them. Such shame is this, the stains on his hands. He cannot hide them, not even from himself.