Disclaimer: Please don't sue. I don't own POTO... All I own is an overactive imagination.
Summary: ErikRaoul slash. Post-POTO. A bit of R/C (yeah). General discontent runs through the characters as they are forced to adjust their views of happily ever after. I guess a bit of E/C as well (but that's usually unavoidable)
Warning(s): slash (that's homosexual content for those of you who don't know)
Pairing(s): ErikRaoul
A/N: Yeah, I actually posted a non-POTO fic (first time ever!), but don't worry, POTO will not suffer! It's meant to be a oneshot anyway.
Story note: So, Erik's finally waking up. Finally.
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Reluctantly Willing
Chapter 05 - … to talk
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By: Lucifer Rosemaunt
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Raoul stared at the ghost in dread.
The man's eyes opened fully, but thankfully, his gaze swept across the room rather quickly. Raoul realized that the man probably wasn't seeing anything as his eyes slid shut again. There was no doubt about it though; he was waking up.
His mind racing, Raoul ran through the possible reactions the ghost could have when he woke up fully. In more than several of them, Raoul was going to be attacked, more than several things would be broken in their struggle, and the noise would attract several curious servants and maybe Christine. He had the upper hand of course, considering the ghost had to be a little weak from having been asleep for so long. Then again, he was the ghost. It was never good to underestimate the man – he had learned that the hard way after all.
A knock on the door made him wince, but the ghost barely even looked in that direction. Afraid that any movement would only call attention to himself, Raoul hesitated to answer it. Answering the door also meant that he would have to turn his back on the ghost and that seemed rather imprudent at the moment. However, he knew who it was behind the door, the butler with their lunch, and the man would not leave until said food was delivered. Another knock on the door confirmed his suspicions.
Keeping an eye on the restless ghost, Raoul opened the door barely a fraction before grabbing the tray of food and shutting the door with a quick thank you. The butler hadn't been able to get a word in at all. He didn't bother wondering what was wrong with the Vicomte this time, only shook his head and left to see if Mademoiselle Daae was ready for lunch.
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Erik opened his eyes but for some reason, they wouldn't focus. He squeezed them shut when the pounding of his head was exacerbated by the light. Deep breaths helped him relax while he tried to take a mental inventory of the state of his body. It felt heavy, everything weighed down. The gnawing pain of hunger had disappeared; he was a little hungry, but nothing compared to what had actually driven him out of the opera house. Besides his headache, nothing else seemed to be injured, though there was a persistent ache throughout his body and he couldn't deny the desire to sleep for several days.
Opening his eyes slowly a second time, he winced and waited none too patiently for his sight to clear. His head felt as though someone had tried to split it open. From what he remembered, they had been using a rock to do so. Groaning, Erik tried to raise his hand up to shade his eyes from the light, but the effort it took to raise the limb seemed too much. There was no way that he could do it. He turned his hand palm up and grabbed onto the blanket that was covering him.
Why was there a blanket on top of him? What had happened? In the alley near the opera house, several thieves had attacked him. The last thing he rightly remembered was the pain as it blossomed from his skull and a warm hand on his forehead. But someone had been trying to help him, carried him even.
Being helped was a novel thought that made Erik question how hard he'd been hit on the head with a rock. Taking in his surroundings, he saw that he was no longer in the alley. He should have realized it with the lack of noise, but his mind was still just trying to catch up with him.
Prison? Perhaps, someone found him and called the police, but he was warm. He was comfortable. Turning his head slightly, he saw that he was lying on the floor. It couldn't be a hospital then. There was a desk to his right and a chair. Definitely wasn't a prison.
The sound of a door closing caught his attention, he turned his head to the left and saw a man's back.
Blonde hair. He narrowed his eyes. He'd seen a flash of blonde before losing consciousness. It had belonged to the warm hand; an unfamiliar feeling filled him at the mere thought, sort of like the warmth from the man's hand that he'd felt on his forehead but this warmth spread throughout his whole body, settling somewhere in his chest. Someone had been trying to help him, and as much as he hated being weak, he couldn't deny that it felt almost pleasurable to know someone had cared enough to look past his face to help him. It had been pleasurable to be touched with such care. Even Christine's touch had been a little desperate, a little scared. And even though he couldn't remember everything that had happened that night, the feeling of the steady hand on his forehead was unmistakable.
The immediate thought that there was a catch to such kindness came to the forefront of his mind. No one helped him without wanting something in return; that wasn't how the world worked. The warmth pushed aside his skepticism though; it pointed out that he had not been shackled, that he was not bleeding out on the floor, that he was relatively comfortable. He could have very well died in that alley; at the time, he thought he was finally going to die and an angel had come to get him. Even with Christine gone, he didn't want to die just yet. More wallowing needed to be done. Still, he needed to know who this blonde was and why he'd been helped.
He tried to call out, "Monsieur," but no sound came from him. He cleared his throat to try again, trying to swallow some spit to smooth the passageway.
The sound startled the man who turned around quickly, a tray in his hands.
The words Erik had been about to say died in his throat. It was the Vicomte. Immediately, Erik glared and tried pushing himself up even though his body protested at the very thought. He didn't very get far, and the only thing he accomplished was pushing the blanket down. His vision blurred again, and he realized belatedly that he wasn't wearing a shirt. Reluctantly, he laid back down and waited for the several phantom Vicomtes that were floating around the original one to disappear.
Erik pulled the blanket up higher but resigned himself to the fact that he would be unable to move for a while. Seeing Raoul's uneasy look, Erik forced himself to calm down. He didn't know why, but seeing the Vicomte uneasy actually put him at ease. It made him lower his guard a bit because that was not the expression of someone who was going to try to kill him. He was still livid at his physical weakness, and the mere sight of the Vicomte made his hand twitch for a Punjab lasso. But, those knee-jerk reactions had taken second to his confusion. That warmth he had felt earlier at the thought of the warm hand on his forehead hadn't fully receded. This was the man who had helped him? The Vicomte?
Raoul approached him slowly, but instead of striking him, as Erik had expected, the Vicomte simply put down the tray he was holding down on the desk. Then, moving a good distance, too far for Erik to be able to hit him he noted, Raoul sat down on the floor. It was odd since there was a chair nearby, but Erik didn't bother reflecting on the blonde's actions. He was still trying to figure out what the Vicomte had planned.
Raoul was forcing himself to remain calm. Apparently, the ghost was too weak to do anything for the moment; he thanked God for the small favour. Now that he didn't have to worry about an attack, Raoul didn't know what to do. He'd really only expected a fight of some sort, but this shouldn't be too difficult. The fleeting thought that he could deal with the ghost right now, kill him while he was awake, while he knew that it was Raoul who was going to end his life actually tempted him, but he hadn't helped the man just to injure him – at least not while he was still recuperating. That was a coward's way of fighting.
So, he tried to take everything in steps. The original plan was not far from his mind: heal him, kick him out, then kill him. They were still in stage one of the plan, and there was no point in rushing this. He was a Chagny and Chagny's were honourable men. So, he steeled himself for the inevitable conversation they were going to have to have. He'd explain his position to the ghost: his inability to leave him to die on the street when he so badly wanted the distinct pleasure of killing the man himself. It would be best if the ghost said he was well enough to go back to his own home.
Suddenly, the fear that the ghost would call out loud enough to attract Christine's attention filled him as he placed the tray on his desk. It shook a little, the spoons clattering in the bowls, but he reminded himself that he had just been back from wanting to tell Christine about the ghost's presence. It would be that much harder to explain to her if she did find out right now, but it wouldn't change anything. So, he pushed that fear aside for the moment and focused on keeping the ghost as calm as he possibly could. He almost scoffed at the idea of keeping the ghost calm; Raoul was certain the man only had two modes: murderous and dangerous, which didn't necessarily include death, simply serious injury. When had this gotten so complicated?
Taking a deep breath, he realized that his legs weren't going to hold him for very much longer. So, as he had done the previous days, he went to sit by the ghost on the floor, realizing belatedly that the ghost probably would not take too kindly at such proximity. He wouldn't be comfortable either now that the ghost was awake. Moving further away, he mentally told himself that he could do this. He could be civil, and hopefully, the ghost would play along. After all, the ghost owed him for saving his life.
Erik glared, but even that small action was tiring him out. Why was he so weak? He wondered if the Vicomte had done something to him while he had been unconscious. The warmth he'd felt had left. Perhaps the man was slipping him poison. Suspicious, Erik ground out. "What are you doing here?" The question had come out as a mere whisper, the words struggling to come out. His throat felt too dry for him to speak normally. He paused to wonder how his voice could feel so unused.
He was further annoyed when the blonde just stared at him, as though his presence didn't faze him, as though it were natural for them to be in the same room without trying to kill each other. He waited to see the man grimace. He knew he wore no mask, hadn't since that night so long ago.
Raoul didn't grimace; instead, he looked at Erik in disbelief. "What am I doing here?" He asked incredulously. "I live here."
Erik took a second to do another perusal of the room. Well, that would make sense. He hadn't actually wondered exactly where he was; that thought had been cut off by seeing the Vicomte in the first place. So, he was at the man's estate. That was odd. Bringing an enemy into your home was not a very bright idea. Then again, the Vicomte was not very bright to begin with.
"Well?" he prompted, his voice rasping.
Raoul tilted his head in confusion, "Well what?"
"What happened, you idiotic fop?" He winced when his throat actually began to hurt. Still, the pain didn't quell his desire to yell.
Raoul was tempted not to answer, but every moment they talked was a moment the ghost was not trying to kill him or do something equally disruptive to his continued existence. The fact that the ghost couldn't yell was simply an added bonus. It wasn't as though he couldn't understand the ghost's irritation. He would be annoyed if he woke up to find he was indebted to the ghost, had their situations been reversed. So, patiently, Raoul explained; he managed to keep the smile off his face.
"Three days ago I found you in an alley bleeding to death and helped you."
"Three days ago?" Erik repeated, not realizing he'd spoken aloud until Raoul nodded his assent.
"Three days," Raoul looked at him pointedly, "You should thank me."
Erik scoffed immediately, but he faltered from saying the scathing remark about the Vicomte's intelligence that was at the tip of his tongue when the memory of that warm hand forced its way to the forefront of his thoughts. It would have been the Vicomte of course. Shaking aside the feeling of warmth that still accompanied the memory, he looked away, "You should have just left me to die."
"I know." Raoul said, staring at the ceiling of his den. He said it rather flippantly. After how he'd seen the way that the ghost had struggled to stay alive, Raoul knew the man didn't mean what he'd said. Raoul didn't mean his words either. The ghost was alive for the moment and he knew that given the opportunity again, he would still go through all the trouble of saving the man again, as thankless a labour as it was turning out to be.
Erik glared at him, tempted to use every bit of strength he had to get close enough to hit him. His questions answered, the confusion he felt earlier was gone. The only thing that remained was the bitter rancor of knowing that he owed his life to the Vicomte. The knee-jerk reactions were taking the forefront again. He wanted to kill the man, and his inability to do so frustrated him.
So, he lashed out with his words instead. "Did you do it to gloat?" Erik realized almost as an afterthought that if he were on the estate, then Christine would be here too, "Did you bring me here to show me to your wife? How great you are to capture the famed ghost?"
Raoul flinched, and when the ghost smirked, he knew that the man had seen it. The bitterness and anger from seeing Christine earlier returned, doubled even in the sight of the man who he knew she had once adored. He didn't want to lie, hated the fact that he would even have to. It was not as though he could tell the ghost that the engagement had been broken, that they barely saw each other, spoke to each other.
"No," the words burst out as he stood up, "I didn't bring you here to gloat." The ingrate, to even suggest a thing. "I," he searched his mind for a reason, any reason for helping this man. He needed a reason that would knock the ghost off his high horse without bringing Christine into the conversation, especially when that lie could be discovered too easily, "I brought you here because now you're my prisoner."
The second the words came of his mouth, Raoul wanted to take them back. Did he really just say that? A prisoner? That completely undermined his hope that the ghost would volunteer to leave.
He refused to be caught at his lie though. Stalking over to the table, he missed the shocked expression on the face that Raoul could easily see in detail in his mind's eye. Raoul's mind was busy preoccupied with what he was going to do now. The blood rushed to his cheeks; of all the things to say, why a prisoner? He could still sort of work with that though – say he's keeping the ghost captive and make their eventual fight some sort of sport. The ghost had to feel very ill or else this conversation definitely would have gone differently. He couldn't just abandon stage one of his plan just because his mouth had gotten ahead of him, and if he maybe felt a little compassion towards the man, he ignored it.
Grabbing the bowl of soup the butler had brought for the ghost, Raoul tried to look at the bright side. He wouldn't have to be feeding the ghost any more.
"There's your soup."
Raoul placed it on the floor with a clang before storming off towards the door that led to his room. Making sure that he looked more angry than flustered, he couldn't help but take one glance backwards to make sure that the ghost had everything he needed within arm's reach. Avoiding the ghost's prying eyes, he slammed the door shut behind him to make a point.
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End Chapter 05
Word count: 2,847
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A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!
Chapter review: Raoul's such a dork sometimes. It's unbearably cute. All I have to say is… *facepalm