Title: Concerning Stolen Gondolas
Author: Kytten
Pairing: Erik/Raoul
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
Summary: One should never test the eccentricities of nobility. They have a tendency to be… stubborn. Slight slash. Erik/Raoul.
Author's Note: One shot.
The vicomte was mad. Erik almost pitied the people of France. They had to deal with this eccentricity. But almost is the important word in that statement, being as Erik hated just about everyone. Still, this youth topped them all.
He had stolen his gondola.
Not only had he stolen the gondola, he was floating around the lake. Raoul de Chagny lay in the bottom of the boat, a short knife at his neck to stop a punjab and a single oar in his hand. Erik didn't know what the boy's intention had been when he had taken one oar but he knew what he was using it for. Raoul would steer the boat away whenever it got within an arm's length of land.
And there was no way in hell Erik was wading out there after him.
That's what he wanted.
Insults, homicide attempts, attempts to loop a rope around the prow of the boat had all fallen short. The vicomte had gotten some insane idea into his head and wouldn't give up. Being caught, of course, would have put a damper on his plan.
Not for the first time, Erik cursed the stubborn eccentricities of this nobleman in particular. He was stark raving mad. But that wasn't the worst of it.
Erik couldn't concentrate.
It was no good watching his gondola make lazy circles around the lake, and shouting threats on its banks had no effect. He just couldn't bring the boat in. What other choice did he have but to ignore him?
But he couldn't concentrate on even that much, damn it! Thoughts had a tendency to fall away from him. They didn't stay very long. His mind was drifting over the body in the boat.
That hair, those eyes, that voice…
Thoughts like that, however were not safe thoughts. And no matter how he groped to cover them with concentration, or at the very least, day dreams of Christine, it didn't work.
Anger, he decided, was easier.
"Vicomte, I swear if you don't leave, you will come to regret it."
Wading in after him was undignified and what he wanted. He'd be damned before he let that man have his way.
"You know I wont come out until you agree, Erik."
"This attempt at a threat has become very tiresome."
"Christine would have wanted you to." It wasn't the first time tonight he had heard that.
"Vicomte, Christine is dead. An incident, I might mention, that I blame entirely upon you."
"It was not my fault!" Raoul sat up, angel eyes peaking over the edge of the gondola. "No more than it was yours."
"And how could you possibly blame me?"
"The fever came from this place." He gestured around at the lake. "She came to visit you."
Erik bared his teeth.
"The fever came from the birth of your child, monsieur. You're the only one to fault."
"Because he was my son?"
He smirked in a way that made Raoul's blood rise.
"I can take no responsibility if your little monster killed her."
Raoul stood, skimming the side of the oar over the water. It skipped, sending up a spray of water that reached Erik at his desk.
"My patience," he said, wiping drops from his mask, "is wearing thin."
"As is mine, monsieur." Raoul settled back into the gondola. "I did not come to be insulted."
"You came because you are in fact, a mad man."
"Not one civil word from you!" Raoul snapped, slapping the water. "What have I done to deserve this, eh?"
Erik gave him a look that should have explained everything but didn't. Maybe it had something to do with the way the utter loathing was no where near as strong as it used to be.
"You've stolen my boat for one thing." He attempted to continue writing but the train of thought was long since gone.
"If you would only agree, I would return it!"
"The hell you would!" his head snapped up.
Raoul fell silent, caught off his guard.
"Once was enough, monsieur, thank you!" he glared with all the hate he could muster. "That is the last time my work will see the stage."
"But you write still." Raoul pointed out. Erik could see him stretched out in the bottom. One hand, the hand not on his oar, dangled in the water. For a moment he found himself hoping the siren would bite off a few fingers. Not that there was a siren, mind you. It was a lie he had used to frighten Christine closer to him in the gondola
His gondola. Damn vicomte.
"I write for my own enjoyment. Who are you to ask me to share it with all of France?"
"Not just all of France. The world. Your play was brilliant. All things put aside, it was a work of genius. Its only fault lay in Carlotta. She ruined your score."
"I will not."
"Christine would have—"
"You've said this twice already, monsieur. Return my boat and leave with your life. You may not be so lucky again."
"I will not leave until you give me something to take above."
Erik ran a hand through his hair in frustration.
"I will give you nothing!"
"Then you are stuck with me." Raoul crossed his arms, draping the oar-arm over his chest so that the wood rested against the other side of the boat.
He glared at him, their eyes locked.
And then Erik broke.
Furious with himself and the vicomte both, he ripped open a drawer, pulling out a leather bound script.
"Take this and go." He snapped, throwing it down onto the vicomte's stomach. "Leave me be. And if I so much as catch a glance of you down here, monsieur..." He let the warning hang. Unspoken threats were always more frightening. But Raoul laughed, those angel eyes lit up.
"Thank you, monsieur, thank you!" he called up. I knew you'd see it my way. Thank you! Because of you, the opera house will reopen with a bang!" Raoul paused and smiled. "I will expect you to be there opening night, Erik. As Christine would have."
Erik remained at his desk, golden eyes lit behind the mask, bright as the candles that lighted his work. He said nothing but he watched as Raoul waved.
Then, almost as an afterthought, the vicomte blew him a kiss.
He wouldn't have admitted it. Even under pain of torture and agonizing death, he wouldn't have admitted it. But Erik kept that kiss, just as he kept every glance and touch of Christine's. This, though, was in a special corner of his mind. It lay in the cool dark of the shadows, hidden.
He looked at it sometimes, more often than he'd even admit to himself.
And sometimes, he could even feel it brush against his skin.