Author's Note: This is the 3rd to last. The End is Near, I promise. Thanks for all the support!


37

Erik enters the main lair with his usual grace, soundless, and allows the curtain to fall behind him. To anyone from the outside, the underground air would come as warm and choking, but Erik takes in the dusty musk as a breath of air he has right to breathe. It brings him back home, into comfort, and he is able to exhale and relax his posture, though he stands as straight as ever even on his own. Beneath one of his arms, partially hidden under the black of his dress coat, is a long rectangular box, and he carries it with little effort. Past the swan bed and up into the room of the organ, the candles still glow gently in dim light.

Raoul is not where Erik can find him. Erik frowns beneath his mask, and wonders if perhaps he missed him in the bed when he passed it. He does not recall the sheets being disturbed in the least. Further along the bank he finds the young man in the study, asleep over an unmarked book with an arm propped under his cheek and his lean body slumped over the table. It is not so late in the day. Perhaps last night Raoul did not sleep. Erik was out until the break of dawn.

He approaches quietly, looking down at the boy and wondering if it is necessary to wake him just yet. It is not at all a bore for Erik, watching Raoul sleep. It was his favorite pastime in the beginning, and remains. His eyes close so softly, lashes splayed against his cheek like pale feathers, lips set perfectly beneath the straight length of his nose. Erik feels the start of a smile fall, and hovers the tips of his fingers above Raoul's disheveled hair. Without the sun it has darkened, a redder, light brown. Erik hesitates to wake him, there are so few moments as this one, but time is short for them both. Erik does not touch him, but sets the box down on the table.

The sound and tremor stirs Raoul, and he slowly comes to sit up, drawing in a deep yawn and arching his back. He glances up at Erik, and runs his hands over both sides of his face to free the sleep from his expression.

"I didn't hear you come in," he murmurs, and Erik pushes the messy locks of hair strewn across his brow. "Where have you been?"

"Out," he replies, and Raoul is staring up at him with clouded eyes, doubtful and bewildered. Erik is compelled to offer a very slight smile, barely visible, but present. It is the best he can do for Raoul. "Wandering dark streets," he lays a gloved hand on the smooth black box, and Raoul notices it as if for the first time. "I finally found what I wanted. Go on, open it."

Raoul's delicate brow creases into a frown, but he leans forward and flips the silver latches up against the polished wood. Erik watches him lift the lid, and his smile cannot help but widen as the boy stands, eagerly taking the violin from its black velvet bed, lips parted in stunned adoration. It is polished, new, and brilliant. He turns to Erik again, questioningly, and Erik folds his hands behind the small of his back. He gives a little nod.

"For you," he says. "For tonight."

"Tonight?" Raoul runs his fingers over the shining instrument, and comprehension settles in his slow smile, the light in his eyes. He flicks his up to Erik, and averts them again. "Thank you," he says quietly. "All the talent I have."

Erik is responsible for putting such words into Raoul's mouth, thoughts in his head and heart, although he no longer believes it. The boy has more than the dull lessons of the piano, and the skill of the violin. He has his own way with words, and needs only stretch out his legs and pursue the gift. Erik smoothes the wheat hair back again, running his fingers beneath the soft layers onto the warmth of his scalp. It is soft like velvet, even through his glove. Raoul leans into his touch, the casual pet of Erik's hand. Erik loves the feel of Raoul's hair between his fingers, under his palm. He loves the way Raoul bends to the touch, as if Erik's hand is all that is left in this world.

Raoul sets the violin carefully back into the case, and when he turns to Erik the smile is gone. Erik removes his hand.

"Your plans," Raoul says, quiet, and accepting. Not pleased, not bitter, but accepting. Erik likes that. The boy has become a man in this last year, more and more everyday. He still has the youthful face, eyes that do not always understand but want with a desperation Erik can feel when he touches him. His voice is steady, low. "You're going to keep them, aren't you?"

He can lie. He is good at it, with a lifetime of practice and experience, but in this he will not have to carry such a burden. "I intend to leave this place behind me. It is all arranged," Raoul's head dips, and he draws in a long breath. Erik turns his eyes to the ceilings. "By the end of this night I will be gone. Every passage I will leave open," Erik also keeps his eyes averted, but Raoul stares at him, surprised. "Each is always one direct route to a location in the Opera House. You will find your way without me."

"So you're releasing me, after all," Raoul remarks. "After a year, you have released me." A quiet smile, sad. "You've changed."

Why can you not change?

Nothing, nothing at all in anyway or form, has changed. Erik hates it.

In that night they play together, pieces Erik has not allowed to surface in years. He pounds away at his organ, each note booming frightful echoes of poetry, wordless ballads of Heaven and Hell, of love and hate. The Phantom has not felt his music penetrate so deep, not even in the blackest or most indescribable moments of his life. His eyes are closed, tightly, brows drawn and dark hair spilling over his ivory mask. The sound tremors into his fingers and up his arms, quickening his heart to a mad, raging race of blood.

The gentle drawn-out sound of Raoul's violin brings him back to circle, a soft, melancholy whine that twists and turns in time with the intensity of his music.

Together they shake the walls of the world that binds them, and hard emotion bears against Erik's hollow throat, rising, rising, rising. Music has always been the one thing in his existence to rip this kind of pain and pleasure and ecstasy and agony from his body. His fingers flatten at once on the keys, and his notes abruptly stop. Vanishing notes fade into the air.

Raoul follows after, the sharp sweet sounds shrieking as they die upon the strings.

There is only silence now. Silence, and their breath struggling to keep inside their lungs. Erik has not opened his eyes. He fears the hot tears behind the shields of his lids, that Raoul will see, that he will break. Raoul, breathless and timid, lowers his instrument to his side.

"We aren't finished," he whispers.

Erik looks up. Raoul deserves to see his face. The boy has earned as much. Erik turns to him, steady, constant. He only shakes his head, once. "No, we are not," he says. "There is only one way for this to end."