Author's Note: This thing is going to take a break until after March 15th, because I have a deadline in which my novel has to be finished. Thank you all for reading, and I promise some good stuff after said date. Thanks for your encouragement, and let me know if I get these two OOC. :D
33
Erik has returned, and appears to be packing. Not even what could be called packing, as he is only putting things away. When Erik leaves he will leave everything behind, tucked and hidden so as not to be ruined by the dust and age of his lair. Raoul can only watch, idle, sick with boredom, and the hollow feeling of being one forgotten. Erik gives him no attention, it is as if he no longer exists, again, and he can only do his best to stay out of the Phantom's way. It is ridiculous to feel this, all of this, and yet he can hardly remember what came before it.
Worse, perhaps the worst of all, are the glances he keeps sending Erik's way. He cannot stand them but they keep coming back, and thoughts begin forming that he can't destroy. Wishes for closeness, to feel again, the things Erik can pull up out of him. He hates the thought of losing that closeness, and so hates Erik. He can only watch.
"Could I ever go back to her," Raoul asks, quietly, to no one in particular. He only sits on the ground, by the organ, and stares forward. So many things pass between them, unspoken, things Raoul has changed into and refuses to admit, though the truth leaves him bare. Erik, again, will not even look at him. The man folds several thick brushes into a piece of cloth, and silently places them inside one of the big trunks. Christine's portrait is still marked, and abandoned still where they left her. Raoul lets his head drop against the side of the massive instrument. "If by chance you were to keep your word, I mean. Could I ever..." Raoul searches for words that will not come, and he touches his temples with feeble fingers. "Could I ever...touch her... again?"
His broken sound earns a reaction from his captor. Erik tenses, and a cold seems to settle around them that heightens the silence and stills the air. He closes the lid of the trunk, hard, and the wood smacks an echo around the cavern. Erik pulls the lock, and latches it down.
"What you do when I am gone is no concern of mine," he says. "Starve, die. Live – scratch at the earth until you find the sun, burn my Opera to the ground. Go back to her," Erik regards him, sardonic, apathetic, and seeing. "Whatever it takes to forget."
Raoul glances down, to his lap, and knows he will never have the words to bring Erik down as Erik brings him down. It is rather a hopeless situation, but Raoul uncurls wearily to his feet, and leans against the organ, facing Erik, trying to at least seem immune to his disdain. "You lived your life to ruins for her, what else is there left in life for you?"
"Music," Erik says, flatly. "It was there long before she was."
"Where will you go?"
Erik looks at him, daggers, and Raoul thinks he will not get an answer. He runs his hands through his stringy pale hair and turns attention to the tips of his worn shoes. He was not used to having worn shoes up until about four months ago, when it occurred to him just how worn they were. He looks up, and Erik is still staring at him, considering, or looking past him, Raoul doesn't know. The man is so damned unreadable, and unreasonable, and irrational. There is no telling his thoughts as they are written across his face, and stop short at the smooth shape of the ivory mask.
After a moment, Erik gives a single-shouldered shrug, always graceful. Frightening. "England, perhaps," he says, and Raoul is foolish enough to snort. The spark of intrigue in Erik's eyes encourages his insolence, and a rush of anger takes over.
"And what do you expect to find in England?" he snaps, letting his head fall back to regard the rocky ceiling, yellow and gold and full of cracks. "Whores, patrons, life?"
Erik is dangerously quiet. "Liberation," he says evenly.
Raoul exhales, loudly, something that could almost be considered a sigh, and realizes he has no argument left. "Liberation," Raoul agrees. He shakes his head, and once again loses his hold on words. Liberation. He turns, halfway, to look at Erik, and fights the cracking of his voice. He hates his voice. "I can't go back to life, I..." he feels his face heat up at the very thought, and averts his gaze, down, and then up to the gates across the lake. Shame. "The way they would look at me," he whispers, hollow, and presses a palm to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut to regain control. A shudder runs through him. "They w- she would know. The minute she saw me again, she would know."
Erik only snorts, and makes his way around the organ, gathering stacks of unfinished compositions and neatly ordering them. He doesn't care. He does not care in the least, and it leaves the boy miserable. Raoul turns again, and rubs tears from swollen eyes, laced with red. His lips tremble and he swallows hard, smearing wet from his lashes and away from his cheeks. He catches his nerve. "You're still hurt by her," he says, and his voice manages to walk on the edge of strength. "But she doesn't have hold on you anymore, I know it."
At this Erik laughs, nothing musical, but a horrible crackling, a growl at the bottom of his throat, mocking. Raoul stares at him, burning with mortification, humiliation, and his expression breaks when Erik turns, all teeth showing in the closest thing to a grin Raoul has ever seen on his face. Mirthless and mocking, sheer amusement. He descends the steps, and brushes against Raoul without even looking at him, just behind him.
"And what has hold over you?" he snaps. "Something far worse than an orphaned chorus girl, worse than even a common whore with a heart of gold," beneath the mask, the smile falls flat, and when he turns to face Raoul there is naught but a deep satisfaction, lingering at the corners of his mouth and in the shine-less blue eyes. He takes the small steps to move behind him again, and touches with prodding fingertips the ball of Raoul's shoulder, moving his other hand to his waist. Over the material, against the skin, above the belt. "These hands, this body," Erik is close, his breath is hot on the back of Raoul's neck and sends his skin crawling. Erik lays his right cheek against Raoul's hair, and circles an arm around his collar, breathing him in. "This monster, this mouth."
Raoul's breath is caught in his throat, and against his better judgment he trails his own hand up, wrapping around the thickness of Erik's forearm. Raoul can feel the other man smile, a sinister split of his chiseled features. "Touching me," he breathes, and kisses Raoul's hair, hard. "You cling to what you hate. Such a rare breed you are, Vicomte."
Raoul leans his head back, farther into the crook of Erik's right shoulder until their faces are almost touching. He is torn by murderous anger, and his fingers tighten on Erik's arm, wanting to draw pain and knowing how impossible it would be. "You are a monster," he snaps. "I do hate you. What you stand for, what you do, who you are. I hate what you are." The words fuel Erik's intensity, and his grip tightens on Raoul, and the younger man waits for pain. He leans wholly into Erik, and his breath stays in his chest as a warm hand travels behind his waist, down the small of his back and over the muscle of his backside. Under, between the junction of his thighs, and then Erik moves. He crouches enough to grip the bend of Raoul's knee, from behind.
Raoul snaps his eyes open, and cries out as he is physically lifted off of the ground. He never believed even Erik possessed enough strength, but he had never taken into consideration the idea of being starved to below his health and size. He is hauled away, half-dragged at times, entirely carried at others, to God only knows where. He allows himself to be carted, despite the pain, and the force of Erik. Thankfully he does not move for the lake, but Erik lets Raoul drop onto the swan bed, and with one hand holds him in place as he gathers up the long forgotten chain.
He wordlessly fastens Raoul into place, expressionless. Raoul does not move as he is imprisoned, and with tightly drawn lips and a hot glare he follows Erik's departure with his eyes.
"Take your mask off!" he shouts, deep in his throat, reverberating throughout the entire cave. "It's not what you are, and it cannot hide you!" Erik is gone, even if he did hear Raoul's words, and the boy settles into the mattress, fuming. "You can never hide," he mutters under his breath. "The world will always find you."
