Post by Erik Spectre on Jun 14, 2012 15:53:52 GMT -5
So, this is a story I began in class about Erik and Philippe after the events of the story. It's not finished yet, so if you have any suggestions shoot them at me. I like to think this is book!verse Philippe, but he acts a lot like my Philippe so... MEH. DEAL WITH IT.
Happy reading!
Philippe de Chagny: Count, aristocrat, brother, friend.
These were not words Erik would choose to describe how he felt about the nobleman. He was more of an enigma than anything else; a sore he could not scratch, an appendage that was infected but could not be amputated, that little black spot in the corner of your eye that will not go away. Totally benign, and yet troublesome all the same.
Philippe was a damn fool, as well. Then again, Erik found everyone to be more foolish than was proper, but Philippe was a fool in shining armour.
The word he would choose? Keeper.
That nagging sensation kept creeping into his flesh, even when Philippe was not around. It was a benevolent nag, and the guilt kept rolling in. "You should eat, Erik, you are nothing but skin and bones! Erik, do not look at me like that, this is only for your own good! Do not worry about Christine, my brother is taking care of her! You fret too much, Erik! You are far too sick to move, Erik! Erik, take off your mask! Erik, TAKE OFF YOUR MASK!"
His hands shuddered as they ran over the silk. Sweat made it wet, but the fabric made him breathe. He could barely breathe in this stuffy room. Before, at the opera, it had been at least cool and pleasant in the cellar. Here it was sweltering, in the house by the sea. The middle of summer. He detested summer.
Waking up was a challenge in the summer. His eyelids were droopy, and the bed was far too soft. "Erik, only dead people sleep in coffins."
"Am I not dead, in society's eyes?"
"...Not in mine..."
Erik groaned, rolling over and laying flat on his stomach, burying his face in his pillow and ripping off the mask. A nice smother might just do the trick...
Smother, smother, smother... Then maybe he'd get his coffin back.
"Erik, take off your mask."
"It is off. What more do you want from Erik? What more can I do for you, Monsieur le Comte?!"
"Erik..."
"Erik is not listening....!"
"Erik... Erik... ERIK!"
"Erik!"
Arms, legs, and a mass of a noir dressing gown flailed about the small bedchamber as a rush of energy vaulted him from the bed. The hardwood floor was harsh against his aching limbs, and he cried out in anguish.
He heard a man groan. Ah... the keeper.
Erik slapped his spidery hand on the bed and pulled himself up to look at the Count with loathing eyes. "Perhaps you might knock first, nanny."
Philippe arched a fair eyebrow. "I did. Twenty times. I left and came back twice. It might do you some good to listen, for a change--"
"I am listening, dammit! I hear everything, don't you understand that, you rebarbative nitwit?!" he cracked, a hoarse cough wheezing from his chest as he dragged himself up to sit back on the bed. He realized with a sour air that the sheets were soaked from the night terrors of the evening before. It was so... pathetic.
He noticed Philippe's gaze drift to the sheets as well, but the Count's eyes flickered to the mask left discarded on the other pillow. 'Dammit...' Erik thought, rubbing his exposed chin and turning away, to face the open window. A soft breeze blew the translucent curtains, and he sat staring at the ocean beyond. It was refreshing... cool... The mornings were always more moderate than the nights.
Philippe touched Erik's arm. When did Philippe move to this side of the bed? Perhaps Erik was not listening after all...
The man's calloused but soft hands reached out to him, presenting him with his mask. The ribbons dangled from the edges like dripping spider's threads, as black as the night and as thin as his tears. Erik looked up to him as he took the cloth back. Philippe was smiling. How Erik hated that smile.
"Would you like breakfast? Perhaps you are well enough to join me in the dining room. Then I might show you around this estate, since you have barely been out of this room. My father finished building it in 1841, the year I was born. It is really rather marvelous, considering its location by the sea..."
"I do not care..." Erik whispered, slipping the mask back onto his face and tying its satin strings. Then he resumed staring at the ocean. He heard the waves ripple and crash, like the beating of his heart. He thought he might catch the rhythm and hold it in a song. His feet, bare and cold, set out to the window and stayed there. He placed his arms on the pane and observed.
The ocean had a certain trill... Perhaps he could capture that in... No no, that was Bach's Toccata and Fugue playing in his head... The slamming the tide, that was something... the sound of drums and cellos... Oh, Schubert... this wasn't Erik's either! Schubert wrote that piece. It was bloody Schubert!
With that bare foot he kicked the wall and screamed in frustration. Why?! WHY WHY WHY?! Why did this have to happen to HIM!? Why wouldn't the notes come, why couldn't he hear it?! Why could he hear everything but the music?! WHY?!
"Why?!" he sobbed and bellowed. Suddenly the sea was sinking into the wall... Or was the wall swallowing the ocean?
His sickly, sudored body slid down the white surface, but the hands clutched the pane, as if to lift himself into oblivion.
There was something touching him, something he didn't like. It felt like a person... a warm body to fester and die...
"Erik..." Philippe muttered, holding the flailing man's chest and calming him with unintelligible sounds. At least they were to Erik's ear. He focused more, and heard himself sob, and through the sob there was words such as "calmez-vous," and "ne pleure pas," and "je suis ici..."
"Je suis ici, Erik... je comprends..."
The leech was latched to his limp body, rocking him back and forth. "Non! You do not... you do not understand! Just... Just leave me alone!" he cried and flung himself forward, but in his weakness he fell back onto Philippe's chest. He fought and writhed, but the count's grip was iron. He slapped the hands holding his chest away, but the clam from his putrid palms stuck to the other man's tanned flesh. It burned being touched by him, but he could do nothing. Erik was always at Philippe's mercy...
"Let me go! Let Erik be f-f-free!" he chattered. He suddenly felt cold. A chilled breeze had rushed through the window and covered them in frigidness. His moaning echoed in his head. Or was it her moaning? Was it Raoul's? Was it his mother's cry when she saw her disfigured monster for the first time? "Je veux mourir! Je veux mourir!"
It echoed. It was almost music to his ears. Almost...
"Erik... You must be strong! You are not meant for this sorrow!"
His stained eyes snapped open, and his mouth drew a sneer. He wretched himself from Philippe's now lax arms and turned violently toward him, crawling over him and towering his smaller form. One of Erik's yellowing hands ripped at his face and tore at his mask, and the other shot to Philippe's throat, slamming his head to the ground. The Count cried out in alarm and pawed at the grip that was strangling his life.
"Who are YOU to tell me what I am meant for?! Your brother stole my beloved from me! He made her think I was evil! She was everything to me, and your brother ruined it! Now I have NOTHING! NOTHING I TELL YOU!" His shaking body leaned farther over Philippe's. The gaping hole in his face was mere centimeters away from the count's nose. He pointed at his countenance with the other hand "Look at this face and tell me that I am handsome! Tell me that I am a refined gentleman, like you! TELL ME!"
A sharp force pushed on his abdomen, and in shock he let go of the neck between his fingers. Philippe scurried out from under him like a mouse evading its voracious cat, gripping his throat and wheezing out the breath that had escaped him.
Erik coughed and drew back, back to the wall and back into a fetal position, a livid snake recoiling in his nest. He snickered dryly, wiping his moist face and shaking his head. "You cannot tell me that, Messieur le Comte," he growled. "If I am the monster they say I am, then I am destined for sorrow."
Philippe was shaking himself, wide-eyed and clearly frightened of the man who sat before him. He rubbed at his sore throat, and his Adam's apple bobbed with a gulp. Slowly but surely, he straightened his body and leaned on his hands, crawling toward Erik little by little. "Erik..." Again, he massaged his neck with tender hands. "You are... uncommon, yes." He formed a sitting position closer to the gangly snake.
"Pah," Erik scoffed, turning his head and gripping his wispy head in anguish."Uncommon? You are too kind." he replied bitterly.
Philippe held his hands in the air to pause him. "Do not dismiss yourself because of how others see you, Erik. When was the last time you even looked in a mirror?"
Erik's lip twitched, and his eyes narrowed. "I do not have to glance in a mirror to know what it will tell me."
Philippe's eyes softened. "That may be. However... we were all born for a reason, Erik, and yours is not to live in misery. You would not be so gifted, so passionate if that were the case."
"Why do you laud me in this fashion? I threatened to murder your brother, and nearly drowned you! Why do you keep me here?!"
"Nearly! You nearly drowned me! You spared my life, and you spared his! It is my duty to spare yours!"
"My death was never in your hands to begin with!"
"You know nothing!"
Ah... Philippe's temper was rising. That was good... excellent, even. The fool was too calm to not be bubbling with molten lava beneath the surface. The Count turned away and drove a hand through his straw colored hair.
"You are a fool! A bloody fool to save my life, and a bloody fool for keeping me alive!"
Philippe glared in defiance. "You would rather die than accept my generosity?!"
"If it means taking charity from my enemy's brother, then yes, I would!"
"Charity?! You think I pity you?!"
A roar lept from his throat. "EVERYONE ELSE DOES!!!"
Erik seethed. His yellow eyes were bloodshot and wide, and his lips were trembling. His entire body was tense with frustration, but the only sound coming from his throat was sob upon sob.
Philippe paused, and took a breath. He sighed. The temper was fading. That was... disappointing to Erik. Perhaps he finally might have developed the adrenaline to kill the Count after all...
"Do you want to know why I care that you live or die?"
Erik looked up, straight into Philippe's eyes. "...Why?"
He did not answer for a moment. Instead his eyes turned away, staring at the mask that had been discarded when Erik tried to kill him again. "Your Christine... Raoul's Christine, more like... When she left you she came to me and told me what had happened. All of it. Every word you said and every lie you told. There was more to it than Raoul, the managers, the company, anyone had ever told me... I was stunned, you see. She told me how you... obsessed over her, but when she recounted the things you did I merely saw a man in love who could not express his feelings appropriately. She spoke of you with horror, as if you carried with you some plague of awesome proportions. To me, you only seemed lonely, desperate for some form of affection from a girl you thought understood you."
Erik fingered his dressing gown numbly, swallowing and trying to comprehend (the keyword is trying) what Philippe could possibly mean. Of course he was abhorrent. Of course she was frightened... He had been so wrong in everything he'd done. He'd made himself the monster, and he could never go back. How could Philippe possibly see anything redeemable about him?! He was disgusted with himself!
"You lie... You cannot possibly think such things about Erik. You know nothing of what he has done, and therefore have no right to judge him in this way."
Philippe's fair brows furrowed. "Judgement seems such a final term for what I think. Judgement means my opinion is set and unmatched by any other outward thought. My dear fellow, I knew of you far long before Christine came to me. My brother... I had thought him mad. His lunacy was unbecoming of him, but deep down I listened. I was frightened for everyone..." he said, shaking his head and moving closer. "Then Christine recounted to me her troubles. I felt pity for you then. But pity only lasts so long... And then...!" He grunted looking above Erik's head to the window. "Then she had to go and say that awful thing..."
Erik's head tilted slightly, but his face contorted with frustration. "What awful thing? Christine never says awful things! She speaks as an angel would speak."
Philippe laughed. "Always defending the woman who scorned you. I was the same, once upon a time, but I learned better." He grinned, but it did not reach his eyes. "She told me she was to come back for you, when you died. To bury you, it would seem." His eyes widened incredulously. "She had the nerve to ask me to do it! Me! As if I had any part in the whole affair! The girl was stealing my brother away to god knows where all because she was to naive to realize that a man was merely in love before the whole event even transpired! She asks me to bury you?! I am a Comte, for heaven's sake! I can't be seen burying a man who already looks dead underneath an opera house! It is not even legal to do so! What would my peers think, what would my brother think of me?! I could not believe the nerve she had to--"
Philippe stopped talking. One would only have to look to Erik to know why... Or at least hear him.
"Hahahaha! HAHAHA!" he bellowed. The man was clutching his stomach, gasping for both oxygen and mirth.
The Count's expression was disturbed and aghast at Erik's amusement. "Wha--"
"You bloody FOP! Ahaha! You... incompetent dullard!" Erik was no longer shaking with sickness or burdens, but merriment. Philippe's face held such... confusion. It made him laugh even more.
The nobleman's mouth, inch by inch, turned into a grin. His chuckle soon mingled with Erik's and they were both laughing mindlessly.
A good five minutes went by before they calmed their storms, but by then they were nothing more than heaps of men, neither understanding the other or their sudden bond.
"Why did you laugh at me?" Philippe asked softly. He'd moved to sit against the wall next to him.
"Because you're a fool, a damned fool in shining armour."
Erik raised an eyebrow and rolled his head against the wall to look at Philippe. "You save my life because ensuring its end would humiliate you. Très comique, mon cher Comte. Très comique..."
Philippe frowned. "I am not the fool here, Erik..." He looked ahead, sighing. "You are the fool, for believing your life is worth nothing."
Erik was silent. He pursed his lips, touching their dry, chapped nature. He bit his tongue before he could say anymore.
Suddenly, Philippe rose. Without saying a word, he left the room.
The man was bewildered. Slowly, he turned to crawl to his feet, absently dangling his mask from his fingertips. He looked around the room... his room, it would seem, and noticed things he hadn't bothered noticing before. There was a small shelf with volumes of books, a wardrobe, an adjoining bathroom... Erik stepped toward the wardrobe. He had assumed it was empty, but no. There were suits of all shades, and a drawer on one side held cravats of deep wine, black, cream, navy, and other shades suitable to Erik's tastes. Another drawer contained an assortment of masks.
Erik touched their silk fondly. His thoughts were disoriented. When did these get here?
Happy reading!
Philippe de Chagny: Count, aristocrat, brother, friend.
These were not words Erik would choose to describe how he felt about the nobleman. He was more of an enigma than anything else; a sore he could not scratch, an appendage that was infected but could not be amputated, that little black spot in the corner of your eye that will not go away. Totally benign, and yet troublesome all the same.
Philippe was a damn fool, as well. Then again, Erik found everyone to be more foolish than was proper, but Philippe was a fool in shining armour.
The word he would choose? Keeper.
That nagging sensation kept creeping into his flesh, even when Philippe was not around. It was a benevolent nag, and the guilt kept rolling in. "You should eat, Erik, you are nothing but skin and bones! Erik, do not look at me like that, this is only for your own good! Do not worry about Christine, my brother is taking care of her! You fret too much, Erik! You are far too sick to move, Erik! Erik, take off your mask! Erik, TAKE OFF YOUR MASK!"
His hands shuddered as they ran over the silk. Sweat made it wet, but the fabric made him breathe. He could barely breathe in this stuffy room. Before, at the opera, it had been at least cool and pleasant in the cellar. Here it was sweltering, in the house by the sea. The middle of summer. He detested summer.
Waking up was a challenge in the summer. His eyelids were droopy, and the bed was far too soft. "Erik, only dead people sleep in coffins."
"Am I not dead, in society's eyes?"
"...Not in mine..."
Erik groaned, rolling over and laying flat on his stomach, burying his face in his pillow and ripping off the mask. A nice smother might just do the trick...
Smother, smother, smother... Then maybe he'd get his coffin back.
"Erik, take off your mask."
"It is off. What more do you want from Erik? What more can I do for you, Monsieur le Comte?!"
"Erik..."
"Erik is not listening....!"
"Erik... Erik... ERIK!"
"Erik!"
Arms, legs, and a mass of a noir dressing gown flailed about the small bedchamber as a rush of energy vaulted him from the bed. The hardwood floor was harsh against his aching limbs, and he cried out in anguish.
He heard a man groan. Ah... the keeper.
Erik slapped his spidery hand on the bed and pulled himself up to look at the Count with loathing eyes. "Perhaps you might knock first, nanny."
Philippe arched a fair eyebrow. "I did. Twenty times. I left and came back twice. It might do you some good to listen, for a change--"
"I am listening, dammit! I hear everything, don't you understand that, you rebarbative nitwit?!" he cracked, a hoarse cough wheezing from his chest as he dragged himself up to sit back on the bed. He realized with a sour air that the sheets were soaked from the night terrors of the evening before. It was so... pathetic.
He noticed Philippe's gaze drift to the sheets as well, but the Count's eyes flickered to the mask left discarded on the other pillow. 'Dammit...' Erik thought, rubbing his exposed chin and turning away, to face the open window. A soft breeze blew the translucent curtains, and he sat staring at the ocean beyond. It was refreshing... cool... The mornings were always more moderate than the nights.
Philippe touched Erik's arm. When did Philippe move to this side of the bed? Perhaps Erik was not listening after all...
The man's calloused but soft hands reached out to him, presenting him with his mask. The ribbons dangled from the edges like dripping spider's threads, as black as the night and as thin as his tears. Erik looked up to him as he took the cloth back. Philippe was smiling. How Erik hated that smile.
"Would you like breakfast? Perhaps you are well enough to join me in the dining room. Then I might show you around this estate, since you have barely been out of this room. My father finished building it in 1841, the year I was born. It is really rather marvelous, considering its location by the sea..."
"I do not care..." Erik whispered, slipping the mask back onto his face and tying its satin strings. Then he resumed staring at the ocean. He heard the waves ripple and crash, like the beating of his heart. He thought he might catch the rhythm and hold it in a song. His feet, bare and cold, set out to the window and stayed there. He placed his arms on the pane and observed.
The ocean had a certain trill... Perhaps he could capture that in... No no, that was Bach's Toccata and Fugue playing in his head... The slamming the tide, that was something... the sound of drums and cellos... Oh, Schubert... this wasn't Erik's either! Schubert wrote that piece. It was bloody Schubert!
With that bare foot he kicked the wall and screamed in frustration. Why?! WHY WHY WHY?! Why did this have to happen to HIM!? Why wouldn't the notes come, why couldn't he hear it?! Why could he hear everything but the music?! WHY?!
"Why?!" he sobbed and bellowed. Suddenly the sea was sinking into the wall... Or was the wall swallowing the ocean?
His sickly, sudored body slid down the white surface, but the hands clutched the pane, as if to lift himself into oblivion.
There was something touching him, something he didn't like. It felt like a person... a warm body to fester and die...
"Erik..." Philippe muttered, holding the flailing man's chest and calming him with unintelligible sounds. At least they were to Erik's ear. He focused more, and heard himself sob, and through the sob there was words such as "calmez-vous," and "ne pleure pas," and "je suis ici..."
"Je suis ici, Erik... je comprends..."
The leech was latched to his limp body, rocking him back and forth. "Non! You do not... you do not understand! Just... Just leave me alone!" he cried and flung himself forward, but in his weakness he fell back onto Philippe's chest. He fought and writhed, but the count's grip was iron. He slapped the hands holding his chest away, but the clam from his putrid palms stuck to the other man's tanned flesh. It burned being touched by him, but he could do nothing. Erik was always at Philippe's mercy...
"Let me go! Let Erik be f-f-free!" he chattered. He suddenly felt cold. A chilled breeze had rushed through the window and covered them in frigidness. His moaning echoed in his head. Or was it her moaning? Was it Raoul's? Was it his mother's cry when she saw her disfigured monster for the first time? "Je veux mourir! Je veux mourir!"
It echoed. It was almost music to his ears. Almost...
"Erik... You must be strong! You are not meant for this sorrow!"
His stained eyes snapped open, and his mouth drew a sneer. He wretched himself from Philippe's now lax arms and turned violently toward him, crawling over him and towering his smaller form. One of Erik's yellowing hands ripped at his face and tore at his mask, and the other shot to Philippe's throat, slamming his head to the ground. The Count cried out in alarm and pawed at the grip that was strangling his life.
"Who are YOU to tell me what I am meant for?! Your brother stole my beloved from me! He made her think I was evil! She was everything to me, and your brother ruined it! Now I have NOTHING! NOTHING I TELL YOU!" His shaking body leaned farther over Philippe's. The gaping hole in his face was mere centimeters away from the count's nose. He pointed at his countenance with the other hand "Look at this face and tell me that I am handsome! Tell me that I am a refined gentleman, like you! TELL ME!"
A sharp force pushed on his abdomen, and in shock he let go of the neck between his fingers. Philippe scurried out from under him like a mouse evading its voracious cat, gripping his throat and wheezing out the breath that had escaped him.
Erik coughed and drew back, back to the wall and back into a fetal position, a livid snake recoiling in his nest. He snickered dryly, wiping his moist face and shaking his head. "You cannot tell me that, Messieur le Comte," he growled. "If I am the monster they say I am, then I am destined for sorrow."
Philippe was shaking himself, wide-eyed and clearly frightened of the man who sat before him. He rubbed at his sore throat, and his Adam's apple bobbed with a gulp. Slowly but surely, he straightened his body and leaned on his hands, crawling toward Erik little by little. "Erik..." Again, he massaged his neck with tender hands. "You are... uncommon, yes." He formed a sitting position closer to the gangly snake.
"Pah," Erik scoffed, turning his head and gripping his wispy head in anguish."Uncommon? You are too kind." he replied bitterly.
Philippe held his hands in the air to pause him. "Do not dismiss yourself because of how others see you, Erik. When was the last time you even looked in a mirror?"
Erik's lip twitched, and his eyes narrowed. "I do not have to glance in a mirror to know what it will tell me."
Philippe's eyes softened. "That may be. However... we were all born for a reason, Erik, and yours is not to live in misery. You would not be so gifted, so passionate if that were the case."
"Why do you laud me in this fashion? I threatened to murder your brother, and nearly drowned you! Why do you keep me here?!"
"Nearly! You nearly drowned me! You spared my life, and you spared his! It is my duty to spare yours!"
"My death was never in your hands to begin with!"
"You know nothing!"
Ah... Philippe's temper was rising. That was good... excellent, even. The fool was too calm to not be bubbling with molten lava beneath the surface. The Count turned away and drove a hand through his straw colored hair.
"You are a fool! A bloody fool to save my life, and a bloody fool for keeping me alive!"
Philippe glared in defiance. "You would rather die than accept my generosity?!"
"If it means taking charity from my enemy's brother, then yes, I would!"
"Charity?! You think I pity you?!"
A roar lept from his throat. "EVERYONE ELSE DOES!!!"
Erik seethed. His yellow eyes were bloodshot and wide, and his lips were trembling. His entire body was tense with frustration, but the only sound coming from his throat was sob upon sob.
Philippe paused, and took a breath. He sighed. The temper was fading. That was... disappointing to Erik. Perhaps he finally might have developed the adrenaline to kill the Count after all...
"Do you want to know why I care that you live or die?"
Erik looked up, straight into Philippe's eyes. "...Why?"
He did not answer for a moment. Instead his eyes turned away, staring at the mask that had been discarded when Erik tried to kill him again. "Your Christine... Raoul's Christine, more like... When she left you she came to me and told me what had happened. All of it. Every word you said and every lie you told. There was more to it than Raoul, the managers, the company, anyone had ever told me... I was stunned, you see. She told me how you... obsessed over her, but when she recounted the things you did I merely saw a man in love who could not express his feelings appropriately. She spoke of you with horror, as if you carried with you some plague of awesome proportions. To me, you only seemed lonely, desperate for some form of affection from a girl you thought understood you."
Erik fingered his dressing gown numbly, swallowing and trying to comprehend (the keyword is trying) what Philippe could possibly mean. Of course he was abhorrent. Of course she was frightened... He had been so wrong in everything he'd done. He'd made himself the monster, and he could never go back. How could Philippe possibly see anything redeemable about him?! He was disgusted with himself!
"You lie... You cannot possibly think such things about Erik. You know nothing of what he has done, and therefore have no right to judge him in this way."
Philippe's fair brows furrowed. "Judgement seems such a final term for what I think. Judgement means my opinion is set and unmatched by any other outward thought. My dear fellow, I knew of you far long before Christine came to me. My brother... I had thought him mad. His lunacy was unbecoming of him, but deep down I listened. I was frightened for everyone..." he said, shaking his head and moving closer. "Then Christine recounted to me her troubles. I felt pity for you then. But pity only lasts so long... And then...!" He grunted looking above Erik's head to the window. "Then she had to go and say that awful thing..."
Erik's head tilted slightly, but his face contorted with frustration. "What awful thing? Christine never says awful things! She speaks as an angel would speak."
Philippe laughed. "Always defending the woman who scorned you. I was the same, once upon a time, but I learned better." He grinned, but it did not reach his eyes. "She told me she was to come back for you, when you died. To bury you, it would seem." His eyes widened incredulously. "She had the nerve to ask me to do it! Me! As if I had any part in the whole affair! The girl was stealing my brother away to god knows where all because she was to naive to realize that a man was merely in love before the whole event even transpired! She asks me to bury you?! I am a Comte, for heaven's sake! I can't be seen burying a man who already looks dead underneath an opera house! It is not even legal to do so! What would my peers think, what would my brother think of me?! I could not believe the nerve she had to--"
Philippe stopped talking. One would only have to look to Erik to know why... Or at least hear him.
"Hahahaha! HAHAHA!" he bellowed. The man was clutching his stomach, gasping for both oxygen and mirth.
The Count's expression was disturbed and aghast at Erik's amusement. "Wha--"
"You bloody FOP! Ahaha! You... incompetent dullard!" Erik was no longer shaking with sickness or burdens, but merriment. Philippe's face held such... confusion. It made him laugh even more.
The nobleman's mouth, inch by inch, turned into a grin. His chuckle soon mingled with Erik's and they were both laughing mindlessly.
A good five minutes went by before they calmed their storms, but by then they were nothing more than heaps of men, neither understanding the other or their sudden bond.
"Why did you laugh at me?" Philippe asked softly. He'd moved to sit against the wall next to him.
"Because you're a fool, a damned fool in shining armour."
Erik raised an eyebrow and rolled his head against the wall to look at Philippe. "You save my life because ensuring its end would humiliate you. Très comique, mon cher Comte. Très comique..."
Philippe frowned. "I am not the fool here, Erik..." He looked ahead, sighing. "You are the fool, for believing your life is worth nothing."
Erik was silent. He pursed his lips, touching their dry, chapped nature. He bit his tongue before he could say anymore.
Suddenly, Philippe rose. Without saying a word, he left the room.
The man was bewildered. Slowly, he turned to crawl to his feet, absently dangling his mask from his fingertips. He looked around the room... his room, it would seem, and noticed things he hadn't bothered noticing before. There was a small shelf with volumes of books, a wardrobe, an adjoining bathroom... Erik stepped toward the wardrobe. He had assumed it was empty, but no. There were suits of all shades, and a drawer on one side held cravats of deep wine, black, cream, navy, and other shades suitable to Erik's tastes. Another drawer contained an assortment of masks.
Erik touched their silk fondly. His thoughts were disoriented. When did these get here?
