A/N: Trigger warning:this chapter contains disturbing content. Please read at your own discretion.

…

"Your darkness is a symphony

Played in explosions of silence to a crowd that has fallen in love with noise

If they refuse to applaud you
It isn't because your music isn't beautiful
It is because they have no idea how to love what they don't understand
And that, my darling, is the most horrific flaw in this mixed up world."

- Christopher Poindexter

…

The Color of Sadness

He had shut the door and turned the lock, sighing to himself as the click echoed in the palm of his hand; a small touch of power, a much needed solitary confinement inside of his brother's bathroom. He knew the mirror glared at him from the corner, but he did not raise his eyes to meet its gaze; he was too ashamed to look without the mask, too untethered to watch the man with the tearstained, bloodied face.

Bruce had promised to wait up for him, if only he clean the disgusting smears of war off of his hands, and the curdled sweat from the dark waves of his hair. Erik had agreed silently, knowing the path that led to the bathroom, for he was well acquainted with locking himself inside. He stripped the stained dress shirt from his body that ached, that was sore with the embarrassment of losing control…and he was still very much afraid that the woman, Christine, would not forgive what had transpired at the Opera.

Erik unbuttoned his pants, kicking them off, sending the ruined, crumpled trousers skidding across the floor. He only turned toward the mirror to feast his eyes upon the rich physique of his body, the separated striations of muscle inside of his shoulders, grainy and tight underneath his filth ridden skin. They were like the strings inside a piano, standing out from his flesh, berating the rest of the world for the inequality of strength he possessed – too much strength, one might even say. For his hands had almost killed his father, but they could do so much worse than that; they could use and traverse a woman, they could manipulate sensation and touch beyond all reason. Erik wished he could control them, he would perhaps trade anything for the piece inside of him that was void of emotion, that tipped the scales of his psyche back and forth violently…

He was not even human – he could not act normally, even with the guise of a mask.

Erik's eyes drifted up from the well muscled torso decorated in scarring; numbers, little pictures, and jarred lines that made no sense…it was the story of his insanity, growing more detailed with every minute spent with the blue eyed German. Why did the man ask to be fucked…why did he need the touch of someone so badly that he had forced – asked a prisoner to touch him, to thrust a thick cock inside of him…Erik finally met his own eyes in the mirror.

You didn't have to do it. You could have turned away. You could have told him no.

He had lost count of the times that the blue eyed man had asked him, and of the times he had obliged. He was promised freedom, he was promised a small gleam of light behind those sickeningly light colored eyes…but it had all been one big nightmare, a manipulation of the senses, a tearing apart of the mind…of his own precious thoughts, of his body that belonged to him, and no one else…

But the man had made him believe otherwise.

Bruce could not know. Erik would never utter it to another soul upon earth; he could not admit to the shame of doing something he did not want to do…he could talk of the hot knives, of the tiny utensils used to mark up his skin…he could talk of the screaming, how it became normal to feel inside of his throat, a burning that slowly grew like a vine in the hollow of his chest. But the man had ruined him by forcing – asking him for total domination, begging Erik to allow him to feel the tightly lined muscles in his chest, his legs, his back…

Two golden eyes gleamed back at him through the foggy lens of the mirror. There was no mask – he had left it upon the coffee table in the living room. Erik moved toward the mirror slowly until his bare navel pressed against the edge of the sink. He wiped away the condensation with a bloodstained hand, peering at himself closely. A small part of him wanted to smash the mirror to bits, to rebuke the face that looked back at him. But he could not, because his knuckles were already bruised terribly from what had happened before. He backed away from the glass, turning his face from the man that stared back vacantly. That man was unmistakably sad; yet was there a feeling that was past sadness, that was past anger and hurt…? What was this black hole that had replaced his heart, what was this emptiness that stretched itself out behind the golden hue of his eyes?

Erik lowered himself into the flawless surface of the bath, exhaling noisily against the pleasure of heat, a fullness that engulfed him. He dunked his head under carefully, running hands through the curls that grew wild against his fingers, now that the smooth cream of grease and sweat swirled around in torrents of water. He rubbed his skin clean with a white bar of soap, feeling every edge of scarring along his arms. Erik smiled grimly to himself, wondering if he was more scarred than not…

"I'm made of scars," he whispered softly to himself, smiling as the water transformed before his very eyes, turning from clear to a murky, dark color…

The color of sadness.

Soon after he found his skin clean, as if it had never known the blood of his father, and the sweat that had poured forth from his incessant fucking. He reached down into the depths, feeling around for the drain…

And as he touched it, pulling at it gently, his eyes fluttered shut, for a moment.

He saw her, the fear dancing behind her eyes like tiny flames…a fire that he himself had built, a fire that could ruin anything and everything…

Flames that could not be doused.

Erik grimaced, thinking of how entranced she had been in the car. She had been secretive and bashful, a tiny budding flower that grew along the scars of his arms, welcoming his soft touch with a tender and ardent smile. She had been real, all along…not just some delusion of beauty made from the night sky. He had held her in his arms at the bottom of the staircase, wondering in that exact moment if God had given him great strength just to hold her, just to cradle her as easy as he could draw a simple breath.

The murky water drained itself away, and he sat naked and wet for a moment, wondering.

"Erik? You almost done?"

He sighed against the muffled voice of his brother from the other side of the door. "Yes," he finally responded in a low voice, pulling himself from the bath. The mirror was too foggy for him to see his own face, and he was glad of it. Shaking out the drenched curls upon his head, he dried himself off, pulling on a black robe that Bruce had left hanging on a golden hook that stood away from the wall.

Erik unlocked the door, feeling the click of the lock give way in his hand. No more secrets, he thought to himself. No more thinking of the man with blue eyes, no more torment of what he had been made to do.

He would simply lock it away. He could do it if he really tried; he could make himself forget how disgusting it made him feel…yet also, how powerful.

Did the man get off at being submissive to him, a prisoner? Did he love to make marks on him by day, yet let Erik use his body as angrily as he wanted by night?

He paused. No. None of those thoughts were useful, and none of them made sense. He would forget, he must forget…lest he lose his mind all over again.

Erik strode from the bathroom and settled himself upon the sectional again, leaning deeply into the comfort of the turquoise cushions. Bruce had taken the same seat as before; almost nearly opposite of him, sipping whiskey out of a glass with a cigarette in hand.

"You look like my brother, again," Bruce commented, smiling slightly at his clean appearance. "You gel your hair so much nowadays, I forget how curly it is…"

"Mmm," Erik grunted, pushing both hands through the dark of his hair, attempting to slick it back. "I despise it hanging in my face like some bohemian imbecile."

Bruce let out a bark of laughter. "Erik, I don't think you could ever look like that, even if you tried your damndest."

Erik gave a small half smile, leaning forward from his relaxed position to reach the second glass of whiskey Bruce had left out for him. He took several large swigs, setting it back onto the mahogany table roughly. "You mentioned directors," he said curtly, falling lazily back into the cushions, shoving a cigarette in the side of his mouth. "When you came to my flat, earlier." He eyed Bruce steadily as he lit the end, letting a steady stream of smoke out from the un-stitched side of his lips.

"I didn't think you were, perhaps, still interested…it…it was partly father's idea," Bruce admitted quietly, quickly emptying the contents of his glass. Erik gave no implication of emotion, he simply continued to take long drags upon his cigarette, eyeing the glowing end of it with fascination. "Was it, now?" he asked softly, twisting the cigarette in his fingers.

"Yes, I believe we were to discuss it at the Gala, but…but I think he expected you to show up without, er, the mask…I tried to explain to him, Erik, really I did…I just don't think he understands."

"That's evident."

Bruce sighed, exasperated. "You'll need to show up tomorrow around six in the morning. If you get there early, you may be able to catch the chief director as he goes in."

Erik narrowed his eyes. "You want me to apologize, to beg for this man's forgiveness?"

Bruce sat forward, shaking his head. "Now, I never said that. It turns out that he didn't show face, this evening. So everything about the fight will be hearsay. I trust you will take advantage of that…"

Erik blinked, flicking the ash of the cigarette out into the air. "No," he answered slowly, his mouth forming into a sneer. "I'd like to be completely transparent with the man. Surely he should know with whom he's dealing."

"Erik, this isn't some fucking contest between the pride of two men! I've been working these people for the past several weeks. They're in need of a conductor, a decent one. The last one was fired for…for fucking around with the ballerinas. Several of them."

Erik let out a haughty laugh. "And you expect me not to do the same? Bullshit, Bruce. You know I can't control my urges."

"Oh really? You're going to fuck around with all the women Christine dances with? How charming," Bruce snapped, snatching the bottle of whiskey to fill his glass again. He watched as Erik's smile drained from his face into some form of slackened melancholy.

"Christine? She dances?" Erik leaned forward, pushing his curls back with a hand. His eyes beseeched Bruce for an answer, but Bruce seemed pensive as he sat back, cradling the glass against his chest. "I believe she does."

"What proof of this could you possibly have?"

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Erik, are you a fucking boor? Could you not see how muscular she was, how miniscule and fit? No woman walks about this city looking like that naturally. She dances."

"Don't fucking talk about her like you know her."

"And you do?" Bruce countered. "You spent half an evening with her, Erik. And maybe if you're even slightly interested in this woman, you should keep your snide mouth shut about fucking other women!"

Erik's lips formed a thin line. He heaved an angry breath through his nose, glaring at Bruce through a cloud of smoke. "She's married," he mumbled, shaking his head. "And I've already fucked with her head, I'm sure…after what she saw me do…"

Bruce shrugged. "Married to a womanizer, sure…"

Erik scoffed. "That fucking degenerate, married to her? He threw her down the stairs. I throttled the sniveling little boy." His lips curled into a smile, as if remembering the pleasure of Raoul's crumpled form. "Then I tossed him down the stairs, just to see if he'd like it."

"I'm sure he absolutely loved it," Bruce chortled, sliding another cigarette out of its packaging. "My God, he's married to the most beautiful woman in Manhattan, and he abuses her? I wonder why she stays…"

Erik sprang forward, slamming both hands upon the coffee table. "Keep your eyes off of her," he snarled, smashing his cigarette into the pearl colored ash tray. Bruce let out a howl of laughter.

"My God, Erik, slow the hell down…she only has eyes for you. Jesus Christ," Bruce shook his head as Erik continued to glare.

His anger faded quickly as he registered the last bit of Bruce's words. "She dances…?" he muttered, resting a hand against his forehead. "She should be singing."

Bruce shrugged again. "So should you."

Erik sat quietly for a moment, leaning back into the chaise. He almost looked regal, Bruce thought…a dark haired, scarred up prince wrapped in a velvet black robe. He smiled at the mask that still lay untouched on the edge of the table. "Will you still wear it?"

"Yes," Erik retorted immediately, his eyes growing vacant as he lounged. "I'll be buried in it."

"My God, Erik…you hurled it off your face and into the crowd. Isn't it time you…you just let it be?"

"You cannot possibly understand why the fuck I wear this. Do you think I like it? That I enjoy it? That I tease the throngs of society with secrecy?"

Bruce laid back into the couch, mimicking his brother's posture. "You put words in my mouth, brother. I simply meant…that perhaps, you might take it off from time to time…just as you are, now."

"I've showed you too many times. You're used to my fucked up face."

"My point is just that…maybe you can show Christine, too…as you do me."

Erik remained quiet, leaning forward again to fill his own glass. "Tomorrow morning at six, you said," he repeated, almost to himself. He raised his eyebrows at Bruce, gritting his teeth as he took another swallow of misery. Bruce nodded, taking a long drag off of a fresh cigarette. "Use your devilish charm upon him, as he may not be too particularly fond of father…you know he pulled his patronage from the Opera, don't you?"

"Of course I know. The man is a worm who wriggles around in his own wealthy filth. No regard for the arts…"

"It was different when mother still lived. He loved to hear her sing. Do you remember?"

Erik paused, for his heart trembled at the mention of her. He could not deny the delicate memories that replayed over and over in his mind, the touches of love that his mother had locked inside of him. Somewhere it crept hidden, still, reaching him in ways that he did not fully understand. The torture should have killed him, the rape should have damned him. Yet her smile came back to him in waves, much like the ocean tide in the midst of the night. And there, on the turquoise lounge with his brother, he let her love wash over him, again and again. He stayed silent, but he knew Bruce felt the waves too…pulling them in and out of reality, blending light and dark together. Nothing needed to be uttered any further…nothing could be sated nor quenched. And they sat together, opposite one another, dreaming of days that were long past…written in the deep of their hearts.

I'll always remember.

…

A/N: A PSA TO MY LURKERS/READERS: I apologize DEEPLY for the long absence of an update. I hope you all are well, and I hope you've enjoyed this chapter. As per usual, I love hearing all of your feedback, thoughts, etc. Any bit of commenting seriously makes my day. Love, L.