Chapter title: At The Promised Hour

Author's Notes: My Beta spent the night to try and get me over my writer's block, I think it's the longest chapter yet. I want to apologize, no matter how hard I try there are still plot holes (like, "why doesn't Erik just strangle Raoul and desecrate his corpse?), I can't fix them all, if you see something glaring tell me. Also, "kiss off" I use this phrase, I've heard others use it, my beta thinks I'm crazy but I like it and it worked in the chapter so just go with it. Finishing up, you get a mental cookie if you catch the Grinch reference. wink I LOVE YOU ALCHEMY!

What could the man hope to achieve with this madness? Was it grief?

For a moment, Erik considered the possibility that the Vicomte might not be weaving some tale for foolish revenge. He did seem to be genuinely confused when last they met. For a moment he considered it before renouncing the idea. Of course not. Erik smirked at the thought that the vicomte might have made an excellent actor. Raoul had almost convinced him of his sincerity. But he would have to be good at such tricks, to convince Christine that he was worthy of her hand.

But after that moment, the thought never left him completely. Could he be telling the truth? Despite the dozen or so reasonable alternative ideas for Raoul's behavior, that one thought would not leave his mind. Flittering at the edges of thought never revealing itself but always making itself known. At the end of it, hearing Raoul's steps get closer, Erik finally confronted the possibility. It was feasible, no man who considered himself a genius would ever completely disregard any reasonable conclusion, no matter how distasteful.

And it was distasteful.

Having devised a solution to every possibility but that one, Erik felt an instant's uncertainty. What could he do should the lie prove true?

Genius he might be but genius required time, time he did not have with Raoul seconds away. As the door to box five opened, breaking the dark with a line of light, Erik might have prayed, were he the praying sort: Let it be untrue.

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Raoul stared at the door as he walked to it, he wouldn't show any hesitancy on the threshold, wouldn't give this strange "Erik" any perceived advantage, so he had to do his doubting on the wing. Walking into the Ghost's Box was… stupid. Doing it at midnight went beyond stupid and into the land of insanity. But here he was, alone and unarmed, and waiting to face a madman who thought he was a ghost. He turned smartly at the door and reached for the handle. Well at least he'd have a traveling companion in the land of the mentally unstable.

Walking in was just as unnerving as he thought it would be, the brightly lit hallway ill prepared him for the dark of the Box, with it's curtains draw and nothing, for a moment, but inky blackness for him to focus on. And then he was half turning, calmly, to shut the door; and turning back, just as calmly, to leaning against the door in as relaxed a fashion as was possible.

For several moments there was quiet, until Raoul began to honestly consider the possibility that he was not, in fact, remaining calm and collected in the presence of a madman, but that he was standing in an empty room and acting like a complete ninny. A solution was needed, one that would reveal if he was wrong and wouldn't ruin his image if he was right. He shifted slightly and felt the slight weight of his cigar case in his breast pocket. Ah ha.

It took only a moment to get a slender cigar out by touch alone, in a casual almost bored gesture; and the work of just seconds to pull out a match and strike it. At which point it was almost violently blown out by a sudden and nearly supernatural wind.

"I do not allow smoking in my Box, Vicomte. It's bad for the furniture, not to mention the highly flammable, slow drying varnish they applied to the door three hours ago."

"Damn it!" Raoul yanked away from the door and flinched at the slight sense of pull the still drying varnish gave to his jacket… and his hair. So much for calm and collected.

The indignation disappeared in a moment as he was roughly shoved onto the small, plush settee off to the right of the door. He cursed himself quietly for stepping away from the wall to where he knew he'd be more vulnerable. Feeling the back of his hair sticking to the couch, Raoul felt a flash of worry for the seat's condition. My God, he's got me doing it.

"I thought you were concerned for the furniture." He said instead, trying to follow the slightly darker form that was Erik among the other shadows.

A scornful laugh followed, "I'll just have it removed to the Manager's Box, show them how generous I can be."

Had Raoul not been a gentleman he might have sneered, "What do you know of generosity?"

"You have no right to say such a thing to me!" Erik hissed darkly. "When it was I that released you and allowed you to marry!"

"And who were you to me, that you could have stopped me?" Raoul countered.

"I could have stopped you; I should have stopped you, if this is how you return! Pretending to forget her and forgetting my sacrifice!"

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Erik would admit, were he in his right mind, that he wasn't be quite as a clear as he should have been. But the fog of red that was beginning to roll in from the corner of his eyes was inflaming his brain with little pulses of blood and rage. And Raoul, just sitting there, almost lounging across the seat, as though he didn't know how close he was to having his neck strangled. Because, really, a new widower with a brain injury skulking in the shadows of his lover's past. Who wouldn't believe him capable of hanging himself off the edge of one of the Boxes?

Well, the managers maybe.

And Giry.

And probably every single person who had worked in the Opera Populaire for the past five years…

His mind paused for a moment when it suddenly occurred to him that Raoul's mouth had been moving and the slight vibration at the back of his throat meant that he had been replying for some time now. He wondered if the fact that he could contemplate murder and carry on a conversation was further proof of his descent into insanity.

A conscious effort to suppress the loud beating in his head allowed him to hear the tail end of a long string of insults.

"-and if you don't like it you can just f-, p-, kiss off!"

Then he got an idea!
An awful idea!
The Phantom got a wonderful, awful idea!

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Just when Raoul had finally managed to work up the anger necessary to actually question the infuriating man in front of him, Erik's face changed. Or, really, his stance changed, his face was a mystery. But the lines of his silhouette went suddenly lax, and a sense of…foreboding seemed to come over Raoul at the sudden loss of resistance, like he'd been pulling on a rope and the other person had suddenly let go. Mentally he stumbled. The feeling was such that moving, even shifting a little, would be out of the question. He realized that while Erik's face might be covered by a mask his eyes were reflecting just the tiniest bit of light as he stared hard at the man in front of him. Raoul felt bound to the couch under that black stare, like a rope of the other man's will wrapped around and held him in place. He could almost feel the burn of ropes at his wrist scratching against coarse strands, it was so intense. When those eyes finally shifted away, the release almost left him in shock, so that he almost didn't notice the body following the path laid out by those eyes. Almost, but he was aware. Not that it helped. The man moved so fast it was almost like he really was some supernatural creature appearing wherever he wished, a true spectre. But he'd never felt a ghost that gave off such heat. Hot lips pressed against his own and hands wrapped around his wrists like bands of iron right out of the forge. Raoul was too stunned to realize what had happened until the ivory white mask was pulling away. He looked to his wrists where they still burned to see gloved hands gripping them tightly. His lips were hot and he took a glance up with his head still tilted downward to seek out the other man's lips, see if they'd glow red like the brand they'd felt like, but the shadows swallowed up most of what the mask left unhidden.

There was a look in Erik's eyes, now that he was so close, waiting, questioning. And then the lips were back on him again, stealing away perspective and pressing even harder against his mouth, a gasp from him seemed to open them both up and then… melting, falling into the heat as their mouths sealed together in the dark. Erik's voice whispering in the back of his mind. "When it was I that released you…" "I should have stopped you, if this is how you return! "… forgetting my sacrifice!"

The second gasp ripped their mouths apart instead of bringing them closer, as Raoul tried to assign some other meaning to words and actions that really, probably, didn't have any other meaning. What the hell had he been thinking? He tried to reach for the masked man in front of him, intent on forcing answers out of him about whatever… relationship they'd had. But he was gone in a second, just one more shadow in a pitch black room. And Raoul was left alone.