The dim candlelight of the underground lair cast flickering shadows across the stone walls, dancing over the grand piano and the velvet drapes that cocooned the space in a strange, solemn intimacy. Erik stood near the foot of the bed where Raoul lay resting, Raoul's breath soft and steady, his hands gently folded over His chest like a sleeping angel. He had watched Raoul like this for hours, quiet, unmoving, lost in a haze of memory and emotion

To him, Raoul was more than just a muse. or Vicomte his voice had stirred something dormant in him, but it was Raoul's kindness, his patience, the way he listened without recoiling from his face, that carved a deeper wound into his heart. Raoul reminded him of the only woman who had ever touched his soul before, his mother. The same soft voice. The same warm hands. The same absence of fear when looking at him

Erik’s gloved hand reached out hesitantly, almost trembling, and brushed a strand of Golden Honey wavey Blond hair from Raoul's face. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes, mismatched in light and shadow, shimmered with something too complex for one word, longing, grief, hunger, love

“Mama…” he whispered, the word breaking from his lips like a confession. It wasn’t quite her he saw when he looked at the Boy, but Raoul filled the space of the absence left behind. The longing for a mother’s embrace. The ache of love unreturned. The madness of wanting both

He stepped back, fingers curling into a fist. There was shame there, and guilt, for wanting him as a man wants a woman while also cradling Raoul's presence like a fragile childhood dream. he was his angel…his child…his salvation. His ruin