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Erik liked to think he kept Raoul in the Communards’ dungeon for Christine’s sake only, to use against her if she crossed him. Yet lately, he had found himself spending as much time with Raoul as with Christine.
Raoul, after all, was simple. Erik went down to see him and he yelled and railed at Erik, his anger the same as it had always been. And Erik would make snide comments in return and disparage him on his weakness in allowing himself to get caught, his foolishness in thinking he could fight Erik for Christine and win. With Raoul, Erik was the victor. Better, he was the underdog, for by the flame of Raoul’s eyes Erik could see himself the way he used to, desperate for Christine’s affections, certain that if he could only get her to give him a chance she would love him. That was how Raoul saw him, and around Raoul it was how Erik could see himself.
It was only in the past couple weeks that Raoul had started to be more difficult. More difficult, in that he had started to be more easy.
Erik came into the cell with food for him—the only food he would be able to offer him today, in fact. Today he had plans. He was going to have to bother the managers a little bit about their most recent choice of opera (La Bearnaise, a work he’d never liked and hated to have to put up with), work on composing his new opera, which he’d only just started, and perhaps take Christine out for a walk or do something nice with her. If she would cooperate.
He narrated these plans to Raoul as he set the bowl of soup down next to him. Raoul stared off into the distance. He did not tell Erik that he was a beast to threaten the managers or a fool if he thought he could ever please Christine. He said nothing at all.
Erik stepped back. “So you see, I won’t have time to see to you today. You’ll have to manage without me.”
Nothing.
“I would prefer you to eat,” Erik said. He gestured to the soup. “It’s light.” Raoul hadn’t eaten in several days now, and anything heavy would probably upset his stomach. Still, he wondered if a soup that was mainly broth had been a good choice. It was not very enticing.
Not that he should need to entice Raoul to do anything. He didn’t care for pleasing him, damn it. But if he starved himself to death Erik would have no leverage against Christine, and if she found out about it she might very well try to leave him.
He wondered whether, at this point, she would even care.
Raoul did not look at the soup or at Erik. He stared at the wall beyond Erik. Erik wondered if he had even noticed Erik was there—but that was foolish. Of course he had noticed. He was being stubborn to annoy Erik, to get a rise out of him. Erik should not fall for that sort of game.
He considered, rather, what might get a rise out of Raoul. “If you don’t eat you will become even weaker than you already are,” he said. “I could push you over with a single hand already. Weren’t you planning on escaping?” He nudged Raoul’s shoulder with one large hand. “You used to talk a lot about that, didn’t you? You said you were going to kill me.”
Finally Raoul spoke. “Go away.”
His voice was toneless. Erik liked to think he was fighting to keep it steady, moved to rage but struggling for self control. Maybe Erik only had to push just a little bit harder.
“What would Christine think of you now?” he said with a wide grin. “Look at you, already wilting after only a couple months. Don’t you think she would be disgusted, monsieur? Your beauty was all that ever appealed to her.”
“I do not have the patience for you,” Raoul said. There was indeed a touch of annoyance in his voice. “Go away.”
“Eat, and I will.”
The room lapsed back into silence.
Erik was used to small spaces. He was used to living in a house in a cavern, eternally hidden from the sky, creeping around in dark tunnels and passageways, confining even his own features within a mask. This cell, however, worked on him in strange ways. The stones seemed too close together. It made him restless lately, the way it tightened around him whenever it was silent. Yet he was certain that if only Raoul could have shouted the way he used to, the very ruckus of it would drive the walls apart and make even the air clean again.
His house, of late, had become stifling too. Christine was the cause of that. She was a good wife, really, for all that they were not married. She did everything he asked of her: smiling when he told her to, singing with him when he told her to, never getting angry and certainly never bringing up Raoul or any of her old friends. Her eyes were always distant as Raoul’s were today, and her appetite seemed to have decreased as well, but she still ate. Yet he hated eating with her. He hated even being around her.
Erik gripped Raoul’s shoulder hard. “I cannot leave until you eat, monsieur.”
“Have you gone back to calling me monsieur again?” Raoul smiled slightly. “How polite. But I’m not hungry.”
Erik picked up the bowl. He considered the spoon for a minute before giving up on it—that would require too much coordination. He held the bowl with one hand. With the other he held Raoul’s jaw in place as he brought the bowl to his lips and tipped it slightly so that the liquid lapped against his skin. Lukewarm, luckily, so it wouldn’t scald him. “Drink.”
Raoul’s lips remained closed.
Erik kicked him in the shin. His lips parted slightly at that, a small gasp, and Erik hurriedly poured the broth in, then pushed his jaw up to close his mouth so it couldn’t escape. Annoyance in his eyes, Raoul swallowed. But he reached up and, with more emotion than he’d shown until now, shoved Erik away. Broth slopped out of the bowl onto the ground, leaving the bowl a third empty.
He was flushed now, even a little angry. Good. He’d been sulking for days, and it was much better for him to rage than sulk. But despite this it was still necessary that he eat. How else would he have the energy necessary to fight Erik? He would just go back to sulking and being boring again.
“Will I have to do that again?” Erik said. “Or I could strangle you, if you want. Anyone whose throat is under enough pressure will eventually open their mouth. But it would be easier if you’d just eat.”
Raoul bit his lip. He did not respond.
Erik smiled and lowered his voice a little. “Is it that you are too weak to eat, even? I could feed you like a mother bird, if that would help you. Suck the broth into my own mouth and feed it into yours.” He raised the bowl to his lips and filled his mouth with the broth, then stepped closer and leaned down.
Raoul pushed at him. “Stop. I’ll—”
Erik pressed their lips together and let the liquid flow into Raoul’s open mouth. It was not a gentle thing, the way their chins ground together, his mask bruising Raoul’s cheek. Raoul retched as soon as they parted and coughed most of the broth onto the floor. Erik handed him the bowl and spoon.
He ate.
Erik watched him. His shirt was sopped with soup, but it had grown filthy a while ago. Even this was not the shirt he had come in—Erik had had to replace it a couple times, and now he would have to do it again. He ate slowly and methodically, eyes fastened on the bowl.
Well, it would do him good.
Erik could remember the time he had seen Raoul and Christine eating pastries together. They had been exploring the opera house that day, which had stretched like a kingdom all around them. They had stopped off in the kitchen and picked up a couple croissants. Christine had told Raoul off for trying to steal three at a time, and he had wolfed his portion down eagerly, while Christine had eaten with more restraint, hiding a smile of amusement. Back then they had both been full of delight constantly, and Erik had thought it to be something essential to them, not something that would seep slowly away down here, though perhaps he might have known, he might have known…
But that was some time ago now. Yes, that was some time ago, and people changed.
“I will be busy today,” Erik said quietly. “I may not return to see you until tomorrow.” He turned to the door. Paused. “If you throw it up I will feed you all of it next time.”
Raoul did not respond.
Perhaps tomorrow he would scream at Erik about the indignities he had suffered today, having gained fuel from food and humiliation. Or he might even eat food and enjoy it again. Erik doubted both, but one had to hope.