Note: I do, in fact, realize that it is not the 15th, but I actually finished this afternoon at about four o'clock, so I decided to take a break and get this out. Thanks for reading!

34

Raoul waits alone in almost total, black darkness. Erik left, carelessly, and did not replace the burned out candles with fresh wicks. He has watched, one by one, as they all dwindle and die, each death bringing on a little more darkness than there was before. The last candle stands alone on the bedside table, beside the monkey in Persian robes, burning low into a wide spread puddle of thick yellow wax. It dies, and the light only continues to dim further and further. Soon it will only be an ember, and the darkness will swallow it whole. Raoul will be left in the impenetrable black of the underground.

As a boy, the darkness was one of his greatest fears, deathly afraid of what lingered within it, and now, as the flame laps its last few sparks of life, that same fear begins to grip at him again. He quails, slightly, and lowers close into the pillow, away from the soft, gentle clink of the chain and into the sheets. He wishes he could hide beneath them, somewhere in the back of his mind it is all he wants, be he knows Erik will return, and humiliate him for it. He turns his head away, and squeezes his eyes shut to the point of pain, and he knows that when he opens them again it will be completely black. Dark.

Raoul drags in a breath, chest tight, every muscle clenched and burning with instinct to flee. He hates the dark, he hates the dark, and more does he hate being afraid of it. He is entirely held prisoner by such fear, and he hates that. It is nothing to be afraid of, it is nothing but the lack of all things color, the absence of light, that is all that darkness is, and all it is capable of!

"You would be surprised," Erik's voice, and Raoul senses an orange glow behind his closed eyelids. He realizes that he had spoken out loud, and snaps his eyes open, but does not lift off of the pillow. He watches Erik, the whites of his eyes seeming enormous in this light, breathing shallowly. The dark figure has replaced the candles, finally, and he stands at the bed, cloaked, masked, and strangely calm in the soft candlelight. "How many fear the darkness," he says. "And how many more would never find more peace and solace if they only let it in."

Raoul sits up, a tiring effort, and his fetters clink noisily this time, disturbed and agitated against him. He stares at Erik, for a long time, before finally biting out words. "Never leave me in the dark again," he snaps, and Erik ignores the bold command. He moves around the bed, and sits on the edge of it, taking the big chains in his hands and unlocking them. He removes them from Raoul's body, and when they are shed they hit the floor, loud. Raoul only glowers at him, face hot with anger, cheeks pink and lips burning. His eyes feel unfit for their sockets, and Erik only stares back at him, uninviting any challenge Raoul has to offer.

"You came back," he says, quietly. "What has hold over you? Why do you keep coming back?"

Erik snorts, and half-turns, so that the only side of him that Raoul can see is the white plane of his mask, and the sharp profile is still prominent beneath it. "I do not come back," he says, admits, wryly. "I never leave."

Raoul cannot deny he knows as much. Erik never truly leaves him, even if Raoul wishes he does. His presence follows the boy in everything, but Raoul does not want only a presence. He wants a voice, a body, hands, a face. He reaches out, and his fingertips slide up the smooth surface of the mask, and to the brim that rests beside his scattered hairline. Erik does not resist as the mask is peeled off. As if guiltily signing a confession, as if it is the first time Raoul will ever see the repulsive side of him, he lowers his eyes and says nothing. He keeps quiet dignity. Even set among such hideousness, hanging in vines of twisted flesh, Erik's eyes turn to him, hard, bare, crystal sea, and sharp.

"What else could you want?" he asks, voice low, stripped of its captivating power. When Raoul only stares at him, lost for words, he continues. His voice neither rises or falls as he speaks, it maintains the low murmur of one acquainted with solitude like nothing else in the world around him. "There is nothing else you could do to pain me further, Vicomte, I am accustomed to its endless torment. Go on, and tell me what it is, what else you could possibly want, and why, God, why would you ever want it?"

Raoul would love answers to supply Erik with, but none will come. He searches further, and all of his corners are empty. He cannot speak, and so Erik turns away, content to let the boy keep his horror before such wide, glassy eyes. Raoul exhales, hard, and lets his head drop. He leans forward, gently, and sinks toward Erik to rest his cheek against the back of the Phantom's shoulder. He does not know what he wants, or perhaps he only refuses to admit that he does, in fact, know. Raoul closes his eyes, and lifts his head, conscious of how childish he must seem next to this man, who has lived more than he can ever hope to, who possesses so much more strength.

Raoul gathers his courage, and it becomes easier to collect once he has summoned it. He holds to his reserve and palms the smooth side of Erik's face, and moves in to press his lips to the other, just where the cheekbone should have been. Erik tenses, and shuts his eyes hard, drawing in a sharp breath as Raoul's lips pass over his misshapen cheek, with a tenderness no living thing would ever give him. Raoul is closer now, and moves to his temple, cradling his cheek with the other hand and pressing his mouth to just above his brow. He pulls back, and Erik is looking on at him, deciding.

What is he is trying to decide, Raoul does not know nor does he care. He senses Erik is too sick with exhaustion to fight him, and so he takes the Phantom's face in both hands, one side smooth, the other textured and twisted beneath his calloused fingers. Why? Raoul cannot find an answer that can be properly. They watch one another in silent regard, and Raoul finally releases Erik, leaving him ambivalent and breathless in his wake. He moves away from the other man, turning back onto the bed, and lies on his side to face away from Erik. He presses the heels of his hands to his closed eyes, and shuts out the light.

"Why?" he voices the question again, to himself, and to make Erik stay. "I don't know why. I do know that there is a side of you that you smother. You enjoy killing it, keeping it silent in its suffering, but it is more beautiful than... anything I have ever- felt, or wanted to feel, or see." Raoul draws in a breath, and lets it out again, letting his body relax, and giving in to his own words. "All you can do is hate, and weep when others hate you back. It's the ...entirety of your perfection you can't see, and the master of your genius. Your - this face can only fight that for so long before all the majesty you possess defeats it, and leaves bare only the truth."

Erik says nothing. He turns his head back to his own space, eyes dropping to the floor beneath his feet. Beside him he feels Raoul breathing, rising and falling in the mattress, and he can feel the tremor of Raoul's shaking body.

"Now that you've heard all you need from me," Raoul's voice is quiet, barely audible. He pulls in another shaking breath. "You can leave. Go on. I won't ask to follow."

The cavern is silent as a grave. Erik lifts his head, and does not look behind him. "Vicomte?" Raoul gives a noncommittal grunt, and Erik feels the ghost of a wry half-smile tug at the corner of his lips. "You should have been a writer."