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

Story Note: Quicker turnover rate.

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Reluctantly Willing

Chapter 21 - … to confront

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By: Lucifer Rosemaunt

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Christine knew this town. She knew it like a nightmare she wanted to forget but couldn't, not when it revisited her night after night. This city had no opera house. It had nothing that should mean anything to her, and yet it did. Of all the towns, of all the cities they could have stopped at, why did it have to be this one?

This was a dirty town, so full of undesirables and drunkards that the streets stunk of it. She just hadn't realized it then. At the present, she wondered if it was only her imagination that made her grimace at the streets and shops around her, that made its filth so apparent to her.

Still so new to the world, new to truth, Christine hadn't been able to understand how Paris could somehow be more kind than a city less than half its size. She'd thought that the smaller the city, the more honest people became. After all, they were forced to deal with the same people every day; they spent their lives having to coexist. She hadn't understood how there was some comfort in anonymity, in having people not care to know anything about her.

They didn't need to know that she'd first been protected by her father and then by the Opera Populaire, and for a while, she'd hated both father and opera house for not teaching her how to survive on her own. It was their fault she hadn't been prepared, but she hadn't been able to dwell on that emotion for very long. She'd had to focus on her next meal, on the next place she would be able to sleep.

She strode into a not quite familiar inn, entering as quietly as she could while still maintaining some semblance of arrogance. The appearance of strength was sometimes as good as the real thing. Christine understood that well now. The appearance of anything was almost as good as the real thing. The room opened into a tavern and dining room. There were a surprising number of men gathered around a single table, rather loud and boisterous, while a handful of others were scattered at their own tables. It was just like all the other inns Christine had seen in her travels. The rooms would be above, and of course, she was shortly greeted by a middle-aged man, thankfully not a person she recognized, who she knew to be the innkeeper.

"Looking for lodging tonight?" He asked with a smile that put Christine on edge.

"My husband and I are indeed in need of a room," Christine stated coldly.

The innkeeper glanced behind Christine towards the door expectantly before looking at Christine with a knowing smile. He didn't believe her. She briefly wondered how many women travelling alone had tried to use that excuse to find some semblance of security for the night. Then again, how many women travelled alone?

"He's dealing with the carriage," she explained without hesitation, explained as though she was annoyed she had to in the first place. Noise from the large group drew her attention away momentarily. She froze when she suddenly saw a face she recognized immediately. Before the innkeeper could say anything more, she bowed her head slightly with an apology and rushed out of the inn.

Hand clutching at her chest, she tried to calm her heartbeat. There was nothing in the world that would make her stay in that inn. In a city this large, she knew she'd be able to find another one. Nevertheless, she had to endeavor to keep the nausea back, to keep her back straight and steps steady. The darkness would hide her fear and disgust.

o.o.o

Raoul wasn't sure, but he was almost certain that he'd been dreaming. A good dream this time even though it reminded him of those nightmares he used to have when Christine had been living with him.

It was just a vague notion in his head, but there'd been a familiarity with what was occurring. Except in Christine's place, it was him. The famed opera ghost succeeding in kidnapping him and killing Christine. And that was simply too twisted.

His mind was fuzzy and still, he knew how wrong it was for him to feel as such. Christine had not been part of a good period of his life, but he had no right to want her dead, even if she had broken his heart, took advantage of his love for her, and stole Erik away from him. He sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. His back hurt, which wasn't surprising, having fallen asleep on the floor against the fireplace. Erik's clothes were still strewn across the floor and across of him, a shirt draped on his lap. He rubbed the material between his fingers.

Picking it up, he stared at it. He didn't even have enough energy to cry again. Erik was dead. And it hurt. It hurt, but it didn't threaten to push him into doing something rash like he knew he was more than capable of doing, like race after them. Instead, it exhausted him. It made him want to hide away from the world. The bed was calling him.

He barely made it up the stairs and into the spare room. He refused to sleep in a bed that Christine had just slept in; it wasn't even an option. Drifting off to sleep, he hoped against hope that maybe he'd dream the same dream, or perhaps just any dream where he could be happy.

o.o.o

There had been no incident in the second inn. She was still on guard, but the innkeeper had simply given her the room number and key and left her to her own devices to find it. She wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Making the decision to see the room before going back out to find the carriage, she climbed to the second floor and keyed the room open. She stopped short when she saw the opera ghost standing by the window, waiting for her. The fedora was in his hands. His mask seemed to catch the meager light from the candle and her breath might have caught in her throat. The case was already on the single bed she'd asked for – the marriage lie would have been easily seen through if she'd asked for two beds.

Erik fixed her with his gaze, and in that moment, she knew that he'd seen everything that had occurred. There was nothing telling about what had transpired except perhaps a seemingly irrational action in the first inn, but she knew he was letting her know that he had seen it occur. Erik didn't ask any questions, didn't feel it was his right to ask her anything of her past since he'd been trying so hard to convince himself that the past didn't matter. Whatever had happened meant nothing to the present where they were both here in this room of their own volition. He didn't want to examine why that was so difficult to accept though.

Christine forced herself to stop looking so wide-eyed. Making sure her expression was neutral, she closed the door, her back turning towards her angel. She wondered what she should do. There was no way she could answer any questions.

What could she say to the opera ghost? What could she say without seeming like a fool, without telling him everything that had happened to her? Surely then, he would hate her. He would see that she was truly unworthy and see through her current lie of loving him. How could she even begin to explain that her first night away she'd been propositioned without even realizing it? Share a room with me; you won't have to pay. She bit her tongue in memory. Why had she gone with that man? Why hadn't she realized that anything that sounded so good had to be bad? Like a sheep to slaughter. All she could remember were his hot breath on her throat, his heavy weight, and roaming hands. She hadn't felt clean for days afterwards and she'd even managed to get away. Not until after his hands had slipped beneath her clothes; her skin crawled at the thought. Not until after his tongue had practically been shoved down her throat and her hand had been thrust into his trousers. Her hands clenched. No, she'd gotten away, but not until after.

And yet that had helped her survive. That experience had given her a means to survive when she'd been completely helpless. She could walk into a tavern and pick a man clearly too drunk to do anything but talk loudly and brag to his friends. And even though she felt dirty for doing so, she'd flirt and touch him willingly, almost lewdly before taking him to his room, making sure to bring another bottle or two of alcohol and insist they drink it before getting any further. When they passed out, she would take their money and leave to find another inn. It was easy, almost too easy for her though she tried to do it as little as possible because there were times when they didn't fall asleep and she'd have to fight them off before running. She'd have touched and kissed them for no reason and be forced to find shelter elsewhere.

She didn't know whether she was more disgusted with these men or with herself for becoming proficient in doing so.

No, she couldn't say those things aloud, not to the ghost, not to anyone. She refused to because she didn't other people's pity. She'd managed to rise above all that before it all came crumbling down upon her again. She was going to rise again, and this time – she turned around to meet her angel's eyes easily – she wasn't going to fall back down.

Instead of saying anything, Erik turned his back to her to stare out the window. He almost didn't recognize this woman. He'd never seen her give such a stern expression, a shuttered one, and for a moment, Erik did wonder about what could have possibly happened to her to change her so. He'd turned though because as he realized her change, he wondered if he had changed as well, if that change was as obvious.

Christine cleared her throat. "The carriage left?"

Erik nodded.

She looked around the room before focusing on the case on the bed. Without asking for permission since he seemed preoccupied with his thoughts, Christine moved to open it.

Her gasp caught his attention though. He turned around slowly, keeping his expression blank even when he saw the large pile of money that Christine was currently holding up in the candlelight. She upturned the bag, tossing everything that wasn't francs off to the side, as she rushed to count it all.

Christine couldn't believe it, but it made sense of course. Her angel had gotten a salary for his time at the opera house, but she'd… she didn't know. She'd thought that he must have used it all or it was burned when the opera house went up or the mob had taken it when they'd raided his home. She didn't know, but this money, it was more than enough. They could start a new life. Anywhere. Her mind reeled at the concept. They could start over anywhere they wanted. She'd never have to stay in another inn and steal from another person. She'd never again have to pretend attraction to drunk men.

But this wasn't hers, she realized with a start, and the feeling was so reminiscent of what had driven her to go back to Paris that she momentarily lost count of the money in her hands. She'd found stability – thought she had found it before that too had turned out to be a lie. But this was her angel. This was the man who needed her as much as she needed him to be around. He wouldn't just leave her like that; he, of all people, wouldn't forsake her.

Erik barely gave Christine a second glance as she counted the money. His attention instead was completely on the other things Raoul had packed for him. He approached the bed, pulling a shirt away to see a pair of trousers and another shirt beneath it. He reached past them to grab the sheets of papers that had been bent in Christine's haste. Rifling through them, he recognized what they were immediately. His designs, his drawings. The ones he favoured above the others he'd drawn, and he was certain that was just a coincidence. There was a tightening in his throat that made it hard to breathe, but Erik quickly labeled the emotion anger before trying to suppress it.

Christine whispered out a number and he glanced up at her. The number seemed too convenient.

"How long were you gone?" Erik mumbled more to himself than to Christine.

"What?" Christine was immediately defensive. She didn't like the sudden question.

At her voice, he realized that she really could just answer him. There was no more wondering where she was as he'd done in the past. She was here. "Just tell me," Erik ordered, his voice leaving no question as to whether Christine should answer or not.

It was a credit to her experiences that Christine didn't cower. Instead, she took a deep breath and mentally counted the weeks and days. What felt like a lifetime was really just about three months. She told him as much.

This time the feeling that surged up within him was undeniably anger. Erik had been paid for the time he'd spent at the Chagny estate.

Raoul had paid him his salary.

He knew he would have done something rash at that moment like fling the bed across the room and possibly break any furniture he could get his hands on. There on the bed though, peeking under a crumpled shirt was the edge of a book. His movements were carefully efficient, deliberate, as he reached forward to grab it. Picking it up, he turned it over in his hands. Victor Hugo. His grasp tightened on the book.

He looked up to see Christine looking at him oddly.

"Go to sleep." He swept everything back into the case so that the bed would be clear; the book, he kept in his hand. "We're leaving early in the morning."

He almost expected for her to argue, but she regarded him for one moment longer before slipping beneath the sheets of the bed. He placed the case at the foot of the bed before blowing out the candles in the room.

Christine didn't feel like arguing. She did wonder about the case and its contents. The opera ghost had looked like he'd been surprised by the items within it. Actually, it was difficult to call it surprise when he had barely reacted at all. For all she knew, he'd been surprised she'd gone through his belongings without asking, but she was almost certain that it had been the first time the ghost had seen the money on the bed and the collection of sheets and clothes that had been strewn. Knowing she wouldn't know unless she asked him directly, she allowed those thoughts settle. The bed was better than a carriage, and sleep was so tempting after everything that had happened. For the first time in a while, she felt marginally safe in this inn. She almost felt secure in her future as well.

Erik had settled on the floor by the door. He didn't trust this place, had almost forgotten what it was like to not trust the people outside of the room. He didn't think he'd be able to sleep any time soon, not when they were so vulnerable in this place but not only this place, everywhere. No place was safe – except… his mind provided, but he refused to finish that thought.

There was only one window and one door in this room. Two entrances weren't that difficult to cover. From his place on the floor, he could watch if anyone tried to climb up to the window, which was unfortunately quite easy to do, and still prevent anyone from entering through the door. However, two entrances also meant that there were only two exits, two means of escape. He didn't like this place, and he was shocked to find the unease so unfamiliar that he almost didn't know how to deal with it. That was absurd though. He'd lived his life having to be wary of the places he stayed.

Tilting his head back, he stared at the ceiling. Christine hadn't offered the bed. He wouldn't have accepted anyway, but… he didn't quite know what to expect. Christine had said she loved him, and of course that didn't mean she would immediately invite him to share the bed. He had expected something else though; maybe something more between them. Of all the things that had changed in the past twenty four hours, nothing between them seemed to have.

He was tempted to light a candle to read the book in his hands to distract himself from his own thoughts but decided against it. The book only reminded him of Raoul, and those were thoughts that would only serve to frustrate him further. Clothes, his work, money, and this book. Erik was at turns angry and disappointed, and the latter emotion only made him angrier.

It was morning before Erik realized he'd spent the entire night glaring at the ceiling, remembering a different room, a different breath – the slight snore and rustling of the blanket – and when he let his mind drift, he could remember those nights when Raoul's leg had draped over the edge of the bed; dangling nearby, he'd always been tempted to yank him off the bed completely. He could clearly picture the look of shock and indignation that the blond would have for being woken up in such a manner.

Erik woke Christine before the sun had properly risen and handed her some money before slipping out through the window. They didn't speak to each other, didn't talk about where they were going to go, didn't talk about breakfast or even say a 'good morning,' words that Erik could hear in his head spoken by a tenor voice still half laden with sleep yet somehow still full of excitement for the new day. No. They barely made eye contact even when they entered a hired carriage and left that town without a second look back.

Strangers. They were no better than strangers sharing the carriage, and everything was so wrong. Yet, Erik didn't have the energy to try to change that fact. Christine herself didn't know how to break the silence, didn't know how to broach Erik's attitude. It wasn't as though he was being belligerent or even aloof; he was simply silent, even acknowledging her presence. He was just there. What could she say in response to that? He'd always been silent, always ignored her at times, and she'd known when she made her decision to choose the ghost that it wouldn't be easy to get used to being around each other. So, she just waited to see how things would progress.

o.o.o

Raoul had been right.

Letting Erik die in his mind had made life bearable again. Admittedly, he'd been more than a little depressed the past two days. He'd barely gotten any work done and spent most of his time outside in the grove in his tree, staring down and wondering what they might have been talking about today, but he'd also finally finished moving Erik's things. Not in boxes, he couldn't bear the thought of giving them away or burning them. Instead, he'd moved everything into the extra room. It had been cluttered for a while since that had been where he'd slept.

He was done with all that now. He'd finished cleaning and putting everything in order. His mind even felt a little clearer, ordered. The ache he felt was present but not as pronounced; his world had stopped contracting to just that moment.

Stalking into his room, he grabbed the sheets, the blankets, the pillow cases on the bed. They'd been exactly as he'd last left them. Yanking them off, he strode downstairs purposefully towards the sitting room. Tossing a log into the fireplace, Raoul set to starting the fire. He grabbed a knife he'd brought just for this occasion and began stripping all beddings before shoving everything into the fireplace, watching to make sure the fire wouldn't spread. The heat was almost unbearable considering the heat outside, but he stayed directly in front of the fire remembering how he'd once yelled at Erik for destroying Christine's things.

He was done mourning. He couldn't do it anymore because it hurt too much to think of what could have been every second of the day. What could have been was no more and he could only hope to appreciate the moments he'd experienced with Erik. At least that's what he kept telling himself.

He'd already closed the door between their rooms, and it felt like closing a bit of himself off as well. He could open that part of his mind, open that door to the room to look through his things, but maybe another day. Not today. Erik wouldn't want him to linger. He'd want him to move on.

"Vicomte?"

Raoul turned away from the fire to look at his butler. Everyone had been rather supportive, not commenting about his attitude, and he'd begun to recognize the small things they'd done for him, still did for him without his asking. He recognized that he wasn't really alone, not when these people actually worried about him. He wasn't about to let them down. He wasn't going to let himself down either.

"Your dinner jacket," the man said, holding it out towards him.

Raoul smiled, a ghost of what it had once been. "Thank you."

"Are you certain…?" The butler started walking with Raoul towards the door.

Slipping on the jacket, Raoul gave a breathy laugh. No he wasn't certain, but he was going to go out and have a lovely meal with some Comte's daughter. He was going to show her a lovely night and not think about the possibilities of a life that had died.

The door opened to reveal his driver standing there looking rather displeased and trying to hide it. Raoul gave a small smile in recognition for what he was feeling. He paused at the door.

"I don't know when I shall return."

"I will be up regardless," His butler replied.

Raoul nodded, allowing the comfort of knowing someone would wait seep through him. He also knew that he was just hesitating. He had to do this; it was the next step, finding someone else. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he left.

o.o.o

She wasn't quite sure what it was, a mix of travelling, hunger, discomfort, and curiosity maybe, but sometime the muggy afternoon, Christine had had enough of the silence. Something was wrong, and Christine was going to find out what it was because at the rate things were progressing, she'd be losing another dream. Another man would have used her and left her in the end. She refused to let that happened without having a say in the matter.

She turned her attention away from the window of their carriage to stare at Erik and the book that had not left his hands since its discovery. "You didn't pack that case. Did you?"

The opera ghost didn't respond. She hadn't really expected him to, but she was not going to accept silence anymore.

"Answer me."

He lifted his head up deliberately, and she was a little frightened. Ever since last night, that's all she could say about his actions. Deliberate. As though if he wasn't controlling himself completely people would be injured, and a carriage with just the two of them were not odds she liked.

She refused to allow fear to stop her. "What happened at Raoul's estate?"

"Raoul?" He growled low in his throat.

That one word was filled with so much hatred, Christine actually stopped the next question she was about to ask him. She shivered at the sound. Did the ghost still hate him that much?

Erik couldn't believe Christine dared to address the blonde so informally. Hearing her utter Raoul's name so easily made him tense in his seat. He didn't want to ever hear her say his name. She didn't deserve that right. Not after everything that had happened.

When the opera ghost didn't react any other way, Christine pressed, "Where did the money come from? He gave you that case, didn't he?"

"What happened at the inn, Christine?" Erik asked evenly. He never had the intention to bring it up again because he found that he really didn't care what she'd been doing, but she was pushing him to do so. She had no right to ask about his business and least of all his business with Raoul. She'd given up any claim on the blonde she might've had in the past.

"I…" she faltered.

"What was it about that man?" Erik continued ruthlessly, "How did you manage to survive by yourself with no money whatsoever? What…?"

"What were you doing with Raoul?" Christine yelled. She hadn't known what else to say.

Silence ensued. Christine was left breathing heavily from shock and resentment. He'd jumped to conclusions and she hated the fact that he might've jumped to the right conclusions. Erik simply turned his attention back to the book in his hands, trying to ignore the fact that she had once again said his name.

They continued to travel together in that silence, neither quite ready to separate though the seed of doubt had already been planted in Christine's hope for their future. She wasn't ready to give up on them yet. They just needed to travel a little further, away from their past; things would have to get better.

Two days after discovering the book, Erik finally gave in to the urge and began reading it. It only took the third sleepless night in a row he'd had to finish it.

o.o.o.o

End Chapter 21

Word count: 4,383

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A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!

Chapter review: I feel really bad for Christine for having such a screwed up experience and then forcing herself to learn from such an experience.