He returns to France, returns to France on a ship so similar to the one that he left her on that he cannot bring himself to leave his cabin except to eat, as if he might bump into an apparition of Martin. He returns to France with sketchbooks full of dinosaur bones, full of the most beautiful man he has never met, with photographs from McKey (of bones, of cliffs, several of he and Martin, and the most special one of all, of he and Martin embracing the evening they declared their love for each other, that first evening of discovery) and an address in case he ever wants copies of them. He returns to France with a lock of hair, a fistful of Wyoming clay secure in a little jar, a collection of brushes and chisels and small hammers that were held by hands buried now along the Powder River, and with a creased letter that he keeps inside his breast pocket though he has learned it off by heart, and sometimes when he closes his eyes he can hear the words as if they are being murmured in his ear by a sweetly lilting voice.

He returns to France with all that he left with, and with so very much more. And late one night, in a buckskin jacket and heavy overcoat and a broad-brimmed hat stained with dust, he stands at the railing along the deck, and looks out over the darkness of the ocean at night, up at the stars twinkling in the heavens, and smokes cigars and inhales the salt of the sea air, and the only chill he feels is the one in his chest, that has locked away any words he might ever speak of what he saw, what he did, and who he loved.

As the pain kicks inside of him, it is all he can do just to breathe.

It is three days before Christmas when he disembarks at the harbour from which he left all those months ago. And it is like some strange mockery of his leave taking, the way his sisters throw their arms around him and exclaim at how much he's grown, how broad he's become, and Philippe hugs him and whispers in his ear, "you'll have to tell me all about it." It is all he can do to smile thinly, and nod, and plead exhaustion.

They travel back to Paris, and he sleeps most of the way. And when, at last, he lies down in his own bed, freshly made with clean linens, it is as if the last year might never have happened at all, as if the most magical summer of his life were merely a dream.

It is late that night, and the house is asleep, when he takes a candle and pries up the false bottom of his wardrobe to stow his treasures away. The small bag of clay. The lock of hair in a locket now. The photographs. The sketchbooks. The letter. He tucks them all away safe, with his battered cotton shirt, and his canvas trousers, and their small bloodstains that came from Martin's lips. He hides everything in the one place where no one will ever find them except him.

Then he walks out on his balcony and looks over the garden where he played as a child, carpeted with snow now, and wrapped in his overcoat over his dressing gown, he bows his head and gives himself over to tears.

In the early days of the new year, he slips away from the family, just for a few hours. Wandering the streets of Paris was always a comfort to him, but his feet carry him now to the Galleries of Comparative Anatomy. Martin spoke of it, once, late one night as they lay together beneath the stars, of a pilgrimage that he made there when he was little more than a boy. And with the cold deep in his bones, with his skin chilled with the drifting snow outside, his hands buried deep in his pockets, Raoul looks up at the skeletons, and all he can think is, this is what it was for, this is what we were trying to do, and as the tears trickle down his cheeks he closes his eyes, and swallows, and for one moment seems to feel a hand squeezing his arm.

The moment shatters, and with tired eyes he looks at the skeletons again, but where once there would have been awe, surprise, wonder, at the dinosaurs, now there is only hollowness, and a craving, deep in his heart, for there to have been more.

If they knew what had happened out there, if he were ever able to speak of it, they might write songs about him. Songs about a boy who went across the ocean to a strange land, who learned of love and became a man. Who unearthed the bones of ancient creatures that died thousands of years ago. Who rode for hundreds of miles alongside the most beautiful man in the world, and buried him beside a winding river. Who learned of dreams, and stars, and rocks, and bones, and whispered words in the darkness, and soft breaths and blood on lips and the throbbing pulse of a heartbeat beneath his fingertips, and vermillion brushed across the sky fading into dusk. Who lost his religion, but who gained so much more.

If they knew, if they could understand, they would write epics of poetry for him.

But every moment is held safe within him, and if he breathes a single one of them, they will drift away in the air. They are fragile, pure things, and they are his.

Forever his.

He joins the Navy, as he is supposed to. Picks up where he left off a year ago and becomes an officer. And whenever someone asks him about his American travels, he smiles fake smiles that he cannot feel in any part of his heart, and nods, and murmurs that it was an excellent experience.

It is all he can do just to breathe, all he can do to keep the earth from slipping beneath his feet and maintain a steady footing, even on land, but he carries on, and does as he is supposed to.

It is the spring of 1881, and he is twenty and feels every bit of it, and worries that after the better part of two years he might forget the precise shade of sky-blue that made his heart stutter. 1881, and it is two years since he tasted wine and cigars and a faint hint of iron for the first time off the mouth of another.

1881, and he is on leave from the Navy.

Philippe worries that he has become distant, that he has lost himself somehow since going to sea, but Philippe does not realise that he lost himself long before that. The craving that lingered in his heart that cold January when he wandered to the Galleries has flared into longing, into desperation, into a burning need to cross the Atlantic and travel by stage and train to Cheyenne, and from there on horseback into the wilderness, and seek out cliffs filled with dinosaur bones. It fills his waking thoughts, consumes his dreams. To go back. To see it all. To breathe in the world he left behind, the place where now, he knows, is the only one he could ever belong.

But Philippe worries about him. And Philippe insists he go to the opera, and perhaps take a chorus girl as a lover.

He goes to the opera, and his eyes find ocean blue, and curling blonde hair that he has not seen in eight years since he was a boy in Perros-Guirec. Christine Daaé smiles at him, faint recognition in eyes that speak of grief, of pain, of inner secrets and a different world.

A wedding ring shines golden on her finger, and she has recently become the lead soprano.

She is not the Christine Daaé that he knew once upon a time, but he is not the Raoul, Vicomte De Chagny (title sitting more uncomfortable than ever) that she knew once either. And perhaps that makes them even.

They go to lunch, and speak vaguely of the things that have happened to them in the years since they played together by the sea, and agree to correspond. But anything that they could have been was lost to them long ago, and this is their new reality.

The next day Raoul resigns his commission, to the shock of his family and acquaintances. And he takes out the photograph that McKey gave him, of he and Martin, standing before a cliff filled with bones, their fingers just brushing, and Martin smiling, and looking so alive, even in a photo.

Then he goes to a biology Professor he has read of, a man widely held by society to be eccentric because he has made a study of ancient creatures long dead, and declares his intention to learn all that he can.

Teach me about dinosaurs. Teach me about bones. Teach me about how they came to be. Teach me about why they were lost.

The words circle in his head, as if they are a sacred prayer.

But what he says is, "I was a good friend of Martin Cuvier, and I was with him when he went to America." He produces his sketchbooks, the drawings of bones, the notes added in Martin's hand. And the Professor meets his eye, and nods.

Philippe stares aghast when he hears the news, and whispers that perhaps he made a terrible error in judgement in sending him to America. But Raoul looks him square in the eye and tells him that he will study these things if he wishes, and he could not give a damn that there is almost a year left until he comes into his majority.

His acquaintances declare that America was the ruination of him.

His sisters pat his hand and ask him if he feels quite well, and is he not making this decision in haste?

Christine Daaé squeezes his hand, and smiles at him, and says, "You really ought to meet my husband. He's told me about the bonefields he saw on his travels."

He goes to visit a widowed woman in Breton, whom he should have written to one upon a time, but he could not bring himself to think about and let McKey do it instead. A widowed woman who is an aunt though she is not much older than Philippe, and who has dark hair tinged grey, pinned neatly back, and a certain slant to her mouth. He shows her some of his sketches, and gives her one to keep, and when he says that he studies dinosaurs, she squeezes his hand with tears in her eyes (sky-blue, the same sky-blue he's longed to see every hour of every day) and whispers, "I suspect my nephew was very fond of you."

It is five years since he first sailed from France to America. Five years since he met Martin on the ship to Boston. And there is a locket hanging around his throat with a lock of dark hair inside, and a small bag in his pocket with a fist of Wyoming clay, and in his luggage is a box of carefully tended brushes, chisels, and small hammers, and a whole collection of sketchpads, empty and filled, and several precious photographs.

And a letter, sealed and safe inside an envelope, though its words are forever etched into his heart.

He stands at the railing of a new ship, and looks out across the vast Atlantic, and for the first time since he left the Powder River, he is able to breathe.

A/N: And so it is done. I hope you have all enjoyed the ride. It's kinda sad for me to leave this 'verse because I fell in love with it, but who knows? Maybe I'll write a ficlet or two someday about Raoul's life in America. Or maybe some sweet fluffy stuff about him and Martin. No promises, but it's on my mind. As ever, I'm open to people asking me about it on Tumblr so please do come and interrogate me. I'm full of thoughts and feelings about this!

And thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed. You've kept me going through what has been a bit of a trying month. And if, by chance, you're someone who's reading this a good deal of time after I posted it, I'd appreciate it doubly so if you reviewed!