Authors note:To get back into the slashy spirit of things, I took this from my vaults. I wrote it for a slash contest that I haven't heard from in a while, so... whatever. Its sad. and Slashy. and Tragic.
Pale Cast and Mortal
Blood is the color Raoul has come to hate, to fear, and to love. Blood is the passion that drives, the anger, and the Vicomte is no stranger to it. Blood weighed the sheets around his bride, spreading, seeping, soaking, as she lay dying, too frail to give birth to the stillborn son that killed her, and the same red washes hot and thick up the throat of the man that she loved. He lies helpless as a wounded stag, on his back and shuddering, deadening eyes turned toward an untouchable heaven he cannot see. The police stand about in awe of this, perhaps in guilt, even after bringing the Phantom of the Opera down.
Three bullets in the chest cavity, more likely still lodged in place, is the price he has paid for entering the Vicomte de Chagny's bedroom. Raoul cannot tell the police why the Phantom is in his chambers, and he cannot say that it is first time it has happened. If they were to know of the things he has done it would all fall apart. Men – sane men, plagued by reason and bewitched by fear – can not, and will not come to understand why a man might turn to his mortal enemy for comfort, even when the grief of a lost wife has passed away, and fades to only a distant memory. They will not understand why such a distinguished figure would jeopardize his name, his family's name, to lie beneath the gargoyle, give in to what not even he can truly understand, and let himself be surrendered entirely.
It is clear, now, in this deafening silence. Ten minutes too late.
We are not so different, you and I, he watches Erik die, and knows tears should be falling heavy from his burning, dry eyes, but they remain unshed. We loved the same woman, that is all. We are not so different. I see that now.
Raoul stands over the body, taking in with little reaction the pooling red from a torn black chest, the blood bubbling and blistering as it is spit over the handsome chin and lips, and with every desperate jerk of the Phantom's head begins to run over the twisted ridges of the unmasked cheek. Erik came into this world as an animal, and he will die like one. Raoul, amidst the ragged gasps, the shallow breaths and shudders, can pick up the softest sound of a hopeless sob. A whimper, a moan, of fearing a final darkness, of sorrow like none have ever known it. There is no one – not even his lover – here to hold him as he spends his last moments on Earth.
The pale eyes, clouded and resigned, move to lock with Raoul's. It is a last understanding between two men, a reasoning, an implored forgiveness, and a silent conclusion. Erik will be a memory soon, as well, and he will take their secret to the grave.
It was not meant to end this way, and Raoul never thought that it would. Every passing moment brings Erik closer to death, into the jaws of fear, until the chest ceases the desperate heaving, and the eyes, still glassed and blue, lose their focus. The Phantom is a shell, empty, if ever his soul remained in the walls of such a malignant, tragic consciousness.
Raoul will leave Paris. He decides it almost instantly, as he comes to his knees, and picks the stained mask, scarlet and ivory, from the floor beside Erik's turned face. With great care and numb affection he sets it back in place, and with the tips of delicate fingers he closes the other mans eyes to rest. Erik has drowned in his own blood.
The Vicomte means to gather his senses after this, stand on two feet and walk away, perhaps begin to live again, but his legs feel leaden and stale beneath him. He cannot rise from his knees, and so he only tips forward to double over, arms around his own body and eyes squeezed shut to tune out the concerned voices. They cry his name over and over, but he ignores them. Tears, in defense and necessity, stop themselves and will not come yet, but he knows they will return. He will cry tonight, alone, like he never cried before.
Perhaps he cries for the loss of a lover. Perhaps he cries for the very deterioration of humanity, and the utter absence of compassion; that one man was condemned to find peace only through the blackness of a lonely death. Perhaps he cries, because the inevitability of human blindness has finally brought them both to their knees, and the bitterest of endings.