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: I don't usually do this anymore, but I felt that after so many chapters, I might as well. Thanks to the anon'd reviewers who I never get to reply to: Andi, Zee, Liz (btw, I only update the calendar, after I post a story since I haven't been able to keep up with my schedules), SlashmasterAeoniX, Marika, Wolfy, and anyone else I missed (I only went back in the review pages to like page 4).
Story Note: In regards to the first portion of this chapter – yes, I know that's not what the point of the novel was, so just bear with me. Erik can interpret it whatever way he wants.
o.o.o.o
Reluctantly Willing
Chapter 22 - … to want
o.o.o.o
By: Lucifer Rosemaunt
o.o.o.o
They were in yet another carriage, in another day of travel, another day of silence. After that outburst, that quick argument that had arisen and died in mere heartbeats, they barely looked at each other much less shared a single word with each other since then. Erik didn't bother tracking their distance or speed anymore. He merely stared at the book in his hands as the storyline ran through his head.
L'Homme Qui Rit.
It was impossible not to assign them roles, impossible not to see himself as Gwynplaine: abandoned at a young age to be left to die; travelling with a carnival; the deformity – though he had been born with his, not given; a false name to live by, Gwynplaine-Opera Ghost while his real name was left unused, something to be discarded as unimportant in the end. His deformity was not a smile though. His didn't garner laughs, just screams.
Dea was of course Christine and yet, it didn't fit, not quite. He had found this young child and had helped raise her. He'd been a guardian, though under the guise of an angel. He'd watched her grow into a beautiful woman. Yet, she was not blind, least of all to his deformity. She had shied away from him, feared him, and ran from him. At the opera house, she might have been considered frail but instead of waiting for him, she had sought out the Vicomte. Now, she was anything but frail. Still, through it all, she claimed to love him. She loved him – even though they had simply been words, words that had yet to be repeated nor revealed through action.
And though he needn't do so, he struggled to give Raoul a role in this story. Who was the Vicomte? The most obvious answer would be the other lords, but while they had been at odds with each other, Raoul had never laughed at him. He'd never mocked his deformity. No, Raoul could not be them. He was far from those men who knew nothing of who he was, who knew nothing of compassion. They never would have saved his life, admit defeat, and share their days with him.
Erik sneered.
It didn't matter who was who. It was simply a story, a fantastical story whose message was quite clear to him. The only way a deformed man could find love was with a blind lover, and even then, he could never be happy. Never.
He touched his mask. It had already stopped bothering him, and it had only been a week since they'd left. Perhaps he had adapted because of his unease with travelling or maybe it was simply the company.
Glancing at Christine, he mused that perhaps if she'd been blind they might have stood even the slightest of chances together. He shook his head. That thought sounded like he'd already given up on them. He wondered if they were doomed to failure, if they would simply be driven to mutual destruction – if he even wanted to wait and see if they did.
No. He wanted to stay with Christine; she was his Dea. He was simply tired, not thinking correctly. He'd barely managed to catch a few hours of sleep when they were travelling while each night between had remained sleepless. It was simply fatigue that made him think that.
o.o.o
Raoul woke up the next morning feeling rather rested. Forgetting himself, he stretched and said 'good morning' towards the now closed door. When he didn't hear a response or the rustling of sheets, he woke up a little faster. The door was closed for a reason; there was no longer anyone to say good morning to. Realizing his mistake, Raoul could do nothing but sit on his bed and stare at the door that stood between him and his memories. His throat constricted, and he couldn't control the shakiness as he exhaled. His hands clenched in the sheets.
He'd been rather good about that the past few days. He'd been good about not speaking to empty space, a space that had once been filled. There was no way he could say he'd managed to put Erik out of his mind because everything he did still reminded him of the other man, but he liked to think that he was getting better. He only counted the days they had been parted in his head, keeping it there simply for reference.
He sighed once more before mentally shaking off his melancholy. His slip was probably only indicative of how good a time he'd had the last few nights.
Raoul hadn't been expecting much of anything from the woman he'd entertained those nights before and had been rather surprised when dinner had turned out rather well. The conversation wasn't half as interesting as the ones he'd had with Erik. They didn't talk about business, didn't talk about music, didn't even go near subjects that he and Erik used to speak at length about, but it was better that way. She was not very witty or snide, and if he had to judge, which he hadn't at the time, she was merely average in looks, though beautiful in her own way.
She was rather meek, the third child of four daughters and averse to being too forceful. Her head was often bowed and her glances at him a little wide-eyed and confused, as though she couldn't understand why he was having dinner with her, why he had invited her out several times already.
Admittedly, she was a bit boring, but he liked it that way. He could appreciate the distraction, a different pace, a completely different type of person. He couldn't say that he was at ease with her just yet because he had to constantly watch what he said after that first scandalized look she had given him when he'd told her he often travelled alone on his horse and not in some carriage or after he'd suggested a different style of wearing her hair. It wasn't his fault that it had started to annoy him that it kept falling in front of her face or how she kept tugging at a loose curl by her ear. But still, she was nice.
The other women his peers had suggested him to meet were simply too much. Their personalities were so strong that he was reminded of… people he would rather not remember. They wanted things from him that he couldn't give them. So, he'd stayed with this third child of four. She was the perfect excuse to leave the estate without having to worry about things progressing too fast.
He didn't want to spend a moment longer on the estate than he had to. He ate breakfast, quickly finished work, and then left for a morning ride before finding solace in just being in the city, being around people who barely cast him a second glance. It was almost like not existing, not having to worry about who he was and what had happened to him in the past. He just walked until it was time to have dinner, until it was time to go out with her and then he was the Vicomte de Chagny again. He was someone confident and charming.
Raoul wasn't sure, but she might be exactly what he wanted at the moment. To want any more would be asking for too much.
She was the anti-thesis of Erik.
And, he was going to see her again this afternoon.
o.o.o
The further and further they traveled away from Paris, the more at ease Christine became even though her relationship with the opera ghost had yet to improve. There was the strained silence, but Christine liked to think that it was less strained than before. It wasn't as though the ghost looked mad. He simply looked contemplative nowadays. He didn't comment when she used some of his money to buy food or new clothes or even just a better room to sleep in at night. In fact, he didn't say anything at all though she did see him cast glances at her every now and then. She wondered if he was simply unsure of how to begin. She certainly didn't know how.
A short while after their argument, after the accusations had flown, she had realized that she didn't even know his name. He'd only ever been angel or phantom. He was the opera ghost even without the opera house. Yet, it didn't seem odd to her, a mere inconvenience. What was in a name any way? However, it brought up the fact that she didn't know very much about the man at all. She had heard about his past – who hadn't heard the rumours? But, she'd never asked him directly. However, the ghost had chosen to go with her; he wanted her and that was all that mattered. She let herself think of other things instead, more important things.
She had decided that they would go to Italy. They would of course travel a bit more just to see the world and visit new cities like some sort of an extended vacation. Soon though, she'd redirect them, plan a route to Italy and settle near an opera house so that she could sing again. The stage was calling her and she desperately wanted to stand upon it once more. It would be perfect.
So far, they were still in the part of the plan that required them to travel as far away from Paris and their old life as possible. They were making headway. As for the rest of the plan, she wasn't quite sure if it would go well or not. She didn't know if the ghost was indeed going to stay with her all the way to Italy, but he already had an inkling of her secret and had yet to leave her. That was a good sign. She would eventually have to somehow bridge the gap between them in order to ensure he would remain with her. She just didn't know how yet to do so.
She did know one fact though. One thing had always proven effective in driving the ghost to her.
o.o.o
With each clop of the horses' hooves and squeak of the turning of the wheels, Erik could feel his mind turning as well, as though it were some antiquated contraption just barely moving forward, not quite able to function smoothly. And, he was at the precipice of some great understanding, some epiphany that he could barely see the edges of, feel the tendrils of it pulling him ever forward.
But no, it wasn't pulling him forward. It was tearing him apart, and the only thing his mind could do was run through L'Homme Qui Rit as it skirted the edges of the as of yet understood epiphany.
Dea was fragile. She needed him, needed Gwynplaine.
But Erik was here. There was no need for her to worry for him, to pine after him.
They travelled together. They started their journeys together and though they had separated, they were together once more. The beginning of some ultimate journey.
There was so much for Erik and Christine to accomplish together. He would want to hear her sing again of course. He would find a way to make it happen. It wouldn't be that difficult in a new opera house even without the secret passageways. People only saw what they wanted to see.
Josiana was taking him away.
Erik looked up in confusion, his eyes focusing on the boards in front of him, and abruptly, he was here. Every jerk of the carriage, scent, sight, and sound was so clear to him as though it was the first time realizing he was travelling. Away. He wondered where that errant thought had come from.
Josiana hadn't been assigned a role in his life's story. There was no one who was drawn to him in such a manner.
His eyes drifted to his carriage companion. She was his Dea; though another part of his mind retorted that she barely had anything in common with the heart of that character.
This was what they wanted though. He didn't even know why he had to defend his actions. This was what… she? they? wanted, to leave Paris and start anew. Christine had already tried and apparently failed, and Erik, well, he turned to peer out the window. He had started anew himself and… had succeeded. He had.
And, for the first time in his life, Erik realized that he did have a choice. Christine had always been his escape. She had always been the only other choice to a life of isolation. She'd been it.
Now, things were different. He had the whole world at his disposal, but that was not particularly true. It was possible for him to start over again anywhere in the world, but his face would still be a problem. The only person who didn't seem to care about his face was Christine. Well, Christine and…
Could Raoul even be considered a choice? Could he be an option even though with each passing second Erik was moving further and further away from him?
In his life, it had never really been about what Erik had wanted. It had always been about what was available to him, the lesser of two evils. For years it had been Christine and loneliness. Christine had been the exact person he'd needed, had wanted. He'd loved her because she'd taught him that there could be more. She'd given him hope and been everything that was good in his life for so many years. She'd been his everything. Had been. This was not the same situation though. He'd managed to find another companion, hadn't he? He had been comfortable at the Chagny estate.
But did Raoul even care to have him around? That was how it was supposed to be in life; you weren't supposed to question your place with someone, not if that's where you were supposed to be. In the opera house, he'd never questioned his place was to be with Christine, but now, he almost wanted to question it. Who was he to her? Did she really love him or did she love the fact that he wasn't those men that she'd run into? He should want to go out and seek those men out and kill them, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to care, and that was truly confusing. At first, he'd thought that it had simply been the past in general that he was trying very hard to ignore. On the contrary though, he wasn't the slightest bit curious. When they'd been in the opera house, there hadn't been a moment that Erik hadn't known about her day. He knew all her actions. He'd monitored her in every aspect of her life. This apathy towards her, the fact that she was here and he didn't care to look at her was a gross change of character. She was here, and he didn't care to hear her, didn't care to touch her, teach her, guide her.
She needed none of that now though. And, he didn't even want to give it to her. He'd been so caught up in his thoughts about what had happened at the Chagny estate that he simply hadn't realized it sooner. He'd been caught up in the fact that it was Christine.
And those wheels in his head were turning. He didn't know how but it was as though his life were changing in these thoughts, as though change could simply be contained in a single thought. That was impossible. Change occurred over time. Time like where he'd lived the past few months, his mind supplied.
Raoul certainly hadn't complained when they'd been living together. In fact, it had been the opposite; Raoul had seemed to enjoy his company. There hadn't been a need to seek him out because they'd simply been together at all times. But then again, Raoul hadn't fought when he'd said that he would be leaving. Apparently, he didn't mean much to have around if Raoul had so willingly let him go and then even go so far as to pay him money, as though his being at the estate had only been an effort on his part, a job. Erik didn't understand why that thought bothered him so much. He had only been there to ensure Raoul wouldn't chase after them. That estate had never been a destination; it had merely been a temporary stop so that he could get Christine. And that's where he was now, but he didn't understand why it simply wasn't right.
He didn't understand many things. Why was Raoul constantly the center of his thoughts? Raoul was about to say something else when they'd left. Raoul had packed exactly what he would have packed himself had he been given the time. Raoul wasn't like those lords from the novel. Raoul…
Christine.
He forced himself to focus on her. He had to stop thinking about Raoul. He had Christine, but the obvious question was what kind of life would they have together? He'd be forced back into the role of the phantom of the opera if Christine had her way. After all, that was the only person she really knew; it was the life that she knew and wanted. This was a woman who still called him 'Angel' and in all seriousness, as though he didn't need another name.
Was Opera Ghost, Angel, Phantom his Lord Fermain Clancharlie?
Cursing the novel, Erik now couldn't help but wonder if he was heading towards or away from Dea at the moment. Annoyed at himself, Erik forcibly ignored that thought. He had to at least try with Christine. Raoul was of no consequence.
o.o.o.o
End Chapter 22
Word count: 2,968
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A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!
Chapter review: Raoul's part made me sad. Poor boy.
Okay, so perhaps I shouldn't have used another book's plot to be integral to this portion of the story, but I vote that you visit Wikipedia because they have a page on it; just search L'Homme Qui Rit. However, if you don't want to, let's say this (a really bad summary of the story):
Deformed (more like mutilated) Gwynplaine (he always looks like he's smiling at all times) finds Dea (blind) when she was a baby; they travel with a carnival; (15 yrs later) Gwynplaine performs at the carnival and at one such performance, he attracts Duchess Josiana (who wants to do him), and it turns out Gwynplaine is the once thought dead heir and his name is Fermain, but when he tries to join the House of Lords, the other lords don't take him seriously (because of his face); meanwhile he leaves Dea who's been fragile all her life to pine after him (because she loves him); Gwynplaine denounces his title and returns to Dea. They depart and Dea tells her love for Gwynplaine then dies and then he kills himself.
Nutshell.