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it began, as most things did now, with quiet.
the house was too large for three people who were trying very, very hard not to look at one another directly. winter pressed itself against the windows in thin white breaths, frost clinging to the corners like it was listening.
christmas was only two days away, which meant the air itself felt expectant, taut with memories no one has asked for.
raoul sat at the small writing desk in his bedroom, sleeves rolled down over his hands, staring at a piece of paper he had not written on.
he had been doing this for nearly an hour by now.
the candle beside him burnt low, wax pooling unevenly. hah. christine used to scold him for wasting candles.
you let them burn without purpose, she would say, smiling, fingers warm around his wrist as she pinched the wick out. it’s such a sailor’s habit. always assuming there will be another light.
raoul swallowed and looked away from the flame.
this was the first christmas without christine.
the thought did not hurt more than usual. that, perhaps, was the cruelest part. it arrived quietly, settled itself in his chest, and stayed there like it belonged.
raoul had survived many days like this already; birthdays, anniversaries, mornings where the world continued on regardless. but christmas?
christmas felt different. christine had loved it. loved the rituals, the unnecessary decorations, the sentimental insistence that certain things mattered simply because they always had.
now there was only silence.
well, other than gustave’s muffled voice somewhere down the hall, undoubtedly narrating his own actions to an audience that did not require commentary.
… and then there was the other presence.
ugh. if there was anything he hated more than right now, it was erik.
not because erik was cruel. not even because erik was cold. raoul could survive those things. he had survived worse.
no, you see, he hated erik because christine chose him.
it was an ugly thought. sharp and shameful, sure, but it curled itself around raoul’s heart and refused to loosen.
christine chose erik before she died. not raoul, but erik.
he had not meant to think of that night again, but any thought of christine always dragged the memory up.
the lights outside blurred as his vision unfocused, and suddenly he was no longer at the desk. he was back at coney island, the air thick with smoke and spectacle, with laughter sharpened into something cruel.
‘devil take the hindmost.’
he could still hear the phantom’s voice, silk and threat woven together. could still see christine standing there, pale and shaking, torn between them like something to be claimed.
raoul swallowed.
he remembered gripping her hands, his voice breaking as he begged her.
“don’t sing the song, dear”
“i beg you please. please.”
“it leaves tonight. let’s be on it, for both our sakes.
and for gustave.
leave this place behind.”
he had pleaded and pleased, for he had known what it meant.
the deal had been clear. brutal in its simplicity. if christine sang, raoul would be forced leave. not just lose the argument — no, he would lose everything.
coney island. christine. gustave.
he would walk away alone, stripped of wife and child both, erased in a single note.
christine had looked at him then, eyes shining, tears caught in her lashes. for one horrible moment, raoul had believed she would choose him. that love, history, their life would outweigh the phantom standing in the shadows.
and then she had sung.
her voice had soared through the theatre, pure and aching and resolute, filling the space with beauty that hurt to hear. erik had smiled, and raoul had felt something inside him go hollow.
it had not mattered that she loved him too.
for in the end, the tide turned, and he was the one left standing on the shore.
raoul closed his eyes briefly, then straightened, schooling his expression into something neutral before turning back toward the desk. he stared at the blank paper, fingers unmoving. if he wrote, he might have to name what had been taken from him. if he did not, the absence would remain unnamed and therefore unchallenged.
he did not know which frightened him more.
“père!”
raoul startled despite himself. “mon dieu, gustave—how long have you been standing there?”
“long enough,” gustave replied, tilting his head with a seriousness far too heavy for a child his age. his dark eyes flicked to the window, then back to raoul’s face. “you look.. sad.”
it was not a question.
raoul opened his mouth, then closed it again, feeling hesitant. lying to his son had never come easily. “i’m just thinking,” he said instead, offering a small smile. “that’s all.”
“…”
“…..”
“you… forgot dinner,” gustave stated after a moment, changing the topic.
raoul blinked. “ah, did i now?”
“yes. er… papa made soup, if you’d like.”
of course he did.
“i’ll come down in a moment,” raoul coughed out. “i’m not so hungry.”
“you say that everytime, père.”
“don’t be silly now, mon ange.”
“… y’know,” gustave’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, however. “you’re worse at lying than you think, père.”
ouch. that hurt more than it should.
raoul reached out and pulled gustave into a brief embrace, pressing a kiss to his hair. “i’m all right,” he murmured, the lie soft and well-practised. “go on. i’ll go down in a bit.”
the young boy hummed, unconvinced. he studied raoul for another moment, then, without another word, turned on his heel and bolted down the corridor.
“i— gustave—!” raoul began, but it was too late. the boy was already disappearing down the corridor, socked feet thudding softly against the floor.
raoul exhaled, rubbing at his temples.
erik had positioned himself where he always did when he wanted to appear uninvolved: near the piano, half in shadow, arms crossed tightly over his chest. the firelight softened the sharp planes of his face, but not enough to hide the tension there.
he was acutely aware of raoul’s sadness, of course, though he would have denied it fiercely if accused. he had noticed the way raoul’s shoulders sagged earlier, the way his gaze lingered too long on empty spaces. he noticed many things he pretended not to.
the older man told himself it was merely observation, habit, nothing more.
it was a lie, but one he had told himself for years.
his fingers hovered over the piano keys, restless, then pulled back again. he had not touched the instrument all evening. tonight felt… wrong for music.
“papa?”
dear god.
he flinched, hand snapping back as though burned. who— oh.
gustave stood a few feet away.
“…what,” erik snapped, then caught himself. he inhaled sharply through his nose. “what is it, gustave.”
the young boy folded his arms, mimicking a posture he had undoubtedly observed elsewhere. “you should get père something.”
erik blinked. “pardon?”
“a present,” gustave clarified, as though speaking to someone particularly slow. “for christmas.”
erik turned away immediately. “tsk. do not be absurd now, boy.”
“why not?”
“because,” erik said, irritation creeping into his voice, “you know well that your father and i do not exchange gifts.”
gustave raised an eyebrow. “but.. you two exchange insults.”
“that is entirely different.”
“is it?”
erik stopped moving entirely. slowly, he turned back to face the boy, eyes narrowing. “what exactly do you think you are doing?”
gustave shrugged. “helping.”
“by provoking me?”
“by telling you the truth,” gustave corrected. he paused, then added, softer, “he’s sad.”
erik stiffened.
“christmas was maman’s favourite,” gustave continued, voice quieter now. “he thinks he’s hiding it. he isn’t.”
erik looked away, jaw tightening. “well, that isn’t my concern now, is it?”
gustave stared at him for a long moment. “..you notice when he’s cold.”
“wha—”
erik opened his mouth to retort, to deny, to dismiss—but nothing came out.
“you always adjust the fire,” gustave went on, relentless in his gentleness. “and you leave the extra blanket where he sits. and when he forgets to eat, you make soup and then pretend it’s for me when you realise what you’re doing.”
the older man swallowed, now looking visibly uncomfortable.
“you should get him something,” gustave said again. “just this once.”
“and why, pray tell, would i give him a gift?”
“because,” gustave said, hesitating just a little, “you care about him. more than you pretend.”
“gust—”
“and you already have something of his, don’t you? his scarf?”
erik froze, the world seemed to tilt.
slowly, dangerously, he turned back toward gustave. “..what did you say?”
“the white one,” gustave elaborated. “from the opera house.”
“how do you even— gah! nevermind that. you should not speak of things you do not understand.”
“but you kept it.”
“i—”
“you love him,” gustave said, more certain than he had any right to be.
the denial rose instinctively, desperate, but it died in erik’s throat before it could be voiced. the older man shut his eyes. when he opened them again, the fight had gone out of him.
“…fine,” he muttered. “you win. but if he mocks me, this is your fault.”
gustave beamed.
erik waited until the house had gone still for the night before retrieving the scarf.
it was hidden in a box he pretended did not exist, tucked away beneath old scores and remnants of a life he rarely allowed himself to revisit. when he unfolded it, the fabric was soft beneath his fingers, worn thin with age, unmistakably white.
raoul had left it behind years ago at the opera house. a careless moment, a hurried departure, a scarf forgotten on a chair in the opera house. erik had found it hours later, long after raoul was gone.
he had kept it all these years.
he did not know why. or rather, he knew exactly why, and hated himself for it.
he had told himself it was nothing. an oversight. an object without meaning.
yet more than a decade later, it lay in his hands, proof of every lie he had ever told himself.
christmas morning dawned pale and cold, light spilling softly through the curtains. gustave was awake at an hour that bordered on the obscene, vibrating with barely contained excitement. raoul followed more slowly, exhaustion and melancholy clinging to him like a second coat.
they gathered in the sitting room, erik lingering at the edge as always, arms crossed, expression carefully unreadable.
presents were opened. gustave laughed. raoul smiled when appropriate. erik observed.
it was only after gustave had torn through the last of his gifts—paper everywhere, laughter loud and unguarded—that raoul realised something was off.
not wrong, exactly. just… strange.
he noticed that erik had been quiet. well, quieter than usual. he was lingering near the edge of the room, posture stiff, eyes flicking anywhere but toward raoul.
the vicomte noticed it absently at first, the way one notices a change in temperature, something felt rather than consciously observed.
and then, erik cleared his throat.
“raoul.”
the sound of his name, spoken like that, with carefulness, instantly drew raoul’s attention. he looked up, brows lifting in mild surprise.
“i— yes?”
the older man did not meet his eyes. not even once. instead, he stepped forward and placed something on the table between them.
a small parcel.
wrapped.
raoul blinked, confused.
he stared at it for a second too long, then looked back up at erik, openly bewildered. “what is this..?”
erik folded his arms. “mm. open it.”
raoul’s mouth opened, then closed again. his gaze flicked briefly toward gustave, who had gone very, very still, eyes bright with anticipation.
what was going on?
“…this is for gustave?”
“no,” erik declared at once, a touch too quickly. “for you.”
the room seemed to tilt.
“…for me,” raoul repeated.
erik nodded once, sharp. final.
“erik, you know you don’t have to—”
“open it,” erik snapped before exhaling and composing himself. “..please.”
please.
that last word stilled the vicomte immediately.
thus, with much hesitation, he reached for the parcel. the paper was plain, neatly wrapped, the edges precise in a way that could only be erik’s doing. raoul’s fingers hesitated at the seam. a ridiculous thought crossed his mind.
maybe this is just a trick.
and he almost smiled at himself for the thought.
nevertheless, he begun to unwrap the gift.
the paper came away soundlessly.
and then—
white.
for a moment, raoul did not understand what he was looking at.
“this… wha…”
his breath caught the instant his fingers closed around the fabric. raoul held it too tightly at first, as though his hands had decided on their own that letting go was no longer an option. the scarf was soft, softer than he remembered even, and the familiarity of it sent a sharp jolt through his chest.
no.
no, that couldn’t—
he lifted it fully from the box, the movement slow and careful, as if the slightest misstep might cause it to disappear.
white fabric spilled into the light, unmistakable.
“…this,” he managed, the word barely managing to leave his throat.
“it belongs to you,” the older man coughed out in a futile attempt to hide his embarrassment.
though, raoul barely registered the other’s words. his thoughts were already scattering, colliding with one another in a rush that left him breathless.
how did erik have this?
why did erik have this?
this was supposed to be gone, for heaven’s sake!
memory surged up without warning: the opera house, echoing corridors, christine tugging him along, laughing as he tried to keep pace. the cold at his neck, the careless moment when he must have pulled the scarf free and left it behind.
he remembered realising too late.
remembered searching, then eventually giving up.
he had never seen it again.
ten years.
no, more than that actually.
he had not seen this very scarf in over ten years.
his grip tightened unconsciously before looking up at the older man.
raoul studied him then, really studied him; the rigid posture, the tension pulled tight through his shoulders, the way he seemed to be bracing himself for something he had already decided would not go well.
and suddenly, all at once, the implications crashed down on raoul with dizzying force.
“erik,” he said slowly, disbelief colouring every syllable, “why… why exactly do you have this.”
silence stretched between them.
the older man did not answer, though instead he visibly stiffened.
raoul felt his pulse quicken, the thudding of his heart suddenly loud in his ears.
“…you kept it,” he realised aloud, the truth forming in his mouth before he had time to stop it.
erik’s shoulders stiffened further, if that was even possible. “it was left behind.”
“years ago.”
“…yes.”
something warm yet dangerous bloomed in his chest then, threading itself through the lingering grief and the shock and the disbelief until it settled into something almost giddy.
“you,” he started, his voice trembling despite his efforts, “have been holding onto my scarf for more than a decade.”
“…do not make this more than it is,” erik said, too quickly.
the vicomte laughed, breathless and a little unsteady, heat rushing to his face without permission. “oh,” he replied lightly, “i think you’ve already done that for me.”
he lifted the scarf again, this time with deliberate slowness, and wrapped it around his own neck. the fabric settled there as though it had always belonged, warm despite the winter air.
“ahh…” raoul exhaled, long and slow.
then he smiled.
“well,” he added on, eyes bright as he looked directly at erik, “this is terribly romantic.”
“romantic?!” erik spluttered. “it is not—”
“more than 10 years,” raoul interrupted cheerfully. “kept safe. returned on christmas morning. honestly, erik, i didn’t know you had it in you. looks like someone’s in love with me~”
“that is an outrageous accusation.”
“is it? because from where i’m standing, it looks like you’ve been pining quietly all this time.”
“i have done no such thing.”
raoul grinner even wider. “mm. sure.”
“tch, wipe that expression of your face. you look stupid.”
“what expression?” raoul asked innocently, fingers brushing the edge of the scarf as though by accident. “this one?”
the older man followed the movement despite himself, jaw tightening. “you are being absolutely insufferable right now, vicomte.”
“ah,” raoul said thoughtfully, “so this is the part where you pretend you’re not deeply embarrassed.”
“i am not embarrassed.”
gustave let out a small, delighted snort.
erik whipped around instantly, frowning. “do not encourage him.”
gustave clasped his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels. “i’m not doing anything.”
“gustave.”
the child’s grin widened, and without warning, he darted sideways, giggling, weaving around the furniture with the ease of someone who had done this many times before. gustave’s laughter echoed down the hall as erik gave chase, muttering threats he had no intention of keeping.
raoul lingered behind, fingers brushing the edge of the scarf at his throat. it was warmer now, or perhaps he was.
the fire crackled softly. erik adjusted it without comment as he passed, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
raoul watched them both, and for the first time since christine’s absence had hollowed the world, raoul felt something warm settle into place.