Chapter Text
The days seemed to drag on.
Every time Raoul closed his eyes, he saw her there—breast still, skin cold, body limp.
He had to be pulled from her, even as he screamed out her name.
Her name.
He couldn't speak it any longer for fear of his throat closing and a new flood of tears falling from his eyes.
That man, the one who had stolen her in the first place, he must have pitied him greatly.
Raoul was allowed to live within the man's residence, a home which would have been humble for a family of six, but was instead quite overbearing with a single man living there—one who spent many nights in his office instead, the house sitting empty most of the time.
Gustave made an effort to get the two men to speak, or at least, stand in the same room without acting as though they might, at any moment, go for each other's throats.
The boy, Raoul noticed, was not as cheerful. He didn't sing any longer, and even though he had access to the grand piano in the parlor, he never so much as touched the keys.
He spent long hours staring out the window as the carnival's lights danced across the view but never once asked to play any of the games or ride any of the attractions.
At night, he would sneak from his own bedroom into Raoul's, crawling into bed with him.
Sometimes he would cry, and his father would comfort him.
Sometimes he would be silent, tucking himself into his father's arms.
Sometimes he would scream as a nightmare ripped him from his sleep and he would be inconsolable for hours.
It was that last one Raoul hated most. He could hold him, or comfort him, or speak softly to him, but he would never be used to hearing his darling boy scream with such fear and grief.
It was the morning after one such very sleepless night when Mr. Y chose to grace Monsieur le Vicomte with his presence at the breakfast table.
The masked man always had food waiting for Raoul and Gustave, but he never ate with them—in fact, they rarely saw him at all after that night on the pier, save for the funeral nearly six months before and the twice a week he would step in very briefly to check on their needs; it was within those few minutes each time that Gustave had to ease the tension, in case they decided to deal with their grief by using violence.
"No need to be alarmed," he assured Raoul, who was immediately on guard upon seeing him at the table. "I merely thought I might look in to see about how you are doing."
Raoul slowly settled into a seat across from him. "I didn't know phantoms ate," he said, glancing at his plate of food.
"Ah, you've a sense of humor," he replied with an approving nod. "That's very good."
Gustave was sleeping in, having only managed to settle down an hour or so before dawn arrived, but so far he was not needed to keep the peace.
After several minutes of silence, Raoul looked up from his food, his gaze settling on the masked man. "Monsieur Y-"
"Erik," he corrected him, a casual way to his words though his shoulders looked tense. "My name is Erik."
Raoul nodded slowly. "Erik," he repeated, clearing his throat, "I only wonder… why do you not send me away?"
"Gustave would never understand," he answered, cutting another bite from his crepe. "Nor would he forgive me."
"It is for his sake then?" Raoul asked with a short hum.
Erik was silent.
"I don't think of you as a man with a heart," Raoul continued, leaning forward in his seat. "However, I have seen you in a different light."
"Yes, I would never harm a hair on Gustave's head," Erik said, his eyebrow raised in intrigue. "I don't know why you are telling me this."
"I don't mean with Gustave," he said, frowning. "Or, rather, not only with him… I have seen this side of you before with-"
He broke off suddenly but both men knew exactly where he had been going with it. Her name which hadn't even been spoken still seemed to hang in the air.
Erik spoke up first, "When I had her in my lair, and you, her noble knight, came to her rescue."
Raoul nodded. "The way you sent us to your boat, that we might avoid the eyes of the mob," he said softly, his food forgotten as he stared past Erik. "I hadn't thought of you as a man before that moment, more a monster—but you could have kept her, or killed me, or any number of things, and you chose to give us freedom and safety."
Erik was once again silent, so Raoul did not push his point.
Sometime after they had finished eating—or, in reality, abandoned their food on the table to relocate to the parlor with tea but no conversation—Gustave finally awoke, stalking down the stairs.
"Father?" he called, rubbing the sleep from his eye.
"In the sitting room," Raoul answered, putting his teacup on the small table.
Gustave rounded the corner and stopped, blinking in confusion. "Monsieur," he greeted Erik before moving to sit beside Raoul.
She had told him about his parentage before she died though he still hadn't adjusted to the idea of anyone but the man who raised him being his father.
As such, he referred to Erik only as "Monsieur Y" or other honorifics one might use for a stranger or a man with whom one is not well acquainted.
"How are you feeling?" Raoul asked softly as Gustave took a cookie from the small plate.
He replied with nothing but a noncommittal shrug.
After a moment, Erik looked at Raoul, "You are finding the house to your liking, are you not?"
"It is fine, Monsieur," he answered, "Although, I must wonder why a man such as you would find yourself in need of such a large home."
Gustave quickly swallowed his mouthful of cookie to speak up, in a very matter-of-fact tone, "Dr. Gangle told me that Monsieur Y would offer the rooms as a free place to stay for performers that had less than ideal situations."
"Ah, yes," Erik admitted, "Well, it has been quite some time, the performers and stagehands have living quarters elsewhere nowadays."
Gustave grinned before taking another cookie from the plate.
Raoul, on the other hand, was staring at Erik—he saw the man in a new way when he was not so focused on beating him in a competition which no longer mattered.
He briefly recalled a conversation with Madame Giry, years before. Something about how the deformed man in the circus had been kept in a cage, on display to be gawked at and earn horrified gasps from patrons.
Perhaps he felt that no human oddity should ever find themselves in need of a proper roof over their heads.
Erik stood, which broke Raoul from his reverie.
"Are you in need of anything, Monsieur?" Erik asked, strolling over to grab his coat from the hook.
"No, we've everything we have a want for," Raoul answered.
"I shall take my leave then," he said with a nod, adjusting his long coat. "Good day, sir."
Raoul stood, not entirely realizing what he was doing until he had already spoken, "I wonder if you might dine with us tonight?"
Erik paused on his way out the door, watching Raoul with confusion and no small amount of suspicion. "Pardon me, Monsieur, I'm unsure if I heard you correctly."
"Dine with us, if you'd like," Raoul repeated the request, sparing Gustave a quick glance before he added, "It is his birthday, Monsieur."
He considered for a moment before nodding. "What flavor does the young Vicomte prefer for his cake?"
"Mother always made chocolate," Gustave answered before his grin quickly faltered, his appetite for cookies apparently vanishing.
The statement seemed to linger a moment longer than necessary.
"Then chocolate it shall be," Erik said finally. "I bid you adieu."
He bowed before disappearing through the door.
"It will be different without her," Gustave said softly as Raoul sat back down. "It will just be kept to us, right?" He frowned, leaning against his father. "I don't want a party, and I don't want anyone in attendance aside from us and Monsieur Y."
"Of course, my darling boy," Raoul said softly, wrapping his arms around him. "A small affair, with cake, presents, and good company."
"Will Monsieur Y be good company?" Gustave asked suspiciously, looking up at his father. "I don't want you to fight."
"No, we will get along," Raoul assured him, chuckling. "If only for your sake, Gustave."
He smiled slightly, nodding as he leaned against his father's chest once more.
He may not have believed his father's words, but he knew the Vicomte would make an effort nonetheless.
He would simply have to wait and see if he would be able to keep his promise.